http://derailingourmemorytracks.blogspot.com/2010/05/on-pretense-92909.html
i've been home, i've been feeling dead, dead like I feel nothing, like I indifference is the only thing that I have, and maybe some shallow sense of hilarity and I love the stars and the moon but they weren't giving me anything, they weren't feeling like the ocean but now, with the help of thine blood relation my heart has opened again, and it is such a relief. I am on my roof I am on the roof and oh my god you guys have you ever seen the moon? I bet you have, but oh my god you guys how come it never gets old? I know that someday love can last forever because HAVE YOU SEEN THE MOON? my love for it will last forever, and I bet I could love a person forever too. But ya know ya know, the question is always, does the moon love me forever back? well, I don't really trust anything, not even myself, but I trust that things work out, they just do, no matter the sort of messes you make, and have you seen the moon? It is golden and round and I hope I never make it up there.
Today we made crepes, Lauren, Anna, and I and we said "next year, next year, next year" and we made plans, and the point of making plans is not that they will work out, but really just to show "hey I love you, I love this, lets do this again, and again, and again". Making plans is a way to show that you love someone. I think sometimes I get confused though, because not making plans does not mean that you don't love someone. Though me, I am a planner. My heart is hungry even though I just ate some ribs. My heart is hungry and have you seen the moon? I am not really fond of romance, but I would like to sit with you, here, and look at the moon. We don't even have to hold hands. We could sit on opposite sides. Just something, someone to make me feel al little less like I am in some strange bubble. Though, you know, sometimes I feel like I want to crawl inside people when I love them too much. Swimming is all I can think about to calm me when I get like this. Crawling inside the water, letting it embrace me, back to the womb, back to the womb, the darkness, the only darkness that doesn't scare me. This is the only thing that will make me feel OK during my first few weeks in Africa. The idea that the people you love can be far away but see the same thing you are seeing, that is more than comfort. I am sentimental (sentimental queens) but don't mistake me for no fun. I am always clarifying and reclarifying and yet, I am never clear. You are killing me and I think it is funny and a little cute. My dad says "life is pointless Savannah, once you figure that out it's so much easier" and I tell him he is pessimistic and he says "no, no" with a smile, he says "my two thoughts are conflicting because I belive in love and other things, but life is pointless" and I think that it must be rough to be in conflict with yourself all your life, and then I think "life is pointless" because what is the point in loving things, and why does everything have to have a point and shouldn't the point be doing your best to be happy? And to be American, to be a person in the modern world, we are practically a different species. Other people live to survive, and I think Is that any sort of way to live? and then I realize that maybe living just makes us happy, because otherwise those poor suckers wouldn't have worked so hard to stay alive. Life is pointless, everything is pointless, and yet and yet things keep going and going, and who needs a purpose? That is something us humans made up to make ourselves miserable. I serve no purpose, and it is strange, but I am ok with it.
I am hungry and I just want to add as many lovely people to my pointless life as I can.
Showing posts with label love. Show all posts
Showing posts with label love. Show all posts
Friday, May 28, 2010
Monday, May 17, 2010
EL CAFE
As if you weren't sick of it, but it is my summer project, no?
I've spent the last hour reading the guestbook, laughing and getting teary eyed, wondering what the hell happened to Ellis Paul and Don Con. I pretended that it was research for the start of my writing project, which I am starting to think it's unnecessary altogether because I could just publish the guest book, and it would tell the story better than I ever could. But what the hell, I've got nothing to do this summer but rearrange words so I will do my best to come up with something spectacular and perhaps steal from all of the hooligans who filled up the pages of this book.
It's not just all in my head though, there is some kind of magic here, I found it in this book right here. I don't think that we can take the credit for it really, but these vagabonds find some great comfort and homeliness here, and I only hope that I make my homes half as homely for whoever happens to wander in. My attachment to my home is not the building itself, though it seems that way. It is the people, but I know that once this building is gone, once we don't have this same set up the people will stop coming and our lives will be a lot lonelier. The american folk-music scene is small, tight knit, and rather lovely. The music itself is about the same. There is something so warm about it, and that is the best way to describe it.
