why can't we all be so?

"I have nothing to declare except my genius." Oscar Wilde, upon arriving at US customs 1882.

We'll come back for Indian Summer

Productive day so far. I went to the gym after work (which is probably the best time to go, when I'm already tired and too out of it to even register how physically exhausted I am becoming), came home, read the Bible, crashed, got up at a not-too-late time and put on makeup (! which I've been doing more often these days. I stayed away from it for a long time, then I started using it on and off. I'd like to make it a regular part of my regime, but without becoming too dependent on it. I don't want to freak out at the idea of someone seeing me without it), high-tailed it into town and now I've started writing. Good on me.

Last night one of the residents at work had a gushing (gushing!) nosebleed. I wasn't even assigned his side of the building, but I went into his room to get him up because my coworker was having some trouble with him. The moment he sat up blood started pouring out. One of the little coworkers with me (Chatterbox) could not handle the bodily fluid thing so I just stood there, pressing endless wads of tissue to his nose, pinching the bridge to try to get it under control. In short, it was a marathon of blood. We finally had to call up his family and they opted to shuttle him to the hospital. The interesting thing was that this resident is often one of our most difficult. He's been known to punch (hard) and be generally resistant when we try to get to the bathroom. Other than Old Terror, he's the only one that really makes me nervous sometimes, because he could genuinely hurt me. He's also been known to get angry if you repeatedly try to help him with something. But last night it was mostly he and I while my other coworkers bustled around, trying to get him ready to go, and I just stood there with him, pressing the soaked tissues to his nose, patting his shoulder. He didn't get angry or try to bat me away even once. I felt kind of honored, standing there, bravely catching his blood. As it turns out, he's on a certain medication that thins the blood and can cause such bleeding-- my grandmother was on the same thing, come to think of it.

Anyway.

On a different note, I realized something supremely wonderful today. Ok, so this is kind of gross, but it must be said: For about two years, I was really bad about brushing my teeth. I'd brush them, but only once every few days. I remember realizing once that I had gone a week without touching them. This happened a couple times. I know, disgusting. But it wasn't so much that I was so busy I'd forget, I just didn't want to do it. I just didn't care. I didn't like to take care of myself, I didn't want to bother. I'd either be too depressed to mess with before-bed hygiene (often falling asleep in my clothes) or I'd just be too self-loathing to give a shit. What did it matter if my teeth fell out? I didn't care. I was miserable anyway and ugly, so why bother? It was getting to the point of being ridiculous, which is why this year one of my lamest resolutions was to try to brush twice a day. Wasn't happening. I'd still crawl into bed without washing my face or touching my teeth or even changing (or even clearing stuff off of my bed. it didn't matter). I did try harder, I did think about it more, but I'd still veto it and only brush if the toothbrush happened to be staring me in the face. Then I moved here. Then I got work.

Then one day, Amanda and I were at Wal-Mart and Amanda mentioned that there were so many toothbrushes in the house that she was always unsure about which one was hers, so she wanted to buy a distinct one. I suggested getting a weird kid's toothbrush. I remember when I was a teen and still living with my parents, my mom would occasionally come home with random things for me like princess or star wars toothbrushes, just for fun (obviously I was too old for them and that was the joke). Amanda thought that was hilarious and she picked out a (in her words) "badass" batman toothbrush. She was thrilled with it. At this point I had even forgotten where the devil my own toothbrush was. I surveyed the selection. "You should get one, too!" Amanda said. Why not? She helped me pick out a Spiderman-with-web-of-fire brush. I took it home and admired how silly it looked beside Amanda's Batman.

Then I started to use it. I have been brushing my teeth twice a day.

This isn't because Spiderman toothbrushes are awesome (although it does make it easier to tell which is yours). This is because there is something very right about me being here. This is because I know I am doing the correct thing. I want to take care of myself, suddenly. I want my teeth to be healthy, I want to be healthy. I'm liking myself more. And I didn't even realize it until this morning, as I was rinsing off Spidey and returning him to his place beside his DC comic pal.

