[about chatterbox, horse-obsessed coworker to coworker who hates aforementioned chatterbox] me: You get to work with [chatterbox] tomorrow night! Yay for you!
surly coworker: no. do you know how much she'll want to catch me up on?! all the horsies she's ridden in the span of five months!!?
(except he didn't really say "ridden")
me: she has a new boyfriend now, too.
surly coworker: is his name ED?!
...hahahahahahaha.
Saturday, December 24, 2011
Friday, December 16, 2011
we are young, so let's set the world on fire, we can burn brighter than the sun.
I wish I had the gumption to do anything. It's so hard, working as much as I do, then waking up exhausted, wanting to just stay in bed forever. Some days I can't even bring myself to wash a dish. I know that's just the way it is for me, depression and all that. But the exhaustion makes it worse. And also the sun-less midwest in its present winter state. Strange because cold usually drives my creativity (as opposed to heat, which causes me great laziness), but the SUN. I watched a documentary a few days ago about Aileen Wurnos, first American female serial killer (Monster is about her, I have to admit a bizarre fascination and sympathy for the woman who I believe originated as a victim-- but who, make no mistake, was utterly batshit). The doc was mostly a chronicle of her history and her last days in prison, death row, whatnot, basically after she rejected all possibilities for an appeal and desired the death penalty, just to get her the hell out of here. Anyway, on the thing are several interviews with her, and while that goes on her attention switches from the interviewer to the camera in front of her-- sometimes she stares it down, ranting and raving like a lunatic and her eyes, I kid you not, are jet black. You cannot tell where her pupils begin. And with her uber pale skin it's as though she has black holes gaping in her head. It's terrifying. It's an effect I think the film industry would employ if they knew how. The interviewer, asked about her freaky appearance, responded that she apparently looked like that due to being on death row and NEVER seeing the sun. No windows. No outings (i'm not sure if that was a rule or if that was her choice-- she wanted to die, so the latter is not impossible). Just darkness. I wonder if I will look that way by the end of the season. I joke of course. But. Still frightening.
Winter has its perks. I still love the snow, it hasn't been impossible yet (they say January and February are murderous). The other day ice was hanging from everything, and all of the trees were dripping and glistening, every single twig was coated and luminous. Martha Stewart wishes.
I haven't been writing. It's been such a while since I've been able to make the time for it that now when I really want to write I don't even do it because I'm afraid I've lost it. I have to start to change that. I have to get back on track. I spent about 45 minutes today daydreaming about myself-- my future self. The sort of things I'll write, where I'll go, the things I'll do for others, the fantastic things I'll wear (today it was a Penny Lane coat-- visual aid below). The jobs I'll have. The grad school I'll go to. The incredibly attractive Jewish guy I'll spend my time with in New York, the beautiful Scotsman I'll date in Europe. The time I'll spend living in tents and writing and waitresses across the US. All things that can be managed, maybe, if I just live my life properly. If I just suck it up and try to fly right. It comes and goes. That's when I wonder about medication, sometimes. If I were on prozac or whathaveyou, would I be able to get out of bed like a normal person? If I took some sort of add med, could I organize my thoughts enough to plod through the day and work towards a goal? Would I budget better? I recognize I have alot of time to work these things out. I have alot of time to do all of these things. And I do feel happy about that, happy to think that I've (just this year) really done alot of good and adventurous things. And I also recognize that dissatisfaction is inherent (once I again, I'm reminded of C.S. Lewis's explanation for human discontent, look it up in Mere Christianity) . But. I am not the young person that I want to be right now. I could stand to be a tired little snot, but only if I had completely earned that exhaustion in every aspect of my life. I need to take better care of myself physically and spiritually, I need to get back to reading/studying more, I need to be better with finances, with dedicating my time to others, with priorities. I know I'll always be trying to get it together, but I'd really like to ALMOST get it together here sometime soon. That's not too much to hope for, is it?
My birthday was on Monday. As per usual, not a very exciting thing, but I wasn't depressed like I usually find myself. I got home from work, opened a few weird things that my mother had sent me (Time Bandits and Babe (???) and an awesomely peculiar, semispooky Owl Ornament), tried to paint my nails, fell asleep (sadly not for very long), got up, then Amanda and I got ready to go to Dickinson's ONE nice restaurant, which was of course closed on Monday nights. So we went to Applebee's (as per usual. Applebee's is literally the ONLY place to go at night aside from the bars). Then to a random bar for my birthday shot. Then I drank a (dreadful) whiskey sour as my company refused to imbibe and returned home in a peaceful mood, and put on the Breakfast at Tiffany's soundtrack. After listening to Moonriver about 5 times I decided it was time to watch the damn thing so I said goodnight to Amanda and curled up on the couch, close to our lovely, glowing christmas tree, and watched Holly Golightly live her existence, which, to a slightly sentimental me, full of that desperate feeling to romanticize my uneventful present life, seemed alot like a much more glamorous version of my own existence. I'm like the midwestern, slob Holly, except instead of Cat I have an Amanda. Who I think would be pretty upset if I booted her out of a moving taxi, so it's all the same, isn't it?
That's it. I'm going to write something. As I sit here waxing poetic on myself I'm realizing that I should just grab this moment inbetween work and sleep and just TRY. Here goes.
Winter has its perks. I still love the snow, it hasn't been impossible yet (they say January and February are murderous). The other day ice was hanging from everything, and all of the trees were dripping and glistening, every single twig was coated and luminous. Martha Stewart wishes.
I haven't been writing. It's been such a while since I've been able to make the time for it that now when I really want to write I don't even do it because I'm afraid I've lost it. I have to start to change that. I have to get back on track. I spent about 45 minutes today daydreaming about myself-- my future self. The sort of things I'll write, where I'll go, the things I'll do for others, the fantastic things I'll wear (today it was a Penny Lane coat-- visual aid below). The jobs I'll have. The grad school I'll go to. The incredibly attractive Jewish guy I'll spend my time with in New York, the beautiful Scotsman I'll date in Europe. The time I'll spend living in tents and writing and waitresses across the US. All things that can be managed, maybe, if I just live my life properly. If I just suck it up and try to fly right. It comes and goes. That's when I wonder about medication, sometimes. If I were on prozac or whathaveyou, would I be able to get out of bed like a normal person? If I took some sort of add med, could I organize my thoughts enough to plod through the day and work towards a goal? Would I budget better? I recognize I have alot of time to work these things out. I have alot of time to do all of these things. And I do feel happy about that, happy to think that I've (just this year) really done alot of good and adventurous things. And I also recognize that dissatisfaction is inherent (once I again, I'm reminded of C.S. Lewis's explanation for human discontent, look it up in Mere Christianity) . But. I am not the young person that I want to be right now. I could stand to be a tired little snot, but only if I had completely earned that exhaustion in every aspect of my life. I need to take better care of myself physically and spiritually, I need to get back to reading/studying more, I need to be better with finances, with dedicating my time to others, with priorities. I know I'll always be trying to get it together, but I'd really like to ALMOST get it together here sometime soon. That's not too much to hope for, is it?
My birthday was on Monday. As per usual, not a very exciting thing, but I wasn't depressed like I usually find myself. I got home from work, opened a few weird things that my mother had sent me (Time Bandits and Babe (???) and an awesomely peculiar, semispooky Owl Ornament), tried to paint my nails, fell asleep (sadly not for very long), got up, then Amanda and I got ready to go to Dickinson's ONE nice restaurant, which was of course closed on Monday nights. So we went to Applebee's (as per usual. Applebee's is literally the ONLY place to go at night aside from the bars). Then to a random bar for my birthday shot. Then I drank a (dreadful) whiskey sour as my company refused to imbibe and returned home in a peaceful mood, and put on the Breakfast at Tiffany's soundtrack. After listening to Moonriver about 5 times I decided it was time to watch the damn thing so I said goodnight to Amanda and curled up on the couch, close to our lovely, glowing christmas tree, and watched Holly Golightly live her existence, which, to a slightly sentimental me, full of that desperate feeling to romanticize my uneventful present life, seemed alot like a much more glamorous version of my own existence. I'm like the midwestern, slob Holly, except instead of Cat I have an Amanda. Who I think would be pretty upset if I booted her out of a moving taxi, so it's all the same, isn't it?
That's it. I'm going to write something. As I sit here waxing poetic on myself I'm realizing that I should just grab this moment inbetween work and sleep and just TRY. Here goes.
Thursday, December 15, 2011
and you're the same kinda bad as me.
So another birthday come and gone. Strange that I kind of dread it until it gets here, then get excited against my will, then get depressed about how little I've accomplished in my many 24 years (yeah it's young, but there's so much you can fit into that), how few places I've been. I was talking to a thirteen year old girl the other day and mentioned I haven't been out of the country yet and she gave me the most shocked face. "What??? You haven't at ALL?" No, kid, not even Canada. Shuttup.
Friday, December 9, 2011
Thursday, December 8, 2011
Me: Gee-Ma, I'm sad today.
Gma: Why are you sad? Do you know?
Me: Not really.
Gma: Do you have people in your life that you miss?
Me: ...Yeah.
Gma: Then that is probably why you are sad.
this coming from a woman so steeped in Alzheimer's that she doesn't know anyone in her family and can no longer go to the bathroom by herself. I love moments like that.
Gma: Why are you sad? Do you know?
Me: Not really.
Gma: Do you have people in your life that you miss?
Me: ...Yeah.
Gma: Then that is probably why you are sad.
this coming from a woman so steeped in Alzheimer's that she doesn't know anyone in her family and can no longer go to the bathroom by herself. I love moments like that.
Monday, December 5, 2011
boy in the snow, way to go, it only happens once a year!
The snow here is insane. It's such a unique experience to be in a location where the lifestyle is so dependent upon the weather. And it is. The snow has started in hardcore and it has gotten very cold. Like, long-underwear, ice-scrapin', slip-sliding cold. Just walking around the apartment begs sweatshirts, tights under pants, thick socks and, my favorite, a blanket cape. One must have a blanket cape.
My Thanksgiving was quiet. Since I'm up all night I fell asleep about 6AM that morning and woke up at 2ish. Amanda had been invited to Thanksgiving madness at Grandma's family's house so she had gone there and then to work. I made myself a bowl of veggie soup (my favorite, oddly enough), calmly prepared myself a cup of Winter Dream tea (previously purchased at Coffee Bean during my California time-- sigh), and nestled into our Grandma couch for an uninterrupted viewing of The Royal Tenenbaums. I can't tell you how many times I've seen this movie-- I've been watching it several times a year since 2001 (it's been ten years, goodness! I didn't even realize that!) and it still feels rather new to me (while still being so comforting). It's interesting to me that so many people feel very distant and put out by Anderson's style of filmmaking while to me it is the opposite of cold. Anderson doesn't tell you how to feel, he just shows you the facts. I love that. I am more moved by that. Anyway, there's something faintly holiday-ish about that movie, and since it's about family and whatnot I thought it'd be an appropriate viewing. Every time I watch it I'm touched by something different-- there are the key scenes that still get me every time, like Needle in the Hay, She Smiled Sweetly, I'm A Widower Too (I know you are, Chas), Chas confessing to his father that he's had a rough year (okay, tearing up just thinking about that one), but this time I really noticed a scene that up until now I didn't really like. After everyone has found out that Royal is a big faker and he sets out to right things honestly and for good, he takes Margot to an ice cream parlor. She doesn't want to stay, so he tells her he's trying to make things right. Margot challenges him by quizzing him on what her middle name is, and Royal, drawing a blank, delcares that it's a trick question, she has no middle name. "It's Helen," she says, sadly. Royal is quiet for a moment. "That was my mother's name." Margot: "I know it was." The look on Margot's face, albeit still almost deadpan, is twinged with sadness. She was kept from being a part of Royal's life, but she took an interest in him. She knew about his life, and he didn't even remember that she had been named after his own mother. Sigh.
