I want to write. I want to write!
Friends kept telling me to write every day, that the urge to write would come back. Now, my friends are wonderful people, but they do not understand the deep, intense, etc., torture that I live with as a writer every day. They do not know the ebb and flow of inspiration, the crashing and sucking waves.
Of course, I am an idiot, and they were right, and it only took about a week.
I want to write about our bread-eating mice. I want to write about being a murderess of fish. I want to write about my friends, and my family, and my very useless fear that I won't be able to publish anything about them until they're dead, because then they would know how I really felt about them all. I don't yet want to write my big essay for the MFA application, but I know what it'll be about -- and I'm ready to start thinking about writing it.
I want to be like Anne Lamott, faithful and snarky, writing about how bad and good everything is, and how to make the bad stuff good by changing your heart. I want to figure out how to change my heart.
But for now I'll just make a point to get this written down -- I want to write again.
Friday, October 19, 2007
Thursday, October 18, 2007
not a pretty girl
And God help you if you are an ugly girl
course too pretty is also your doom
cause everyone harbors a secret hatred
for the prettiest girl in the room
Yeah, it's Ani. So what? I can be a stereotype. Anyway, it sets the stage.
I've been thinking a lot about beauty. (Still.) What it means. What I look like, really, and how that compares to other people. How I feel about my physical appearance.
As Ani also said, "I am not a pretty girl" -- and I am not a pretty girl. I never have been. I was a cute kid, with some interesting features (long legs, big eyes, lots of good thick hair). I went through an awkward period of about ten years, where I had braces and glasses and headgear and acne and a general off-putting-ness that really didn't win me any fans. Nobody ever wanted to date me in high school; since I was, obviously, not into boys, that didn't bother me much.
And then I went to college...and then I graduated college...and while I feel like I'm getting more attractive as I get older, I am still not a pretty girl. For a long time I believed that being thin was exactly equivalent to being beautiful, and so the thinner I got the more attractive I felt. But I no longer believe this to be true.
I saw myself on a video the other day, and the thought I had -- the thought I articulated to people -- was, "My God, what a bony, greasy little monkey I am."
What brought on this thought was coming into work today. I work with one woman who is not just pretty or attractive, but she is actually beautiful in a kind of way that makes people stop for a second. Most people I find truly beautiful I find beautiful because I love them so deeply that I cannot see them any other way. While I'm really fond of this girl, I don't *love* her or anything, and it doesn't change the fact that she's absolutely stunning.
She was even lovelier than usual today, and I asked her, "Why are you all dressed up, lady?" As if it were obvious, she answered, "Because we're going OUT tonight!" And I realized that I was going to be spending the evening with this lovely person and our mutual, all attractive, friends -- and I was going to be the ugly girl.
I am going to be the ugly girl!
Is it the lesbian thing? Is it the gangly thing, the pale thing, the no makeup thing? What about me makes me so much less attractive than these other women?
Whenever I'm around them I feel like nothing but crooked teeth, greasy skin, knobbly knees, chubby cheeks...
I've never felt like this before.
course too pretty is also your doom
cause everyone harbors a secret hatred
for the prettiest girl in the room
Yeah, it's Ani. So what? I can be a stereotype. Anyway, it sets the stage.
I've been thinking a lot about beauty. (Still.) What it means. What I look like, really, and how that compares to other people. How I feel about my physical appearance.
As Ani also said, "I am not a pretty girl" -- and I am not a pretty girl. I never have been. I was a cute kid, with some interesting features (long legs, big eyes, lots of good thick hair). I went through an awkward period of about ten years, where I had braces and glasses and headgear and acne and a general off-putting-ness that really didn't win me any fans. Nobody ever wanted to date me in high school; since I was, obviously, not into boys, that didn't bother me much.
And then I went to college...and then I graduated college...and while I feel like I'm getting more attractive as I get older, I am still not a pretty girl. For a long time I believed that being thin was exactly equivalent to being beautiful, and so the thinner I got the more attractive I felt. But I no longer believe this to be true.
I saw myself on a video the other day, and the thought I had -- the thought I articulated to people -- was, "My God, what a bony, greasy little monkey I am."
