My good friend and room-mate was broken up with by her boyfriend last night. Over the phone. She is an unusually unemotional person, and being with this guy has really started to open her up. She guards her heart hardcore. Which is why… it's all the more painful to see her in pain.
I went to see her at work and then when we both got off at 5 this morning (ah, the life of an overnight worker) we came home and I just sat with her for over an hour while she cried. I made tea, poured alcohol, fetched her Advil. I tried to think of encouraging things (do you bash the ex? do you say he'll come around? [no] do you try to be super logical? do you try to distract? do you tell her to cry and get it all out?!). I think I did okay.
It's weird, though. I've never been in that situation, but I have been in emotionally difficult places. I have had my heart broken, and in the process of putting it back together I think I damaged it even more. I don't think it functions quite properly now, and that's rather messed me up (not to say I can never love or whatever, but I don't think I was all that stable to begin with etc etc). I don't want that to happen to my friend. But the odd thing is, even though all I could think about was heartache for YEARS, I haven't the faintest idea of how to treat it in other people. To what extent can an outsider aid such a thing? What kind of advice can I give when she tells me she still wants to talk to him, when all she wants is for him to like her again? I wasn't in that relationship. I don't know.
It's especially strange when it's happening to someone not of my own personal emotional leanings. When my best friend's heart was broken and torn to shreds by her then-boyfriend (who broke up with her, got back with her, and is marrying her this year-- life, you be crazy), I hated on him. I brought my friend to stay with me for some of the summer in California for some rehab. Over that very trip he realized he missed her, wanted her back, and even had a long conversation with me confessing all that he had done wrong that he now understood. That was different, somehow, because that friend is like a part of me, and I had this crazy sense of how things were going to play out. This is different. Sometimes I just expect the right words to come out of my mouth, and then I realize, I really think too much of myself in this area. I give myself too much credit for recognizing things in people. Just because I am attentive doesn't mean I am omnipresent. I can't see it all.
Sometimes it's okay to not know what to say, isn't it?
Wednesday, January 16, 2013
Saturday, October 13, 2012
though my story's seldom told.
Things I want to do:
1. Make a feature film sometime. A small one. Probably in North Dakota.
2. Continue with grad school.
3. Live in New York.
4. Sell alot of writing.
5. Have at least one of my scripts produced by a major studio.
6. Teach film.
7. Live in Scotland.
8. See America. Or more of it, anyway.
9. Play a musical intrument.
10. Have some sort of success before my mother dies. Or, more urgently, before my father forgets who I am.
I feel as though I've been watching and reading many interviews of talented people lately, and so many of them have an odd and tragic thing in common-- their parent, the person who would have most enjoyed their success, died just on the brink of that talented person's victory. JK Rowling's mother, who had only ever seen her daughter struggle, died when Rowling was halfway through the first Harry Potter book. She didn't even know about it before she died. Ralph Fiennes's mother passed just as Schindler's List was released and before Fienne's nomination. This is apparently a very, weirdly common phenomenon. It scares me more than failure.
1. Make a feature film sometime. A small one. Probably in North Dakota.
2. Continue with grad school.
3. Live in New York.
4. Sell alot of writing.
5. Have at least one of my scripts produced by a major studio.
6. Teach film.
7. Live in Scotland.
8. See America. Or more of it, anyway.
9. Play a musical intrument.
10. Have some sort of success before my mother dies. Or, more urgently, before my father forgets who I am.
I feel as though I've been watching and reading many interviews of talented people lately, and so many of them have an odd and tragic thing in common-- their parent, the person who would have most enjoyed their success, died just on the brink of that talented person's victory. JK Rowling's mother, who had only ever seen her daughter struggle, died when Rowling was halfway through the first Harry Potter book. She didn't even know about it before she died. Ralph Fiennes's mother passed just as Schindler's List was released and before Fienne's nomination. This is apparently a very, weirdly common phenomenon. It scares me more than failure.
Monday, September 24, 2012
to ink or not to ink.
Tattoos I am deeply considering:
A small Bluebonnet, which is the Texas state flower. I will do my best to never live in Texas again, but it's such a part of me.
