Everything is as everything is as everything is,
And I don’t know why everyone has so many opinions about everything. How much do they think they know of everyone when they hardly know themselves?
Seeking inspiration tonight:
An intelligent man is sometimes forced to be drunk to spend time with his fools.
– Ernest Hemingway
I drink to talk to assholes… including myself. -Jim Morrison
I’m actually going on week three without liquor, but that should change soon…in moderation. I may quit altogether if I can’t be in complete control.
Feel tension? Listen to Lewis Black or Billie Holiday. One expresses it, one soothes it. Instead, I was watching Kinsey which helps lend to me OK as AGAIN sexually frustrated me. Like seeing a warm beach scene when your standing out in the cold rain…makes it that much colder. Or like PDA and valentine’s day when you’re single makes you feel more single. Or dreaming about love and waking up to a cold room and a hungry cat makes the cat that much more a pain in the ass, and the room that much emptier and colder. That last one was my recent morning, prior to Kinsey, and this whole day of solo pleasures, deliberating, teeter-tottering between exhaustion and energy. So I’m no bonobo chimpanzee, or hippy, or Kinsey prodigy, I can’t deal with polygamy; I’m emotional, sticky, complicated and devoted, like an old, blind dog….thus picky but horny, I miss cuddling, sex, making tents out of bedsheets…in this mood pansy and prissy chic lit irritates me, PC talk makes me gag…in this state of being I break things with nerves… my greatest talents wasted, lost to pickyness, to bad dates, for shame. True there is always my ballet yoga dvd, and music and walks…an occasional social outing for inevitable conversations with dull sots…in these times Elliot Smith songs and Sex and the City episodes plague my hippocampus. I eat too much chocolate frozen yogurt. Bake too many organic chocolate chip cookies. Dream too many fantastical dreams (like last night’s where I owned a giant castle but it was disappointingly located on a movie set). And I watch things like Kinsey and wonder where a romantic monogamous sex fiend (the emotional restless, you’d think I was a Gemini) finds peace.
(In essence completely and utterly)
In essence completely and utterly sexually frustrated. Biting lots of nails and ice.
And what I think of all around me. This is not right! This is a computer screen, and everything is a computer screen, and everyone is always on a computer, and I’m a hypocrite, and I sell computers…what am I going to do?
I’m being too hard on computers, I rely on them for so much and I’m being ungrateful like a spoiled child. I even ranted in an email to C (here it is: My apartment is way to expensive, and classes aren’t really inspiring. I’m sitting in photoimaging right now listening to my prof talk about photoshop and all I really want to be doing is play radiohead on my headphones while I inhale photo chemicals and add filters to my enlarger in a real dark room…yaddayaddayadda…..And I was probably just dumped for, let’s be honest now, WOW…yaddayadda………
Would like to puff a pipe like Sherlock.
Hughes and Plath-
Ted Hughes was writing a paper about Joyce’s “Ulysses” when Sylvia and Ted first started to become friends. Later they married, had children, wrote poetry, lived by the ocean, he cheated, she got lost in depression, and stuck her head in an oven…
The point is my coworker loves Joyce and hates Plath. I secretly think he would have fallen in love with her if he’d known her personally as a young woman at Cambridge. I think he would have been intimidated by her surprising intellect, and cavernous depth, by her intensity and frailty and strength. The openness in her eyes as she peered honestly at him, and the surrender with which she consumed him. Of course that was all energy given to Hughes, her knight, but I am thinking of this coworker because his favorite book is Ulysses, and his fiance girlfriend has a lot of frailty and strength and intelligence left unvocalized as he himself talks with arrogance and a charm girls may find appealing…
But Plath saw in Hughes something deeper, with which he was in awe, and which made him love her but feel threatened and weak, and in turn he hurt her and her own frailty well you know the rest…
I suppose I shouldn’t take so seriously the lives of others, while I have my own to worry about, but particular souls catch my interest, and written in journals I can peer behind the scenes of the poetry and plots that make up the imaginations of these private lives.
I hope this isn’t a mid-twenty’s Blitzkrieg of confidence that will end in stringent soul-shattering self-doubt, and then some insane over-compensating hubris (which is undoubtedly plaguing several pee-smelling dimwits on the Portland public transit system). I really think that this is authentic, justifiable, merited buoyancy, reverie, and hope…and my bad cat, my android apartment manager, my unbearably loud neighbor with the masochistic, beastial sex wails, my personal financial crises, loneliness, social and emotional frustrations aside, all is pretty…
::larry david accent inserted here::
My cat is such a little shit head (and I love that about you cat). This is why my cat is a shit head: When I’m not looking she drinks the milk out of my ceramic cup! When I step into the other room she climbs inside the bathtub and licks the bottom when there’s a perfectly good, full bowl of water waiting for her in the kitchen! I am so annoyed. She then takes the drain out of the tub. And occasionally she pulls the orchid out of the pot and throws it on the ground; she likes to knock over the hot sauce; she likes to claw my hand to be funny; once she clawed the screen to my speaker out of it’s little socket thing; the other night she galloped from one side of the apartment to the other back and forth while I was trying to go to sleep; she thinks the cursor on my computer is a bug to eat; she has on more than two occasions attempted to swallow my fish oil pills; she disappears in the dresser and likes to leave cat hair on my under garments; she thinks my earphones are small rodents…My cat is a bad cat. Fortunately she is damn cute. And perfect.
Afterword: Woke this morning, 1/11, to find my plant watering device on the kitchen floor, with at least a pint of water spilled on the rug, and my olive oil bottles knocked over on the top of the fridge, which means the cat jumped onto the fridge while I slept and wreaked havoc on my eating space. aaaarrrgghhghhooo =o
Love my cat.
