I’m the type of person convinced the exterior determines my interior. To be clear, my environment greatly influences how I feel, and what I feel controls the moment I imagine is my reality. It’s probably the reason I become consumed by my present situation; why I can’t accept it as temporary and become comforted and content that it too will pass. Because I know better. I can’t trick myself into thinking I will change—that all of a sudden, I can be the sort of person who is involved, engaged in the environment and then leaves unaffected, with no impression. When I am consumed by a time I can’t get enough of, then well, I don’t want to accept that fate either—that I will have fulfilling feelings, yet their source will be temporary and I will be left to pretend I am stronger than I am. I know this sort of attitude affects my relationships with others—I come and go. I forget nothing, but I am only present when I want to be. It’s selfish and maybe I wish I could be more available, but time consumes me and I can’t be everywhere because when I go, I want to stay until I am affected. Maybe it’s true that I have my idea of who, what, where will bring about meaning to me and off this judgment, I seek out what will impact me. I’m not good with small stuff. I fear the things I want to say are never small. But it is my insecurity that I can’t be casual from the start. It’s just what I’ve been conditioned to—the past. I always assumed everyone spoke candidly, but this year others have made me see my situations differently. Somehow others feel I allow them to say what they have thought they shouldn’t. Be it confusion, addiction, the story when it’s not decorated, filtered. I embrace this. And I don’t know what to say other than these interactions are where I see we have purpose. Whenever someone speaks, I feel as though they are letting themselves think around me. It’s all I’ve ever known or received from others. Sometimes I wish I wasn’t so bad at casuality—wasn’t “so serious”. I’m sure I would do more. And like the people outside my window, I would scream, have my voice be music to the entire city. Am I too composed? Too conscious? As much as I hate to admit because I fear dependency, all I can reason is the other brings sides of your self forth and due to the other, you can surprise yourself with your many faces. Everyone I maintain contact with affects me more than they think. They make me live in ways I wouldn’t on my own.
The messages were silly that I received. That I am distant. Have a life of my own. Too popular, and hard to reach. Does one never think of the possibilities? That silence may be the result of trying to find something of comparable value to say. That an intimidating presence was the veil protecting the self from being fully realized? That distance was not caused by the body being with some other, but actually being so very far away?
Aside from sheer procrastination, what even led into any of this rambling? My books. Right. If I were to look to the right of my environment… my bedroom…there must be three hundred books…I don’t know whether they stir sensuality within me or anxiety…reminders to always be at work, consuming lines…but whatever, to my right, a pile of books: Sartre—Being and Nothingness, Bataille—Inner Experience, Bachelard—Poetics of Reverie, Maso—Ava, Laing—Politics of Experience, Foucault—Politics of Truth, Collobert—Notebooks 1956-1978, Brown—Love’s Body, Lispector—Stream of Life, Thomas—Thinking About Memoir, Hoffman—Beyond Silence, Hamsun—Hunger, Blais—Angel of Solitude, Agualusa—The Book of Chameleons, Cartarescu—Nostalgia, Le Clezio—The Interrogation, Barthes—The Pleasure of the Text, Tabucchi—It’s Getting Later All the Time. And that is only a single pile, but still does it say something about me? What I am bringing in, what is coding my mind, what I want to be effected by? Could it be why I lack imagination? I slept with a guy, woke to him acting like we had been a couple for a year, took me by complete surprise, he left for work, I dreamt like nothing had happened, woke with a missed call from him, messages during the day, very taken aback, phone call after work, he said he had read my writing, where? how? what!, in your bedroom, framed by the door, oh no that was terribly depressing highschool dramatics, no it wasn’t but then I went on the internet and saw you had a blog…very interesting…I’ve never been one to read, but that shouldn’t matter.
