disappointment

On a whim decided to go to Gounod's Faust tonight at The Orpheum Theatre in Memphis, TN. My friends were going and it sounded interesting but, to be honest, all I knew about it was that a man sells his soul to the devil. Immediately when I heard the words "soul" and "devil" I made all sorts of assumptions about how deeply mysterious and interesting it would be. My assumptions turned out to be irrelevant to the actual play and I was disappointed. It started when I had to drive in a separate car from my friends because I, unlike them, had to go to the theatre on the hope that they'd be selling tickets at the door. Got my ticket, but had to park in a different parking lot that was farther away from where my friends parked. I walked in late and got seated in the back next to a lady with a nasty cough and a teenage boy who wouldn't stop twirling his glasses between his fingers and letting out dramatic "sigh" noises.

The Orpheum Theatre is on Beale street so there was plenty of commotion: people, horse carriages, trollies, and cars. Despite the predominately African American population of Memphis, there were no African Americans dressed in fancy schnancy clothes walking into The Orpheum to see this production. Got sad because I thought about how messed up it is that races are divided in this way. The people working traffic were African American, as were the security officers. However, all the snobby people walking into The Orpheum in sparking gowns were Caucasian. I was thankful to be wearing clothes that represent "the true me," namely, jean capris, black flip-flops, and a blue, cotton, v-neck t-shirt from Banana Republic.

Felt unsure about where to go once I got into the theatre, since I had never been there before, and felt like people would judge me based on being a strong, single woman in jean capris. Thought they wouldn't accept me. I was immediately shocked that all of the actors and actresses were Caucasian except the man who played the devil, or Mephistopheles, who was African American. Could that be any more of an ignorant idea? Given the stereotypes and generalizations that exist in society, how could the directors and playwrights overlook or misinterpret the obvious problems with this dramatic organization?

Most of the arguments I make are sort of weak, in my opinion. Perhaps that is why I find it so difficult to make arguments. But that is something I should discard, since it's a break-through of my insecure self onto the stage of my secure authorial blogger self. With that, I walked back to my dorm room and got into bed.

what's it to you?

I tried not to listen to their conversation by focusing my eyes on the words on the page in the book I was reading.  I thought if I really stared at them I would process them more deeply.  I squint my eyes and look sharply at each word as I pass through the lines on the page.  It is going to make me get lost in its wonder.  The words of this genius writer were going to finally come alive inside my brain.  It was only a matter of time before these words effect my whole brain.  If I just look deep enough into the black font on the page, each part of my brain will analyze the meaning at once.  Out of this will emerge the most thorough and accurate interpretation imaginable.  The resultant thoughts are the perfect mix of judging what's here and what's just in my mind.  I'll catch all the details and expound upon the argument the author is trying to make.  It isn't as easy as I make it seem to be such a good reader.  All of this would have happened if I hadn't been distracted by the conversation next to me.  They outnumbered me by 3:1 which made my weak attempts at self-talk an epic fail.  I even stole the word epic from their conversation.

I overheard one of them making a joke to his friends about whatever seemed to pop up in his head.  He decided to make a cyberspace joke about the availability of personal information about people we know on the Internet.  For that matter, the information is available for people we do not know, as well.  Anyway, the joke was to say to his friend sitting across from him at the table something like, "Jezebel, I saw on the Rhodes network that you declared your history major."  Then, instead of stopping the weird computer stalker lingo, he continued on, reading off statistics about him, like his phone number, address, residence, year, major, and full name.  It was actually really funny and it even sounds funny when I type it out, which is always a good sign.

my bookbag's burnin'

Is it possible to be completely mute? Today I have hardly spoken at all. At lunch I learned some French and felt like I was being instructed on my mouth movements. I was being instructed on how to move my mouth. There were two aliens shaping their mouths into strange puckers of French. They were asking me to follow them onto the spaceship of puckered French lips and noises I understand when I tell jokes in English or try to make a friend laugh.

If there ever was a smallest creature, I think it would be me. I would feel the same as I do now if I was the smallest creature. Maybe when I turn 23 I'll feel like a grown-up.

I wake up everyday knowing on some level that, come midday, I'll wonder what it means to be alive. I can imagine people's responses if I were to ask them what it means to be alive. That God loves me. That I exist in space as body mass. That you are able to love. That you are an animal with a large frontal cortex.

Garbage.

Glass

I've been thinking the world is made of glass. It came to me in a dream one night as I strolled outside pulling glass flowers from glass mulch with my magnetic hand. Surprise overtook me but a moment later I put each flower back in its place. Looking around me, people were able to collect entire tree trunks and grow too tired for the limbs.  They'd leave them behind in heap on the ground.  But they would walk away much larger because the glass pebbles become a part of them.