This is good. This is all so good.

sit down by the fire

All right. I'm about to sink my teeth into editing the crap out of this script. What good is an off weekend if I don't get any writing done? After I do as much as I can without wanting to rip my fingernails out, I'm going to start tackling what shall be my side project and eventually my next script, which will hopefully be alot more straightforward and quicker to write than this present evil western which is slowly killing me. I picked too hard a story to tell, and my confidence as writer since school has been somewhat lacking. I think I'm always a little afraid to take myself seriously, and now that I don't have a network of people reading my stuff and bouncing ideas around with me and freaking taking ME seriously I just second-guess every writing decision I make. Which is the worst possible thing. I just get so concerned that I'm not doing a good job of it, which wouldn't be so terrible if I were writing some comedy or the like, but this story is so damn serious and what I want to say is so damn serious that I'm scared of just completely destroying it. Which would be dangerous, for such a serious subject.

Anyway, there's another serious Western I'd like to tackle, a Hamlet-esque sort of story set in North Dakota (I figure since I'm here I might as well), but I think I just have to take a break from all that and dig into the little, Garden-State-esque script I've been thinking of for a little while now. When I was working at the film office in LMU I heard one of my coworkers talking about the movie Tiny Furniture, about how autobiographical it was and how low budget and so on (a story about a girl just out of film school and back home, written and directed by a girl just out of film school and back home...), and I remember thinking, how straightforwardly wonderful. And fairly common/successful. After all, that's sort of what Zach Braff did anyway. So for a long time I was outlining what I thought would work pretty well, exploring a little fear I have of having to go home and live with my parents and sister and do the whole Texas thing again. But that got too depressing, and I couldn't bring any style to it. But NOW I'm definitely living a weird little post-grad life and I'm thinking of taking some of the work I've done on the old Texas script and just applying it to this one. There are so many great stories that I can tell now, from my greyhound experiences to just adjusting to life and the weird characters here. Old Terror. Working in a nursing home in general. Of course I'm going to have to conjure up some story structure, but I'm really drawing/ripping off of Garden State for that, I think. We shall see.

In other news, the sun came out today, and I don't have to work tonight. Beautiful.

There's this one road here that I like to take. It parallels the main highway, except that it's a "backroad" and goes through the farmland, dumping out in the downtown of dickinson. It's HWY10, the original highway of North Dakota, however if you refer to it as anything other than "Old Ten" people will look at you strangely. Anyway, it's a very hilly, generally solitary drive and on days like today it's so beautiful. It fills me with that mixed feeling of hope and nostalgia, except in my case it must be nostalgia for a time which I have never experienced. It is during drives like that, my windows rolled down, some authentic-happy-sounding-song playing, orange sunglasses on my head and my hair going crazy that I think, well. This is the way things are supposed to be.

At least for right now.

But enough procrastinating. Onward!

boy tasting wild cherry

"Good looking people, they've got no spine. Their art never lasts."

Almost Famous might not be one of my *most* favorite movies, but it definitely has a style that I strive to imitate, whether or not I'm always aware of it. This scene is one of my most favorites. Cameron Crowe may err a bit on the sentimental side, especially in his latest movies, but I don't care. Almost Famous has a nearly PERFECT script, and in most of his movies he has a way of utilizing the schmaltz into connection. What Lester Bangs says in this scene is something I think about phrasing often, but I could never be as successful as Crowe. Dangit.

hork.

I seem to have the writing bug a little bit in hand now. I think with my new, steadily refining schedule I’m getting a bit more on the ball, so to speak. Plus all of the free coffee from work is very helpful. The emotions are still a little outta whack in the morning but I feel much better today. I think I had to get all of that out. I don’t feel so lonely at the moment. I think God is using that loneliness, actually, to propel me even further into work. I’ve gotten into the groove there, and I’m pretty good at most things and I love everyone there. Even Old Terror (who gets worse steadily) has become mentally manageable, even enjoyable to an extent. At least she provides good stories.

Example: last night I was changing one lady and my Sardonic coworker comes to tell me that we’re going to attempt Old Terror together in a few minutes and my company was requested. I got over there five minutes later, after whatever had happened had ended (they said later that OT was fighting with her neighbor and going through his stuff), only to find Sardonic standing a few feet away from OT’s bed, cautiously.

Him: “False alarm, she got in bed by herself. Finally.”
We look back at OT. OT gets this creepy, faux-sweet granny smile and pulls her covers up to her chin and says in this low sing-song voice to him:
“Why don’t you come over HERRE?” HAHAHA.
Him: “No… no I don’t think so."
I suspect that she was either planning on striking him the moment he succumbed OR flashing him. Maybe both.