To live in a place that so many people call home is the greatest, and I am sure the main source of my constantly nostalgic heart because it always feels like someone is missing. I always try to bring people home, to check out the place for themselves, but I am never quite sure if they quite get it, or if I ever quite get it, so I want to dedicate a portion of my summer writing to figuring out how to describe it. I keep wondering if it will even be interesting to anyone who is not associated with el cafe. People are easy to love and hard to forget.
I am not the only one who thinks that these walls are always talking (silently), "there are angels in the doorways" .
To sum it up: "this place is a wildlife refuge" DJD/ "this is the best homeless shelter I've ever been to"
We've always been happy to take in the strays, because perhaps we are all a little bit astray and we all need a place to call home. Because I was raised on love from these strays and from some of the more permanent fixtures in this place, I sometimes suspect that I have never known such a things as sadness, though my heart tells me otherwise. I love it here, not in a selfish narcissistic way, but in a communal sort of way.
Perhaps this is all the reason i never really think of my places as my own, why I am not over protective of my room, my bed, my spaces, only protective of my meals (because there was never any need to share your food around these parts).
I've spent the last hour reading the guestbook, laughing and getting teary eyed, wondering what the hell happened to Ellis Paul and Don Con. I pretended that it was research for the start of my writing project, which I am starting to think it's unnecessary altogether because I could just publish the guest book, and it would tell the story better than I ever could. But what the hell, I've got nothing to do this summer but rearrange words so I will do my best to come up with something spectacular and perhaps steal from all of the hooligans who filled up the pages of this book.
It's not just all in my head though, there is some kind of magic here, I found it in this book right here. I don't think that we can take the credit for it really, but these vagabonds find some great comfort and homeliness here, and I only hope that I make my homes half as homely for whoever happens to wander in. My attachment to my home is not the building itself, though it seems that way. It is the people, but I know that once this building is gone, once we don't have this same set up the people will stop coming and our lives will be a lot lonelier. The american folk-music scene is small, tight knit, and rather lovely. The music itself is about the same. There is something so warm about it, and that is the best way to describe it.
To live in a place that so many people call home is the greatest, and I am sure the main source of my constantly nostalgic heart because it always feels like someone is missing. I always try to bring people home, to check out the place for themselves, but I am never quite sure if they quite get it, or if I ever quite get it, so I want to dedicate a portion of my summer writing to figuring out how to describe it. I keep wondering if it will even be interesting to anyone who is not associated with el cafe. People are easy to love and hard to forget.
I am not the only one who thinks that these walls are always talking (silently), "there are angels in the doorways" .
To sum it up: "this place is a wildlife refuge" DJD/ "this is the best homeless shelter I've ever been to"
We've always been happy to take in the strays, because perhaps we are all a little bit astray and we all need a place to call home. Because I was raised on love from these strays and from some of the more permanent fixtures in this place, I sometimes suspect that I have never known such a things as sadness, though my heart tells me otherwise. I love it here, not in a selfish narcissistic way, but in a communal sort of way.
Perhaps this is all the reason i never really think of my places as my own, why I am not over protective of my room, my bed, my spaces, only protective of my meals (because there was never any need to share your food around these parts).
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
SLEEPING BACKWARDS
I have just went on a marathon writing mission, I wrote non-stop for the full duration of Have One On Me. I almost want to do it again. But I will at least wait until tomorrow. I got so tired halfway through that I started writing words twice or forgetting to write words altogether. 11 pages worth of babble, but more potential than I have ever come up with in such a short amount of time. My body will be angry tomorrow, this is not enough sleep and my hand will be a hurtin' but I don't mind I don't mind I don't mind.