Anyway. I watched that and absorbed and enjoyed. It was made all the better due to my rereading a bit of Franny and Zooey the night before. Yes. So after that I strung up a strand of white lights over our window, made more tea, and watched The Fantastic Mr. Fox, which has to be the weirdest Wes Anderson movie of all (I still think the plot is just mad and all over the place, but I don't really feel like that's the important thing in this particular film) but just... oozes Thanksgiving-ness with its fall colors and coziness and family and food. And Mr. Fox's speech at the end. If I ever have a family, I think I'll make that a holiday tradition.
I'm asking him if he thinks we're in for a hard winter. He doesn't seem to know.
Anyway. Film talk aside, that was my Thanksgiving. Then I went to work that night. And so on. It was a bit lonely at times, however I really enjoyed it. I like being alone, I think. At least some of the time. And now it's December and it's cold. Through incredible Grace we managed to get a living room set of wonderful black leather furniture (exactly the color we wanted) for FREE from a family desperate to move. They even brought it all the way up the stairs for us (thank GOD because three flights of stairs is MURDER). We also got an end table and a non-working HDTV out of the deal (we're going to see if we can fix it). A friend of Amanda's sent her a bluray player for her birthday. We were also given a precious little Christmas tree strung with white lights. The place is starting to fill in nicely.
My sleep schedule has been strange lately. I sleep for about 3-4 hours at a time, wake up confused but not sleepy, carry on, and then crash for another 3-4 hours before the day is done. Odd.
Christmas is coming. It's great. Still. What I wouldn't give to see some family right about now. I'm worried about them.
My Thanksgiving was quiet. Since I'm up all night I fell asleep about 6AM that morning and woke up at 2ish. Amanda had been invited to Thanksgiving madness at Grandma's family's house so she had gone there and then to work. I made myself a bowl of veggie soup (my favorite, oddly enough), calmly prepared myself a cup of Winter Dream tea (previously purchased at Coffee Bean during my California time-- sigh), and nestled into our Grandma couch for an uninterrupted viewing of The Royal Tenenbaums. I can't tell you how many times I've seen this movie-- I've been watching it several times a year since 2001 (it's been ten years, goodness! I didn't even realize that!) and it still feels rather new to me (while still being so comforting). It's interesting to me that so many people feel very distant and put out by Anderson's style of filmmaking while to me it is the opposite of cold. Anderson doesn't tell you how to feel, he just shows you the facts. I love that. I am more moved by that. Anyway, there's something faintly holiday-ish about that movie, and since it's about family and whatnot I thought it'd be an appropriate viewing. Every time I watch it I'm touched by something different-- there are the key scenes that still get me every time, like Needle in the Hay, She Smiled Sweetly, I'm A Widower Too (I know you are, Chas), Chas confessing to his father that he's had a rough year (okay, tearing up just thinking about that one), but this time I really noticed a scene that up until now I didn't really like. After everyone has found out that Royal is a big faker and he sets out to right things honestly and for good, he takes Margot to an ice cream parlor. She doesn't want to stay, so he tells her he's trying to make things right. Margot challenges him by quizzing him on what her middle name is, and Royal, drawing a blank, delcares that it's a trick question, she has no middle name. "It's Helen," she says, sadly. Royal is quiet for a moment. "That was my mother's name." Margot: "I know it was." The look on Margot's face, albeit still almost deadpan, is twinged with sadness. She was kept from being a part of Royal's life, but she took an interest in him. She knew about his life, and he didn't even remember that she had been named after his own mother. Sigh.
Anyway. I watched that and absorbed and enjoyed. It was made all the better due to my rereading a bit of Franny and Zooey the night before. Yes. So after that I strung up a strand of white lights over our window, made more tea, and watched The Fantastic Mr. Fox, which has to be the weirdest Wes Anderson movie of all (I still think the plot is just mad and all over the place, but I don't really feel like that's the important thing in this particular film) but just... oozes Thanksgiving-ness with its fall colors and coziness and family and food. And Mr. Fox's speech at the end. If I ever have a family, I think I'll make that a holiday tradition.
I'm asking him if he thinks we're in for a hard winter. He doesn't seem to know.
Anyway. Film talk aside, that was my Thanksgiving. Then I went to work that night. And so on. It was a bit lonely at times, however I really enjoyed it. I like being alone, I think. At least some of the time. And now it's December and it's cold. Through incredible Grace we managed to get a living room set of wonderful black leather furniture (exactly the color we wanted) for FREE from a family desperate to move. They even brought it all the way up the stairs for us (thank GOD because three flights of stairs is MURDER). We also got an end table and a non-working HDTV out of the deal (we're going to see if we can fix it). A friend of Amanda's sent her a bluray player for her birthday. We were also given a precious little Christmas tree strung with white lights. The place is starting to fill in nicely.
My sleep schedule has been strange lately. I sleep for about 3-4 hours at a time, wake up confused but not sleepy, carry on, and then crash for another 3-4 hours before the day is done. Odd.
Christmas is coming. It's great. Still. What I wouldn't give to see some family right about now. I'm worried about them.
Wednesday, November 30, 2011
take these broken wings and learn to fly
My good friend of a few years got married a few weeks ago to his great friend of a few years. There. When you say that casually it doesn't sound like much of a big deal, but what a gloriously big deal it was.
It's still strange. He's the one of the first of any of my really great friends to marry off. I've been to a few weddings, those of teachers, distant family members. Then it moved up to cousins. Then to distant or childhood buddies, which were strange and lovely, seeing souls I've known since I was two or younger tie the ole knot. But this. This was Strangetown USA. But it made me even happier than I thought it would.
I, like most people my age, have the habit of turning situations around and making them about myself. At least in my head and in my thinking. So I anticipated many many existential crises and much self-reflection as I took my little bus ride down to my SoCal home, but the good news was I mostly spared. Almost entirely. For the first time in awhile I managed to make a great event about exactly what it was. Face value-- as much as love can be taken at face value, I suppose. Anyway, my point is that the happy was just indescribably infectious. Thankfully I was allowed to participate in the prep for the wedding in many ways, which pleased me utterly. I was given the task of picking, downloading, and attempting to arrange the music as appropriately as possible for the reception-- something that made me just as pleased as punch but also gave me about 500 heartattacks because what if I just maim the reception entirely AND NO ONE DANCES NOT A ONE?! I also made tissue paper pom-poms (so. many. good god I am now the most talented of the pompom makers, though, just in case you ever need any pom work done. I'm there) The day before the wedding I was stowed away in a kitchen in some church building, busily stuffing pumpkins with that crazy water absorbent stuff that florists stick flower arrangements in, and everyone was smiling and happy and proud and so I was I, I think.
That night, after crazed pumpkin-packin', we feasted and I got to see what rehearsal dinners are like. I've never been to one that I can recall, never having been a part of a wedding of course (and not really being an official part of this one. but I don't suppose that crossed anyone's mind. I blend?). It was heartwarmingly weird, and after that was the wedding rehearsal itself. I didn't really know where I should position myself seeing as I had no assignment for the wedding, so I picked a spot in the back where I could see everything but remain removed. The wedding party, all lovely, the bride, all lovely, the groom, all groomed, the pastor, all precious. The song, Blackbird by The Beatles, which I can no longer tattoo on my shoulder as planned.
The wedding itself was just a beautiful thing, and I sniffled a few times. But by that point it seemed like pleasant ritual to me. The goofy, crazy, messy night before in a nearly empty church, bride and groom clad in plaid and skinny jeans (what hipsters in denial) was the real thing to me. Megan had told me she was going to pick Blackbird as the wedding march, and of course we all know what happens in the ceremony, but I guess I was not anticipating all of the intense feelings that hit me as I witnessed these two people that I know well come together. As Blackbird was played perfectly on a quiet guitar I felt like my heart was going to leak a little bit. Strange. Empathy is strange. Those feelings don't arise due to pure happiness at the event or sadness for whatever reason, but rather when you know someone who is going through something major and really KNOW them you understand at least a fragment of their feeling. And I can't explain it, but I just got it in that moment. And that's where Blackbird goes from now on, it's slotted away in the box of beautiful wedding moments that do not belong to me. But at least I had a chance to share it.
The day of the ceremony was nuts as I toggled back and forth between Amanda's house where I was then staying and curling my hair and back to the location of the reception, making sure everything I was responsible for was squared away (and being kidnapped by random people I didn't know to help hoist tents and whatnot). Then the wedding. Which was just giddy and joyous and unifying (WHICH I GUESS IS THE POINT). Then the reception. Where I have never danced harder in my life. Literally all night long (at least five hours, I guess). Everyone was psyched out of their minds, there was wine, and by god, there was dancing (the first 20 songs or so were so perfectly arranged, every wedding DJ should bow to me). Then, gone. California, gone. Back to the land of the ice and snow.
Which is not so terrible. And now that I've been forced to disregard Blackbird, I've made my choice of tattoo: I don't want to live on the moon.
It's still strange. He's the one of the first of any of my really great friends to marry off. I've been to a few weddings, those of teachers, distant family members. Then it moved up to cousins. Then to distant or childhood buddies, which were strange and lovely, seeing souls I've known since I was two or younger tie the ole knot. But this. This was Strangetown USA. But it made me even happier than I thought it would.
I, like most people my age, have the habit of turning situations around and making them about myself. At least in my head and in my thinking. So I anticipated many many existential crises and much self-reflection as I took my little bus ride down to my SoCal home, but the good news was I mostly spared. Almost entirely. For the first time in awhile I managed to make a great event about exactly what it was. Face value-- as much as love can be taken at face value, I suppose. Anyway, my point is that the happy was just indescribably infectious. Thankfully I was allowed to participate in the prep for the wedding in many ways, which pleased me utterly. I was given the task of picking, downloading, and attempting to arrange the music as appropriately as possible for the reception-- something that made me just as pleased as punch but also gave me about 500 heartattacks because what if I just maim the reception entirely AND NO ONE DANCES NOT A ONE?! I also made tissue paper pom-poms (so. many. good god I am now the most talented of the pompom makers, though, just in case you ever need any pom work done. I'm there) The day before the wedding I was stowed away in a kitchen in some church building, busily stuffing pumpkins with that crazy water absorbent stuff that florists stick flower arrangements in, and everyone was smiling and happy and proud and so I was I, I think.
That night, after crazed pumpkin-packin', we feasted and I got to see what rehearsal dinners are like. I've never been to one that I can recall, never having been a part of a wedding of course (and not really being an official part of this one. but I don't suppose that crossed anyone's mind. I blend?). It was heartwarmingly weird, and after that was the wedding rehearsal itself. I didn't really know where I should position myself seeing as I had no assignment for the wedding, so I picked a spot in the back where I could see everything but remain removed. The wedding party, all lovely, the bride, all lovely, the groom, all groomed, the pastor, all precious. The song, Blackbird by The Beatles, which I can no longer tattoo on my shoulder as planned.
The wedding itself was just a beautiful thing, and I sniffled a few times. But by that point it seemed like pleasant ritual to me. The goofy, crazy, messy night before in a nearly empty church, bride and groom clad in plaid and skinny jeans (what hipsters in denial) was the real thing to me. Megan had told me she was going to pick Blackbird as the wedding march, and of course we all know what happens in the ceremony, but I guess I was not anticipating all of the intense feelings that hit me as I witnessed these two people that I know well come together. As Blackbird was played perfectly on a quiet guitar I felt like my heart was going to leak a little bit. Strange. Empathy is strange. Those feelings don't arise due to pure happiness at the event or sadness for whatever reason, but rather when you know someone who is going through something major and really KNOW them you understand at least a fragment of their feeling. And I can't explain it, but I just got it in that moment. And that's where Blackbird goes from now on, it's slotted away in the box of beautiful wedding moments that do not belong to me. But at least I had a chance to share it.