What brought on this thought was coming into work today. I work with one woman who is not just pretty or attractive, but she is actually beautiful in a kind of way that makes people stop for a second. Most people I find truly beautiful I find beautiful because I love them so deeply that I cannot see them any other way. While I'm really fond of this girl, I don't *love* her or anything, and it doesn't change the fact that she's absolutely stunning.
She was even lovelier than usual today, and I asked her, "Why are you all dressed up, lady?" As if it were obvious, she answered, "Because we're going OUT tonight!" And I realized that I was going to be spending the evening with this lovely person and our mutual, all attractive, friends -- and I was going to be the ugly girl.
I am going to be the ugly girl!
Is it the lesbian thing? Is it the gangly thing, the pale thing, the no makeup thing? What about me makes me so much less attractive than these other women?
Whenever I'm around them I feel like nothing but crooked teeth, greasy skin, knobbly knees, chubby cheeks...
I've never felt like this before.
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
coexist
I'm just so in love with this picture. Amazing. And yay for the Unitarian chalice.
So lately I've been doing this really weird, self-indulgent thing. At least once a day I go on Craigslist missed connections to see if anyone's looking for me. If anyone saw me on the bus, on the street, in the Whole Foods, and thought -- she's beautiful. I wish I knew her.
It started, I think, when I got my hair dyed red. I am ridiculous enough to think that, well, golly, people are bound to notice me now! So I scoured the missed connections, searching for "red," searching for "ginger" (in case they were British, I guess).
People in my house have had great success with missed connections. Every once in a while, one of my roommates has her missed connection over to the house and they have irritatingly loud sex. That's a success story, right?
But thus far, no missed connection. I just don't catch people's eyes, I suppose.
There is a word I can't remember -- I don't think it's jolie laide, but I could be wrong -- but it describes a woman who is not beautiful because of any physical characteristics, but by sheer force of personality. Someone who strongarms others into believing she's beautiful. That's what I feel like, sometimes. Not a pretty girl, but a force.
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
spectacular quote!
I stumbled upon this phenomenal quote. It's apparently part of a controversy with Starbucks -- this is part of their quotes-on-cups series, and it doesn't make people too happy. Who knows why? Anyway, enjoy.
It's tragic that extremists co-opt the notion of God, and that hipsters and artists reject spirituality out of hand. I don't have a fixed idea of God. But I feel that it's us – the messed-up, the half-crazy, the burning, the questing – that need God, a lot more than the goody-two-shoes do. -- Mike Doughty, musician.
It's tragic that extremists co-opt the notion of God, and that hipsters and artists reject spirituality out of hand. I don't have a fixed idea of God. But I feel that it's us – the messed-up, the half-crazy, the burning, the questing – that need God, a lot more than the goody-two-shoes do. -- Mike Doughty, musician.
panic
A panic attack has a particular taste.
I always forget that part. Thinking back on them, I remember the fluttering of a pulse, the shallow and labored breathing, the brightness of colors, the pushing pushing pushing ahead. How hard it is to keep walking. But I always forget about the taste of a panic attack.
Like wine, the flavor of a panic attack is hard to define concretely. It tastes like your dry tongue after you've slept with your mouth open. It tastes like the very beginning of a hot pepper, the first spiciness you know will only grow. It's acrid. It stings.
What am I going to do about this panic disorder? Obviously, the meds are not enough. I wouldn't be too worried, but winter's coming, and the lack of sunlight makes everything worse.
One of the weird synchronicities in my life is that every time I start to feel really bad for myself, like woe-is-me bad, I always see someone who's much worse off than I am. God as I know God has a sick sense of humor, and thus always sends some sort of hemiplegic or quadruple amputee to cross my path.
Walking back to the office after lunch, I actually wondered where my cripple was. God was slacking off. But of course, there in the lobby -- the back of a wheelchair, a slumped-sideways figure.
We rode the elevator together. I don't know where he was going, or what disease he had. He was old to have survived something that would have afflicted him since birth, but he seemed too distant from the norm to be a stroke victim. I held the elevator door for him and he thanked me.
The whole way up to the office -- gasp, release. Gasp, release. Labored, rhythmic breathing.
Sometimes God says, even if your pulse is approaching 150, be thankful that it beats strongly through all your pretty little limbs.
