Posted on 2013.10.28 at 06:17
Good morning, journal.
This is not the morning to write a lengthy entry here. Elements of note:
My dad has been visiting since Wednesday and will (probably) be leaving this morning. I have made a pecan pie (which I burnt), potato soup (which was delicious), pancakes (which were average), and numerous sandwiches and cups of coffee. We have watched many films and television shows and shared many memories. I showed him my mom's journal I brought home with me last summer. He bought me a new bookshelf (!!!) and brought with him a table that belonged to my great grandmother. The table is currently sitting awkwardly in my kitchen, and the bookshelf has been installed in the living room. I am desperately sad he is leaving, but so happy for the time we got to spend together and the hours I got to sleep in this weekend instead of working at the hotel.
I am super behind on a big paper for school, but otherwise things on that front are bordering on not-disastrous (which is a step above the standard state of affairs).
I attempted to take S onto campus last night and discovered all of the streets downtown were closed off for some asinine Halloween parade. I have become a humbug toward every single holiday at this point, and, also, I have anger issues. Journal, I seeeeeethed over that Halloween parade, and I write this here in order to spur myself to be more mindful of my reactions to minor inconveniences.
Although I have been lazier in these past weeks than I would have wished, I have made a
good reasonable effort this morning of starting my day on the right foot. Coffee, shower, and, well, I'm at least sitting at the computer, with thoughts of getting stuff done.
Posted on 2013.10.21 at 08:06
Good morning, journal.
Today is a long day on campus, with class and meetings and homework to complete until 9 tonight. I unwittingly spent last Tuesday evening with a criminal who told a story of a crushed rock and drunkenly clambered around the bank of a moonlit stream. Seth broke his glasses yesterday when he fell asleep wearing them. The weeks are long and strange and distorted by the clouds and the fall, I passed the weekend in a nonstop waitressing frenzy, and I am as awed by and anxious of life as ever.
Strange dreams envelope my sleep. One night it's a tall Russian man with a pulsating tumor on his chest. The next it's impossibly long and sculpted pubic hair, primal fertility rituals. Always I am fighting and dying and laughing.
Criminals, glasses, dyslexia, cognitive development, tumors, mad laughter, professional chagrin and swallowing pride. All together they compose my days, and I don't know what to do with them all.
The criminal deserves a story devoted to him. I know the first line.
"You haven't spent much time up above, have you?"
Seth deserves a wife who does more than stare, my research and projects for classes deserve more time than the bare minimum I reserve for them, the old people asking me through pursed and wrinkled lips for hot water and dry English muffins deserve...well, they deserve the hot water thrown in their faces, but a part of me begrudgingly admits they also deserve respect and patience, even if they are awfully demanding given the 23 cents they intend to leave me for my trouble.
As I round the corner of 8 am and shower, I must close this entry for now. One day they will make an app that can read your brain waves and transcribe the journal you would write if you could, and on that day, I will write all that I want to, and probably not before.
Posted on 2013.10.11 at 12:08
Good early afternoon, journal.
I am attempting to reacquaint myself with this whole writing
and not being an immobile lump of depression
thing. There is so very, very much I want to tell you, but god, I've let all these days march by, haven't I, and, god, do I really want to remember most of them? No. So let's start with something simple, some pictures of me and my daddy on a boat in August.[I'm on a boat, motherfucker!]
There are many moments I regret from the past months, but not fishing with my dad.
Who, incidentally, will be visiting me here in a matter of weeks!
And for all the dour thoughts I could share, things are finally starting to look up. Soon I am leaving for class, and then I have a meeting with my thesis adviser. Remember the thesis, journal? I barely do. But work is resuming on that front, and I've worked out a deal with my program to relieve some of the unreasonable anxiety I've felt over literally everything, and I've developed new respect for people I once judged rather harshly.
It's a stormy October day, and I might wear a brown floppy hat out and brown boots and leggings and a baggy sweater, and I dig that. I dig.
Posted on 2013.09.14 at 07:58
If it hasn't been obvious, journal and journal friends, I am On Hiatus. Still reading everyone, but no comments for now. As always, warm thoughts. I hope to return to this space soon.
Posted on 2013.06.13 at 06:30
Good morning, journal.
It's my birthday and I'm spending the first hours sending e-mails to people in an attempt to arrange shit I should have taken care of a while ago, lightly panicking, and listening to the thunder.
Nice to meet you, new year of my life. I want to say you kind of suck, but I'll give you a shot.
This time next year, I will be graduated (or dead in a gutter) and Seth might be too and we'll be planning to get the fuck out of Pennsylvania and my birthday will be on a Friday 13th, and I'm looking forward to all of those things (even being dead in a gutter) much, much more than I am the next few days or weeks or months.
And now, more paperwork, more e-mails, more panic, more therapy summary report writing, moremoremore, and then, this evening, a rain-filled drive through the mountains.