The day of the ceremony was nuts as I toggled back and forth between Amanda's house where I was then staying and curling my hair and back to the location of the reception, making sure everything I was responsible for was squared away (and being kidnapped by random people I didn't know to help hoist tents and whatnot). Then the wedding. Which was just giddy and joyous and unifying (WHICH I GUESS IS THE POINT). Then the reception. Where I have never danced harder in my life. Literally all night long (at least five hours, I guess). Everyone was psyched out of their minds, there was wine, and by god, there was dancing (the first 20 songs or so were so perfectly arranged, every wedding DJ should bow to me). Then, gone. California, gone. Back to the land of the ice and snow.
Which is not so terrible. And now that I've been forced to disregard Blackbird, I've made my choice of tattoo: I don't want to live on the moon.
Friday, November 18, 2011
except perhaps a bit more soundly.
I'm feeling particularly huffy right now. I'm sure it's just me being my ridiculously emotional self (though I am learning that I am not emotional in the most common sense). But. That sudden turn when everything just seems so grave, that ever so slight misstep of emotion-- damn it. Today is not a very cold day, surprisingly. Usually when I come outside at 6AM I'm met with a hard wall of FREEZE that seeps into my bones so quickly that I can't possibly explain it to someone who is not accustomed to this sort of weather. It really is an adjustment. Anyway, today is actually not one of those days we've had as of late, but it's very bleak. And I feel very bleak. Bleak freaking House, that is me.
I never read that book.
Anyway.
I got off of a particularly taxing shift just now and decided to check my bank balance. I got the paycheck early for my last week spent in California, and it was about 400 dollars less than it usually is. I guess it makes sense. I used my Paid Time Off, but that didn't equal up to the amount of time I usually spend working. So. I can't even pay for the whole of our rent, which I told my room-mate I would try to do this month. I have car insurance to pay! I have effing student loans which I won't even be able to make a measly payment on now! I can't buy furniture, we'll have to continue sleeping on a shared couch and the oldest mattress in the world (which has a bit of mold on the bottom, not going to lie). Of course, even with my normal paycheck this might be some of the case. But I think I was just so saddened and frustrated looking at those numbers that I wanted to scream. Also, this means that I will have to "restart" my time at my place of work before I can get my health insurance/benefits-- where I work you have to pull full-time every week for about four months until you get your benefits set-up. Well. Even though I tried to work it out with my PTO, it would seem that my repeated (see: TWO) trips to California have disrupted this flow. Every time I get close, I have to start over again. Four more months until I can go to the doctor, the eye guy, the damn dentist (yes! damn the dentists, damn them all!).
I'm so frustrated. I'm SO not into being this sheepish person who has to shrug and either apologize for not having enough money to follow through on anything, to have to stall. My mom told me the other day that she was psyched that she was given a 25 dollar gift certificate to Target because the family had exactly 5 fucking dollars in the bank. TO EAT ON.
What IS this?
Sure, people are starving in Africa. But this is here. I'm in the very lucky percentile that has a fulltime job-- but that's what stings right now. I work SO HARD. I work at NIGHT, taking care of the elderly. And I still have to be this frustrated girl who still feels like she's failing herself and her poor little family.
Or maybe I'm just sad about Ernie. Ernie, you see, is my favorite oldster at the old home. He is fantastic and hilarious and odd, and is without a doubt the most educated man I've met in North Dakota. His vocabulary, even now, is incredible. He served in WWII and afterward traveled Arabia working for an oil company. His sister was a teacher and he built a schoolhouse for her. He always tells the image-conscious girls at work that they look pregnant, and tells me, even though he doesn't remember me from one day to the next, that I'm lovely (he makes fun of me too, which I also appreciate). He gently mocks everyone, not because he thinks he's better than all of us, but because he knows he actually is a little bit better than us, or he would be if he weren't a bit out of his mind (we have a new coworker. he's ok, nice and all, but unfortunately he' s taken a shine to me for some awful reason, and he's probably 300 pounds and, though a nice person, a total idiot. one night Ernie came up to me and said "Eh. Have you seen that big fellow? Nice man, nice man. Just don't let him fall on you.")
Anyway. Ernie is dying. He got ill for awhile, then pulled through, then reached a pinnacle of strangeness (during which he told me that he must follow the president, or perhaps sleep as though the president would-- except perhaps a bit more soundly), then suddenly was not himself. One night he cried the entire shift, which he has never done, held our hands, quoted Shakespeare and suddenly segued into praying and vaguely referencing the war. At one point he said "my past has caught up to me." At another point he said that he should not be alive, that some other man was shot for him. I wondered what waves of memories were coming back to him, and how many were actually 100% real. The other evening I came in, said hello, and held his hand for a bit. He coughed, then came around and said "Oh. Yes. Please don't go." I told him I'd get him some water and come back, and he told me "Oh, but please don't lose me. People around here have a tendency to disappear." Now he's just an utterly confused, coughing mess. He can't get up to walk to the bathroom, so we put him in a wheelchair and transfer him. This morning, before I left, I went to say goodbye and to make sure he was comfortable. As I was adjusting I got a whiff of him, of what he now smells like. You know how some people say certain things have the smell of death? There's something to that. It's not just old man smell, or incontinence, or heinous breath. It's just THAT smell.
I guess that's why I was moved to tears about my stupid 400 dollars. I don't know.
I never read that book.
Anyway.
I got off of a particularly taxing shift just now and decided to check my bank balance. I got the paycheck early for my last week spent in California, and it was about 400 dollars less than it usually is. I guess it makes sense. I used my Paid Time Off, but that didn't equal up to the amount of time I usually spend working. So. I can't even pay for the whole of our rent, which I told my room-mate I would try to do this month. I have car insurance to pay! I have effing student loans which I won't even be able to make a measly payment on now! I can't buy furniture, we'll have to continue sleeping on a shared couch and the oldest mattress in the world (which has a bit of mold on the bottom, not going to lie). Of course, even with my normal paycheck this might be some of the case. But I think I was just so saddened and frustrated looking at those numbers that I wanted to scream. Also, this means that I will have to "restart" my time at my place of work before I can get my health insurance/benefits-- where I work you have to pull full-time every week for about four months until you get your benefits set-up. Well. Even though I tried to work it out with my PTO, it would seem that my repeated (see: TWO) trips to California have disrupted this flow. Every time I get close, I have to start over again. Four more months until I can go to the doctor, the eye guy, the damn dentist (yes! damn the dentists, damn them all!).
I'm so frustrated. I'm SO not into being this sheepish person who has to shrug and either apologize for not having enough money to follow through on anything, to have to stall. My mom told me the other day that she was psyched that she was given a 25 dollar gift certificate to Target because the family had exactly 5 fucking dollars in the bank. TO EAT ON.
What IS this?
Sure, people are starving in Africa. But this is here. I'm in the very lucky percentile that has a fulltime job-- but that's what stings right now. I work SO HARD. I work at NIGHT, taking care of the elderly. And I still have to be this frustrated girl who still feels like she's failing herself and her poor little family.
Or maybe I'm just sad about Ernie. Ernie, you see, is my favorite oldster at the old home. He is fantastic and hilarious and odd, and is without a doubt the most educated man I've met in North Dakota. His vocabulary, even now, is incredible. He served in WWII and afterward traveled Arabia working for an oil company. His sister was a teacher and he built a schoolhouse for her. He always tells the image-conscious girls at work that they look pregnant, and tells me, even though he doesn't remember me from one day to the next, that I'm lovely (he makes fun of me too, which I also appreciate). He gently mocks everyone, not because he thinks he's better than all of us, but because he knows he actually is a little bit better than us, or he would be if he weren't a bit out of his mind (we have a new coworker. he's ok, nice and all, but unfortunately he' s taken a shine to me for some awful reason, and he's probably 300 pounds and, though a nice person, a total idiot. one night Ernie came up to me and said "Eh. Have you seen that big fellow? Nice man, nice man. Just don't let him fall on you.")
Anyway. Ernie is dying. He got ill for awhile, then pulled through, then reached a pinnacle of strangeness (during which he told me that he must follow the president, or perhaps sleep as though the president would-- except perhaps a bit more soundly), then suddenly was not himself. One night he cried the entire shift, which he has never done, held our hands, quoted Shakespeare and suddenly segued into praying and vaguely referencing the war. At one point he said "my past has caught up to me." At another point he said that he should not be alive, that some other man was shot for him. I wondered what waves of memories were coming back to him, and how many were actually 100% real. The other evening I came in, said hello, and held his hand for a bit. He coughed, then came around and said "Oh. Yes. Please don't go." I told him I'd get him some water and come back, and he told me "Oh, but please don't lose me. People around here have a tendency to disappear." Now he's just an utterly confused, coughing mess. He can't get up to walk to the bathroom, so we put him in a wheelchair and transfer him. This morning, before I left, I went to say goodbye and to make sure he was comfortable. As I was adjusting I got a whiff of him, of what he now smells like. You know how some people say certain things have the smell of death? There's something to that. It's not just old man smell, or incontinence, or heinous breath. It's just THAT smell.
I guess that's why I was moved to tears about my stupid 400 dollars. I don't know.
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
But my heart is return to Sister Winter.
Many apologies. Not for anyone who really enjoys reading my meandery writing, for I know you are either secret or few, but moreso to myself and to posterity. Sorry, posterity.
I wish I had kept writing about life here in North Dakota. It seems like, despite the fact that my life is not exciting at all, that there's always something important that I wish I had remembered, written about, something. I'm afraid of forgetting or losing all of this material, for the sake of future writings, of course, but mostly just for the collection that's growing in my heart. I'm starting to realize that's probably the most important thing to me right now, that's why I want to travel and that's why I want to live here right now. Shortly after I moved here I was discussing with the Marschner mother, Tanis (Gma's daughter), about how I'm actually fairly content here most of the time and how I like to experience the ND life and whatnot. Tanis, who has traveled quite a bit, agreed with me and said "There's two kinds of ways to travel: one is the tourist way, seeing things in passing, and the other way is really learning how other people live." And that is so true, and that is what I am doing.
Also, I am writing this from within my soon-to-be-snazzy apartment that I share with my roomie and California friend Amanda. Thanks to my relocation I am able to afford such a thing. Actually this really is quite a feat because in Dickinson the demand for housing is so great (due to the oil stuff) that it's nearly impossible to find a place to live, let alone an affordable one. So we lucked out in that respect. We are mostly furniture-less at the moment, equipped with only a couch, a mattress, and a few chairs, but we are working on it. We have plans. It's pretty glorious, actually-- the apartment faces West and comes with a balcony. This means I get to see my most favorite thing about North Dakota-- its HUGE sky at sunset-- as often as I want from the comfort of my room.
The other amazing thing about this is that my parents started praying for Amanda and I to be in a place in town (we've been living with Gma in a little place out in South Heart, 10 miles from town where we both work) before the first snow. It snowed two days ago. We had all of our stuff inside three days ago.
And now I have to shower, dry my hair and make myself somewhat presentable to meet my Dakootan friends for a DSU event and then onwards to work, even though I've been feeling ill ever since we returned from California. May be my body's reaction to the harsh start of winter (oh, but, body, there is snow. and it is so beautiful).
Life. What a mixed bag you are.
I wish I had kept writing about life here in North Dakota. It seems like, despite the fact that my life is not exciting at all, that there's always something important that I wish I had remembered, written about, something. I'm afraid of forgetting or losing all of this material, for the sake of future writings, of course, but mostly just for the collection that's growing in my heart. I'm starting to realize that's probably the most important thing to me right now, that's why I want to travel and that's why I want to live here right now. Shortly after I moved here I was discussing with the Marschner mother, Tanis (Gma's daughter), about how I'm actually fairly content here most of the time and how I like to experience the ND life and whatnot. Tanis, who has traveled quite a bit, agreed with me and said "There's two kinds of ways to travel: one is the tourist way, seeing things in passing, and the other way is really learning how other people live." And that is so true, and that is what I am doing.
