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.