I think I’m about to pull an all-nighter but I’m currently on winter break so what’s my deal.
Okay, I suppose I could go to sleep and wake up at noon before Diane picks me up so we can get lollipop sticks so we can make pie pops (which is a tradition we started back during the winter break of our freshman year of college but we’ve gotten lax about it) (can we talk about how Luxirare started this whole thing and she’s basically been gypped out of a ton of pie pop-related money)
but it’s 4:17 a.m. now and I’m going to drag myself out of my room at 6 a.m. so I can shower and then have breakfast with my mama, because I probably won’t see her for the rest of the day and I’m feeling guilty about having to leave her alone at dinner time for the second night in a row because my papa’s back in Maryland and my sister’s starting her spring semester classes today, and so, I should be sitting next to her at the dinner table at around 6 p.m. tonight, watching the evening news and chatting about her day at work, but instead I won’t be and even though when I leave for school on Saturday, she’ll have to be alone during the week nights regardless,
this is just something I have to do.
I originally got to this point of lateness/earliness in the night/morn because I got home from an afternoon in NYC at around 11 p.m., and because I was/am a dunce I forgot to take a key with me when I left the house but when I got home the garage door opener didn’t work so I had to call the house and wake my mama up and she begrudgingly let me in, and then after I got back, I brushed my teeth, applied lotion to my hands (I look down now and the backs of my hands are both flaking, and tiny cracks run along the skin) (I suppose I know the backs of my hands pretty well, eh), and then finished up the second half of Stieg Larsson’s “The Girl Who Kicked The Hornet’s Nest.”
That took me until about 3 a.m., and the book left me uplifted, because it’s ostensibly a happy ending to Larsson’s Millennium trilogy, but also ruffled, and so with flashes of doubt and disturbance clouding my enjoyment of the novel’s denouement, I surfed around on the Internet some as a kind of reflex coping mechanism. I had recently changed the skin of my WordPress, but it looked dumb so tonight I changed it back. But I had stupidly used a whole bunch of artwork and personal photographs for the feature images of my past posts, and the reason I’d wanted to change skins in the first place was so I wouldn’t have to set feature images, but I like this Oxygen skin too much because of its design and organization features, so I’m now making a concentrated effort to back track my entries and upload new photos with direct sources. I also included a note on images on my About page, so if you have any questions, direct them there.
Moving on. After I changed my theme back, I went through the motions of tweaking the design customizations to my liking. I didn’t know there was a Flickr slideshow option before so I’ve included that on the right side bar; unfortunately, I forgot how to log into the Flickr account in which I post all of my new concert photos, so I spent a good hour trying to figure out my fucking Yahoo ID. Stupidly, I don’t have my Flickr account information saved anywhere in any of my 4 email accounts, so I’ll just try to work that out in the morning after my urge to throttle an anthropomorphized Yahoo has subsided.
Then, I spent some time writing the above copy of this post. It is now 4:35 a.m.
I’ve spent the time between the beginning of this post and now (4:36 a.m., what do you know) listening to The Mountain Goats’s cover of Trembling Blue Stars’s “Sometimes I Still Feel The Bruise” (after reading about it off this gorgeous Reapersun post) and it’s making my stomach churn and my head feel numb at the point where it connects to my neck and the spine that curves away from my bedroom chair, and I don’t think this numbness stems from the song itself.
According to WordPress, I’ve written 752 words, and yet I haven’t communicated a damn thing.
In the process of going through all my old entries and removing my previously uncredited feature images, I was amazed to see that I had written so much. Sure, some of the posts were throwaway music posts about whatever was streaming in my head at the time, but so many of those posts were about uneasy malaises that stemmed from individuals possessing both X and Y chromosomes and that’s just a roundabout way of saying that I don’t have much of a personal life, and part of this is because I both consciously reject and lament about romantic relationships, and part of this is because I don’t spend time surveying what I do have and what it is that I really want.
And it seems so stupidly stupid, and my vocabulary should be big enough to expand upon what I mean, but I don’t have it in me to explain it any more. Stu. Pid. Ly. Stu. Pid. Of course, I shouldn’t downplay my “trials and tribulations,” but sometimes it’s important to sit back and wonder at the infinite possibilities and opportunities that exist in the world and how I, as any life form on this earth, am a fragment of the boundless something/nothing that is this known universe. My life is pulled apart like taffy by an astonishing number of invisible forces, whether by man’s actions or the incessant and compassionless passing of time, and all I can think about is the way it feels when one person entwines his or her fingers with someone else’s.
Ugghhhhhhhhhhh. I’m doing it again. This is why I deleted the “romance” tag in all of my posts, because it started out as a joke and then I realized that holy shit, I had nothing to say except that I had so many feeeeelings and I didn’t know what to do with them. To be fair, that’s the crux of so much creative output since forever ago until now (“Girls,” anyone?), and it’s not like people are going to stop plumbing their personal problems for artistic inspiration, but it’s more like my feelings seemed to cycle in a pattern, to the point where my apartmentmate Daniella once remarked, “God, do you need a crush to function?” It’s a question I’ve asked myself a lot in the past couple of months, and of course, when I’m in the cycle, I vehemently deny everything, but now that I’m in a moment of clarity outside of the cycle… yeah, maybe I do, or did, or maybe it’s only a matter of time before it starts again and I start audibly sighing in angsty desperation again.