Also, I am writing this from within my soon-to-be-snazzy apartment that I share with my roomie and California friend Amanda. Thanks to my relocation I am able to afford such a thing. Actually this really is quite a feat because in Dickinson the demand for housing is so great (due to the oil stuff) that it's nearly impossible to find a place to live, let alone an affordable one. So we lucked out in that respect. We are mostly furniture-less at the moment, equipped with only a couch, a mattress, and a few chairs, but we are working on it. We have plans. It's pretty glorious, actually-- the apartment faces West and comes with a balcony. This means I get to see my most favorite thing about North Dakota-- its HUGE sky at sunset-- as often as I want from the comfort of my room.
The other amazing thing about this is that my parents started praying for Amanda and I to be in a place in town (we've been living with Gma in a little place out in South Heart, 10 miles from town where we both work) before the first snow. It snowed two days ago. We had all of our stuff inside three days ago.
And now I have to shower, dry my hair and make myself somewhat presentable to meet my Dakootan friends for a DSU event and then onwards to work, even though I've been feeling ill ever since we returned from California. May be my body's reaction to the harsh start of winter (oh, but, body, there is snow. and it is so beautiful).
Life. What a mixed bag you are.
Sunday, October 9, 2011
First of all, I apologize in advance and in general for my language. I've never really been cautious about cussing, except where religious implications were concerned. I don't like to use "Goddamn" and I never use "Jesus Christ" because that bothers me, however all other words seem to be up for grabs lately. Which is odd because I'm not really around that many people who curse. I have a coworker that constantly squawks "JESUS!!" but that's about it. Who knows. I know it's unrefined and I try to refrain when the situation is inappropriate. But I think the problem is me. I talk to myself much too often, and that is usually when the cursing happens. It's for emphasis. At least I think so.
A full-on real blog post should be along soon, I'd like to get back to writing things of substance here rather than dashes of life. But right now I just want to celebrate the fall. It's such a beautiful season-- even if you're in a place where the leaves don't really change and you miss all of that colorful beauty (Oh, East Coast, I will see your colors one day), there's that FEELING and that CHILL in the air. It's like a promise that the wind brings us, and for me it must be soaked in nostalgia because it always makes me feel good. I always thing of holidays and good books and fireplaces and my cat and listening to music like Nico or The Weepies on a rainy Ventura day, staring out the windows of the cafeteria or the bus, eating a poptart or somesuch thing. Trading noir books with my friend. Drinking coffee and tea and helping my mom in the kitchen. Watching Arrested Development, curled up in my room after school. And even then, that subtle thrill! That promise that something is going to happen, even when you're snuggled cozily in your bed. Something's coming and it's wonderful.
I love the fall. I love it.
A full-on real blog post should be along soon, I'd like to get back to writing things of substance here rather than dashes of life. But right now I just want to celebrate the fall. It's such a beautiful season-- even if you're in a place where the leaves don't really change and you miss all of that colorful beauty (Oh, East Coast, I will see your colors one day), there's that FEELING and that CHILL in the air. It's like a promise that the wind brings us, and for me it must be soaked in nostalgia because it always makes me feel good. I always thing of holidays and good books and fireplaces and my cat and listening to music like Nico or The Weepies on a rainy Ventura day, staring out the windows of the cafeteria or the bus, eating a poptart or somesuch thing. Trading noir books with my friend. Drinking coffee and tea and helping my mom in the kitchen. Watching Arrested Development, curled up in my room after school. And even then, that subtle thrill! That promise that something is going to happen, even when you're snuggled cozily in your bed. Something's coming and it's wonderful.
I love the fall. I love it.
Thursday, October 6, 2011
So this morning I had a cross-genre dream about Jim Carrey.
It began with some grisly murder scene that my subconscious apparently just didn’t want to finish because I think it just switched gears from that to me looking at a magazine full of stuff for our apartment. But I was living in an apartment with my mother and non-existant brother in the middle of Los Angeles. And apparently someone we knew was murdering other people we knew, but we couldn’t shake our ties to them. And we kept getting pictures sent to us of the murder scenes. And one day we got some kind of warning that the killer was coming to get us, and my mother insisted we were trapped, but she couldn’t tell me why. Then I realized we must not be all that trapped, so I left the apartment and ran around LA until I figured out that we only THOUGHT we were trapped there. And I had to rescue them from the apartment. But by the time I got there Jim Carrey, who was the killer, was there with all manner of torturous devices, scaring my mom and whatnot. And I wasn’t all that scared of him anymore, so I was like hey, Jim, you leave them alone etc. And then he was all happy and creepy and we went into this little room with this HUGE knife. And he was like, “I’m so glad you were chosen.” And then he got out the knife and he said “Okay. Now we’re going to play a little game. We’ll cut off parts of our bodies until one of us passes out, so we chose carefully.” So I told him that was a great idea, especially since we were taking turns. I then craftily told him to cut off his foot (this coming from a girl who hasn’t even seen the SAW movies) and he did and then obviously he couldn’t chase me. But then he was apparently way turned on by my craftiness/desperate for me not to leave him in his own blood and kept trying to seduce me by saying things like he did it all for me and we were both twisted so we should get it on.
And then I woke up. The worst part is that even in my dream I knew it was ridiculous but I was actually considering it.
Oh, yknow, you tried to kill me and my family and you're footless and gushing blood all over the place, but hey, why not. I doubt I could do much better.
AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA. Also it wasn’t like young Jim Carrey or even attractive Jim Carrey from Eternal Sunshine. It was just… weird old Jim Carrey. I just… I don’t know about myself sometimes.
Friday, September 30, 2011
twinkle twinkle
I'm so tired all of the time. But. I love driving to and from work, even when I'm exhausted, because I always see STARS. Like nobody's business, incredibly bright and beautiful things, especially in South Heart. There are no street lights at all until the second exit for Dickinson, but I never really think about that (except when it's raining...), and most of the land is so low and flat that all obstructions vanish in the presence of the night lights. And I just think, ah. We didn't HAVE to have these. There is so much that we have been given that is so beautiful in the world! Life is so rough, in every manifestation of it (from early days of survival to... present days of survival. the means and situations in which we must survive change, but it's still rough, even in the age of iphones). But with every age comes another layer of beauty, too. I do not always see that, so I am thankful when I drive my little geo metro down the overpass onto the highway and see, as I have been every night this week, a shooting star or two pass me by.
Thursday, September 29, 2011
a real human bean, and a real hero.
My lack of sleep lately-- just an inevitability due to my overnight job-- has spelled out strange reactions from me. Runs the gamut, really, from hysteria to thoughtfulness to long stretches of deep sleep when given the chance (to make up for the long, long stretches sans). This deep sleep has given me a variety of LONG, wacko dreams that aren't really worth recounting (a shamelessly long musical/play on the stage of my childhood church, trying to find my friend Kate in creepy downtown LA while she tries to give me directions to a Japanese ice cream place on the phone.. things like that), but I had one last night that woke me up with a strange feeling.
I don't remember the specifics of it at all. It had a grey "look" to it, and occasionally a Contagion feel (apparently my mind choses its cinematographers carefully). It was frenzied at times, but mostly , sad. It bounced back and forth between several "storylines" and I wasn't always present in what was going on (a VERY odd quality of many of my dreams, which leads me to believe I must think like a filmmaker), but the MAIN idea of the dream was that the world as we know it had stopped. Something horrible had happened that shut things down. Either the world was crumbling or something BAD had occurred that meant improper international communication, currency was meaningless, and our general function as a society was moot. The only "scene" I really remember from the whole thing was set on a college campus in Japan (or an American college with alot of Asian students...), where I was visiting my friend. Things were just very, very wrong, and cars were blown out and abandoned, and only a straggle of students were left for finals week, and my friend was still insisting that he needed to finish his tests and that I needed to pick him up. His cat was starving and half-crazed, and the entire campus was stony and broken and bizarre. And I sat with him on the steps of this huge part of campus and tried to make sense of things. I woke up with the weirdest, most haunting feeling of pointlessness. Why on earth were people trying to cling to their normal lives here? Why study and go to school and try to pay for things in a useless currency and drive fancy cars when all of that no longer matters? When the importance of human society is boiled down to survival, or at least the most basic human needs, why was everyone still acting as if it was important to do these things? The world was ending, why pay for a useless degree with useless money? There would be no jobs afterward. There would be building a cabin or a fire in a cave. It was an alarming, dark feeling.
I have had MANY dystopian-themed dreams, which is interesting as I'm not particularly interested in that type of thing (though when it comes to scifi I suppose that's my primary vision-- P.K. Dick/Mad Max kind of stuff). I have had alot of dreams with themes to that end, and even when those themes aren't present there's that FEELING. I don't know why. Do androids dream of electric sheep?
I don't remember the specifics of it at all. It had a grey "look" to it, and occasionally a Contagion feel (apparently my mind choses its cinematographers carefully). It was frenzied at times, but mostly , sad. It bounced back and forth between several "storylines" and I wasn't always present in what was going on (a VERY odd quality of many of my dreams, which leads me to believe I must think like a filmmaker), but the MAIN idea of the dream was that the world as we know it had stopped. Something horrible had happened that shut things down. Either the world was crumbling or something BAD had occurred that meant improper international communication, currency was meaningless, and our general function as a society was moot. The only "scene" I really remember from the whole thing was set on a college campus in Japan (or an American college with alot of Asian students...), where I was visiting my friend. Things were just very, very wrong, and cars were blown out and abandoned, and only a straggle of students were left for finals week, and my friend was still insisting that he needed to finish his tests and that I needed to pick him up. His cat was starving and half-crazed, and the entire campus was stony and broken and bizarre. And I sat with him on the steps of this huge part of campus and tried to make sense of things. I woke up with the weirdest, most haunting feeling of pointlessness. Why on earth were people trying to cling to their normal lives here? Why study and go to school and try to pay for things in a useless currency and drive fancy cars when all of that no longer matters? When the importance of human society is boiled down to survival, or at least the most basic human needs, why was everyone still acting as if it was important to do these things? The world was ending, why pay for a useless degree with useless money? There would be no jobs afterward. There would be building a cabin or a fire in a cave. It was an alarming, dark feeling.
I have had MANY dystopian-themed dreams, which is interesting as I'm not particularly interested in that type of thing (though when it comes to scifi I suppose that's my primary vision-- P.K. Dick/Mad Max kind of stuff). I have had alot of dreams with themes to that end, and even when those themes aren't present there's that FEELING. I don't know why. Do androids dream of electric sheep?
Friday, September 23, 2011
Of course, Pride and Prejudice is my favorite Austen book. Fantastic story. Great characters. Emma is amusing, and another great story, but not a major preference of mine. Mr. Knightley is gallant and all, but really only works if there's some sort of projection that you can manage as a reader. I wouldn't say his character is thinly etched, but he is perhaps not fully fleshed out, as Emma is.
However. Movie-Knightley (AND Movie-Emma for that matter)? Best. Austen. Guy. Ever. Keep Mr. Darcy. Seriously, keep him. Mr. Darcy is an interesting character but only a desirable one because of the significance of the effect that Elizabeth has on him. Everyone wants someone whom they can bring out the best in, the promise that was always secretly tucked under the still waters running deep. Women are especially like that. We promote. We like the idea of seeing something in someone and being able to draw it out.
Mr. Knightley doesn't really need that.
thus, attractive.
However. Movie-Knightley (AND Movie-Emma for that matter)? Best. Austen. Guy. Ever. Keep Mr. Darcy. Seriously, keep him. Mr. Darcy is an interesting character but only a desirable one because of the significance of the effect that Elizabeth has on him. Everyone wants someone whom they can bring out the best in, the promise that was always secretly tucked under the still waters running deep. Women are especially like that. We promote. We like the idea of seeing something in someone and being able to draw it out.
Mr. Knightley doesn't really need that.
thus, attractive.