The line really put me on pause. I hadn’t thought of it like that. Maybe what I did didn’t matter, but still if it was so much of what my daily life revolved around, shouldn’t we somehow even share a liking for words? It ended up being an interesting string of events. My sister met him, unintentionally, and proceeded to tell my mom her judgments and say she wouldn’t take my word on any of my relations. But I thought she was missing the point—their purpose. Two people don’t have to end up in a serious relationship to qualify the time as worthy, substantial. But, of course, this doesn’t make much sense to someone who wasn't wanting or hoping for something from sex, other than the sex and/or a continuous series of phone calls after. For me what is important is discovering something within the moment. Taking something from the time—it prevents me from regretting anything either. Maybe I was always trying to write a story based on someone, around us. The guy I am referring to isn’t my match, but was that even what I was looking for? My desire for him forced me to be more aggressive, upfront. He showed me how simple a night could be—ice cream and a movie. Something I haven’t let myself indulge in…together. When I saw he had put all 20 sticks into the perfume oil, he confirmed that foolishness really can be charming. Sure maybe our conversations weren’t intimate or “deep”, but then again, I’ve never slept closer to another body in my life. Maybe he’ll never tell me about this “relationship” he is in, but maybe we all are entitled to our weaknesses. Like when we were separating on the street, and I said something about his Levis, and he said he wanted to skip work because he thought knowing his jeans meant I was beginning to know him. And he liked that, and I only liked to watch someone get dressed, and well, that’s when I saw he wore Levis. I think some people aren’t satisfied unless they receive everything. They can’t frame the fragments. I might not be getting into Graduate School, so maybe I’ve fallen short of my dream, and sure I haven’t been able to write in months, but I still have what I’ve written. And what I’ve written is not a result of a dream, but the people I know…references to them dropped in places to fill stories with color, so the fragments mean something beyond themselves. My sister may have felt otherwise about him, but maybe even twins look to others to fulfill different places, of they do. And for me, his memory can be traced through at least four pieces. Pieces that maybe didn’t get me into Graduate School, but got me closer to my dream.
I wonder whether any situation will ever leave me feeling light?
The messages were silly that I received. That I am distant. Have a life of my own. Too popular, and hard to reach. Does one never think of the possibilities? That silence may be the result of trying to find something of comparable value to say. That an intimidating presence was the veil protecting the self from being fully realized? That distance was not caused by the body being with some other, but actually being so very far away?
Aside from sheer procrastination, what even led into any of this rambling? My books. Right. If I were to look to the right of my environment… my bedroom…there must be three hundred books…I don’t know whether they stir sensuality within me or anxiety…reminders to always be at work, consuming lines…but whatever, to my right, a pile of books: Sartre—Being and Nothingness, Bataille—Inner Experience, Bachelard—Poetics of Reverie, Maso—Ava, Laing—Politics of Experience, Foucault—Politics of Truth, Collobert—Notebooks 1956-1978, Brown—Love’s Body, Lispector—Stream of Life, Thomas—Thinking About Memoir, Hoffman—Beyond Silence, Hamsun—Hunger, Blais—Angel of Solitude, Agualusa—The Book of Chameleons, Cartarescu—Nostalgia, Le Clezio—The Interrogation, Barthes—The Pleasure of the Text, Tabucchi—It’s Getting Later All the Time. And that is only a single pile, but still does it say something about me? What I am bringing in, what is coding my mind, what I want to be effected by? Could it be why I lack imagination? I slept with a guy, woke to him acting like we had been a couple for a year, took me by complete surprise, he left for work, I dreamt like nothing had happened, woke with a missed call from him, messages during the day, very taken aback, phone call after work, he said he had read my writing, where? how? what!, in your bedroom, framed by the door, oh no that was terribly depressing highschool dramatics, no it wasn’t but then I went on the internet and saw you had a blog…very interesting…I’ve never been one to read, but that shouldn’t matter.