Peace, journal and journal peeps. You know I love you all.
Posted on 2013.06.04 at 05:52
Good morning, journal.
And good morning, June, you tease, you tramp. The humidity builds up and the weathermen (persons) promise thunder and catharsis, which do not come. The last week or so I have been embroiled in the saga of my hormones and have made very little headway in preparing myself for what I know will be a difficult summer. I feel so boring and I feel so disconnected and I feel so unconcerned and also bloated. I feel like nothing so much as a porcupine bristling at imagined foes in the dark of the woods.
I said to my therapist Friday morning that I act and feel trapped, even though I clearly am not. She treated this as if it were some great revelation. (It was not.) We talked about the "rules" with which I trap myself and she asked me to reflect more on the different rules by which I operate throughout the day. The session was moved to Tuesday morning this week, so here i am, reflecting on my governing principles. It's a dull business and most of the regulations currently in effect are along the lines of "I can't do this until I do this", as if there's some predetermined order in which to complete the chores of my life, as if there's a script and I lost it and I'm trying desperately to remember how to play my part. I know it's not time for that line yet, so I best just sit here quietly until I'm inspired toward brilliant ad-libbing. Other, more deeply-embedded rules probably reflect a truer self-loathing. That kind of person doesn't like you. That kind of outfit doesn't work for you. That kind of life is too good for you. You don't deserve success. You're destined to fail, so don't put your all into this. People will take advantage and make fun of you if you show them anything real.
But isn't every single one of those based on reality? The silly "can't do homework, haven't done the dishes, but can't do dishes because I haven't done my homework" loop is just my brain desperately searching for rationalization for being lazy, for being inferior. It's not necessarily lazy or inferior to have a few days, or even a few months out of a really motherfucking shitty year, where I can't be a super star, where I need to lay in bed and watch TV and nuzzle my husband's chest. But my brain feels it needs to set me up with some handy anxiety-riddled excuses, so whatever. I can deal with that and, for the most part, I can manage it. But the other rules, the ones that say "you aren't allowed those days, those months, because the world doesn't care about you and your particular angst and the people who succeed are those who push through every day with strength, grace, and intelligence and do everything perfectly", sure, they're really mean, but I believe them. I don't necessarily think that everyone who has ever succeeded was perfect, did not struggle, did not feel tormented nearly daily, did not fail, but I do think the world would like us all even more if we weren't all so human. That is what the society we have constructed demands, inhumanity, insensitivity to ourselves, and sacrifice to some imaginary greater good. It may even be that the people I admire most, consider paragons of success have not lived inhumanly and they have still come to me through the annals of history and the series of tubes that comprises our sacred Internet, but it is also true that most people I admire were not known for being happy. Many of them killed themselves. Many of them are just names used by hipsters who want to look intelligent or as allusions in vapid essays and internet arguments in this grand age of feuilletonism.
I recognize the severe strain of depression running through this post. I am aware that it is bitter, self-pitying, logically unsound. But I trust my brain. More than anything, I trust my brain, I trust my internal world, and I didn't build up this idea of the external world out of no where. My therapist focuses sometimes on how my family experience warped my thought process, but that discredits my non-family-oriented experiences. Can I say that my family has not tainted everything I do? No. They have been with me on mountains in southern France, and they have been with me as I rifled through the wares in a dusty souk. They were there when I crashed my car and when I gave that first blow job to the sounds of Seven Samurai. They were in Nashville when I couldn't find friends, they were there when I couldn't find a job in Maryland, now when I can't find money for school. They're always here, yes. But is it their fault I'm in a program that expects students to work for months without pay, while also shelling out thousands of tuition dollars? Is it their fault people are expected to spend what seems like 24 hours a day tethered to laptops and phones and tablets? Is it their fault servers get paid three dollars an hour? or that it's difficult to find competent medical care, or even a gas station clerk competent enough to locate cigarettes? I am a depressed person, but this is also a sick, depressed world, and I think I just happened to learn about that especially early and let it get me down. And when my rules conflict, with one another, with the world, with my happiness, it is only a reflection of the conflict and chaos that rule all of us.
None of that is to say, I don't want to be less depressed. There are things I can do. What are they? This post will only serve to hurt me if I do not also use it to seek happiness, solutions. (To seek solutions when I feel capable and to believe blindly in solutions to come when I feel incapable, that is a rule, too.) I could drink more water. I could eat better. I could exercise, though that's getting into the realm of idealistic. (Seth and I did take a walk yesterday, to be fair.) I could forgive myself for everything I have not completed this year and let myself tackle these tasks freshly, without the compounded guilt. I could take my vitamins every day. There is so much I could do to help myself, and normally that feeling overwhelms me. Right now it doesn't. So I can be thankful for a morning where I don't feel like killing myself right off the bat.