Thursday, September 15, 2011
Whenever I feel frustrated or disappointed with life or myself, I get an intense desire to cease to exist. I guess that's why I (and the rest of the depressed people on the planet who are too scared or reasonable to kill themselves) turn to sleep so much.
“The debate was wearing me out. Once you've posed that question, it won't go away. I think many people kill themselves simply to stop the debate about whether they will or they won't. Anything I thought or did was immediately drawn into the debate. Made a stupid remark--why not kill myself? Missed the bus--better put an end to it all. Even the good got in there. I liked that movie--maybe I shouldn't kill myself.”
“The debate was wearing me out. Once you've posed that question, it won't go away. I think many people kill themselves simply to stop the debate about whether they will or they won't. Anything I thought or did was immediately drawn into the debate. Made a stupid remark--why not kill myself? Missed the bus--better put an end to it all. Even the good got in there. I liked that movie--maybe I shouldn't kill myself.”
Monday, September 12, 2011
look at me like a HUMAN BOY!
I discovered one of the funniest stupid movies ever this week. Clifford, starring Martin Short. It of course helped that I watched it while completely exhausted and prone to hysteria, but nevertheless. Oozes with genius, I tell you!! AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!And also makes me sad because it's doubtful that Martin Short will ever know the Great Joy he has brought me, almost two decades after this glorious creation flopped hard with critics and audiences. The shame of it!!!
the three of us, we could be so happy- them with each other and me with company.
So. The writing begins now. But first, a brief catch-up (and a writing warm-up for moi).
Minneapolis was marvelous. Traveling alone is always a 50/50 things, I have to admit, it's not all fun and shiny. I'm not a good navigator so trying to find the best route to certain places (and parking! evil parking in big cities always stresses me out no end) is not always fun. And I'm notoriously bad at planning, I usually just have a list of things I'd like to do and I just decide in whatever moment which will be next. It seems to work for me, but not without some difficulty at times. And I have to confess that occasionally, just occasionally, I have that tree-falls-in-a-forest-thought: what am I doing this for? Just to better myself? Just to have the satisfaction of seeing something new? To have the satisfaction of saying, damn skippy I went there, and I went there alone? Because sometimes I don't think so. Sometimes I catch myself doing these things just so I can tell people about them someday. Namely, sometimes I think about telling my kids about it.
But that's weird because I don't think I'm going to have kids. Eh right?
Anyway. That's just the sometimes though. Mostly I just enjoy it as it happens. And I do think, when it comes down to it, I do these things because I want to broaden the scope. Also. I am a restless child. And dammit, I'm GLAD I'm not a planner. My best friend of many years is one of these, which is strange, given that we both have such a strong sense of the absurd, such a wild sense of humor-- but when it comes down to it, she's a pretty tightly-wound child and occasionally grows rather annoyed with my lack thereof. I don't suppose I've always been like this. I seem to remember being the opposite, actually, and liking to know what was going to happen to me and when, exactly, but I think life just beat that out of me. I think alot of that was my family-- given our situation, one had to be flexible-- and the rest of that was boredom. My life for so long was so boring! So painfully-- and I mean painfully-- still and guarded and so empty it hurt. My goodness. I don't mean to go on a rant but for so long after my sister's birth we were so UNHAPPY.
Maybe that's another reason why I do this. The "normal one" syndrome. The desire to do everything, to be Good and successful, because the "other one" cannot. And parents lean, they lean! Especially when there's only one other kid. One me. Anyway. I guess that's something to save for therapy, which I can hopefully start going to next year. I miss being counseled, even if my counselor wasn't all that great.
Very well, then, Other Things.
Work
Work, as aforementioned, has been in abundance. I have been scheduled more than anyone else on the "noc shift" (I'm only one of two full-timers now) and I have seized up every available hour (there have been many untaken shifts due to loss of employees-- school starting-- and others cutting down to part-time), taking me to massive overtime. Glory be. This was really stressing me out up until a few days ago when I realized- haha. That's why I'm here. In fact, I'm not even working ENOUGH. NINE NIGHTS IN A ROW IS NOT ENOUGH. I WISH TO WORK MORE! MORE I SAY AHAHAHAHHAAHAHAHAHA. But then of course one realizes that would not be good. Still. I'm incredibly comfortable with almost everything at work now, and everyone seems comfortable with me, even a good amount of the AM shift who notoriously pick on the noc shift (I have determined this to be mostly driven by the simple contrast of personalities. the noc shift is made up of easy-goers and the AM shift is all about the type-A go-getters. sometimes to a psychotic extent. but. anyway).
All of the NOC folks like me. It's kind of weird to be liked that much, actually. One night I was doing dishes and I was talking about when I graduated highschool, and how much thinner I was, and how much more outgoing I was, and one of my coworkers said "But you're so outgoing now." And I thought, hm. I am. Here I am. Strange. They all want to tell me their stories, they all smile when I walk in. I think it's because I can read them. I am good at that. It gives me a superior feeling, even though it has nothing to do with being better than anyone else. It just has to do with having a sense of people. Which I have. Which, I think, actually prevents me from making close friends anymore. Hmm. More self-shrinking. Let's stick a pin in that for now.
A Work Tale
-------------
We have a resident that is rather rotund. He is also one of the more confused of the residents. He is on a fall alarm, which means when he gets up we get a page to go to his room. Usually he just says whatever he's doing outloud, punctuated by cheerful questions like "where should i go? where am i?" and his favorite of phrases, "there now!" or "now we're cookin!"
So towards the end of my shift I get a page that he's up. I'm tired, so I plod in there, help him get up, then show him where the bathroom is and follow him in. The dialogue went something like this: "There now. I'm up now. Where shall I go? Oh, that way. I'm a-goin'. Yeh, yeh. Goin' this way. Goin' down the hall. Goin' in here. Sittin'. Sittin' down here. Gettin' these off. Yeh yeh. There now. Sittin' here." And I just nod and agree as per usual, and sit in another chair in the bathroom while he answers nature's call. Then, as I'm gazing off dazedly into space, he says, rather pronouncedly, "Hmmph. DICK." I pause. What? I don't want to look. I don't want to know what he's doing. BUT HE KEEPS SAYING IT. "Dick... DICK..." I try not to look. I don't want to. But he KEEPS IT UP. Finally, I cast a glance over and see him staring at me. I then realize... I am wearing a DICKinson sweatshirt, which he is trying to read.
...... who's slow now, hm?
A VICTORY TALE
Yesterday as I hurriedly got ready for work (needing to leave in about 15 minutes), I lived my nightmare: knocking what is probably my most prized possession DOWN THE BATHROOM SINK DRAIN. Straight down! PLUNK! GONE.
Cue absolute freakout. We are talking about my grandfather's ring, the only thing I asked for of his and wear constantly, the ring of mystery, the Casablanca 1943 ring. GONE. FREAKOUTFREAKOUTFREAKOUT. Run to internet. Search jewelry down drain. Internet says to get wrenches, determine sink type, OPEN sink, retrieve item. I have no time. No tools. No presence of mind to even guess what kind of sink this might be. I continue to search and find the suggestion of retrieving the item with a vaccuum cleaner. HM. Alas, we have no vaccuum.
BUT. Our landlords do. Which, thanks to constant flooding, is kept just outside under the stairs. I made a leap for it. Sure, it says DO NOT USE on there but this was life-and-death. I plug it in. Then spend about 4 minutes trying to find the ON switch and realize that even if I manage to summon up my ring, I may not have the ability nor the time to fish it out of the shopvac. After a moment of pause, I have a brilliant idea. PANTYHOUSE. PANTYHOUSE OVER THE NOZZLE. Over it goes. On the shopvac goes. Over the drain it is. UP COMES THE RING, GETTING PERFECTLY CAUGHT IN THE PANTYHOSE NET BECAUSE I AM A GENIUS. And this genius was on-time for work. Yeah. Yeah she was.
A Sad Story with a Happy Ending
Dave Foley has been gone from my life for awhile. Sad, because despite liking everyone in Dickinson and especially at my work, I connect with few, and that glorious sense of relaxation that one has when they are around someone who doesn't expect anything from you has been absent. I had forgotten how comforting that is, only having it in snatches here and there. Dave Foley (who, let me qualify once again, had become like a little brother or adoptee over the summer-- he is really young and our friendship is odd but not weird, for the record), because he is miniature, has returned to school at the college here in town and therefore is working the bare minimum and is seemingly consumed by his school-load and college adjustments. Not wanting to be a creeper, I allowed this absence and refrained from contact, supposing that ultimately we are to be only work friends, passing only on the holidays and summertime, but honestly the thought made me sadder than I wanted to admit, especially on days when my real friends seem so far away.
Yesterday I showed up for work a few minutes late, and who came bounding out but Dave Foley, arms extended, crying out "I've missed you SO!" I was stunned, because I realized I echoed the sentiment. Also, it reminded me that I have not been really hugged since my return to North Dakota. Some things are happy, then.
Now. I promised my fellow artistic friend and fiend last night that writing and artistic output would happen this week. I also promised myself that I'm going to get somewhat back in shape before my good friend's California wedding. Even if I do succeed in my plot to work out and eat well, I'm not sure what damage I can do before that time, but I would like to look a wee bit thinner for pictures, at least. Be able to smile a bit more freely without dreading what I will look like, immortalized forever in the background of my friend's wedding. Also, I mean to finish the 50000 books I am in the middle of reading before starting another. I picked up A Severe Mercy again this morning and was once again drawn in so deeply by Vanauken's writing. I'm somewhat disinterested in his relationship with his late wife-- which is what the book is all about, of course-- but far more interested in the Christian perspective he offers and his tidbits of repeated wisdom and experience from C.S. Lewis, whose insight never, ever ceases to knock me flat. DAMN, LEWIS, YOU WERE THE MAN. I'm so glad you existed.
Point being: re-dedication. I have it. Onward ho.
Minneapolis was marvelous. Traveling alone is always a 50/50 things, I have to admit, it's not all fun and shiny. I'm not a good navigator so trying to find the best route to certain places (and parking! evil parking in big cities always stresses me out no end) is not always fun. And I'm notoriously bad at planning, I usually just have a list of things I'd like to do and I just decide in whatever moment which will be next. It seems to work for me, but not without some difficulty at times. And I have to confess that occasionally, just occasionally, I have that tree-falls-in-a-forest-thought: what am I doing this for? Just to better myself? Just to have the satisfaction of seeing something new? To have the satisfaction of saying, damn skippy I went there, and I went there alone? Because sometimes I don't think so. Sometimes I catch myself doing these things just so I can tell people about them someday. Namely, sometimes I think about telling my kids about it.
But that's weird because I don't think I'm going to have kids. Eh right?
Anyway. That's just the sometimes though. Mostly I just enjoy it as it happens. And I do think, when it comes down to it, I do these things because I want to broaden the scope. Also. I am a restless child. And dammit, I'm GLAD I'm not a planner. My best friend of many years is one of these, which is strange, given that we both have such a strong sense of the absurd, such a wild sense of humor-- but when it comes down to it, she's a pretty tightly-wound child and occasionally grows rather annoyed with my lack thereof. I don't suppose I've always been like this. I seem to remember being the opposite, actually, and liking to know what was going to happen to me and when, exactly, but I think life just beat that out of me. I think alot of that was my family-- given our situation, one had to be flexible-- and the rest of that was boredom. My life for so long was so boring! So painfully-- and I mean painfully-- still and guarded and so empty it hurt. My goodness. I don't mean to go on a rant but for so long after my sister's birth we were so UNHAPPY.
Maybe that's another reason why I do this. The "normal one" syndrome. The desire to do everything, to be Good and successful, because the "other one" cannot. And parents lean, they lean! Especially when there's only one other kid. One me. Anyway. I guess that's something to save for therapy, which I can hopefully start going to next year. I miss being counseled, even if my counselor wasn't all that great.
Very well, then, Other Things.