I’ve also grown really attached to one of my other coworkers, this tiny, tough girl who has worked these kinds of jobs since she was sixteen or so. She’s very good with the residents and has this amazing work ethic but this really hard life, riddled with many family problems and health issues (and more health issues and more health issues) and relationship issues. She often comes to work crying but she’s tireless. She’s also a huge smoker so I will go outside with her at various points in the evening and look at the stars and occasionally smoke one or two with her and listen to her talk about her life, which I think she appreciates. I often find that this is one quality that I can offer people, a spare ear. Or some way of phrasing that which doesn’t imply I literally have an extra ear. She’s like an old lady in the way that she speaks at times—“hork” (the first time I’ve heard this one—it means to vomit. Interesting), “crabby patties,” “dear/dearie,” “sweetheart,” and “tushy” are all words she uses regularly. Whenever she comes to find me to go out to smoke she says “Come on, let’s go have our smoky treat!” And yet, she works it. She’s very genuine. Her life reeks of white trash, by her own admission, but she’s such a loving person that one cannot help but want to squeeze her.

Oh dear. My life has now become my work. And what a weird work.

I am sitting here in the apartment, gazing into the kitchen and watching the morning activity of a few scattered large ants. The apartment isn’t infested or anything, and it’s not like there’s a huge trail of sugar ants marching our cookies through nooks and crannies, but these big ants sure like to make tracks. They’re really quite mesmerizing. I can’t bring myself to kill them at the moment. Of course, I’m also quite tired.

This week is going to be a bit long. I hope I can get some work done on my stupid script over this period. My roommates are all presently engaged with their church’s VBS which takes up their mornings and then their respective jobs in the afternoons and then socializing with their Bible school people who have come to assist the church with their yearly summer projects. This is not something I am particularly interested in, though I’m glad my roomie has something to make her happy. However. This means that I will probably not see a soul for the whole week. My lifestyle at present consists of coming home to the still somewhat flooded apartment and sleeping on one of the few pieces of furniture remaining in the place—the comfy couch which we have rammed into the kitchen (on the tile), facing into the spectacle of the ants and the various strange foods which remain. That is, not a lot to choose from. This is the apartment that Grandma, Bethany, Amanda and I share, however due to this floodtastic situation they are back over at the house across the street with the rest of the family. Of course I am welcome over there but I’m never sure who is going to be home or how comfortable I’ll feel by going over there at given times, so I mostly stay here. I don’t have any complaints about that. I can actually happily live on a singular couch in an dysfunctional apartment. Still, it’s a strange way to sleep. And these ants. Blast these ants and my nonmotivation to smite them where they stand.

I’m going to the gym today to start officially my new regime. We shall see if I make it a whole hour.

Edit. Well. So much for that. My direct deposit was not properly set up by my bank yet and I can't access my paycheck for another day or so, so no gym. Alas. I am too much of a pansy to go out running in this weird weather.

cycling trivialities

I ‘ve just gotten home from work. I took the opportunity of being wired (with five-hour-energy and a few cups of coffee on my work’s dime) to clean out my car this morning. I’m starting to realize what a surreal existence all this is. It hits me every now and again—usually as I’m driving back home and enjoying how beautiful North Dakota is. I think. What. North Dakota? Am I really in… North Dakota? The state that everyone forgets? Am I really, this girl who wants to be a film writer, am I really working in a glorified nursing home? And I’m working nights, no less. Nights. Which means I see more 6 AM’s than I think I ever have in my 23 years of life. South Heart is peaceful enough as it is, but coming home to South Heart in the wee hours? Silent. Except for the farmers out on the outskirts, not a stirring from the sweet little houses on their fenceless lawns. No one to judge me as I cleaned out all of the garbage that had accumulated in my car over the past month or so.