Things aren’t so tangible and sayable as people would usually have us believe; most experiences are unsayable, they happen in a space that no word has ever entered. -Rilke
The Wizard of Oz and Jung
glenda would be the magic, mysterious, pure, glowing, guardian
scare crow is tender-hearted, clumsy, insecure, lacking, fearful, unintelligent?
dorothy is naive, empathetic, lost, beautiful, brave
toto is cute, faithful, devoted, adoring
tin man is mechanical, cold, lacks heart, stiff, unfeeling
cowardly lion is um, a coward, fearful, bullying, apprehensive
witch is like the police, the Gestapo, a dictator and tyrant, vengeful, jealous, ugly, green
wizard is fake, a con artist, a big disappointment
flying monkeys are scary, henchmen
munchkins- jovial, oppressed, common ‘men’, innocent
Soo, that simple outline formed, let’s continue. What about Jung? He developed these classical archetypes to explain unconscious patterns in human thought. People have unconsciously imbedded ideas about themselves, and others, that control the way that they think and respond to the world. I really respect Jung. It was a bit selling point with my short term recent boyfriend, when he shared his passion for Jungian psychology.
Jung emphasized the importance balance. Who is black and white? WHo is Glenda or the witch? We are neither and both, but depending on our communication or lack of communication with others, others see us as usually one over many. Your mailman may see you like the scarecrow, your mom like Glenda, your brother like the witch, your ex like the cowardly lion, your boss like the munchkins. Jung cautioned against a reliance on science and logic, defining without feeling. Wiki says: He considered the process of individuation necessary for a person to become whole. This is a psychological process of integrating the conscious with the unconscious while still maintaining conscious autonomy. Individuation was the central concept of analytical psychology.
I love movies. Sit and experience it all vicariously. Remember some of your virtues. Forget some of your pains with broadening awareness. I need to see Avatar. Coming of age, overcoming the shadows in ourselves by learning to integrate them, growing up. Growing up…..a never-ending process. Learning who you are as an individual. A modern, CGI Wizard of Oz.
Rambling…Ok, truth be told, I’m in class at the Mac lab at school, and a fellow classmate is sniffing over my shoulder and it makes me uncomfortable because though I like writing to the void and to a select few familiars and friends, as well as a potential online community, there is something about acquiantances hearing about my detailed soul-spewage that disgruntles me.
(I feel unbearably empty)
It feels unbearably empty, like a great attentive presence has been lost! Samurai fashion, and this time to my last remaining technological presence. And now there is a great blank void.
I am spending a lot of time thinking about the things I would express if that wall were not so high and thick, and we were able to express them, and I were not so awkward and easily persuaded to relinquish my own personality in the face of that awkwardness for a repressed, lost silence. If we could express to the utmost of our potential, their would be little need for words, but we might enjoy playing with their construction in order to further articulate the fondness of our mutual accord.
Some of these hopeful conversations are good, but the cyclical psychological analysis, and self-deprecating what ifs and doomed karmic mental meanderings, are enough to make me sick of my own inner voice and craving just moments of silence and moments of nothing but walking and looking at things without any thoughts at all aside from what those things look like…
Yes I saw him recently. And we had a good time. I felt like he was therapy and yet there was a residue of bitter resentment, as even in my momentary calm amidst the chaos of my “no this is not happening!” disbelief in the destruction of a potential good thing, I could return to someone familiar who was accepting of me…and yet he continued to email me after our visit “ah, claudia you are such a sweetheart when you are not needy and full of expectations” and my neediness was just wanting a tender embrace, and understanding. It is something he can give as long as he is not expected to be responsible to me as a boyfriend. Scatter the flames into smaller manageable corners, and then smother them with stubborn hope and melatonin.
I was disappointed and speechless last night, staring in a void at my white walls, drinking milk, wondering how I would be stupid to continue to wonder. Things just don’t need explaining always. They just happen.
(grow slow- my old bumper sticker)
Move slow. This would be me most of the time. But then sometimes I drink excessive amounts of coffee, or I’m late for work, and have deadlines. Then I run around like a chicken with no head. And That’s not good. I spill coffee on my top, or I forget my keys. I scuff my shoe or I nearly get hit by a car. I don’t recommend moving too fast. This is especially important in a relationship, or at least I thought so until a minute ago in deep contemplation. I was thinking about the last relationship I had, which ended a week ago. It was a short, sweet one month romance. Actually not too terribly sweet. We connected immediately. He was a sculpture student at my college, and very into dreams, photography and hiking and all the the things I like. I figured this would be a long, beautiful relationship. I was imagining his name with mine, our summer plans, and our photography projects together. We were also coworkers at my new job, still are I guess, except he services Macs and I sell them. He is techie too. Oddly, this is hot. So we made pumpkin pie and from there we dated, and moved quickly. Over an episode of Mad Men we kissed, and made out, and everything happened at once. With all our talk of moving slow, we didn’t and it was too good. So this is where it soured. I found out I had herpes from my ex the worst way possible, by my new boy coming to me one morning with an astonished look on his face and asking “What is This!?!” Damn. Oddly my ex decided he wants to see me again I am funny because I sometimes imagine that the foundation is there when really it is as sturdy as sawdust. It’s happened before. But now that I have been contemplating deeply I have redesigned the whole destructed affair in my head and I am thinking, maybe this is inevitable. And moving more swiftly we cam to what would inevitably arise, the lack of compassion and trust necessary to a long-lasting love. All this talk of “friends” is bullshit, and space and time. There is only one love, and it is willingness to be open to another, and then in that openness see all they are and all they can be, and sure we have moments of this for everyone, but to remain open in hard times for a particular soul, that requires a special something else. I guess we didn’t have it. Any of us.