Work
Work, as aforementioned, has been in abundance. I have been scheduled more than anyone else on the "noc shift" (I'm only one of two full-timers now) and I have seized up every available hour (there have been many untaken shifts due to loss of employees-- school starting-- and others cutting down to part-time), taking me to massive overtime. Glory be. This was really stressing me out up until a few days ago when I realized- haha. That's why I'm here. In fact, I'm not even working ENOUGH. NINE NIGHTS IN A ROW IS NOT ENOUGH. I WISH TO WORK MORE! MORE I SAY AHAHAHAHHAAHAHAHAHA. But then of course one realizes that would not be good. Still. I'm incredibly comfortable with almost everything at work now, and everyone seems comfortable with me, even a good amount of the AM shift who notoriously pick on the noc shift (I have determined this to be mostly driven by the simple contrast of personalities. the noc shift is made up of easy-goers and the AM shift is all about the type-A go-getters. sometimes to a psychotic extent. but. anyway).
All of the NOC folks like me. It's kind of weird to be liked that much, actually. One night I was doing dishes and I was talking about when I graduated highschool, and how much thinner I was, and how much more outgoing I was, and one of my coworkers said "But you're so outgoing now." And I thought, hm. I am. Here I am. Strange. They all want to tell me their stories, they all smile when I walk in. I think it's because I can read them. I am good at that. It gives me a superior feeling, even though it has nothing to do with being better than anyone else. It just has to do with having a sense of people. Which I have. Which, I think, actually prevents me from making close friends anymore. Hmm. More self-shrinking. Let's stick a pin in that for now.
A Work Tale
-------------
We have a resident that is rather rotund. He is also one of the more confused of the residents. He is on a fall alarm, which means when he gets up we get a page to go to his room. Usually he just says whatever he's doing outloud, punctuated by cheerful questions like "where should i go? where am i?" and his favorite of phrases, "there now!" or "now we're cookin!"
So towards the end of my shift I get a page that he's up. I'm tired, so I plod in there, help him get up, then show him where the bathroom is and follow him in. The dialogue went something like this: "There now. I'm up now. Where shall I go? Oh, that way. I'm a-goin'. Yeh, yeh. Goin' this way. Goin' down the hall. Goin' in here. Sittin'. Sittin' down here. Gettin' these off. Yeh yeh. There now. Sittin' here." And I just nod and agree as per usual, and sit in another chair in the bathroom while he answers nature's call. Then, as I'm gazing off dazedly into space, he says, rather pronouncedly, "Hmmph. DICK." I pause. What? I don't want to look. I don't want to know what he's doing. BUT HE KEEPS SAYING IT. "Dick... DICK..." I try not to look. I don't want to. But he KEEPS IT UP. Finally, I cast a glance over and see him staring at me. I then realize... I am wearing a DICKinson sweatshirt, which he is trying to read.
...... who's slow now, hm?
A VICTORY TALE
Yesterday as I hurriedly got ready for work (needing to leave in about 15 minutes), I lived my nightmare: knocking what is probably my most prized possession DOWN THE BATHROOM SINK DRAIN. Straight down! PLUNK! GONE.
Cue absolute freakout. We are talking about my grandfather's ring, the only thing I asked for of his and wear constantly, the ring of mystery, the Casablanca 1943 ring. GONE. FREAKOUTFREAKOUTFREAKOUT. Run to internet. Search jewelry down drain. Internet says to get wrenches, determine sink type, OPEN sink, retrieve item. I have no time. No tools. No presence of mind to even guess what kind of sink this might be. I continue to search and find the suggestion of retrieving the item with a vaccuum cleaner. HM. Alas, we have no vaccuum.
BUT. Our landlords do. Which, thanks to constant flooding, is kept just outside under the stairs. I made a leap for it. Sure, it says DO NOT USE on there but this was life-and-death. I plug it in. Then spend about 4 minutes trying to find the ON switch and realize that even if I manage to summon up my ring, I may not have the ability nor the time to fish it out of the shopvac. After a moment of pause, I have a brilliant idea. PANTYHOUSE. PANTYHOUSE OVER THE NOZZLE. Over it goes. On the shopvac goes. Over the drain it is. UP COMES THE RING, GETTING PERFECTLY CAUGHT IN THE PANTYHOSE NET BECAUSE I AM A GENIUS. And this genius was on-time for work. Yeah. Yeah she was.
A Sad Story with a Happy Ending
Dave Foley has been gone from my life for awhile. Sad, because despite liking everyone in Dickinson and especially at my work, I connect with few, and that glorious sense of relaxation that one has when they are around someone who doesn't expect anything from you has been absent. I had forgotten how comforting that is, only having it in snatches here and there. Dave Foley (who, let me qualify once again, had become like a little brother or adoptee over the summer-- he is really young and our friendship is odd but not weird, for the record), because he is miniature, has returned to school at the college here in town and therefore is working the bare minimum and is seemingly consumed by his school-load and college adjustments. Not wanting to be a creeper, I allowed this absence and refrained from contact, supposing that ultimately we are to be only work friends, passing only on the holidays and summertime, but honestly the thought made me sadder than I wanted to admit, especially on days when my real friends seem so far away.
Yesterday I showed up for work a few minutes late, and who came bounding out but Dave Foley, arms extended, crying out "I've missed you SO!" I was stunned, because I realized I echoed the sentiment. Also, it reminded me that I have not been really hugged since my return to North Dakota. Some things are happy, then.
Now. I promised my fellow artistic friend and fiend last night that writing and artistic output would happen this week. I also promised myself that I'm going to get somewhat back in shape before my good friend's California wedding. Even if I do succeed in my plot to work out and eat well, I'm not sure what damage I can do before that time, but I would like to look a wee bit thinner for pictures, at least. Be able to smile a bit more freely without dreading what I will look like, immortalized forever in the background of my friend's wedding. Also, I mean to finish the 50000 books I am in the middle of reading before starting another. I picked up A Severe Mercy again this morning and was once again drawn in so deeply by Vanauken's writing. I'm somewhat disinterested in his relationship with his late wife-- which is what the book is all about, of course-- but far more interested in the Christian perspective he offers and his tidbits of repeated wisdom and experience from C.S. Lewis, whose insight never, ever ceases to knock me flat. DAMN, LEWIS, YOU WERE THE MAN. I'm so glad you existed.
Point being: re-dedication. I have it. Onward ho.
Regardless of whether or not it spells doomed, sleepless days and nights here in South Heart/Dickinson, this week I'm pulling myself back together. Getting sick/bored/stressed/sick and overworked set me back, but I've gotta come out winning this one. It's going to happen. I've been taking every single open shift at work, I've worked 9 nights straight, one day off, and then about six nights straight and I'm about to pull eight straight again (my next day off is next monday, exactly a week from now). But I'm not just going to focus on that. I'm going to focus on running. And more than that, I'm going to focus on writing. Finally. Because THAT is the most important thing.
more on what you missed after I tear it up at the gym.
that's right. i just said tear it up.
more on what you missed after I tear it up at the gym.
that's right. i just said tear it up.
Sunday, August 28, 2011
who says i can't get stoned, plan a trip to japan alone?
So I am in Minneapolis. I bought a ticket last month to see Death Cab for Cutie in St. Paul and I wasn't about to waste my free weekend. So, money problems be damned! I can brave the big city by myself once again. And I have.
It's about an 8 hour drive between Dickinson and the Twin Cities, but it didn't really seem all that long. Boring, though, god yes. Once you get out of the more interesting part of ND and into the truly flat part-- sorry, Red River Valley, you suck-- it's a bore. But it was worth it. The concert was a good experience-- kind of strange, again, being there alone, but I don't think anyone really noticed, and who cares, honestly?
Death Cab is not my favorite band by any stretch, but I definitely wanted to take the chance to see them since, when I think about it, I realize I've been listening to them for years and years now. The first song I heard of theirs was "Photobooth" which my friend Sonia sent to me over AIM (AIM!!) and which I eventually put on a cd that I listened to as my family relocated to California. I didn't listen to them much after that, I thought they were too "scene" and that all of their music kind of sounded the same, even though I kept downloading their albums and sampling. Finally, around the time my family moved back to Texas and I stayed put, I started listening to them alot. I remember when things were weird between me and my friends and I just felt so lonely and unwanted and awkward around everyone and I didn't know what to do so I drove to the beach and sat there for hours one night with my ipod, listening to Transatlanticism-- which, by the way, is one of the most beautiful songs ever composed. That night a bunch of stupid kids were also on the beach, though far away from me, and they started to set off fireworks. After that, once things got better, I was working all of the time, but when I'd get off of work at 1AM and walk home I'd be so wired that I'd have to walk around a bit, mainly in the sketchy park across from my apartment complex. I'd pull up the Plans album on my ipod and listen to it for forever, just walking the park or sitting on the swings, thinking. "Marching Bands of Manhattan" I also associate so much with my last days at VC, when it started to feel dried up and hard to deal with, when most of my friends were gone or not around.
Anyway. So that's why I wanted to go to their concert. And it was lovely. Ben Gibbard is a very interesting creature. They didn't play sound of settling, or what sarah said, which was a bummer, but they played everything else that I wanted to hear. I was actually a little surprised at how emotional the whole experience made me-- I felt a huge jump in my heart when Gibbard started to sing "I Will Follow You Into The Dark." I full-on started crying at the end of "Marching Bands of Manhattan." And Transatlanticism was glorious. And the songs from their new album [WHICH THEY JUST STARTED PLAYING IN THIS COFFEE SHOP THAT I'M IN].
When you find yourself the villain/in the story you have written/then it's plain to see/that sometimes the best intentions/are in need of redemption/don't you agree?
Anyway. I've been thinking about Follow You Into the Dark and the new song, St. Peter's Cathedral. Gibbard is very anti-theist, which is strange to me, and is what, I think, gives his music such a passing melancholy. Not happy, not utterly sad. Yesterday I explored St. Paul-- I saw The Fitzgerald Theatre, the downtown, Mickey's (the famous diner of Prairie Home Companion, Mighty Ducks, and Jingle All The Way fame), the Capitol, and St. Paul's Cathedral, up on a hill looking over the city. It was the most beautiful building I'd ever seen-- I don't think I've ever seen a REAL cathedral, except maybe in San Fran, however this was HUGE and furiously gorgeous, not like any that I've noticed before. I spent a long time just walking around it and staring, and I couldn't help but think of Gibbard's music, "there's nothing past this," and what an incredibly different perspective that is from mine. If I really did believe that there was nothing past this, what would I be? What kind of person? I don't think I'd be writing beautiful music about it, that's for certain.
Anyway. After all that I went on my pilgrimage to find F. Scott Fitzgerald's old neighborhood, thanks to a walking-tour guide I found online (glory be the internets and phones with online capabilities), bought a cup of coffee, and wandered. The whole area is historical and well-preserved, so there are a bunch of gingerbread houses and amazing brownstones, all with their original style intact (or restored, I guess). I found his birthplace, a duplex-type brownstone which is now being used as apartments (CRAZY. Someone is LIVING there). It had a lovely front porch with twin hanging porch-swings. I know, obviously, that these swings were not there when F. Scott was, however from the looks of it there were some kind of swings. So I took the liberty of climbing the stairs and just sitting there, looking out over the neighborhood, rocking back and forth next to F. Scott's window. Did he ever do that, I wonder? How different did things look to little Scotty? After that I wandered a few blocks to the home that Scott's parents moved into after Scott had gone into the army. Another brownstone with the most ornate gutter/drainpipe I've ever seen.
The story goes that Fitzy met Zelda in Alabama while he was in the service, and they wanted to get married but she finally dumped him because he was a poor writer. Depressed, F. Scott came home to St. Paul, moved back in with his parents, and finished This Side of Paradise, his first book. It was in this house that he got the letter that he was going to be published, and he ran outside and into the street, telling all of the cars passing his good news. Of course this meant that Zelda would come back. And he wouldn't have to live with his parents anymore. He was 23. My age.