My 4 favorite things love, beauty, loneliness, and grace, all intertwined always, in such an obvious way that I want to make one word for all four of them, because it is impossible for me to think of them separately. Always, when I see the moon, when I am sitting on the edge of a lake, or even greater when I am sitting, in the dark, along the shore of some ocean, I feel/see all of these things at once, not separately but as one cohesive feeling, and I can't think of any other way to describe the ocean to you but beautiful, lonely, graceful, and love. Maybe vast, but that is implied with them well, grace, the idea of being soft, gentle, and, in my head of being ongoing. The frustration, curiosity, wonder, that I can never explain this to you the right way, only trust that in your own way, you know what I mean, that something else does this to you, and that the feeling is mutual, even if it is lost in the words. I love it. I love that we can not explain this to each other, that in a way, no matter how hard we try to give it away, and give it away, it is ours, and we have to keep it, and hold it, cradle it, love it. Today, I feel like I am saying exactly what I mean. All these things, connected, to help me describe more than just the ocean, but the way I feel when listening to Joanna Newsom, it is the same way I feel when I look at the ocean, it if the same way I feel when I look at my mother from a distance, the same way I feel when I step outside of the love that surrounds me to gaze at it. It is so simple, so simple, so complex.
I can never tell, ever if this is for you or for me, though I suspect it is a little for both of us, and I hope, I hope you read this, because I read what you have to say, and I am learning, learning, and we are learning together. I have never felt so good, I have never felt so well sorted, fully understanding myself. We can try to blame it on my sleep-deprived, writing crazed self, but I don't think that is the culprit. For once, or maybe for twice, or thrice I am proud, proud without need of reinforcement not, I did good? but I did good, and I don't even need you to think so.
My 4 favorite things love, beauty, loneliness, and grace, all intertwined always, in such an obvious way that I want to make one word for all four of them, because it is impossible for me to think of them separately. Always, when I see the moon, when I am sitting on the edge of a lake, or even greater when I am sitting, in the dark, along the shore of some ocean, I feel/see all of these things at once, not separately but as one cohesive feeling, and I can't think of any other way to describe the ocean to you but beautiful, lonely, graceful, and love. Maybe vast, but that is implied with them well, grace, the idea of being soft, gentle, and, in my head of being ongoing. The frustration, curiosity, wonder, that I can never explain this to you the right way, only trust that in your own way, you know what I mean, that something else does this to you, and that the feeling is mutual, even if it is lost in the words. I love it. I love that we can not explain this to each other, that in a way, no matter how hard we try to give it away, and give it away, it is ours, and we have to keep it, and hold it, cradle it, love it. Today, I feel like I am saying exactly what I mean. All these things, connected, to help me describe more than just the ocean, but the way I feel when listening to Joanna Newsom, it is the same way I feel when I look at the ocean, it if the same way I feel when I look at my mother from a distance, the same way I feel when I step outside of the love that surrounds me to gaze at it. It is so simple, so simple, so complex.
I can never tell, ever if this is for you or for me, though I suspect it is a little for both of us, and I hope, I hope you read this, because I read what you have to say, and I am learning, learning, and we are learning together. I have never felt so good, I have never felt so well sorted, fully understanding myself. We can try to blame it on my sleep-deprived, writing crazed self, but I don't think that is the culprit. For once, or maybe for twice, or thrice I am proud, proud without need of reinforcement not, I did good? but I did good, and I don't even need you to think so.
Monday, February 1, 2010
PINEAPPLE WALL PAPER
All I've really wanted to lately is write. I've been locking myself in my room, playing music for hours, but not because I don't have anything else to do, not because I am sad and desperate for something to take care of all my free time for me, but because it is what I want to do, what I'm hungry for. I want to eat words, chew them carefully, swallow them, regurgitate them and my stomach acid onto paper to make something new. I am thinking that this may be dangerous, "I am learning to get along with myself" I told my mom, but now I might be learning how to get along with only myself, and no one else. I could write about my family forever, and I swear to god we are magic, not to say that we are special to anyone but each other, and to each other we are gold. We are so honest with each other, maybe not by choice but because we have to be because we are all too much the same and we can't lie to each other as well as we can lie to our friends. Maybe that isn't what i mean at all. I use the word maybe like it is the most important word in the english language. I am indecisive to the point of self-destruction. I am slowly working my way out, unfolding myself for the world, and for me. I can't stay in here forever, but I haven't quite found the full confidence to leave. I try to be impulsive, not calculated, I try not to worry about the consequences, and sometimes I can get there but never quite. Even when I am drunk my head is still there, just a little blurry. I don't see this inhibition as all bad, because everything has it's purpose, but sometimes I wish I could get rid of it.