Gravity still exists such that only humans have equal magnetic force to pick up things in the environment.  Glass pebbles are held to the ground, to each other, and to human magnetic hands.  There is variation in the extent to which these three forces pull them.  Pebble to pebble is the strongest magnetic pull.  Next are humans followed by gravity.

The glass was always the same size despite the person, animal or object.  It varied in how many pieces of glass were required to compose the object.  So every object is composed of many teeny tiny glass pebbles that are pulled together to form shapes.  Since pebble to pebble connections are the strongest, it is possible for humans to sit on glass objects like chairs.

Rain on Easter Sunday

Stayed up until early this morning painting and applying to jobs in Brooklyn, NY.  I applied to at least ten jobs last night, mostly by e-mailing them my resume, references and a subtle hint of desperation.  I refrained from telling them that I would do anything to get hired in Brooklyn and that all I want when I graduate is to go to Brooklyn.  I couldn't tell them that I would do anything to be hired but maybe it was evidence that I was applying in the early morning hours of Easter 2009.  Nobody applies for jobs at that time and, if they do, it's like an underground closet competition thing all surrounding the job search.  More than a search these days, getting a job is like going on a competitive hunt, where there are other hunters going after the same prey.  I am adamantly against hunting because it is repulsive and the work of the devil!

Woke up at noon as a result of what I said in the previous paragraph.  I didn't spend much time feeling bad about waking up so late because there was absolutely nobody moving on campus in the middle of the day.  It was the middle of the day and not a creature was stirring, probably because they were all off campus enjoying delicious Easter breakfasts with their families.  Since I clearly wasn't missing anything in my immediate vicinity, I decided to sit around my room and read Responsibility and the Moral Sentiments for Metaphysics.

Ate sushi for a late lunch around 3:30 p.m.  I'm still warming up to sushi, honestly, and given that it's pretty raw stuff it makes sense that it's something I have to grow accustomed to.  When I eat it I think how this is the closest to real eating that I'll probably ever get.  Everything in sushi is so raw and uncooked that I believe it is a more natural way for humans to eat than chomping away on Oreos.  Processed foods are tasty but I do not think they are ideal for human beings most adaptive functioning.  Especially if the goal is to live past age 30, I think taking the sushi route is a worthwhile thing to consider.

Felt comforted by the knowledge that my friends are probably back on campus now.  If not now, they will be tomorrow, and so I can return to my group who I never should have left anyway.  I regret my decision not to go to the cabin with them over the break but, at the same time, I needed my own time to think.  Sometimes I surprise myself with how shy I am when I am honest with myself.  I'm not sure I'd ever talk if I didn't have to or wasn't so crazily curious about how people are doing.  The only reason I talk is to gather information about people around me.  Is that even possible?  Am I such a unique human being that I can have the knowledge that I only speak to collect information and not for a selfish reason?  The answer is usually somewhere in the middle of my thoughts so maybe there are times when I talk just to talk and other times when I talk to eventually be in a situation where I can listen.

Vomit Trap

Figuring Things Out

Goals Come Spring

My goal today is to write every time I sit down to do anything.  I may have to do something else first and then write but regardless, my goal is to write.  I want to do it so that I am reminded of where I am and what I am doing.  Writing helps me to know myself, both in general and at specific moments.  It would make the goal to always write a little easier if I came up with a few questions to ask myself when I feel like there is nothing to write about.  I have tried this recently more so that I have in the past and I believe it will eventually work really well.  Lately I have asked myself the obvious question:  Why is there nothing to write about?  Usually inside I feel what I recognize as apathy, depression, and hopelessness.  A voice inside my head says to stop fooling myself into thinking I have intelligent things to express through writing.  I don't know whose voice it is but I listen to it way too often.  It is the voice that reminds me of my small place in this world, of all the people who will read what I write and say there is nothing happening, and of all of the people more humble than I am who have worked much harder than I have to be writers.  I don't know why I'm so surprised that I give up on myself when I look at what I think before I pull the plug.  My thoughts are not hopeful.  They are disappointed in relationships, education and the world.  I'm sad for internet aliases rather than good communication, the squelching of creativity rather than the worship of it, and the destruction of all that is natural like the trees and forests.

"The optimist is an embodiment of Spring."  If this is so then I must embody winter although I can't stand the cold.  Since I don't embody winter, there must be something wrong with this quote that I read on someone's facebook status.  But what if there isn't anything wrong with it?  My little brother, the optimist, surely embodies spring.  so it must be true.  My only complaint is that I am not being referenced in this quote and it has little to do with me.  It is those other sweet people whom this quote belongs.  I don't know when I stopped considering myself a sweet person but I think it was around the time when I began to comprehend how it is that a person can be so disgusting as to use a person for this quality.

Why am I so upset that I was used because of being sweet?  That's a reason to celebrate!

