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Bohemian Like You
18 June 2015 @ 12:08 am
I'm trying to decide who to hate more: you or myself.  I know it, I confirmed it, she's there all the time almost every night, but I gave you the benefit of the doubt.  Maybe, just maybe, you'd tell me. But you don't and you feed me some bullshit line about wanting to see me, but I wonder if this is an ego game for you, do you get off on tricking the stupid girl, and do you laugh to yourself about me, or worse laugh with others, poor misguided sidepiece. You just like having a fatty to fuck on the side, maybe, just want someone devoted to fill the need human sorbet to cleanse the palate every once in a while so you can really enjoy your main dish.

This realization and knowledge fills me with fear that I've deluded myself this whole time, that panic I've begun to feel; good enough to fuck but not good enough to love, right? Good enough for a conversation and a lay but god forbid you be seen with me.  And I find myself turning over your statement, your line, in my head. Am I deluded enough to believe it? Are you deluded enough to believe it? Or are you just that afraid of losing undying devotion? Have I been this big of an idiot for 6 and a half fucking years at this point?  Pining and loving and spending energy and spinning in and out over someone who is just using me to boost his own ego?  Or am I doing the same thing?  But I'm not, because I've always been the one to care and try. And then I think, I hate you, obviously, because either way you slice it you're a coward, either you're afraid of what you want or afraid of telling someone what you want-- and if it's the latter then I'm coming back around to hating myself because god, what kind of person falls for someone too afraid to even articulate their desires?  But then, I think about what a stereotypical psycho fucking girl I'm being and I'm game set and match, I hate myself.

I've been keeping my world to 3 again.  I'm serious with it this time.  This time we're in a waiting game. This time I'm ready. This time I have advantages, and this time I have nothing else to fucking do because my little world is mostly falling apart around me, and nobody even really noticed last time, so why not start again?  It's a long, slow way to go, but I've got time.
 
 
Bohemian Like You
07 June 2015 @ 02:23 pm
AM says to me I'm living a double life, moreso than anyone she knows. She brushes hair out of my eye when she says it, the bangs that cover the left eye, the left side of my face only. There's no symmetry in me, one side is different from the other, eye lower, birthmarks and scars all distributed to that left hand side, but she doesn't know. CB knows, he says that I probably have a thousand different personalities. I do, and as I meet new people and try to explain myself it becomes easier and easier to slip on these skins of other people. I tell people my superpower is that I don't really mind anything, although the real superpower is that I don't feel passionate about anything except maybe a suspended minor 7th in distorted guitar, about a piece of shit who lies to my face and strings me along on a wire, about obliterating myself. I'm scared because I don't know who I am. I thought by this time I'd know, I was sure I knew, but now I wonder is the real me the one who drinks and speaks loud and calls attention to herself, or is the real me the one who hides and steps back, and tries to suppress that to fit in, or is it the shy girl, or the sarcastic one, or the constantly confused, or the needy, or the questioning, or the lesbian, or the bisexual, or the guilty white person, or the abrasive queensian, or the bro-tasm? Who the fuck actually lives in there and when I'm out there by myself who am I? In the desert I knew. I was quiet, respectful, I was alone and I was okay with it. I was chin up and wet shoes and water clack clacking together bottles off a backpack not suited for hiking, all alone and so afraid of falling. I need to go back there.

I have a week stretched out ahead of me. I am writing for the first time about those things that happened, I am trying to push back further in my mind, to frame stories without context, to explain betrayal without real established trust. I'm writing about Christian and Pete. I'm writing about Blair. I can't yet write about that night, it took me 10 years to even say it out loud to anyone, and when I told Tow he was so horrified and upset and I knew then I was going to see his back, I'd be chasing him down the road forever, as I have been. You can't compile crazy on crazy, he told me. CB says two wrongs don't make a right. They're right. I'll think of it like a video game. Switch weapons, level up on normalcy, on Ann Taylor and drinking smoothies for breakfast on thinking "fitness" is an interest or passion the way other things can be. I can fake any and everything. I know how to brainwash. I know how to fix this all.