And now, journal my friend, I should bring this entry to an end and get some work done before the day begins in earnest. I will be 27 in 9 days.
Posted on 2013.04.24 at 08:44
I filled out a meme on i_am_an_angel
's journal. I wanted to post one for you folks to do, but I thought there could be better questions. And proper capitalization.[Here are some questions you can answer if you're bored today and want to talk about yourself]
3. Place of residence:
3a. If you are unwilling to reveal your place of residence on the internet, why? Is there a story there? Is there a macabre fantasy you can see playing out?
4. What is something that makes you happy, but about which you are embarrassed?
5. What are THREE songs and/or shows and/or movies that you listen to or watch ad nauseum?
6. What do you think about my journal? Provide at least one strength and one area that needs improvement.
7. What do you think about your journal? Provide at least one strength and one area that needs improvement.
8. What's something you reveal about yourself to new people to "test" them and determine whether they'll accept your crazy?
8a. If you don't "test" people and reveal awful and/or awkward things about yourself, why the hell not? Can you tell me how you achieved a normal brain?
9. If you were a fruit, would you be a peach or an apple? Discuss.
10. If your life were a movie, show, or song, what would it be and why?
11. What do you like best about yourself and why?
[Here are the questions I answered when I was bored and feeling like talking about myself]
1. name: Erin
2. birthday: born a stormy Friday, June 13
3. place of residence: State College, PA
4. what makes you happy: sunrises and sunsets, traveling, writing, card games, drugs
5. what are you listening to now/have listened to last: I think it was ELO, "Mr Blue Sky"
6. do you read my lj: Yes, it is how I came across this meme
7. if you do, what is particularly good/bad about it: it's pretty low-key, you don't seem like a dramatic screw up, which is cool, you seem like a good person, but we aren't very close so I can't say anything definite
8. an interesting fact about you: My tear ducts had to be massaged after I was born so that I could cry; they, like, didn't work?
9. are you in love/do you have a crush at the moment: I'm married
10. favorite place to be: somewhere different from wherever I am
11. favorite lyric: unknown
12. best time of the year: late fall, just before it gets cold and shitty enough to snow; June is also pretty good
13. tell me something you've never told me before: I haven't told you much of anything, so there's a lot of leeway here. Did you know glass doesn't "flow", contrary to the myth? There, I've almost certainly never told you that.
1. one thing you like about me: I love that you post memes and surveys, 'cause I dig this shit as much as I did when I was like 14. what, questions about me????? I have so much insight that everyone is so keen to hear!
2. two things you like about yourself: I'm pretty resilient, and that has been helpful throughout my life and I'm thankful for it. Also I like that I'm short.
3. put this in your lj so I can tell you what I think of you.
Posted on 2013.04.23 at 17:37
I just saw you will be seven years old on June 20!
We'll have to celebrate.
The following were your very first entries:[21 June 2006]Happy Summer![21 June 2006]"The master and mistress must really like you!"
"Of course they like me! Why else would they keep changing my batteries?"
From, The Brave Little Toaster cartoon.[22 June 2006]"To the Shepherd, So Cruelly Rejected by the Nymph"
I came to you, beseeched your love,
And yet my pleas could not you move.
Your mind was ll'd with Nymph's delight,
My earthly form gave you but strife.
You oer'd her the purest gold,
Posies, heart you did not withhold.
To me, mere mocking glares, disdain.
You ought to feel her harsh refrain!
In belts of straw, you swayed her hips,
But now your paramour you miss:
Youth and love do not linger long,
And her love was but empty song.
All your delights could not her move
To live with you and be your love.
Your coral clasps and amber studs
Your kirtle, cap, and ivy buds
They could not silence Philomel,
Or even charm that nightingale.
To me you turn, your eyes ablaze,
Cruelly rejected, your heart stain'd.
Your youth has pass'd, yet mine remains
I've studs, and wool, and pretty things.
But such trinkets we soon forget:
It is but love that will persist.
This is a reply to "The Nymph's Reply to the Shepherd" (Sir Walter Raleigh)
If all the world and love were young
And truth in every shepherds' tongue,
These pretty pleasures might me move
To live with thee and be thy love.
Time drives the
ocks from eld to fold
When rivers rage and rocks grow cold,
And Philomel becometh dumb;
The rest complain of cares to come.
The flowers do fade, and wanton fields
To wayward winter reckoning yields;
A honey tongue, a heart of gall,
Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall.
Thy gowns, thy shoes, they beds of roses,
Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies
Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten,
In folly ripe, in reason rotten.
Thy belt of straw and ivy buds,
Thy coral clasps and amber studs,
All these in me no means can move
To come to thee and be thy love.
But could youth last and love still breed,
Had joys no date nor age no need,
Then these delights my mind might move
To live with thee and be thy love.
