Meditation, In A Way

I just spent almost exactly an hour talking to myself, recording with Garageband. It started out because I desperately needed to talk to someone, but didn’t know who to call/if I should call.

Jude: I decided against it because it was late. I know you mean anytime. For some reason, some sort of moral sense is keeping me from dialing your numbers when it feels too far into the evening. And at that point, it was eleven thirty.

M: I wasn’t sure if your cell phone would be on or not (and I sure as hell wasn’t dialing your home number). I wanted it to be off, so I could leave a message, because I think that would be the ideal situation (other than us having some sort of direct link that didn’t require loud ringing noises), but I couldn’t know, and so decided against it.

You two were the only people I felt comfortable intruding on like that. M because… Well, because, and Jude because you’ve explicitly told me, and even then I decided against it, so don’t anyone feel left out because your name isn’t here.

Guh. I am just typing nonsense here.

Only one more important part; the aftermath. I feel a lot better. Collected & cool, somehow (literally, not figuratively; chilly). I actually haven’t cried quite like I did tonight in some time now… It’s a different, more extended form. Not just an emotional burst, but more of a cold front-style behaviour, for those of you taking Earth Space right now.

I deleted it. It was powerful, it was raw, and there were things I think I actually should have snipped out to give to people – important ways and mannerisms of expressing things I haven’t been able to get across in the past – but overall, it was the best choice. I feel clean now.

(And I still have few of my secrets, too.)

A Farewell Of Sorts

Crossposted from YWP.

I’m not leaving. I’m just saying goodbye.

It’s always been true that
I’ve wanted more than I have.
You tell me of successes of my own
And I’ll just think of how much better
Someone else’s are.

I’ll stuff my ears with jumbled notes
Too loud; projected from earbuds
That aren’t quite as white
As they used to be.

I’ll fill my empty stomach
With the words, “Thanks, I’m fine,”
Hoping that someone, somewhere,
Will follow my example.

I’ll cry over the phone.

I’ll whisper your name,
Once upon a time,
When I still thought there was something to be gained
From commiserating with hope and wonder.

I’ll have a style – copy/paste,
Because reading has always been my thing,
And I’ve mastered synthesis.

I’ll always have an air of mystery,
Because some secrets
Are just not meant to be told;
As much as either you or me or both of us
Want them to mean that.

I’ll punch a wall or two,
Over the span of seventeen years.
[Seventeen years. Life is too long.]
My fist will bleed,
And there will be noticeable scars.
Frustratingly,
Every single one of the walls will stay intact,
Because

I’ll be intelligent enough to realize
That breaking other things
Only reflects what’s inside.

I’ll surround myself in
Untouchables, then

I’ll throw myself headfirst
Into someone else’s world of pain and suffering,
Because I’m not entirely sure
What it is that I should be feeling.

I’ll fix people
Because that’s the only thing,
In the interim,
That makes me feel
Like I’m worth something.

I’ll forget a lot of things.
All of them will be or have been important.

I’ll watch the seasons pass,
And I’ll remember how strong I once was.
I’ll admire him,
But only from there;
Recalling that beauty comes in many forms.

I’ll feel fake.
All the time.

I’ll miss you; all of you,
From my deepest hatred
To my strongest affection.

But I will never give up
Trying to find
Whatever’s out there.

And whatever’s out there, likewise,
Will always evade my grasp.

Another

In a very long line of images.

It just strikes me that there are so many beautiful things in this world that we fail to see. There’s a perfectly good reason for that, too – the same that causes people to get in trouble more than they get recognised for doing things correctly, and the same that makes the news so bloody. But regardless – I, too, do not have any diseases, have all of my senses, do not have to fear for my life, have a loving family, have wonderful friends, am not doing too horribly in my studies, have a full stomach, am wearing clothes, and am intelligent.

I wouldn’t call myself beautiful, and I don’t have a regular or secure job – but I have a loving partner, a tolerant attitude, a good outlook on life, and a fantastic school to go to to make up for those two tiny downsides.

I’m doing well. For some reason, today I feel just fine. Not freaked out, insecure, neurotic, and emotional fine – but just fine. Good. Peaceful.