My superpower is that I lack passion for anything, and I can re position those fading obsessions. I can turn something I love into something I hate so easily. I can grow tired of everything. I can channel energy into whatever I goddamn please. And I'm going to build and destroy simultaneously, to maintain balance.
 
 
Bohemian Like You
05 June 2015 @ 02:06 am
We're sitting there and we're really not connecting, and then there's alcohol in our bloodstream and we sort of are; we keep getting interrupted. I hate carrboro. Before I knew she was single I thought about kissing her on the mouth and now that she isn't the urge is less strong; isn't that always the way with me, but it's still there a little, but I'm awkward. She is the second person this week to tell me how cold and stoic I am. I know when I got like this, how I got like this: Pan, the real deal cb. I remember him pulling away from me, I remember the moment when I walked into his house and he pulled me into the side room and told me he saw me that night, he was with renee, he needed me to just chill out because it's not happening.

So I set my rules and reminders. I wish I still had the same discipline with food as I do with hiding emotions from the world, although I still feel them as strongly. So tonight, she looks to me and talks about our first date...the world's worst comedy show at the town's worst bar after which I think we went back to my house and I saw her body for the first time and I just shut down. I remember that part, the part where I knew I was not going to ever be comfortable around her. She tells me I'm sexy and successful and could do better and I think of that scene in Clueless where Ty says, "If I'm too good for him, then why don't I have him!" and then it's getting late and we go and we kiss chastely in the car and again, just for a second, I think, maybe I should've gone for more. I don't know it's stupid.

I drive back and I pull a Pete and sure enough I get the answer I expected but didn't want. The hot feeling is less this time, more just like a brief sticky not that stomach twist last time, and I start to play the conversation and scenarios in my head like a broken processor, just whipping myself up into a frenzy and then I think no, no. Don't show your hand. I lost my turquoise earrings, I've lost St. Jude, I've lost so many things, but remember you cannot lose something that was never yours. So I breathe and get a burrito and think of the promise I made to myself about unhealthy behaviors. I put a reminder in to check on my dr. appt. I've been without the pills for almost a month, and I'm feeling it now. I focus on the positive, I focus on this last time I might get, this moment where I'm in on the joke this time, where I can be the decider and make memories. I think of how much of Jeremy's time I wasted and wonder if in some weird way he's not some sort of archetype for me too...I brush these thoughts away because I'm 30.

I joined Tinder and attempt that for a few hours and run across people I know. Nobody I want to know; I like how it tells you who your mutual friends are so I can avoid the people who are people with the people I hate. I wonder, then, about Kyle and Aurelia, and how my people could be the people of people I hate. I guess you live and learn; turns out he wasn't actually my people. I think about burying my face in Tow, who is in Japan or a hospital or a morgue, who knows. I miss him with all the fiber. I need to stir up feelings for recording with Pan. Is it terrible to make someone play and sing on a song about them they don't know is about them?
 
 
Bohemian Like You
27 May 2015 @ 12:39 am
Writing is like a muscle; it needs exercise, so why not here, build this old girl back up from a limp to a shuffle.

Tonight, I hit dinner and a movie. Dinner was mediocre, stay away from chain restaurants; it always seems like a better idea, the memory of 21st birthdays when we didn't know any better, when we tipped waiters in our numbers, when we ordered the overly complicated cocktails right off the menu.

In the movie, I'm mindless and then I catch myself with it and suddenly I realize I'm bleeding, a lot, my leg is gushing blood and its pouring into my sock. I lurch forward for a moment, then I think...I'm in the dark, nobody can see, nobody will see, and so I just start smearing it back up. When I walk outside, it looks like I've rolled in mud, the brown is caked all over my right calf.