Some of the lyrics from Let It Be on my forearm. Namely, "there is still a light, that shines on me, shine until tomorrow, let it be". I am aware that the phrase "let it be" is an incredibly popular tattoo choice, which I did not know when I initially became obsessed with the idea, and then dropped it because I did not want to be cheesy. But then, I thought, that's kind of wonderful, isn't it, for the people who are sincere about it? We have more in common than we think. Anyway, I like that strand of lyrics in particular. I also thought it might be kind of cool to involve the actual music notes from that selection, but I'm not sure how that would look.
A small Bluebonnet, which is the Texas state flower. I will do my best to never live in Texas again, but it's such a part of me.
Some of the lyrics from Let It Be on my forearm. Namely, "there is still a light, that shines on me, shine until tomorrow, let it be". I am aware that the phrase "let it be" is an incredibly popular tattoo choice, which I did not know when I initially became obsessed with the idea, and then dropped it because I did not want to be cheesy. But then, I thought, that's kind of wonderful, isn't it, for the people who are sincere about it? We have more in common than we think. Anyway, I like that strand of lyrics in particular. I also thought it might be kind of cool to involve the actual music notes from that selection, but I'm not sure how that would look.
"Lord, I believe; help my unbelief!" Or the scripture reference. Basically my lifelong spiritual struggle.
"I am no bird; and no net ensnares me: I am a free human being with an independent will, which I now exert to leave you."- Jane Eyre. I can't help it. I really love this.
A refined, victorian top hat. I am obsessed with doodling, and when I doodle. I ALWAYS try to draw the perfect top hat, and I always fail.
A teeny tiny owl. I know. I probably won't get this. But. OWLS.
I've missed the hell out of you, my darlings.
All right, I've missed blogging regularly. I've neglected the documentation of my North Dakotan adventures because I've been afraid of work people finding me and accusing me of being bad for writing about my experiences in caregiving, ND-style. But if I'm proper enough about it, I should be all right. And even if not, it's rather theraputic, this blogging thing.
Lots of occurances since I was last writing regularly. I suppose the bigger things were the deaths of several Residents at my nursing home workplace. I can't even really think, off the top of my head, how many there have been in a one-year span, but two of them I had an extra-special fondness for. One of them, my favorite old man of all time (we'll call him E, shall we?) died just before last Christmas, the night I was working. Three of us found him separately (in his room) before we managed to find each other, so three of us had to realize he was gone, on our own. It was a pretty hellish time leading up to that point-- in the nights previous all he would do was thrash around and cry and yell. Most of the stuff he said in that last week was either nasty or indecipherable, and he shrunk to such a tiny size. He broke his oversized blinds by ripping them from the window in a fit of rage, and one night he just wouldn't stop screaming help even though I was right beside him, holding his hand, pushing him back up in bed every five minutes (as he kept kicking and thus wiggling nearly out of the thing-- impressive, I guess, for a dying person). Anyway, the night he died my former coworker, Agnes, who's a bit like my mother figure around here (not to be confused with a Resident I may have mentioned with a similar name), had an eerie feeling, and so went to check on E. She realized, standing over him, that he had literally just died, so she left the room to find my Sardonic Coworker (how I miss him and his Sardonic-ness), just seconds before I came into the room to check on E. I had scared myself so many times by convincing myself that his chest was no longer moving up and down that once I finally saw him motionless I had to wonder how well my eyes were functioning. I then left to likewise track down Sardonic Coworker, who arrived in the room moments after I left it and had his own recognition experience. Finally, we all found each other, and gathered into the room to nod about and say goodbye to E. We called Hospice, who called family, who called us, and then we made a call to the local funeral people. We then collected all things of importance, changed E's abandoned body, and waited.
It had just started snowing a little outside, after snowing a bit on and off that week. It was the beginning of a mild winter for North Dakota (of course, that spellt a harsh winter for any Californian, so I was grateful). When the funeral person came to collect, we assisted him as he cheerfully went about his preparations, listening to him make peppy smalltalk, which was honestly just the most bizarre thing. Even more surreal is that you just go along with it, even when you're helping wrap a corpse in sheets and rest its head just-so; to make sure it stays put. That was perhaps the worst-- when they lift it onto the gurney, the resting of its head caused E's teeth to clank together, which is really a disheartening sound. And then we opened the doors for him, and he was gone. Afterwards Sardonic and I shared a cigarette outside in the mild snow; I don't think he even wore a jacket. I complained about what a bad night it was, Sardonic responded with the insanely dark comment that we were doing better than E at that moment.