I got to see that house and that street. That was worth the 8 hour drive through nothingness, let me tell you.
So after all the fun in St. Paul I drove around for quite a bit in Minneapolis, getting a feel for uptown and downtown, located my hostel and my room which I am sharing with four other girls, one of them INCREDIBLY crazy and apparently perpetually drunk/a snorer. I got went to the outdoor sculpture gardens at The Walker art museum, I wandered downtown and went to go see Beginners at the local art house theatre.
This morning I dragged myself up after a night of strange sleep, hauled out of the hostel, and made a loop uptown then came over to Hennepin-- the "groovy" part of town, and am currently nestled safely in "Uncommon Grounds," one of the most famous coffee shops ever, apparently. And definitely the "hip" place to be in Minneapolis. Anyway. After this I shall hop on over to the city hub and say hi to the statue of Mary Tyler Moore, see the Guthrie Theatre, and check out the Old Mill. And eat, good lord, eat. This is a pretty fabulous city, however, I have to say, the drivers drive ANGRY and the people aren't the nicest you've ever met. Surprising, since I've never been disappointed by the Midwest.
I love living like this. I wish I didn't have to make money. I wish I could just roam around all the time.
It's about an 8 hour drive between Dickinson and the Twin Cities, but it didn't really seem all that long. Boring, though, god yes. Once you get out of the more interesting part of ND and into the truly flat part-- sorry, Red River Valley, you suck-- it's a bore. But it was worth it. The concert was a good experience-- kind of strange, again, being there alone, but I don't think anyone really noticed, and who cares, honestly?
Death Cab is not my favorite band by any stretch, but I definitely wanted to take the chance to see them since, when I think about it, I realize I've been listening to them for years and years now. The first song I heard of theirs was "Photobooth" which my friend Sonia sent to me over AIM (AIM!!) and which I eventually put on a cd that I listened to as my family relocated to California. I didn't listen to them much after that, I thought they were too "scene" and that all of their music kind of sounded the same, even though I kept downloading their albums and sampling. Finally, around the time my family moved back to Texas and I stayed put, I started listening to them alot. I remember when things were weird between me and my friends and I just felt so lonely and unwanted and awkward around everyone and I didn't know what to do so I drove to the beach and sat there for hours one night with my ipod, listening to Transatlanticism-- which, by the way, is one of the most beautiful songs ever composed. That night a bunch of stupid kids were also on the beach, though far away from me, and they started to set off fireworks. After that, once things got better, I was working all of the time, but when I'd get off of work at 1AM and walk home I'd be so wired that I'd have to walk around a bit, mainly in the sketchy park across from my apartment complex. I'd pull up the Plans album on my ipod and listen to it for forever, just walking the park or sitting on the swings, thinking. "Marching Bands of Manhattan" I also associate so much with my last days at VC, when it started to feel dried up and hard to deal with, when most of my friends were gone or not around.
Anyway. So that's why I wanted to go to their concert. And it was lovely. Ben Gibbard is a very interesting creature. They didn't play sound of settling, or what sarah said, which was a bummer, but they played everything else that I wanted to hear. I was actually a little surprised at how emotional the whole experience made me-- I felt a huge jump in my heart when Gibbard started to sing "I Will Follow You Into The Dark." I full-on started crying at the end of "Marching Bands of Manhattan." And Transatlanticism was glorious. And the songs from their new album [WHICH THEY JUST STARTED PLAYING IN THIS COFFEE SHOP THAT I'M IN].
When you find yourself the villain/in the story you have written/then it's plain to see/that sometimes the best intentions/are in need of redemption/don't you agree?
Anyway. I've been thinking about Follow You Into the Dark and the new song, St. Peter's Cathedral. Gibbard is very anti-theist, which is strange to me, and is what, I think, gives his music such a passing melancholy. Not happy, not utterly sad. Yesterday I explored St. Paul-- I saw The Fitzgerald Theatre, the downtown, Mickey's (the famous diner of Prairie Home Companion, Mighty Ducks, and Jingle All The Way fame), the Capitol, and St. Paul's Cathedral, up on a hill looking over the city. It was the most beautiful building I'd ever seen-- I don't think I've ever seen a REAL cathedral, except maybe in San Fran, however this was HUGE and furiously gorgeous, not like any that I've noticed before. I spent a long time just walking around it and staring, and I couldn't help but think of Gibbard's music, "there's nothing past this," and what an incredibly different perspective that is from mine. If I really did believe that there was nothing past this, what would I be? What kind of person? I don't think I'd be writing beautiful music about it, that's for certain.
Anyway. After all that I went on my pilgrimage to find F. Scott Fitzgerald's old neighborhood, thanks to a walking-tour guide I found online (glory be the internets and phones with online capabilities), bought a cup of coffee, and wandered. The whole area is historical and well-preserved, so there are a bunch of gingerbread houses and amazing brownstones, all with their original style intact (or restored, I guess). I found his birthplace, a duplex-type brownstone which is now being used as apartments (CRAZY. Someone is LIVING there). It had a lovely front porch with twin hanging porch-swings. I know, obviously, that these swings were not there when F. Scott was, however from the looks of it there were some kind of swings. So I took the liberty of climbing the stairs and just sitting there, looking out over the neighborhood, rocking back and forth next to F. Scott's window. Did he ever do that, I wonder? How different did things look to little Scotty? After that I wandered a few blocks to the home that Scott's parents moved into after Scott had gone into the army. Another brownstone with the most ornate gutter/drainpipe I've ever seen.
The story goes that Fitzy met Zelda in Alabama while he was in the service, and they wanted to get married but she finally dumped him because he was a poor writer. Depressed, F. Scott came home to St. Paul, moved back in with his parents, and finished This Side of Paradise, his first book. It was in this house that he got the letter that he was going to be published, and he ran outside and into the street, telling all of the cars passing his good news. Of course this meant that Zelda would come back. And he wouldn't have to live with his parents anymore. He was 23. My age.
I got to see that house and that street. That was worth the 8 hour drive through nothingness, let me tell you.
So after all the fun in St. Paul I drove around for quite a bit in Minneapolis, getting a feel for uptown and downtown, located my hostel and my room which I am sharing with four other girls, one of them INCREDIBLY crazy and apparently perpetually drunk/a snorer. I got went to the outdoor sculpture gardens at The Walker art museum, I wandered downtown and went to go see Beginners at the local art house theatre.
This morning I dragged myself up after a night of strange sleep, hauled out of the hostel, and made a loop uptown then came over to Hennepin-- the "groovy" part of town, and am currently nestled safely in "Uncommon Grounds," one of the most famous coffee shops ever, apparently. And definitely the "hip" place to be in Minneapolis. Anyway. After this I shall hop on over to the city hub and say hi to the statue of Mary Tyler Moore, see the Guthrie Theatre, and check out the Old Mill. And eat, good lord, eat. This is a pretty fabulous city, however, I have to say, the drivers drive ANGRY and the people aren't the nicest you've ever met. Surprising, since I've never been disappointed by the Midwest.
I love living like this. I wish I didn't have to make money. I wish I could just roam around all the time.
Sunday, August 21, 2011
Thursday, August 18, 2011
So, it's been a lousy week, work-wise. Well, not so much work-wise as sanity-wise. A few days ago I watched Grandma, who has gotten to the point where she will not let me sleep, which is troublesome considering I NEED to sleep during the day. Of course I love Grandma to pieces but. Grandma. Nap time is nap time. So I got no sleep that day or the next, when we hung out once more, and that set off a very treacherous pattern involving me only being able to sleep for 30 minutes at a time and therefore getting no real sleep for about four days, which begat a painful cycle of anxiety, which prevents me from sleeping (because I'm scared about not sleeping), etc etc. So I'd show up to work completely wiped and sleep on break, all in all getting about 3 hours of sleep per day. Ish. Anyway. I finally got some rest last night so I suppose I'm good to go, but I still have a cranky strain of exhaustion in my head. I hope I am not on my way to getting sick, blah.
Reading about screenwriting today for the first time in a while. Itching to start new projects and follow them through, but still plugging away on the old western. Ah well. Must MUST get to the point of writing every day, no matter what, whether it's on my main project or not. And yes. I want to have many projects (which... I do...). Also I need to get started on other projects, like career-building and networking projects. I'm getting back on twitter, and not just to read Conan's tweets (although I still think they're pretty much the only thing worth doing on that stupid site) , to NETWORK. And I suppose if I'm going to be a serious working writer I need a website, eh? I also need a MAC. And I also want a camera. Nothing fancy, just something to tool around with and make fun things. I hadn't watched my short movies in awhile, mostly avoiding them because I get worried that maybe they won't be as good as I remember them, but I watched all of them again last night and I was just so pleased with how entertaining they still are. Sure, they're amateur and completely technically unimpressive but they're actually good. I enjoy them, anyway. I want to make more.
So I guess that's the strategy. Write every day. Network. Submit stuff. Work on a website. Tool around with film-making some more.
I've fallen into popularity with the very young crowd at work (and in Dickinson in general). Turns out all of the highschoolers tend to really appreciate me for whatever absurd reason and I have become an honorary HS senior/college freshman. Which I suppose is nice since it hearkens back to one of the positive times in my life. But that doesn't stop it from being hilarious and a little weird, considering my life consists now of very few people my own age: highschoolers and the elderly. Will this provide me with some balance, perhaps?
Reading about screenwriting today for the first time in a while. Itching to start new projects and follow them through, but still plugging away on the old western. Ah well. Must MUST get to the point of writing every day, no matter what, whether it's on my main project or not. And yes. I want to have many projects (which... I do...). Also I need to get started on other projects, like career-building and networking projects. I'm getting back on twitter, and not just to read Conan's tweets (although I still think they're pretty much the only thing worth doing on that stupid site) , to NETWORK. And I suppose if I'm going to be a serious working writer I need a website, eh? I also need a MAC. And I also want a camera. Nothing fancy, just something to tool around with and make fun things. I hadn't watched my short movies in awhile, mostly avoiding them because I get worried that maybe they won't be as good as I remember them, but I watched all of them again last night and I was just so pleased with how entertaining they still are. Sure, they're amateur and completely technically unimpressive but they're actually good. I enjoy them, anyway. I want to make more.
So I guess that's the strategy. Write every day. Network. Submit stuff. Work on a website. Tool around with film-making some more.
I've fallen into popularity with the very young crowd at work (and in Dickinson in general). Turns out all of the highschoolers tend to really appreciate me for whatever absurd reason and I have become an honorary HS senior/college freshman. Which I suppose is nice since it hearkens back to one of the positive times in my life. But that doesn't stop it from being hilarious and a little weird, considering my life consists now of very few people my own age: highschoolers and the elderly. Will this provide me with some balance, perhaps?
zzzz
Sleep is a wonderful thing, and I don’t know what could be a more wonderful feeling than waking up comfortably and realizing you can sleep more if you feel like it. Still. Ultimately, I wish we didn’t require so much sleep, us human beings. There literally is not enough time in the day or night, and these bodies of ours are so demanding.
Thursday, August 11, 2011
Today has been one of those overwhelming "real life" days. Y'know... when you realize how much money you owe and that even though you're making bank at your job you'll never be able to get ahead. WHAT'S A GIRL GOTTA DO TO BREAK OUT OF THIS JOINT?!
School debt. Late fees on unpaid school debt. Credit card debt. DMV debt. Random work registration. Airplane tickets to go to weddings. Deposits for internet service (gee dee!!). GAS. Car repair. And I'm still desperate to get my filling replaced and get freakin' driving glasses before I go blind, BLIIIIIND!!
BUT THERE IS NO MONEY. Despite the fact that last week I got the biggest paycheck I've ever received, I am now in possession of about 40 dollars until the 20th. Eff. Eff. So annoyed. And I can't write! THERE IS NOT ENOUGH TIME IN THE DAY OR MOTIVATION IN THE STUPID WORLD!!!! And when I don't write I don't feel like working out, because if I can't write, then who cares? Not me. Eff. arararrarararrarrrr.
