There’s this point where all of the grey and all of the logic and reason you carry around like an infant in your arms dissolves into hysterical hyperbole, and in the electric-shock of the superlative, you suddenly understand that you’ve been panning for fool’s gold all along.
It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, Dickens reminds us. Le mieux. Le pire. But we are ankle-deep in Yosemite creekbed, not slipping our heels against London cobblestone — the sunlight fliters through here so honestly, lighting the barely-worn path which has both redwood sorrel and poison oak.
We look for new houses, panning the listings for somewhere to kick up our dusty feet, and again, again, again, we wonder what home is supposed to mean for someone who has never had one before. Our souls are out in the Oregon cold, feeling the rain soften our cardboard box houses. We droop. We search for dry stoops. We pray that the owners of the awnings won’t wake up to the sensor lighting which screams our presence. We cannot sneak any more. We are found. The dog howls. Dogs like you. You wonder why it howls now. Are you a dog, too? Maybe this is the real question.
The speakers in my car are being finicky. Have I ruined them? Is this my punishment for always trying to play the music too loud? Is my entire life is just a series of incidents with the volume turned too high? Isn’t this better than the silence? Isn’t anything better than that?
At least there are still small things crawling beneath the surface of the grass, and if those small things can navigate roots and breathe the tiny pockets of oxygen, then anything is still possible. Sometimes I like to think about how long it takes to weave a spiderweb, and if occasionally a spider will give up, maybe have a midlife crisis and decide to go sleep in the folds of new spring petals and chew thoughtfully upon the salty remains of some small thing instead. This sounds fine to me. It’s all very small and fine.
Here we are: small, cold clay in small, cold hands, standing by the banks of some kind of dream river — and we are peering into the horizon, trying to imagine the ocean that it must eventually leak into, trying to imagine the place where salt meets fresh: maybe this place is where we meet, too.
“For what it’s worth: it’s never too late or, in my case, too early to be whoever you want to be. There’s no time limit, stop whenever you want. You can change or stay the same, there are no rules to this thing. We can make the best or the worst of it. I hope you make the best of it. And I hope you see things that startle you. I hope you feel things you never felt before. I hope you meet people with a different point of view. I hope you live a life you’re proud of. If you find that you’re not, I hope you have the strength to start all over again.”—F. Scott Fitzgerald (via potentwrithe)
Stale airport air and overpriced airport burgers and we’re leaving paradise, I guess, which is not the worst thing that could happen.
Every night here, my subconscious throws me disturbing loops - and I keep falling asleep with the lights on, waking up with a shudder in the wee hours of the morning, never knowing the time or the place.
Two nights ago, I dreamed about a boy I barely know: we clutched hands in the theatre that he does not perform in in real life, and he bent an Adonis jaw and aryan nose to tell me closely about his dying mother, about how he feels himself start to fall apart - literally, physically - sometimes too. I sat in the seat that does not exist in real life, running my palms agitatedly against the velvet arms of the chair, waiting and watching as his stupid small lines came and went, feeling the fabric until it didn’t feel like fabric anymore. There are no small parts, only small actors: so sayeth the ubiquitous they. He is a small actor, maybe letting the conflict that does not exist in real life overwhelm my sleep rendition of him, tan skin and strong arms and lean torso and all of the fear in the dream wound in the thrum of his low voice.
His mother died. And he died too, suddenly but with warning. And I felt velvet all around me, maybe both seat and coffin, rubbing methodically as if I were the talisman, the rabbit foot stuck in the sob welling in my throat: we never have enough time with each other, my darling, my sweet Icarus boy.
wake up, full glass of iced tea, fall back asleep. wake up, slow summer prickles of sweat behind your knees, so you stretch out on the tile floor. the wind flows slowly through the screen doors, and the birds chattering use their seldom lift to lazily blow a breeze across your melanin-gilded stomach, and you don’t know what to do about this life, but certainly it is a beautiful one.
So I have to say, at first I thought this blog was just teenage girl-esque shouting. After I read a few posts however, I realized that not only is it entertaining, It is one of the most unique pieces of personal expression I have read. In fact, I have actually found myself thinking about starting one of my own. What I want to know is, what inspired you to produce this? Do you just happen to be that real of a person or was it intentional?
Wait, this is so nice. Thank you.
HAHAAHA the shouting! I know, I know, it’s because I’m so vulgar, isn’t it? And the caps? I can’t help it. I’m just trying to convey something tangible and, yeah, real. But, of course, that’s the point of it all, if there’s a point. I went my whole life being so guarded and I’m at this really weird transitory period now — I don’t know if the robotgirl paradigm is ever really going to shift, but I’m trying. I am particularly troubled by the universal human need to be understood, and I guess this blog shit is the really bizarre answer to that. It’s certainly cathartic; you SHOULD, you should do it! I’ll follow the SHIT out of you. The weird public nature of blogging is necessary in that it’s truest to therapy, you know? It’s not enough for me to think about my life quietly; there’s something about constructing a story to be explained, and you have all these weird epiphanies and you start to cultivate a hard backbone, which is the one thing you really need.
What is the best way to approach a woman you barely know without being too cocky/forward/douchey?
1) I am not the correct person to ask. I like cocky. It’s partially because I’m kind of douchey too and partially because I strike the fear of god into the hearts of most potential love interests I meet and they pussyfoot around and imagine hundreds of scenarios in which I will reject them in progressively more cruel and humiliating ways — by which time, MONTHS have passed of our aimless flirtation, and one night, plastered with the biting combination of tequila and sexual tension, they incoherently explain that they’ve, like, totally had a thing for me since freshman year! Like, omg! And do I know where the bathroom is?
2) SO MY ADVICE IS TO BE DOUCHEY* AND FORWARD AND NOT TO WASTE TIME as long as you’re being honest. Honesty is the best policy. Always. 100% of all the time, always. Don’t drop lines, don’t play the game, don’t time text message replies based on how long it took her to respond to you. Because what’s the point of being young if we’re not even taking advantage of the hubris of hormones?
edit: this* is a disclaimer. don’t be mean. there’s no excuse for disrespectful douchebaggery. take no for an answer if that’s what it is — and read body language to read “no” even if it’s not directly said. respect. respect.
Which school subject/intellectual pursuit (if any exists) have you ever struggled with? It seems like you just get away with being smart, but I want to believe that parity exists and that there may be something in which you don't have proficient "skillz"
CHEMISTRY BOGGLES THE MIND
fuckin’ molecules and arbitrary assignment of numbers
I dreamed that I broke into the basement of your subconscious last night, that I read and read and pieced the pronouns together all while you and your family were pounding around upstairs. Heart in my throat, furiously scribbling down phrases in the bathroom - already caught, fighting secret with secret. Afterwards, I drove home in the snow. I don’t know if it was the same dream or a tangent of a different one. The snow had closed the main roads, and maybe I was driving someone whom I didn’t really know. I was trying to keep calm as I navigated a world with routes I’d never anticipated would shut me out. How do you go so long growing used to something, and how do you keep your tires from slipping as you squint at your windshield, muttering about the snow, the ice, the unpredictable cold?