Back in the apartment, I walk, after I've felt dinner sitting in my belly, like being pregnant with fat, just sitting there and I think I really shouldn't eat, and I think god, haven't I lost weight? What was it like before. I walk up and down the street and in and out of apartments and almost every light is the flickering of a television screen and I think about Fahrenheit 451, and I wonder who took it; was it Matty? I would bet anything it was Alison that spiteful bitch. I consider buying it on an e-book and staying up tonight and reading it, and I wonder what Ray Bradbury would think of e-books. That book is kind of robbed of its delight by ebooks. Meanwhile, I'm re-reading london fields, and Nicola Six is as much of a delight as I remember her being.

If I wrote a book, I couldn't start with my family. Where would I start? I'd probably start with someone like me, but I feel like people like the idea of a dark little character, so long as that dark character fits into their idea of what a person should be like, or some easy archtype. What of the girl who idly stabs herself in the leg? what of the girl who walked away from a dying friend? What of the girl who lies and lies and lies to everyone and herself, still telling others a fake name and a fake story, taking on that persona as she cuts off her hair and changes its color, changes her clothes and the way she holds herself and walks, until all of a sudden she is this whole other person, just going by a name that doesn't suit her. Praying to a saint who abandoned her. A medallion that keeps skittering out from under her fingers. I would want to meet that girl, I think. Maybe I'll build her better.

It's rainy and my windows have cracks and a bullet hole in one. Why is it that a dripping faucet drives me mad but a dripping rain soothes and relaxes the mind?
 
 
Bohemian Like You
21 May 2015 @ 09:55 am
I look at the blanked-out faces of the other passengers--hoisting their briefcases, their backpacks, shuffling to disembark--and I think of what Hobie said: beauty alters the grain of reality. And I keep thinking too of the more conventional wisdom: namely, that the pursuit of pure beauty is a trap, a fast track to bitterness and sorrow, that beauty has to be wedded to something more meaningful.

Only what is that thing? Why am I made the way I am? Why do I care about all the wrong things, and nothing at all for the right ones? Or, to tip it another way: how can I see so clearly that everything I love or care about is illusion, and yet--for me, anyway--all that's worth living for lies in that charm?

A great sorrow, and one that I am only beginning to understand: we don't get to choose our own hearts. We can't make ourselves want what's good for us or what's good for other people. We don't get to choose the people we are.

Because--isn't it drilled into us constantly, from childhood on, an unquestioned platitude in the culture--? From William Blake to Lady Gaga, from Rousseau to Rumi to Tosca to Mister Rogers, it's a curiously uniform message, accepted from high to low: when in doubt, what to do? How do we know what's right for us? Every shrink, every career counselor, every Disney princess knows the answer: "Be yourself." "Follow your heart."

Only here's what I really, really want someone to explain to me. What if one happens to be possessed of a heart that can't be trusted--? What if the heart, for its own unfathomable reasons, leads one willfully and in a cloud of unspeakable radiance away from health, domesticity, civic responsibility and strong social connections and all the blandly-held common virtues and instead straight toward a beautiful flare of ruin, self-immolation, disaster?...If your deepest self is singing and coaxing you straight toward the bonfire, is it better to turn away? Stop your ears with wax? Ignore all the perverse glory your heart is screaming at you? Set yourself on the course that will lead you dutifully towards the norm, reasonable hours and regular medical check-ups, stable relationships and steady career advancement the New York Times and brunch on Sunday, all with the promise of being somehow a better person? Or...is it better to throw yourself head first and laughing into the holy rage calling your name?

It's not about outward appearances but inward significance. A grandeur in the world, but not of the world, a grandeur the world doesn't understand. That first glimpse of pure otherness, in whose presence you bloom out and out and out.

A self one does not want. A heart one cannot help.
 
 
 
Bohemian Like You
16 December 2014 @ 10:31 pm
My life is small and remote and maybe that's okay, it just might be okay.
 
 
Bohemian Like You
28 July 2014 @ 07:19 pm
Things are pretty goddamn okay right now.

