I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love I love I love I love I love I love I love I love I love I love I love I love I love I love I love I love I love I love I love I love I love I love I love I love I love I love I love I love I love I love I love I love I love The reason that I am so good at love I love I love I love I love I love I love is because I was born seemingly with a fierce aversion I love I love I love I love I love I love I love I love to logic I love I love I love I have none when it comes to most things I love I love I love no logic I love I love I love I love I love I love I would be a shitty politician I love I love I love I love I love I don't know my east and north I love I love I love I love I love I love I get angry because I love I love I love I love and I forgive really quickly because I love I love I love I love I love I would be a shitty politician I love I am shitty when it comes to politics I love I love I love I love politics and math I love I love I love I love I love I love I love not to equate them I love I love I love I love I love because one makes sense and the other doesn't I love I love but the one that doesn't make sense makes no sense not because of love I love I love I love but because of power and cruelty and manipulation I love I love I love and love is none of those things although I love I love I love although the masks of love I love I love I love I love are often also the masks of those things I love I love I love I love I love I love masks that I have worn many times and I love I love I love masks that I will surely continue to wear sometimes when I love I love I love I love I have been scorned I love I love I love or when my love feels too hungry I love I love I love and hunger is so mean I love such a mean beast I love I love I love I love I love I love I love I love I love willing to steal or kill in order to be fed I love I love I love I love I love I love I love I love I love I have found I love I love I love I love I love I love so many people to love to love to love I love I love to love and at every stage there have been people I have loved I love I love I love just tonight in the shower I was thinking about two women I loved I love I love I love in college I love I love and I love them still and I love I love I love I love I love I love I love I love I love I love I love and they are sisters I love I love I love and I felt like one of them too I love I love I love I love I love and I didn't like sleeping alone and would sleep I love I love I love I love I love with one or I love I love the other I love and we would huddle I love I love I love so many times I love I love I love within the bonds of a love I love I love I love that we barely paid attention to I love I love I love because we were too busy figuring out I love I love I love I love I love the other loves that were consuming us I love I love and sometimes I love I would be very alone I love I love I love and I would read Anais Nin and I love and Simone de Beauvoir and I love I love I love and I would feel like I was them in my I love I love in my love for them I love I love I love and remembering that tonight I love I love I love I wanted to go back and sit with myself and stroke my head I love I love I love I love I love and say good for you for reading your French women I love I love I love and enjoy yourself I love I love I love I love I love I love I love you I love you I love you I love you I love because I don't know if life will ever feel again quite so glamorous I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you than it does in its exquisite nineteen-year-old sadness I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you and I am so keenly aware I love you I love you I love I love I love of the many things I can't seem to do I love I love I love although I try to change them every day I love you I love you but this thing I love I love I love this love I love I love I love I cannot seem to change it I love you although I wish I could I love you I love I love you because I think I would maybe get more done I love you I love you I love you more written I love you I love I love if I could just stop love I love I love you but I can't stop I love you I love anything I love I love I can't I love even read a map
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Sunday, November 21, 2010
I fell asleep with a capsaicin hot patch on
and dreamed about that guy from the American Pie movies, the one who was engaged to Katie Holmes before she married Tom Cruise, he was my camp counselor and love interest and throughout the whole dream it was unclear to me whether we were actually at camp or in a movie about camp. There were bugs and bare feet and his chest was comically broad.
*
I keep wondering what feeling I'm in. What this is. I feel far away from everything.
*
Also there is this cough that feels like it should be producing puffs of dust. Worse at night, like most things.
*
Still at my parents' house and being here it feels a little like I have been sent away. Der Zauberberg style.
*
There are some essays I've been meaning to write, in no particular order, about:
home/condiments
hotels
robes/loungewear
internet/marriage
It's like I'm waiting for something to 'kick in.' Constantly waiting for something to kick in. I need to hire a person to kick me instead. Output has been severely lacking. Input has been severely questionable. Need another Magic Mountain, after this one, to convalesce from the static.
*
One way that I'm feeling that I've pinned down with some surety is 'monstrous.' I've stopped apologizing because I'm overwhelmed by how much I probably need to apologize. My 'attitude'/quietude is some form of penance maybe, some state of constant apology...