I am learning to be less jealous, less worried about MY place, because my place is wherever i decide it is, i am taking more control, I am not a doormat, I am not an oriental rug, I am something stronger, like the grand-father clock or maybe the pineapple wall paper. [and this brings me to my other point] I have been thinking about my Grandma, most days, everyday, I have been writing about her, I have been getting closer to her without her even knowing it, I have been daydreaming about the rainbows that are always dancing around her house, from the sunlight reflecting off the crystal glasses and bottles. The way that house has never meant anything but happiness to me, and how I hope it never means anything but happiness for me. I used to think it was just the house, I don't know why, but I know I know I know it is HER. She has made it for us. I will tell my children about her, they will get tired of hearing about her, but I will tell them anyways, forever, because she is the queen of my heart.
should i tell her this?
maybe saying she is the queen of my heart is too much.
i always go to bed confident but wake up with doubts, and that seems backwards to me.
I am learning to be less jealous, less worried about MY place, because my place is wherever i decide it is, i am taking more control, I am not a doormat, I am not an oriental rug, I am something stronger, like the grand-father clock or maybe the pineapple wall paper. [and this brings me to my other point] I have been thinking about my Grandma, most days, everyday, I have been writing about her, I have been getting closer to her without her even knowing it, I have been daydreaming about the rainbows that are always dancing around her house, from the sunlight reflecting off the crystal glasses and bottles. The way that house has never meant anything but happiness to me, and how I hope it never means anything but happiness for me. I used to think it was just the house, I don't know why, but I know I know I know it is HER. She has made it for us. I will tell my children about her, they will get tired of hearing about her, but I will tell them anyways, forever, because she is the queen of my heart.
should i tell her this?
maybe saying she is the queen of my heart is too much.
i always go to bed confident but wake up with doubts, and that seems backwards to me.
Monday, January 25, 2010
YOU ARE HOME
Her hands are small, shrunken really, by 90 years of living, the arthritis has bent her fingers this way and that, rendering them less useful than they were when she was younger, another reason she resents growing old. They are covered in those little brown spots that your skin seems to develop with age, they say they are sun spots, but maybe really they are age spots and if you were to count all of them you would know how many years a person has. She is holding a ball-point pen with these flimsy fingers, doing the Saturday Stumper. [It is hot with the fire of love and hate, a constant clash that someone started a long time ago but no one has been able to end. It big and confusing and perfect, but most importantly it is full of hope, real, true hope, a way of living really.] "you are home." (both of you) "hmm?" she asks, slightly frustrated that her ears have failed you once again. "Nothing Grandma." And I scoot to the end of the couch and try to help her with the puzzle.
I wrote this during class yesterday, and I'd like to do more with it, and I keep forgetting to put aside time to write and then I get all sleepy and unmotivated.
I've been feeling so zen lately, minus a few less-than-zen incidents here and there, and I keep saying over-generalizing hippiesque statements about life and the world, it is strange, but i think i like it.
I will write more soon, maybe tomorrow be on the look outs for SADNESS DOESN'T LIVE HERE ANYMORE because it is the truth, and I want to do it justice.
I wrote this during class yesterday, and I'd like to do more with it, and I keep forgetting to put aside time to write and then I get all sleepy and unmotivated.
I've been feeling so zen lately, minus a few less-than-zen incidents here and there, and I keep saying over-generalizing hippiesque statements about life and the world, it is strange, but i think i like it.
I will write more soon, maybe tomorrow be on the look outs for SADNESS DOESN'T LIVE HERE ANYMORE because it is the truth, and I want to do it justice.
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