I don't know where I'm going, but I'm going to try for the kingdom if I can.
 
 
Bohemian Like You
07 December 2013 @ 02:58 am
You get stuck in this spiral. You do the same things like you used to and they just make you feel self conscious or like you're ruining everyone else's time by doing what you want or the rest of the pieces don't fall in place like they used to.

Don't, you think to yourself, driving home, putting a mint in your mouth, put down your phone, you think to yourself. And what would you say, says the rational voice in your head. Look at what happened last time, says that smart voice. Why should tonight be any different?

Because I want it to be. Because tonight I'll say to say something awful and something wonderful will come through.

That last time I asked for kindness, for comfort I received mamihlapinatapai -- a word I had to look up in a dictionary, a word that encapsulates a lot but really encapsulates nothing at the end because the question is ultimately what is it you want? You think we want the same thing? Really? Because more and more I think you want to, to borrow a turn of phrase, to borrow from your carbon your ghost your elven brother whatever, OLD YELLER THAT SHIT. Or maybe it's me projecting that onto you. Maybe its how you've been lately. Maybe it's me wondering whether this is all worth it and what this is and what I'm trying to accomplish really because honestly I just don't even know.

A month ago I thought about pushing 30 and I thought about sticking around and I thought about playing house and I thought about maybe its all worthwhile but then I wonder if I'm kidding myself if I've been asleep this whole time and life is this thing I'll wake up to one day and I'll open my eyes and someone will be there looking back at me in earnest. Sometimes I wonder if you're trying to do something noble with all this bullshit, not unlike old yeller. Sometimes I wonder if I want anything ever anymore.

My skin weighs a million pounds. My skin is this suit full of blood and fat and something that sits on top of my lungs and crushes my spirit. It squeezes into polyblends and creates lumps under the fabric. Maybe this is all about how I want your skin.

I ran half a mile today and I had done it before I realized I had done it and I looked around and went when did I get lungs and how can they carry a vessel like this anywhere.

My hair is dark and cancerous. I think of Genelle lately, especially when I get that biological tick. I think of how I would name a daughter Genelle but its not a bible name. I think of Salome. I think of Kimberly and I think of Salome and I wonder if Salome was good or bad and I think it sounds like a bad girl name and worse it sounds like salami and never do that to a kid that's bound to be awkward.

Don't do it, I tell myself. Don't do it don't do it because last time, the real last time not the one you want to pretend, it was so mean and sad. Who ever said I cared enough, he says now, like he hadn't said the opposite. Am I out of my fucking mind? He looks me in the eye and tells me, for believing what I believe to be true YOU'RE OUT OF YOUR FUCKING MIND. And I nod and I swallow and I take this comfort in it, but then he pedals back.

I wrap myself up in blankets, i can't pull my habits under control. I habitually say these awful things and I puff myself up and put on brave face but its time to really think about who I am and what I am and how I am and I'm all over the internet like a human stain bleeding out of control and I can't undo the damage. What do people believe I am and am I what they believe? Am I what I have done with a line drawn beneath it and is there enough prayer in the world to actually fix me? Do I accept Jesus Christ as my personal lord and savior or do I just find the idea of him comforting even when I cannot find the idea of belief? Can I go and walk the labyrinth as I sentence one of the only creatures I love in this world to death? Can I go and walk the labyrinth and sentence myself to death? is all this drinking and smoking pussyfooting around what I want?

I filled out this book about my dreams and I can't even tell it the truth. 27 things I want to accomplish or experience before I die? Go to Atlantis. Receive a major award. Find a partner. Drive a racer. Beat someone up. Have a floor clean enough to eat off. Go to a spa day. Go on vacation with friends. Play a sold out show. Get a "we need you" call. Parenting. Vegan cruise. Open and run a bar/restaurant. Cook for a party. Live somewhere warm. Landscape. Cut hair all off. Be skinny.. Be able to run a 10K. Asked to play guitar. Surprise party. And 6 other things that are bullshit. But really? Not be fucking alone. Have money enough that I don't worry about money. Wake up in someone's arms that don't make me feel panicked or worried or suffocated.