I Know I Exist

Touch Me and Go

Nighttime for me is not for work because that is what day is for.  Night is a time for mystery, fantasy, and mystical visions of worlds unseen.  At night I want to crawl into the darkness and experience a lover's lips in a way that cannot be done in the light.  Darkness is not just an absence of light; it has qualities all its own.  I can't see in the dark so I must struggle to touch and find the heart of a lover who wishes me to.  I fight to feel what lessons vision cannot teach.  With my hands I do everything to have a lover feel my intentions which are to warm them up ever so softly.  When it is light again I want them to see the day as a great adventure or a curious opportunity to go searching for what's true.  When I loved this lover I thought they loved me too.  But those times are over now and I have no capacity to know if this lover loved me ...

Loving a lover who is only a part of my life for a short time is a devastating truth about life that I cannot trust.  The liquid love ran through my fingers, and is that not the closest to loving that we will ever get?

What is the best way to love a person?  Does it depend on the person, surely it must.  Will I ever learn the worth in postponing sexuality to allow a relationship time to grow?

so cover me in dirt

Have you ever felt like everyone is so busy being themselves that you just are left alone?  It isn't that I wish my friends were different because I cherish them as they are.  It's just that publicly, out there in your car or sitting at the coffee shop, this focus on the individual self as being a refuge gets in the way of good connection.  Maybe I'm afraid that I will become the person I talk to, like parts of them will travel through the space between us and come into me.  Even abstractly that is impossible, because no matter how empty I feel, I am full up to my limit with matter.  I have a heart that is my own and it works just fine so I don't need to feel what yours is like.  Why should I be so interested in yours if you aren't interested in mine?  Because my identity is so wrapped around connections and magic between persons that I just can't bear to search for fairness that isn't there.  I don't have time to always think about motivation and consequences behind every single action.  Having the intelligence to do this is so good that it will pull me down into a damp, mold infested well if I use it too often.  Oh, forget it, I fear I'll never be able to call myself intelligent without feeling like a fraud or an impostor.  When I work hard I begin to question myself, perhaps just to make sure I'm using my energy for productive efforts.  For example, women's rights are a productive effort.

As we lay back and think

Writing is a way to keep from disappearing.  It's like that moment right before you begin when you don't know why you're here.  Okay, I'll take it easy with the second person.  I often don't know why I'm here on earth and there may not be a reason.  Many people believe there is definitely a reason.  I don't care I just want to understand people and what we are doing on the earth.  At any moment I can ask myself what I'm doing and have two responses: (1) sitting in the Trezevant common room blogging on my laptop as Valeria sits on the blue jean couch reading a book and (2) contributing to a moment in history, making history, changing Valeria's life, having my life changed by Valeria, being a ghost, an alien, a contributing factor to the pollution of the atmosphere.  

Some people use writing to convey lies and reveal secrets they do not know are true of themselves.  We have such wonderful capacities for denial that sometimes these stories make us feel right at home.  Celebratory dances of denial last night made me sleep better when I finally returned to my room.  Valeria and I went to a dance club and I tentatively entered the building, knowing how many crime scenes from T.V. and movies take place at clubs.  I took in all the silent messages sent by the people around, perhaps finding enough information to convince myself we were safe so that I could get on with the dancing.  The man at the entrance who asked for our I.D.s, then the man right as we entered the doors who asked us to walk through a metal detector, and finally the man blocking the door to the dance floor, who told us we had to wait fifteen minutes, were deemed safe.  It would have been so nice if that were true.  I am shocked when the dance floor finally opens up and I walk into an episode of CSI or Law and Order, except the dance club is nearly empty and I am standing there.  I survey the room, giving each corner a quick glance, and notice that each of the three bars is manned by a man in black, standing such that we cannot see their faces.  Their arms are crossed behind their backs and the glowing bottles of alcohol behind them are clear, white, and illuminated.  It looks like a trip to the North Pole except buried in the snow are bottles of Smirnoff.  That just does not work as an association, so what is the deal with advertising these days?  Why must alcohol look so otherworldly and special?

Pandora has saved my musical life

I try harder each time I blog not to worry about how other people will like or dislike it.  It is a block to writing but it is also a catalyst, something that pushes me on and keeps me motivated.  I am like a leech on the ideas of my peers.  Other people's interpretations of what I speak and write are valuable so long as I continue to fight with words via more writing.  Gets confusing to entertain too many perspectives, though, when it is more economical to stick to one and do it well.  I set myself up for a life long learning process that will continue to change as years pass.  I like working to understand what people enjoy, find funny, or beautiful.

Some days I hate myself for procrastination, failing to speak, and really just anything at all that doesn't sit right.  Unfortunately for me that can sometimes be a lot of moments of dissatisfaction with self.  In the end, though, I know I will be okay.  I'm scared of taking the next step after graduating from college because I'm not sure what is the best decision to make.  In terms of a job, I fear getting into some position where I'm not happy and cannot express myself freely.  I need to use my creativity in the work I do or else I'm not really alive fully.  If the job and life I build for myself does not allow me to be holistically present at all times, I'll begin to feel it sort of internally.  At that point I'll need to, most likely, disappear and basically take off running.  How many expectations does a person need for a job before s/he has even been hired?  Not many, I guess.