The line really put me on pause. I hadn’t thought of it like that. Maybe what I did didn’t matter, but still if it was so much of what my daily life revolved around, shouldn’t we somehow even share a liking for words? It ended up being an interesting string of events. My sister met him, unintentionally, and proceeded to tell my mom her judgments and say she wouldn’t take my word on any of my relations. But I thought she was missing the point—their purpose. Two people don’t have to end up in a serious relationship to qualify the time as worthy, substantial. But, of course, this doesn’t make much sense to someone who wasn't wanting or hoping for something from sex, other than the sex and/or a continuous series of phone calls after. For me what is important is discovering something within the moment. Taking something from the time—it prevents me from regretting anything either. Maybe I was always trying to write a story based on someone, around us. The guy I am referring to isn’t my match, but was that even what I was looking for? My desire for him forced me to be more aggressive, upfront. He showed me how simple a night could be—ice cream and a movie. Something I haven’t let myself indulge in…together. When I saw he had put all 20 sticks into the perfume oil, he confirmed that foolishness really can be charming. Sure maybe our conversations weren’t intimate or “deep”, but then again, I’ve never slept closer to another body in my life. Maybe he’ll never tell me about this “relationship” he is in, but maybe we all are entitled to our weaknesses. Like when we were separating on the street, and I said something about his Levis, and he said he wanted to skip work because he thought knowing his jeans meant I was beginning to know him. And he liked that, and I only liked to watch someone get dressed, and well, that’s when I saw he wore Levis. I think some people aren’t satisfied unless they receive everything. They can’t frame the fragments. I might not be getting into Graduate School, so maybe I’ve fallen short of my dream, and sure I haven’t been able to write in months, but I still have what I’ve written. And what I’ve written is not a result of a dream, but the people I know…references to them dropped in places to fill stories with color, so the fragments mean something beyond themselves. My sister may have felt otherwise about him, but maybe even twins look to others to fulfill different places, of they do. And for me, his memory can be traced through at least four pieces. Pieces that maybe didn’t get me into Graduate School, but got me closer to my dream.
I wonder whether any situation will ever leave me feeling light?
Canopied Purity
With head risen
Tongue traces meaning loosely
Dangling above masculinity.
Somehow you
Follow my feminine gesture
Wipe my lips and say,“I feel tired, too.”
Try to fall away from each other
And can’t.
Instead hopelessly bring our selves
Closer to coming into darkness.
Curling toes
In hand,
Your grasp makes me
Too wounded to move.
Skin smothering skin
I hope to give
Weight to this lightness
Breath, a calamitous cushion.
Fingers insane on my skin
Become mad in the middle.
I am too dreamless to be here.
But“We need each other now.”
Your lips pushing apart mine
Keep me from going
Make me watch downward.
Before taking your body from mine
You press deeper
Deceiving skin’s opacity
Obscuring shallowness.
Will we be thought pure
If we seem
Intimate at eye level,
I think this is the hope.
Posts
3 comments:
After reading this, I don't feel alone in my thoughts. Everything you expressed in your writing I can relate to(except for the twin thing).You are very talented and will go far!
I'm quite thankful for your comment. Often when I write that I want to be more honest, I mean I want to write my thoughts out - the repetition, the doubt, consciousness standing in for the analyst. But ultimately, I hold back wanting to protect readers from the tedious unraveling of the mind.
However, when it is all said and done, we all - more than anything - can relate to the digressions and feel comforted and closer to others when they indulge us in their secret chamber of interiority.
So point blank, thank you for commenting. It encourages me and importantly, reminds me that this writing must be for myself and I cannot be afraid of how dull or idealistic I am at one time or another. I'm glad it helped you.
PS: If you haven't come across Anais Nin, try to pick up one of her diaries. Then glimpse at her novels. She is a wonderful example that diaries are the origin of fiction and that, diaries are often better than fiction for fiction too often masks the authentic expression and silences a story's pulse - the very elements that remind us that we are all human.
Enjoy,
Chelsea.
eh! C.M. (i'm canadian)
i just saw the "Youth Without Youth" (film)2007 and i loved it. not sure if yea saw it? it made me think of you and your blog. the mirror ref. and Dual Tim Roth's f&^cking great :) - i was disappointed for Francis Ford Coppola, the film not being well recieved, go figure? poor bastard... you came to mind as well as Mircea Eliade, just thought i tell you, not sure if matters or means anything? just a feeling i felt like expressing.
rb
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