And that is a reply to "The Passionate Shepherd to His Love" (Christopher Marlowe)
Come live with me and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove,
That valleys, groves, hills and elds,
Woods or steepy mountains yields.
And we will sit upon the rocks,
Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks
By shallow rivers, to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.
And I will make thee beds or roses,
And a thousand fragrant posies,
A cap of flowers and a kirtle
Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle;
A gown made of the nest wool,
Which from our pretty lambs we pull;
Fair-lined slippers for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold;
A belt of straw and ivy buds,
With coral clasps and amber studs;
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Come live with me and be my love.
The shepherd swains shall dance and sing
For thy delight each May morning;
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me and be my love.[26 June 2006]"Writer's Block"
I sleep a lot and stare
into a void, waiting on words to plunge
o my ngertips, bubble up out of clenched sts. I want
with which to occupy these impotent hands
I want to drive myself on coee and sex
on cold pizza, on words
seared onto a tattered napkin as if
by the divine hand of god
I plead with various deities
to send me my muse
I start with the more obscure ones
work my way up the celestial echelon
Tlaloc, help a sister out!
I wince: I have written
a poem about
Posted on 2013.04.22 at 06:30
Good morning, journal.
I'm attempting to approach you undramatically. I'm attempting to stop this fun house mirror in my head that converts everything into something huge, ugly, leering, hateful. Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar. Sometimes being a little late on your work is just being a little late on your work. Sometimes every word that comes out of your mouth is just the result of an aerodynamic event in response to some electrical impulses and muscle contractions. They're not daggers that pierce your heart and eyes and cunt again and again because they were stupidstupidstupidstupid and wrongwrongwrong. Mostly, no one cared or will remember what words you spoke or what you did with your time one mopey April afternoon and they'll decide what they decide about you based on factors in their lives that have nothing to do with you. And your life will go on, also sometimes having nothing to do with you. And sometimes having everything to do with you and the decisions you make for yourself. And, hey, it's okay. Responsibilities are just responsibilities. They can look, taste, and feel for all intents and purposes like massive wrought-iron crucifixes pocked and rusted and covered in the blood of millions of innocents, hung around your neck by an idiotically dainty chain that squeezes and pinches your little hairs. Sometimes, they can seem like the prizes in cereal boxes. If you collect them all and keep buying into them, something really great might happen. The next box of cereal might be the million dollar + a trip to Aruba box. The next responsibility fulfilled might just magically lead to the solution of all problems everywhere. People might crown me and shower me with flowers and shout my name and spontaneously recover from terminal illnesses just by kissing my toe. Oh, I just filled the salt shakers at work, maybe all the wars in the world will stop now. But in reality, the fulfillment of responsibilities simply leads to new responsibilities, and that is okay because that is their nature. In the way that skin cells regenerate and slough off, life is a process of regenerating and sloughing responsibilities, earning scars that never quite heal, and occasionally indulging in rich lotions, oils, and creams. Things don't need to be so disproportionate. My face and my body, simply because they are my face and my body and so are granted special consideration and space within my brain, are neither grotesquely misshapen nor the rivals of Helen of Troy or Cleopatra or (god, who is a contemporary beautiful person that's actually beautiful? I guess Cleopatra's contemporaries might have asked the same thing) or the Venus of Willendorf. And though I feel constantly clutched in a scream of terror and primal frustration surrounded by all the hungry monsters of hell, here I am, in reality, chilling at my desk beside my husband on a sherbert-skied Monday morning before I go help kids learn to talk in this, the last week of my first year of grad school. (Let's say that again, in italics and more exclamatorily: the last week of my first year of grad school!) The fun house mirrors break everything up and shatter my sense of where I am, so that I am constantly everywhere at once, every iteration of myself at once, there I am tiny and meek, and there hulking and slobbering and saying regretful things, there I am stretched languidly across the grass on a sun-dappled knoll with men in togas and cupid's wings feeding me wine and cheese and I am radiant, and there I am the world's best student, and there the worst, here not a student at all but a crying child, and there a sex-frustrated wife, to the right of that a girl of eighteen in a hotel room cringing away from a strange man who is softly, awkwardly brushing her cheek, here a bitter, frazzled waitress, and there a perky girl with cartoon-big tits smiling easily. It is not my fault I have a hard time discerning which ones are real, is it?
I wanted to catalog the past few days in this entry, but time to shower before heading into the school nears and I must draw to a close. To conclude, I love everything, I hate everything, and it doesn't matter either way, things will eventually be a'ight.
Posted on 2013.03.24 at 05:39
Good morning, journal.
Another snowstorm on its way. The perpetual winter is starting to feel surreal. I can't even say I'm particularly bothered by it anymore; it just Is, Was, and Always Will Be, these cold gray and white days. Work now. Maybe I'll be back later, journal.