*
I love my parents.
*
Beatrice's favorite song as of the past few days seems to be Happy Birthday. She also likes listening to opera with my dad.
*
My heart, it can only take so much. I should probably be pregnant all the time. I think I was a lot tougher when I was pregnant.
*
I don't know. I don't know.
*
I keep wondering what feeling I'm in. What this is. I feel far away from everything.
*
Also there is this cough that feels like it should be producing puffs of dust. Worse at night, like most things.
*
Still at my parents' house and being here it feels a little like I have been sent away. Der Zauberberg style.
*
There are some essays I've been meaning to write, in no particular order, about:
home/condiments
hotels
robes/loungewear
internet/marriage
It's like I'm waiting for something to 'kick in.' Constantly waiting for something to kick in. I need to hire a person to kick me instead. Output has been severely lacking. Input has been severely questionable. Need another Magic Mountain, after this one, to convalesce from the static.
*
One way that I'm feeling that I've pinned down with some surety is 'monstrous.' I've stopped apologizing because I'm overwhelmed by how much I probably need to apologize. My 'attitude'/quietude is some form of penance maybe, some state of constant apology...
*
I love my parents.
*
Beatrice's favorite song as of the past few days seems to be Happy Birthday. She also likes listening to opera with my dad.
*
My heart, it can only take so much. I should probably be pregnant all the time. I think I was a lot tougher when I was pregnant.
*
I don't know. I don't know.
Monday, November 15, 2010
The problem of modifiers.
I think about syntax a lot, modifiers. As an example, lately I keep repeating in my head:
"I'm a real grumpy asshole."
But what I really want is for the "real" to modify "asshole." I haven't been "really grumpy." I've just been grumpy. But I think I've been a bona fide asshole. It just sounds wrong to say:
"I'm a grumpy real asshole."
If "grumpy asshole" were a hyphenate, that would be a little better. But it's not. But I could make it one.
"I'm a real grumpy-asshole."
F'ing language. I do what I want.
"I'm a real grumpy asshole."
But what I really want is for the "real" to modify "asshole." I haven't been "really grumpy." I've just been grumpy. But I think I've been a bona fide asshole. It just sounds wrong to say:
"I'm a grumpy real asshole."
If "grumpy asshole" were a hyphenate, that would be a little better. But it's not. But I could make it one.
"I'm a real grumpy-asshole."
F'ing language. I do what I want.
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
I DON'T WANT TO TALK ABOUT IT.
A ride in an ambulance, trip to the ER, nausea meds, shot in the ass, X-ray, and IV-drip later, and I'm back on my back. Things got really complicated when I fell prey to some horrific stomach virus. A stomach virus when you're virtually immobile is pretty much a nightmare, logistically and otherwise. Think about it. Or don't--I'm trying to forget.
I'm home now, feeling a mix of gratitude and frustration, and a lot of confusion.
Various people, all well-meaning, each a love in my life, have told me that I need to "stress less." And to "take it easy." And that "these things [I'm] worrying about are all temporary and easily fixed." To "remember the big picture." To "be grateful for the good things."
It's the worst kind of advice, the kind that asks you to tinker with your machinery, to be ______. If it was "drink less coffee" or "try not to stay up so late," I would have a better chance of following it. Not that I would follow it, but I could. I could physically not put cups of coffee in my mouth and I could physically climb into bed a few hours earlier.
But how to change the intangibles? I can't help that mountains of boxes make me feel physically weak and emotionally overwhelmed. I can't help that it takes me three hours to make a decision about which drawer is best suited for the "big utensils." I can't help that I regret nearly every action I complete, re-do the action, and then realize that it was better the first way. What I'm thinking is, I'm pretty much okay in my labyrinth of obsessions, undoings, misdoings, unyieldings, and wrongs. It's when that labyrinth gets audited by the map of others, that it seems to go cruel, vengeful. See how normal people do it? What you are doing is not normal. And then my loved ones feel sort of bad for me, and also sort of horrified by me.