A few nights later, though, Sardonic mentioned to me, ashen, that the morning after all this he had jolted awake, under the impression that beside him in his bed was the wrapped and covered silhouette of E's corpse, his distinct profile coming through the covers. Sardonic said he just stared at it, feeling like he was having a heart attack, until he fell asleep again for many hours. I didn't have any dreams like that, but I miss E. He was a racist and a bit of a sexist man, but he was magic, and I'm glad he went when he did; to see him suffer was torturous.
All that, and only one story from nearly a year ago. There's so much more to say. Tonight was a night off for me, I went outside on our balcony in the crisp fall night and watched the half-moon (orange) settle into a patch of ultra-thin, moving clouds. It looked like the reflection of the moon and not the real thing, like I was looking at it in moving water, like the earth was upside down.
Lots of occurances since I was last writing regularly. I suppose the bigger things were the deaths of several Residents at my nursing home workplace. I can't even really think, off the top of my head, how many there have been in a one-year span, but two of them I had an extra-special fondness for. One of them, my favorite old man of all time (we'll call him E, shall we?) died just before last Christmas, the night I was working. Three of us found him separately (in his room) before we managed to find each other, so three of us had to realize he was gone, on our own. It was a pretty hellish time leading up to that point-- in the nights previous all he would do was thrash around and cry and yell. Most of the stuff he said in that last week was either nasty or indecipherable, and he shrunk to such a tiny size. He broke his oversized blinds by ripping them from the window in a fit of rage, and one night he just wouldn't stop screaming help even though I was right beside him, holding his hand, pushing him back up in bed every five minutes (as he kept kicking and thus wiggling nearly out of the thing-- impressive, I guess, for a dying person). Anyway, the night he died my former coworker, Agnes, who's a bit like my mother figure around here (not to be confused with a Resident I may have mentioned with a similar name), had an eerie feeling, and so went to check on E. She realized, standing over him, that he had literally just died, so she left the room to find my Sardonic Coworker (how I miss him and his Sardonic-ness), just seconds before I came into the room to check on E. I had scared myself so many times by convincing myself that his chest was no longer moving up and down that once I finally saw him motionless I had to wonder how well my eyes were functioning. I then left to likewise track down Sardonic Coworker, who arrived in the room moments after I left it and had his own recognition experience. Finally, we all found each other, and gathered into the room to nod about and say goodbye to E. We called Hospice, who called family, who called us, and then we made a call to the local funeral people. We then collected all things of importance, changed E's abandoned body, and waited.
It had just started snowing a little outside, after snowing a bit on and off that week. It was the beginning of a mild winter for North Dakota (of course, that spellt a harsh winter for any Californian, so I was grateful). When the funeral person came to collect, we assisted him as he cheerfully went about his preparations, listening to him make peppy smalltalk, which was honestly just the most bizarre thing. Even more surreal is that you just go along with it, even when you're helping wrap a corpse in sheets and rest its head just-so; to make sure it stays put. That was perhaps the worst-- when they lift it onto the gurney, the resting of its head caused E's teeth to clank together, which is really a disheartening sound. And then we opened the doors for him, and he was gone. Afterwards Sardonic and I shared a cigarette outside in the mild snow; I don't think he even wore a jacket. I complained about what a bad night it was, Sardonic responded with the insanely dark comment that we were doing better than E at that moment.
A few nights later, though, Sardonic mentioned to me, ashen, that the morning after all this he had jolted awake, under the impression that beside him in his bed was the wrapped and covered silhouette of E's corpse, his distinct profile coming through the covers. Sardonic said he just stared at it, feeling like he was having a heart attack, until he fell asleep again for many hours. I didn't have any dreams like that, but I miss E. He was a racist and a bit of a sexist man, but he was magic, and I'm glad he went when he did; to see him suffer was torturous.
All that, and only one story from nearly a year ago. There's so much more to say. Tonight was a night off for me, I went outside on our balcony in the crisp fall night and watched the half-moon (orange) settle into a patch of ultra-thin, moving clouds. It looked like the reflection of the moon and not the real thing, like I was looking at it in moving water, like the earth was upside down.