MLIG. And for once, it’s just good.

The Whole Alcoholic Pie

Boy, am I glad I think alcohol tastes like shit.

Next week [assuming you're all back in August, that is], when President C.D. “Dan” Mote welcomes freshmen to the University of Maryland, he will inform them that the college police will enforce underage drinking laws “with terrific ferocity.” And then he will turn around and, recognizing that most students do drink, tell the teenagers “to take care of each other when they see someone who’s passed out, to take advantage of all of our services for students who abuse alcohol.”

The whole article here: On campus, Legal Drinking Age Is Flunking the Reality Test

This is actually from a draft I’ve had saved since then – August 21st, 2008. Regardless, the information is still relevant. Before I post it, though, I’d like to make note of something: as of now, I have never been offered any form of alcohol by anyone other than my parents – my dad makes wine and I’m Italian, so I’ve obviously had the odd sip here and there (… and hated it every single time. I cannot stand that taste!). Not a single one of the people I know, none of my older friends, nobody, has ever had any involvement further than mine.

You might say I’ve lead a sheltered life, but I’m glad. Let’s hope it stays that way.

Because you really don’t want to get me drunk.

Life Et Cetera

Pet peeve: people who say excetera. Not too hard, folks.

Anyway.

Origin of the term blog in a nutshell: web + log → weblog + americans = blog. Web of course meaning this, you dimwit, and log meaning a record of one’s life. A record of one’s life, as in personal details.

When has this blog even been personal? That’s right, never. And it is a blog, that much I’m certain. So why not?

Because it’s unprofessional, my subconscious whines. It doesn’t look good. Well screw you, subconscious. In any case, I do actually have some material, abstract though it is.

Last night was pretty hectic. I’d woken up at five thirty after a particularly late night of half past midnight to find myself sick to my stomach but unwilling to go to sleep again and wake up to my alarm. A long shower did little to comfort me, especially considering I was soon ousted to save money on the oil bills – and a long day did little to help afterwards. Thus I arrived home, my body wrung like my hands were throughout the day, my mind little more than the oatmeal I hadn’t eaten for breakfast. I remember catching myself sitting completely still and not just reading the same sentence from the homework several times but also occasionally pausing for several minutes, looking at nothing in particular. It didn’t help that I had a large project I’d worked on only minimally due the next day.

I went to bed two hours early, ignoring the project completely. The last thing I did before I turned off the lights and was lost to the abyss was to say, “I’m sorry.”. My room echoed when I apologized to it. I don’t know what I hoped to accomplish, but it made me feel minutely better about myself.

I suppose it also didn’t help that the project was for a class I’m currently failing in.

I’d like to justify myself slightly in saying that despite this rather desolate-looking statement, I’m doing quite well – even garnering grades worthy of the title ‘fantastic’ in other classes. All my other classes, to be precise. I know I have A’s in at least four and suspect I’m achieving them in the rest. And when a student not only succeeds but excels in all of their classes save one, the logical thought process follows as this: “The problem resides not with the student, but the class, or perhaps the teacher.”

Selfish justification aside, I know I need to do better in this class. I’m working on it. Plus, the failing grade was most like caused by failure to hand in one out of a possible two assignments on the grade report – and immediately after, I handed in a fairly well-written report, which should sit nicely for my average. Regardless, I’m worried, and not without reason.

In any case, roused by my alarm this morning I felt much better – with nearly nine and a half hours of sleep under my belt in contrast to my normal six and a half to seven, I had nearly woken up naturally. With another shower, a quick dressing, and my normal ritual of stuffing the next day’s needed papers into my backpack hurriedly, I was out the door.

And into the snow.

I’d heard that it would snow on Wednesday, but not like this. There were nearly four inches already, and it was falling so fast that while I was waiting for the bus nearly a quarter of an inch accumulated on my head. Nevertheless, I dutifully waited. And waited. And waited. For nothing, apparently, because every single person on my bus that I know got a ride. Is that even legal? I thought school had been cancelled after all and I was saved!

In any case, with yet another somewhat uneventful day done, I arrived home again, if a little more energized than usual. And now here I sit. C’est mon vie.