People respond well when I give them specific locations that I'm considering for doing job searches.  They commend me for a sort of organization or good decision making that they assume I have done.  I don't know what I have done and usually don't when it's in shades of gray.  That's my life, basically a world in shades of gray where every person's heart glows inside their chest in all sorts of colors: pink, orange, green, and blue.  You can imagine which people have which color heart... 

 

There's Gotta Be More

Sat in the library today, staring curiously out the window, asking myself, 'Is this really it?  Is this all that college is made of?'  Something needs to happen, I thought, right now.  Nothing ever does happen so I'm going to take on the role of making things happen in my writing.  The secret is that no one can ever know my writing and also know me, because I am so not my writing.  The writing reflects lots of things about people that are not very much related to me.  I am quite boring and I see life as being also quite boring.  I admit that maybe I'm just in a pessimistic mood because, even when I love someone, they do not under any circumstances love me the same way.  More than that, they rarely even start up conversations with me and I begin to feel like I'm outside of my body.  I'm floating along near the ceiling like a smoky substance and though I know I'm in the room and visible, I'm still searching for something more than what is clearly happening in the room.

Ate dinner at the Rat with Maria, Josh, Brennan, Stephanie, Valeria, Daniel and Kayla.  Felt good when Josh laughed at my joke.  Felt hurt when Stephanie ignored me and again when I got up to leave.

Talked with Julia tonight in the Middle Ground about a whole range of topics, such as dogs and cats, dads, families, lesbian existence, homosexual men, characteristics of male power, and sleep.  Laughed with her about my dad's childishness even at after 50 years.  Showed her lame pictures of my cat and dog, Sandy and Spikey, that my dad took.  Said bye to her when she went to exercise.

Walked from my dorm building to the library, to the lair and back to the library, then to the rat then the library.  Runny nose.  Grumpy mood because it is cold.

discontent

Today I reached a point where the number of Friday nights I've spent in the middle ground at Rhodes has gotten way too high. Despite the number of times I have come here on desperate Friday nights, they fail to repeat any patterns. The middle ground on friday nights here is always different week to week. The energy in the place shifts with the pairs, or solo persons, working here on their latest assignment from the professor. People vary in their misery or eagerness to learn but I keep thinking to myself that I don't really know what is going on for the other people around. Anyway, each and every time I've spent evenings in here on weekends I have felt out of place because I am not content. I know there is somewhere better out there in the world where I would have more fun or experience more beauty. I want to be there where it is better and not here where it is constrained. I want a lot more out of life than the experiences I have on this campus, though I love this campus. I'm held tight into a group of college students and because of it people in the real work will make assumptions about me that I am intelligent and driven. The people here are so similar and so different; I'll never understand.

Eating dinner earlier, I saw Darren. He came into the room with his tray of food and sat down at a table to my right. I was sitting at a table of seven or so men checking in with them because of volleyball at 7:00 p.m. That was in less than a half-hour and I wanted to touch base with their group knowing I would see them soon and need to play volleyball with them. I didn't want to feel like an outsider, even though I'm thinking lately that is what I will always be. I knew Darren had sat at a table near my and was eating by himself, but I didn't dare look at him. If I did, I would show my weakness, a pain that is so real. When I stood up to leave, he stood up and walked out before I had a chance to. As I walked out of the rat, I saw him walking down the darkened path of the sidewalk with his black hood over his head. A small figure, seemingly needy, not needing me at all.

Later, after I had lost my keys, I walked over to Robb where he lives and stood outside the door for a while waiting for someone to exit the building so I could get in. Usually I have my fob to get into buildings but I lost my keys a few hours earlier so I was stuck out in the cold rainy and creepy darkness, feeling like I was doing something wrong. I had made brief eye contact with someone sitting in the darkened social room right next to the door, but I was afraid of what they would think of me. We are supposed to have fobs to use for entering buildings and since I didn't, I didn't feel like I deserved to get into the all male dorm where Darren lives. Besides, I feared that it was Darren sitting there in the dark watching t.v. by himself in the social room. I did not feel safe there and I could not deal with what could happen if I got into the building and found him. He might not even look at me.

I once thought that my feminine appearance and slight attractiveness would be enough to entertain a guy. Since then I've developed a sort of self-esteem around my personality and not around my appearance so much. When I sat once with Darren talking to the side of his deep, deep face, neither of those pieces of me were enough to get him to look at me. I was not a human being. I do not think it was me who was feeling that way; I know it was Darren who does not feel alive. I still felt it all the same . . .