Monday, July 23, 2012
awful, awful.
I wish I were better at so many things.
Lately, that feeling has been pretty much confined to being a better person. I am having a hard time understanding why I've done truly horrible things-- I can't help but realize that due to my willfull participation in these stupid acts that I am probably the worst sort of person there is. The type that knows when they're wrong but pushes on anyway; the type without any character. The type that is more concerned with coming off as being good rather than truly being good. Being good is something in the heart, something that you simply are when no one else is around. And I am not good. I have good points, but I am not good, and this hurts me, and I hope I can be better but I feel like all of this poor character may prevent me from succeeding at anything, including improvement of that very character. Ugh. Sin is such a weight. Such a weight. It's hard to hear my parents over the phone try to be cheering-- "But you're a good person, you can turn things around." No, I want to say. You don't know. I'm awful.
I'm not going to kill myself or anything. But I feel like my existence is more detrimental than positive. Sometimes I feel like I've scrambled myself so much that all I've got ahead of me should fill me with dread. And yet. I've gotten this far. Maybe there's a reason. Maybe I am due to be carved into a better piece of work, maybe there's hope and a plan. God I hope so.
On a more shallow level, I wish I were better at writing. And dedication. I am sucking so hard at all of the things I want to do, writing especially. And also I am so hideously fat right now I can't stand to look at myself most of the time. I want to push so hard to change these things but this bipolar thing is not helping. And also... ugh. I'm awful.
Lately, that feeling has been pretty much confined to being a better person. I am having a hard time understanding why I've done truly horrible things-- I can't help but realize that due to my willfull participation in these stupid acts that I am probably the worst sort of person there is. The type that knows when they're wrong but pushes on anyway; the type without any character. The type that is more concerned with coming off as being good rather than truly being good. Being good is something in the heart, something that you simply are when no one else is around. And I am not good. I have good points, but I am not good, and this hurts me, and I hope I can be better but I feel like all of this poor character may prevent me from succeeding at anything, including improvement of that very character. Ugh. Sin is such a weight. Such a weight. It's hard to hear my parents over the phone try to be cheering-- "But you're a good person, you can turn things around." No, I want to say. You don't know. I'm awful.
I'm not going to kill myself or anything. But I feel like my existence is more detrimental than positive. Sometimes I feel like I've scrambled myself so much that all I've got ahead of me should fill me with dread. And yet. I've gotten this far. Maybe there's a reason. Maybe I am due to be carved into a better piece of work, maybe there's hope and a plan. God I hope so.
On a more shallow level, I wish I were better at writing. And dedication. I am sucking so hard at all of the things I want to do, writing especially. And also I am so hideously fat right now I can't stand to look at myself most of the time. I want to push so hard to change these things but this bipolar thing is not helping. And also... ugh. I'm awful.
Tuesday, May 1, 2012
If you live with me for longer than a month, you realize
A) I like to sleep alot.
B) I hate to wash dishes.
C) I always talk about writing but never seem to do it.
D) About every few weeks I binge on Flaming Cheetos and some kind of dairy product (but not milk, which I hate) to wash it down with.
E) I shower constantly but never seem to brush my hair.
F) I often parade around with a blanket cape. It's just a thing.
A) I like to sleep alot.
B) I hate to wash dishes.
C) I always talk about writing but never seem to do it.
D) About every few weeks I binge on Flaming Cheetos and some kind of dairy product (but not milk, which I hate) to wash it down with.
E) I shower constantly but never seem to brush my hair.
F) I often parade around with a blanket cape. It's just a thing.
Sunday, April 29, 2012
Wednesday, January 25, 2012
Sooo after thinking about it I've decided to lock this blog down. There's just too much private information on it and it needs to be more secure. I'll be doing this in the next couple of days, so if you care to keep reading make sure I have your email (it's the only way blogger lets me share for some reason). This is not a way of trying to figure out who creeps on my blog or anything.
My more public musings and soapbox for (typically film-related) obsessions will now be on tumblr at Y'know, Like... I'll also be moving my film blog over there in hopes of actually updating it.
My more public musings and soapbox for (typically film-related) obsessions will now be on tumblr at Y'know, Like... I'll also be moving my film blog over there in hopes of actually updating it.
Saturday, December 24, 2011
[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.
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.
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.
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