I really like this life. And I don’t. And I should probably stop wondering why I do or do not (there is no try) and just get on with it. Still, I can’t help but be afraid that I’ll never be able to get on track, and ahead, and write and have a real career. I get scared that I’ll be stuck doing caretaking all of my life. That really does frighten me because I don’t think I can take it, and I WILL be a caretaker to my death, probably, for my sister (and likely my parents), so I REALLY feel like the extra emotional weight is unnecessary. On the other hand it’s good to have a back-up moneymaker for when times are tough and the writing is not selling—a scenario which I know will repeat itself throughout my life even if/when I may be moderately successful. Not as a back-up career, mind you, but a quick job. Caretaking? Experience in spades. What do you need? I got old lady, down syndrome, CP adults annnnd a lot of autistic kid. Any of those work for you? Hopefully my back-up career will be teaching. But oh. Biting my nails and praying I get to that point. Just sighing and telling myself it will be okay. I will not be here forever. And it’s just fine for now.

Which it is. Which is probably why the other half of myself feels so at peace. I really enjoy the scenery here and the people are very interesting. I feel pretty free and independent and hopeful, I feel much less restless and alienated and depressed than I did in California. I feel like progress is happening. I like everyone at my workplace and I’m pretty sure they all at least enjoy me somewhat. I don’t feel pressured here (except money-wise, even with the nice amount I’m regularly making I just seem so behind), I don’t feel teary and panicked. I have a weird but relaxed living situation with a good roommate(s). Still. What if it gets to the point where I realize finally that I can never make it work? Where I throw in the writing towel? What if I suddenly acknowledge that maybe I never will jaunt over to Europe or I’ll never be as pretty or as good at German or playing any kind of musical instrument as I want to be? That’s scary to me. I’m used to failing. I’m so scared of it. I think that’s a large part of my depressive behavior, actually, the paralysis that the fear of failing causes me. I think that’s why I crumple on my bad days and curl up in bed and hope that time just passes and leaves me behind.

I am scared of so many things.

Also. This being in love thing makes me very uncomfortable. All right. I’m not in love, obviously, but I am admittedly smitten (smited!). Which, if I were a normal person I could just let slide, but of course I’m myself and the feeling takes me to that existential place that actually has nothing to do with the object of crush affection (yesiknowmenarenotobjectsokay?) but everything to do with how I process things and what is significant to me and how I view myself. I cannot let things just be what they are, they have to be meaningful. Everything is so heavy in my mind (thus the failure fear I suppose) that I just spasm. And I don’t mean the general girl assessing boy behavior thing—he did that, that means this etc, I mean the meaning of just my own interest. The meaning of how I relate to said object (and everyone else), the big picture. The too-big picture. When in reality I can look at this person and understand that I’m not even all that interested. He’s not perfect or perfect for me, so far as I can tell. But that gets all clouded by my inquiry into why we’ve collided in the first place and where I want to be in my life. And of course, the too-big picture of lonesomeness. This evening I had a bizarre, intense moment of attraction to this guy where I just wanted him to pay attention to me so BADLY (yeah. 2nd grade? What?) because… I just didn’t want to be alone. When I thought of that, I jolted out of the moment. That’s what it boiled down to. I didn’t even want him (not that I don't find him attractive, I totally do), I just didn’t want to be by myself all of a sudden. I suppose if I didn’t have someone to project all of that feeling onto I would just be feeling lonely.

Since I’m being so embarrassingly, damned honest into the echoes of cyberspace (does anyone say cyberspace any more?) , I will admit that sometimes it’s difficult to look around and see how by myself I am. And how normal it seems for other people to be loved and all of that. Not that I am unloved, but that I don’t have someone to love me (different things). I know we all want that. But it still feels very far away from me. I look at the people I know that I think are so deserving of that and those that have that and I don’t seem to be in the same category. Odd out, somehow. And I don’t think—when I’m honest—I really, really don’t think I’m one of those people who is going to find that person and get married and have him forever until we’re old and crazy. I don’t think I’ll ever have kids, and I’m actually okay with that. [I get a little worried sometimes about the idea of myself middle aged and looking after everyone and still feeling like a failure, but I really am OK with the whole no soul-mate thing]. I can be alone, ultimately. But it would be… a huge relief to have someone for just a little while. Doesn’t everyone deserve that? Maybe it’ll screw you over when it ends, but at least it was there once.

And now I’m sitting here crying.

Stupid.

edit. well. that's somewhat embarrassing but that's what you get when you never sleep. i'd do a backspace on it, but i'd feel dishonest.