You get stuck in this spiral. You think, I can make it good again. You think what I did 5 years ago doesn't matter, what I did 10 years ago doesn't matter, what happened 15 years ago doesn't matter and you're wrong. Everything counts. Sartre. You are what you've done, what you've experienced. The road to hell is paved with good intentions. Stop feeling eyes on you. Nobody's looking at you. Nobody expects shit from you, so why not cut and run? Why not tuck your tail between your legs and run because they're shooing you out with a broom? Before that, why not burn down the goddamned house? The amount of violence people see in fire. I know it's violent and ugly, and yet… I want fire. I have fire. I want to blow it up so it doesn't burn me down. I vacillate wildly between hating me and hating you. Loving me and loving you. Wishing so badly that I had never become so invested in something so fucked. I can't run away until it's in ashes. I can't run until I'm implicated. I can't run; I'll turn myself in. You're trying to burn it down for me maybe, you're trying to build a broken ship.

I call out to the west coast and my voice echoes all hoarse against dry wall. I cry out and california calls, stop your wicked ways and come hide away but not really don't come just hide away. California says this is not your home this is your hallucination this is your ghost. But talking to myself in the car and singing to myself in the store "if I were razors where would I beeeeeeee? If I were health care where would I bee? am I organized like you or like meeeee? When did they discontinue 24 hour treeeeeeats?"

This is my life now. This is late night. This is my life now. Talking and singing and driving in the rain and yelling your part and my part but really just monologues playing out every single way it could go because you never settle on any one way. That's the only lesson I've got.

I promised a friend I won't make it to the end of the year. The month is young. I think I could I think I may I think I might I wish I may I wish I might. I swing between certain and uncertain, afraid always. I just don't know, I know, I just don't know. I feel my insides turning black and green bubbling up and then I think no, maybe its a poison life inside me, then I think no its the glasses I need. No, no, it's definitely rotting me. California says stop drinking start running start breathing start chanting and the best kind of running is running away and the best kind of drinking is desperately and the best kind of breathing is haltingly and the best kind of chanting is as you leave, right? right? Maybe.
 
 
Bohemian Like You
26 September 2013 @ 12:19 pm
Impulsively I text expecting nothing and somehow I find myself buying him cigarettes and pointing my car in the old familiar direction.

We bullshit and close the bar and then we're outside and I make some offhand comment about his kid and he takes it as time to bring up the 5 year resentment he's harbored about the abortion. And implies (am I reading too much into it) that he WANTED to have a kid with me, even after knowing me really only 6 weeks. And we argued and I told him I was cold on purpose and he said he knew and then we went to his sisters house and went "to sleep" but started making out so much then he put his hands on me and the sex and I stopped him and said "is this a thing" and he really didn't answer.

But here's the thing, I want it to be a thing. I know there are so many fundamental differences and he judges me and I judge him and we bicker but laying down, watching him sit in front of me my heart swelled up in my chest a little thinking oh god he's so handsome and I just want this to be every morning, waking up together, laughing together, holding his hand and smiling inside maybe outside.

My thoughts are racing away from me a million miles an hour I can't tell my friends because they will see the situation as a mistake and I haven't found out if he still has that girlfriend anymore but what I do know is that he is the only person I can picture myself being with and wanting in 5, 10, 15, 50 years. I know there are problems but maybe I'll just go for it because I need to know I did everything I could, I was totally open and honest. But this time maybe it'll be good enough. Prob not, but goddamn it I am gonna push it until I embarrass myself, because.
 
 
Bohemian Like You
04 May 2013 @ 09:06 pm
Today I found a copy of the Watchtower on my porch. I know that if I could believe I'd be happier but I don't.