Oh well. At least I do indeed have a job. I just wanted to be more out of the pit by now but stupid things (OVER 900 DOLLARS???? REALLY???? FUCKING A!!) just keep dragging me back IN. Damnation.
And I'm lonely today. Despite the little string of weirdo redneck hicks that just came into the coffee shop and this random guy sitting across from me, peacefully reading a book called-- no lie-- "He-Motions." Like... emotions? For men? Or is it a religious thing? Either way, I hate it.
School debt. Late fees on unpaid school debt. Credit card debt. DMV debt. Random work registration. Airplane tickets to go to weddings. Deposits for internet service (gee dee!!). GAS. Car repair. And I'm still desperate to get my filling replaced and get freakin' driving glasses before I go blind, BLIIIIIND!!
BUT THERE IS NO MONEY. Despite the fact that last week I got the biggest paycheck I've ever received, I am now in possession of about 40 dollars until the 20th. Eff. Eff. So annoyed. And I can't write! THERE IS NOT ENOUGH TIME IN THE DAY OR MOTIVATION IN THE STUPID WORLD!!!! And when I don't write I don't feel like working out, because if I can't write, then who cares? Not me. Eff. arararrarararrarrrr.
Oh well. At least I do indeed have a job. I just wanted to be more out of the pit by now but stupid things (OVER 900 DOLLARS???? REALLY???? FUCKING A!!) just keep dragging me back IN. Damnation.
And I'm lonely today. Despite the little string of weirdo redneck hicks that just came into the coffee shop and this random guy sitting across from me, peacefully reading a book called-- no lie-- "He-Motions." Like... emotions? For men? Or is it a religious thing? Either way, I hate it.
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
Hi, John Krasinski.
Monday, August 8, 2011
it's so good to learn that from here the view goes on forever
My friend and I have a specialized way of communicating. I find most of his conversational texts just utterly great so I have a hard time deleting them, but so many have accrued that I have to just get rid of all of them. But. I can't. So:
Him: 3/1
Sybil! Ahhh dammit Sybil! I cannot come to get polly with you. Manuel has the most elephantine classes on Tuesdays.
Him: 3/2
How ya doin', squalor victoria? Tis a National day over here.
Me: 3/3
Still breathing. The National is always choice. it's been U2 over here today, know ye "Far Away So Close"? Favorite.
Him: 3/3
Aye. Reminds me of late nights in the old town. 711 cigarettes, and you can go anywhere.
Him: 3/5
Forgive me! My phone died and I crashed on a foreign couch. am at work now. are you all right, buddies and pals?
Me:
My goggle! Quite so, quite so.
Him:
There ain't no QUARK in my BEND-IT!
Me: 3/7
Apocalypse Now, NOW! Come home! Lonely cigars and napalm in the morning.
Me: 3/11
What. Hellooo. You call. I'm in a movie. What's the rumpus?
Him:
No rumpus, no rumpus! Enjoyensie ihre film.
Me: 3/12
Gone to bed, lambchop?
Him: 3/13
Hello apocalypse now now, I'm going to bed to avoid death on freeways.
Me: 3/13
GOOD. Previous visions of death expunged. Sad not to see you, though.
Him: 3/13
Aye that too. We talk soon.
Me: 3/13
mmmPeh.
Him: 3/13
???...Rawls alms's....?!?!!
Me: 3/14
Sleep well, fearful Jesuit. {ULYSESS REFERENCE}
Me: 3/14
Doya have school on Wed?
Him:
Just alot of HW, what goes?
Me:
Actually nothing. I had a whim to break out of here for an afternoon, but it's passed now.
Him:
Well, come on down if it blows round again.
Me:
Unrelated: You read the part where Stephen's at the library expounding shakespeare theories, right? Do you reckon that's satirical or serious? Or both?
3/16
Leaving Ventura now. See you in a few. {Day I officially decided to move to ND}
3/16
Meet me at school, for we must feast and free is all I can afford.
Me: 3/17
What was Plato word? Want to remember before I forget.
Him: 3/17
Eudamonia. Spelling Bah. Read Symposium.
Me: 4/2
I am officially an impressive person {upon the finishing of Ulysses}
Him:
Well done, good and faithful Jesuit!!
Me: 4/5
I am going to North Dakota. What.
Him:
That fact continues to surreal my brain, Black-hills wise.
Me: 4/9
Annnd now I'm abandoning my packing for cookies. Eff you and power of suggestion.
Him:
Damnation I am trapped library desk ! cookies !
Me:
Serves ya right. Your car will lose, Leslie will lose, I WILL WIN! AhaHA!
Me: 4/11
Hands remember, rocking chairs, black hills snow frightening. If send address will write real letters?? Ugh dead.
Him:
Will send letters, is promise. If send invite, will u come to Torrey Grad? if smoke, will you smoke with?
Me: Yes I said yes i will yes. Marlboro with a mickronee finger. {WAY TO WORK IN A ULYSESS + obscure Beatles reference}
Me: 4/14
ASHLAND SHAKESPEARE GREEN MOUNTAINS!!!
Him:
Isn't it a great town? i feel at home there.
Me: 4/14
Have a bit? Am in Portland. Want to walk about but is busy city and dark and late. Would like someone on phone?
Him: 4/15
Katrine are you alive because my phone was dead and i do not know! Trails happy?
Me:
Never to doubt the Texas Ranger.
Me: 4/16 {Seattle}
I just literally defended myself with an umbrella.
Him:
CALL ME RIGHT NOW. But get to a safe place first.
Me:
Am fine am fine and fine fine.
Him: 4/17
Still alive, Texas Ranger?
Me:
Ever stalwart. Tonight is long drive though.
Him: 4/18
You need to stop nearly dying when my phone is dead. You need to stop nearly dying. I need to charge my phone. Ere yew alaive?
Me:
Ever stalwart! Alive and [mostly] well in South Heart. What a strange thing life is! We talk soonish, I hope. Do check your mailbox.
Him: 4/21
Ahahaaahahaaaaaaaaaaaaaa! Just got the cowboy postcard. Death by chortle.
Me:
You are tryin' to get at me.
Me: 4/27
Why, Martha! Your Sunday Chapel Dress!
Him: 5/2
Those assholes want me in the field a minimum of two years! They are not Lebeouf. {Darjeeling Limited + True Grit reference in one. Nicely done}
Me: They are men... who walk in front of bullets. I wouldn't worry, though.
Me: 5/7
Who is that contemporary author you love? Also, SQUEEZE the Heinous One for me today, I cannot get her on the phone.
Him: Jonathan Safran Foer? Annie Dillard? Etc? Will do, Mumzy. Give me five shillings.
Me: Excuse me, JSF is MY contemporary author, not yours. Must be Annie. Shillings: cracked me UP. Tears. Letter soon?
Him: Letter sent tomorrow. yes, past tense in future.
Me: 5/17
Received your letter yesterday, about the time the doorknob broke.
Him: 3/1
Sybil! Ahhh dammit Sybil! I cannot come to get polly with you. Manuel has the most elephantine classes on Tuesdays.
Him: 3/2
How ya doin', squalor victoria? Tis a National day over here.
Me: 3/3
Still breathing. The National is always choice. it's been U2 over here today, know ye "Far Away So Close"? Favorite.
Him: 3/3
Aye. Reminds me of late nights in the old town. 711 cigarettes, and you can go anywhere.
Him: 3/5
Forgive me! My phone died and I crashed on a foreign couch. am at work now. are you all right, buddies and pals?
Me:
My goggle! Quite so, quite so.
Him:
There ain't no QUARK in my BEND-IT!
Me: 3/7
Apocalypse Now, NOW! Come home! Lonely cigars and napalm in the morning.
Me: 3/11
What. Hellooo. You call. I'm in a movie. What's the rumpus?
Him:
No rumpus, no rumpus! Enjoyensie ihre film.
Me: 3/12
Gone to bed, lambchop?
Him: 3/13
Hello apocalypse now now, I'm going to bed to avoid death on freeways.
Me: 3/13
GOOD. Previous visions of death expunged. Sad not to see you, though.
Him: 3/13
Aye that too. We talk soon.
Me: 3/13
mmmPeh.
Him: 3/13
???...Rawls alms's....?!?!!
Me: 3/14
Sleep well, fearful Jesuit. {ULYSESS REFERENCE}
Me: 3/14
Doya have school on Wed?
Him:
Just alot of HW, what goes?
Me:
Actually nothing. I had a whim to break out of here for an afternoon, but it's passed now.
Him:
Well, come on down if it blows round again.
Me:
Unrelated: You read the part where Stephen's at the library expounding shakespeare theories, right? Do you reckon that's satirical or serious? Or both?
3/16
Leaving Ventura now. See you in a few. {Day I officially decided to move to ND}
3/16
Meet me at school, for we must feast and free is all I can afford.
Me: 3/17
What was Plato word? Want to remember before I forget.
Him: 3/17
Eudamonia. Spelling Bah. Read Symposium.
Me: 4/2
I am officially an impressive person {upon the finishing of Ulysses}
Him:
Well done, good and faithful Jesuit!!
Me: 4/5
I am going to North Dakota. What.
Him:
That fact continues to surreal my brain, Black-hills wise.
Me: 4/9
Annnd now I'm abandoning my packing for cookies. Eff you and power of suggestion.
Him:
Damnation I am trapped library desk ! cookies !
Me:
Serves ya right. Your car will lose, Leslie will lose, I WILL WIN! AhaHA!
Me: 4/11
Hands remember, rocking chairs, black hills snow frightening. If send address will write real letters?? Ugh dead.
Him:
Will send letters, is promise. If send invite, will u come to Torrey Grad? if smoke, will you smoke with?
Me: Yes I said yes i will yes. Marlboro with a mickronee finger. {WAY TO WORK IN A ULYSESS + obscure Beatles reference}
Me: 4/14
ASHLAND SHAKESPEARE GREEN MOUNTAINS!!!
Him:
Isn't it a great town? i feel at home there.
Me: 4/14
Have a bit? Am in Portland. Want to walk about but is busy city and dark and late. Would like someone on phone?
Him: 4/15
Katrine are you alive because my phone was dead and i do not know! Trails happy?
Me:
Never to doubt the Texas Ranger.
Me: 4/16 {Seattle}
I just literally defended myself with an umbrella.
Him:
CALL ME RIGHT NOW. But get to a safe place first.
Me:
Am fine am fine and fine fine.
Him: 4/17
Still alive, Texas Ranger?
Me:
Ever stalwart. Tonight is long drive though.
Him: 4/18
You need to stop nearly dying when my phone is dead. You need to stop nearly dying. I need to charge my phone. Ere yew alaive?
Me:
Ever stalwart! Alive and [mostly] well in South Heart. What a strange thing life is! We talk soonish, I hope. Do check your mailbox.
Him: 4/21
Ahahaaahahaaaaaaaaaaaaaa! Just got the cowboy postcard. Death by chortle.
Me:
You are tryin' to get at me.
Me: 4/27
Why, Martha! Your Sunday Chapel Dress!
Him: 5/2
Those assholes want me in the field a minimum of two years! They are not Lebeouf. {Darjeeling Limited + True Grit reference in one. Nicely done}
Me: They are men... who walk in front of bullets. I wouldn't worry, though.
Me: 5/7
Who is that contemporary author you love? Also, SQUEEZE the Heinous One for me today, I cannot get her on the phone.
Him: Jonathan Safran Foer? Annie Dillard? Etc? Will do, Mumzy. Give me five shillings.
Me: Excuse me, JSF is MY contemporary author, not yours. Must be Annie. Shillings: cracked me UP. Tears. Letter soon?
Him: Letter sent tomorrow. yes, past tense in future.
Me: 5/17
Received your letter yesterday, about the time the doorknob broke.
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