I always forget that part. Thinking back on them, I remember the fluttering of a pulse, the shallow and labored breathing, the brightness of colors, the pushing pushing pushing ahead. How hard it is to keep walking. But I always forget about the taste of a panic attack.
Like wine, the flavor of a panic attack is hard to define concretely. It tastes like your dry tongue after you've slept with your mouth open. It tastes like the very beginning of a hot pepper, the first spiciness you know will only grow. It's acrid. It stings.
What am I going to do about this panic disorder? Obviously, the meds are not enough. I wouldn't be too worried, but winter's coming, and the lack of sunlight makes everything worse.
One of the weird synchronicities in my life is that every time I start to feel really bad for myself, like woe-is-me bad, I always see someone who's much worse off than I am. God as I know God has a sick sense of humor, and thus always sends some sort of hemiplegic or quadruple amputee to cross my path.
Walking back to the office after lunch, I actually wondered where my cripple was. God was slacking off. But of course, there in the lobby -- the back of a wheelchair, a slumped-sideways figure.
We rode the elevator together. I don't know where he was going, or what disease he had. He was old to have survived something that would have afflicted him since birth, but he seemed too distant from the norm to be a stroke victim. I held the elevator door for him and he thanked me.
The whole way up to the office -- gasp, release. Gasp, release. Labored, rhythmic breathing.
Sometimes God says, even if your pulse is approaching 150, be thankful that it beats strongly through all your pretty little limbs.
run away with me
(note the time. Red Bull is a demon, Red Bull is a whore.)
A series of paragraphs, each for someone different.
Run away with me.
Run away with me to London. I've never been there -- you can show me the town. We'll rent Sylvia Plath's old flat, the one where she put her head in the oven. We'll turn the oven into a shrine. Let's work at pubs, get our doctorates in literature, be Zelda and Scott. I'll let you run away when you need to and I'll wait for you to come back.
Run away with me to Key West. It'll be decadent and gaudy. We'll be the most beautiful couple on the island. Whenever we need money, we'll make out in bars for cash. This will not make us whores. I'll never miss your phone calls again, because whenever you need me, you'll blow a conch shell. Let's get curvy on seafood and Coronas, and wear parrot earrings. Let's eat coconuts straight from the trees.
Run away with me to Georgetown. We'll buy a little rowhouse and cover it with ivy. Leave your old life and start a new one with me, please. Every room in the house will have a bookshelf, even the bathrooms. Even the guest bathroom. We'll have dinner parties with too much wine and vegetables from our garden. I'll perform bawdy poetry for you when you're sad and I'll never get tired of holding your hand.
Run away with me to New York. It's not your favorite city, but it's home for oddballs, which you and I both are. We'll find a walkup in an old brownstone and bitch every time we climb the stairs. We'll fill the apartment with misshapen pottery and lurid paintings. Our bookshelves will be equal parts philosophy and trashy 60s gay pulp. We'll never, ever, ever sleep together, because that would be weird and gross.
A series of paragraphs, each for someone different.
Run away with me.
Run away with me to London. I've never been there -- you can show me the town. We'll rent Sylvia Plath's old flat, the one where she put her head in the oven. We'll turn the oven into a shrine. Let's work at pubs, get our doctorates in literature, be Zelda and Scott. I'll let you run away when you need to and I'll wait for you to come back.
Run away with me to Key West. It'll be decadent and gaudy. We'll be the most beautiful couple on the island. Whenever we need money, we'll make out in bars for cash. This will not make us whores. I'll never miss your phone calls again, because whenever you need me, you'll blow a conch shell. Let's get curvy on seafood and Coronas, and wear parrot earrings. Let's eat coconuts straight from the trees.
Run away with me to Georgetown. We'll buy a little rowhouse and cover it with ivy. Leave your old life and start a new one with me, please. Every room in the house will have a bookshelf, even the bathrooms. Even the guest bathroom. We'll have dinner parties with too much wine and vegetables from our garden. I'll perform bawdy poetry for you when you're sad and I'll never get tired of holding your hand.
Run away with me to New York. It's not your favorite city, but it's home for oddballs, which you and I both are. We'll find a walkup in an old brownstone and bitch every time we climb the stairs. We'll fill the apartment with misshapen pottery and lurid paintings. Our bookshelves will be equal parts philosophy and trashy 60s gay pulp. We'll never, ever, ever sleep together, because that would be weird and gross.