FUCK. I started writing with the express intent to not do one of those soul-searching, self-reflective posts, and look where I’ve ended up. I don’t have anything to say at all, in the end, except that I knew I had to write, and since I ended 2012 with such an asinine post, I thought I’d try to make it up with something… better? But this isn’t better, this is just… here, and it is now 5:02 a.m. and The Mountain Goats haven’t stopped playing since I started looping the song.
I don’t know why I’m checking in with the time. I’m not trying to prove anything to anyone reading,
“and the silence grows longer”
and I think, 1322 words into this post, that I finally have an inkling about what it is I want to write.
Being back home has served as a both cruel and much needed reminder that there are certain things that I have to do. I have to humor my parents, even though they really don’t have any real control over my personal decisions; I have to keep explaining and planning for my present and future goals, even though most of my biggest decisions are made on nothing but snap judgment gut intuition; I have to actively work on my public presentation (including on here…), even though I should, as magazine headlines and aggressively cheerful people around the world proclaim, “be myself.”
There is nothing forcing me to stay up to have breakfast with my mom. There is nothing forcing me to keep an online blog wherein I share details about my personal life and rambling self-centric thoughts. There is nothing forcing me to keep up a social media presence on Facebook, on Twitter, on Tumblr, on LinkedIn. There is nothing forcing me to watch a million different movies and TV shows, nothing forcing me to keep my thumb on the ebb and flow of fickle popular culture, or the history behind the framework and institutions of said popular culture, or the vast mediascape that exists outside of the sometimes very shallow world of arts and entertainment.
But I like stories, in whatever way they’re told, and the reason I stayed up until 3 a.m. reading about Lisbeth Salander and the rest of Larsson’s stable of Swedish heroes and villains is because I was totally engrossed in that story. Sure, it took me a long time to finally pick up “The Girl Who Played With Fire” to read on the flight from LAX to EWK, but I’m glad I did, and I feel more informed as a person to have read through a no doubt embellished but still compelling story about how a young woman who had been uniformly abused by the very organizations that were put in place to protect her and those like her found redemption through the efforts of people who could see beyond her self-erected defenses and bring her justice.
Granted, it’s that part that irks me: Larsson’s notion of justice. He has a strong anti-right wing extremist bent, and as such, he writes with a bias that sometimes comes off as heavyhanded. And while this plays into what the novel needs in order to keep the cogs of that intricate clockwork of a plot spinning, it also becomes caricature, diminishing the humanity (and yes, that word can still be applied to the story’s antagonists) of those who perpetrated and perpetuated Lisbeth’s victimhood. I’m not arguing that it wasn’t extremely satisfying to have the trilogy end the way it did; rather, it disturbs me how much I hated these men who hated women, and yet how that disturbing feeling is overshadowed by the fact that there are so many real Lisbeth Salanders out there in the world today who will die with no such justice or redemption or recognition, and that there are so many men who hate women for no reason except that they are women, just as there are people who hate homosexual people for no reason except that they have sex with people of the same sex, just as there are people who hate people of different nationalities and ethnicities for no reason except that they are of different nationalities and ethnicities .
I’m rambling. You get my point, and now I peddle back to my original jumping off point, which I suppose is “why I do the things I do.” Why did I spend so much of the past year writing about every cute guy I swooned over? Because so many of my friends are going through the same emotional turmoils, and whereas they act upon it or ignore it, I write about it. Why did I invest so many hours of my life to media output that I won’t remember a thing about decades down the road? Because the stories I choose to learn about, whether through TV or longform journalism, fiction or non-fiction, have a funny way of expanding my own creative horizons and of informing my life choices. Why am I still up at 5:37 a.m., with no plans to sleep until after my mother has left for work at 7 a.m.? Because I am her daughter and it breaks my heart to imagine her eating her meals alone, knowing I could be with her, no matter how she may personally feel about it.
“sometimes I still feel the bruise”
I know the broad strokes of what it is that I want from my life, and however meaningless this will all be, while I’m here, I’m here, and I can’t just lie on my bedroom floor and slowly rot into the carpet because I’m afraid of tackling my sizable ambitions, or because I’m tired of answering to higher authorities, or because I know that I’m never going to catch up to everything that has happened, will happen, and is happening.
I’m happy but I’m not content, and that’s the way it should be, at least for me, at least in this moment, at least as long as I am ready, willing, and able to look objectively at the life I’ve been given, and which I’m slowly doing my best to earn.
And so, nine days into the new year, I think I’ve finally made my resolutions.
(Image: Hill Folk by Pat Kinsella)