I'm the worst kind of patient, an abuser. I hate needing help. "Help" means that you are obliged to accept it as it is, openly, gratefully. "Help" means "someone else's way." And I prefer, too much, my way. Even as a beggar. Even when I feel like I actually may be dying. A light bulb was supposed to come on, that didn't.
*
I wrote this last night. Today I'm walking around, cronish. Please and thank you.
I'm home now, feeling a mix of gratitude and frustration, and a lot of confusion.
Various people, all well-meaning, each a love in my life, have told me that I need to "stress less." And to "take it easy." And that "these things [I'm] worrying about are all temporary and easily fixed." To "remember the big picture." To "be grateful for the good things."
It's the worst kind of advice, the kind that asks you to tinker with your machinery, to be ______. If it was "drink less coffee" or "try not to stay up so late," I would have a better chance of following it. Not that I would follow it, but I could. I could physically not put cups of coffee in my mouth and I could physically climb into bed a few hours earlier.
But how to change the intangibles? I can't help that mountains of boxes make me feel physically weak and emotionally overwhelmed. I can't help that it takes me three hours to make a decision about which drawer is best suited for the "big utensils." I can't help that I regret nearly every action I complete, re-do the action, and then realize that it was better the first way. What I'm thinking is, I'm pretty much okay in my labyrinth of obsessions, undoings, misdoings, unyieldings, and wrongs. It's when that labyrinth gets audited by the map of others, that it seems to go cruel, vengeful. See how normal people do it? What you are doing is not normal. And then my loved ones feel sort of bad for me, and also sort of horrified by me.
I'm the worst kind of patient, an abuser. I hate needing help. "Help" means that you are obliged to accept it as it is, openly, gratefully. "Help" means "someone else's way." And I prefer, too much, my way. Even as a beggar. Even when I feel like I actually may be dying. A light bulb was supposed to come on, that didn't.
*
I wrote this last night. Today I'm walking around, cronish. Please and thank you.
Saturday, November 6, 2010
Report from the floor, day 2.
Feeling primitive. Fuck everything. Tired of trying to find value in bad things happening. Need more books to read but boxes are too far to crawl to and nobody's around. What should I read next. Fuck.
Friday, November 5, 2010
Report from the floor.
I'm typing this lying on the floor. My knees are up and my computer is tilted, secured at an angle by my hipbones. It's not a bad lap desk, actually, though I wish I could do something about my neck.
Earlier today I was sitting on the floor in our new-home-that-is-old, combing Beatrice's hair, pinning it back with barrettes. I reached for one, and my back completely seized. I tried shifting around, standing, stretching, everything to stop the pain, but it just kept intensifying. More than anything, I felt shock, that I had managed to injure myself by doing a toddler's hair. Beatrice looked at me, curious. Then it stopped being interesting to her, my wincing and contorting. "Mama, up? Up now? Mama gets up now please?" A contractor had been in her room earlier, messing with the electricty, and there were live wires exposed in two of the sockets. She started toward them. They did look enticing, I'll admit. It was like something from a dream--her moving for the outlets, open and frizzing blue and red, me stuck in place, not sure of how to deter her. She's still at the age when actions are more effective than words. (I'm not. Actions interest me very little, generally speaking.) How to get between her and those wires. How to move without wanting to die from pain. Somehow, I squirmed and crawled, meekly uttering "no, no" through an unexpected gush of tears. Which only confused her further.
Brian was able to come to both of our rescues, and then I got a lot of advice from the Iskandrian medical network, and then I got pills. I'm excited for the pills, but more than anything, I'm brooding over what strange humors have been at work in my life, in my body, for some months now. Because there have been incidents. The hallucination-soaked flu in September. The apocalyptic storm at the beach. The move to the next zipcode that has seemed to thwart all normal behaviors of a move (the details sound like a pilot for an HGTV show). And now this, this horrid feeling of bone-against-flesh. Hippocratic medicine revolved around yellow bile, black bile, phlegm, and blood. I'm no Roman, but if I had to guess, I'd say that maybe my blood has thinned, my black bile thickened.
There was a time when I "exercised." (I really did, but somehow that word always belongs in quotes.) I wasn't any kind of iron girl, but I was fit. I can remember an odd moment, when Beatrice was being born, when the doctor who delivered her said, "You have such strong abdominal muscles!" I think I laughed and was secretly pleased.