Monday, October 15, 2007
a treatise on stalking, internet-wise
Today was an all-day diversity training (other people learned from it, I wrote a naughty song about it) and one of our most senior officers started talking about a boy she'd almost adopted when she was 26. He'd been in 16 foster homes before the age of five -- she used to take him home on the weekends.
Her story was so poignant, and I am picky about the things that touch me. He was shuffled around from home to home because he hid food in his bed. He hid food in his bed because, even at five, he knew what it was to be hungry in a way that made him strategic. When my colleague would have him for the weekends and he'd be upset, he'd pretend he was Frosty the Snowman and hide under her desk. "Go away, I'm melting!" he'd say.
But to get to the stalking. I asked my coworker if she'd Googled the boy; he'd be 30 now, she'd said, so it seems like there'd be something on the internet about him. "No, I hadn't thought of that," she said to me, and gave me a sideways glance I've seen before -- the slight befuddlement and slight wariness of one who does not understand the art of internet peoplefinding.
This is not a new thing for me. In every job I've ever had, I've always been the Google girl, the one who can dredge the endless waters of the the Internet and come up with information about a person, a place, a thing. People love me for doing this when they need the address to something or a movie time...but the second they find out I've been doing it to people, finding out about people, it's just too creepy to bear.
Honestly, I have trouble understanding this. I mean, it's not like I'm rooting through anyone's medicine cabinet (which I LOVE to do -- if I have been to your house, sorry, I've done it) or sorting through their dirty hampers (which not even I, in my infinite nosiness, would do). There is information about people on the Internet because, in the vast majority of cases, the persons themselves choose to put it on there.
If I can find someone's MySpace, I don't feel guilty about it -- the person MADE a MySpace, and oftentimes all it takes to find someone is simply plugging their name into a search engine. Likewise, if I find out a new friend went to a certain university, or an intern applicant worked at a nonprofit last summer, I don't see why I shouldn't be allowed to. That information's available to everyone -- I'm just taking advantage of what's already out there.
I don't have any incantations I recite or secret search engines. I don't smear chicken blood on my monitor to control Internet-searching demons. I just use Google. And Facebook. And MySpace.
Ain't nothin' wrong with that.
Her story was so poignant, and I am picky about the things that touch me. He was shuffled around from home to home because he hid food in his bed. He hid food in his bed because, even at five, he knew what it was to be hungry in a way that made him strategic. When my colleague would have him for the weekends and he'd be upset, he'd pretend he was Frosty the Snowman and hide under her desk. "Go away, I'm melting!" he'd say.
But to get to the stalking. I asked my coworker if she'd Googled the boy; he'd be 30 now, she'd said, so it seems like there'd be something on the internet about him. "No, I hadn't thought of that," she said to me, and gave me a sideways glance I've seen before -- the slight befuddlement and slight wariness of one who does not understand the art of internet peoplefinding.
This is not a new thing for me. In every job I've ever had, I've always been the Google girl, the one who can dredge the endless waters of the the Internet and come up with information about a person, a place, a thing. People love me for doing this when they need the address to something or a movie time...but the second they find out I've been doing it to people, finding out about people, it's just too creepy to bear.
Honestly, I have trouble understanding this. I mean, it's not like I'm rooting through anyone's medicine cabinet (which I LOVE to do -- if I have been to your house, sorry, I've done it) or sorting through their dirty hampers (which not even I, in my infinite nosiness, would do). There is information about people on the Internet because, in the vast majority of cases, the persons themselves choose to put it on there.
If I can find someone's MySpace, I don't feel guilty about it -- the person MADE a MySpace, and oftentimes all it takes to find someone is simply plugging their name into a search engine. Likewise, if I find out a new friend went to a certain university, or an intern applicant worked at a nonprofit last summer, I don't see why I shouldn't be allowed to. That information's available to everyone -- I'm just taking advantage of what's already out there.
I don't have any incantations I recite or secret search engines. I don't smear chicken blood on my monitor to control Internet-searching demons. I just use Google. And Facebook. And MySpace.
Ain't nothin' wrong with that.
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