Now, though? Now. I've gone scrawny and frail. I move all the time, bend, swoop, lift, carry, etc. But I don't "exercise." And this move, this old house, the work we've done to it--all of it just finally won. It was, as they say, a long time coming, a lot of detritus stored all up and down my spine, my back a veritable junk drawer for my body, phone books, take-out menus, a stapler, some recipes, a rusty hammer. I'm sad for my skeleton. And sort of...horrified. Beatrice and I are one year older as of the past ten days. This weekend she was supposed to visit her grandparents and cousins, be feted by them. She doesn't really know that she'll be missing anything, but I'm feeling all of it. And I'm making all kinds of resolutions from down here. To vacuum. To lift weights, gain muscle. To stop, once in a while, and just lay down, maybe on the floor, not because I hate everything or because my back has quit but because it's nice down here. I'm in the room that made me like this house to begin with, a sort of anteroom outside of our bedroom, and I have plans for wallpaper and an opulent lamp in the shape of a lady, and there's a small window, out of which I can, from my patch of rug and pillow, see some clouds.
Earlier today I was sitting on the floor in our new-home-that-is-old, combing Beatrice's hair, pinning it back with barrettes. I reached for one, and my back completely seized. I tried shifting around, standing, stretching, everything to stop the pain, but it just kept intensifying. More than anything, I felt shock, that I had managed to injure myself by doing a toddler's hair. Beatrice looked at me, curious. Then it stopped being interesting to her, my wincing and contorting. "Mama, up? Up now? Mama gets up now please?" A contractor had been in her room earlier, messing with the electricty, and there were live wires exposed in two of the sockets. She started toward them. They did look enticing, I'll admit. It was like something from a dream--her moving for the outlets, open and frizzing blue and red, me stuck in place, not sure of how to deter her. She's still at the age when actions are more effective than words. (I'm not. Actions interest me very little, generally speaking.) How to get between her and those wires. How to move without wanting to die from pain. Somehow, I squirmed and crawled, meekly uttering "no, no" through an unexpected gush of tears. Which only confused her further.
Brian was able to come to both of our rescues, and then I got a lot of advice from the Iskandrian medical network, and then I got pills. I'm excited for the pills, but more than anything, I'm brooding over what strange humors have been at work in my life, in my body, for some months now. Because there have been incidents. The hallucination-soaked flu in September. The apocalyptic storm at the beach. The move to the next zipcode that has seemed to thwart all normal behaviors of a move (the details sound like a pilot for an HGTV show). And now this, this horrid feeling of bone-against-flesh. Hippocratic medicine revolved around yellow bile, black bile, phlegm, and blood. I'm no Roman, but if I had to guess, I'd say that maybe my blood has thinned, my black bile thickened.
There was a time when I "exercised." (I really did, but somehow that word always belongs in quotes.) I wasn't any kind of iron girl, but I was fit. I can remember an odd moment, when Beatrice was being born, when the doctor who delivered her said, "You have such strong abdominal muscles!" I think I laughed and was secretly pleased.
Now, though? Now. I've gone scrawny and frail. I move all the time, bend, swoop, lift, carry, etc. But I don't "exercise." And this move, this old house, the work we've done to it--all of it just finally won. It was, as they say, a long time coming, a lot of detritus stored all up and down my spine, my back a veritable junk drawer for my body, phone books, take-out menus, a stapler, some recipes, a rusty hammer. I'm sad for my skeleton. And sort of...horrified. Beatrice and I are one year older as of the past ten days. This weekend she was supposed to visit her grandparents and cousins, be feted by them. She doesn't really know that she'll be missing anything, but I'm feeling all of it. And I'm making all kinds of resolutions from down here. To vacuum. To lift weights, gain muscle. To stop, once in a while, and just lay down, maybe on the floor, not because I hate everything or because my back has quit but because it's nice down here. I'm in the room that made me like this house to begin with, a sort of anteroom outside of our bedroom, and I have plans for wallpaper and an opulent lamp in the shape of a lady, and there's a small window, out of which I can, from my patch of rug and pillow, see some clouds.