11/27/09
snot.
ok. snot is not taboo. it's just disgusting. snot makes me GAG. just thinking about it. in fact, i was just discussing it with nina the other day. snot makes me gag. the word mucus is one of the most disgusting words i can think of. one of. and hocking loogies. sick to my stomach just thinking about it.
or launching snot rockets. omg. hilarious, but gag. the words are funny. seeing someone do it, or even hearing someone do it, gag.
i yell at ever for doing it in the shower. because he totally does. and it is disgusting. and kit and i both saw the same person do it the other day. we didn't see each other, weren't aware of each other in any way. but we both saw the same thing: lady. caterer. apron and all. walking up a ramp out of the hospital loading dock. bags of food, presumably, in her hands. more accurately, hanging from her wrists. and then, out of the blue, in the middle of the street. in the public street. fucking snot rocket. and one wasn't enough. there was more than one.
i just stared in awe, trying not to throw up. and kit said she actually might have thrown up in her mouth a little.
snot. seriously nasty. and nina says that boogers are also completely lost on me. i've never been a nose picker. ever. i always use a tissue that is drawn to a point to get at them. and if i absolutely must, and cannot get at it with my 'tool', then i will pick. deposit into tissue, and immediately wash my hands. and be grossed out that i had to do it at all.
i'm a picker. don't get me wrong. i could spend an hour picking at my skin. and growing up, i was THE scab picker. so gross. but a confession nonetheless. but never never ever a nose picker.
why do i have to go on for a full page about this? am i done yet?
this topic makes me queasy. i'd so much rather be writing about other topics. even writing about sex in explicit graphic terms would be better than this.
know what i hate most about snot? having to deal with it as it runs down your nose/onto the place just under your nose where someone might be able to see it. i bike. alot. and it's cold here. even when it's not cold at all, biking makes my nose run profusely. my body loves to make snot. maybe because it knows just how much i hate it.
i blow my nose every single day of my life. once right when i wake up. once right when i'm out of the shower. once after i put in my contacts if i decide to wear them. once when i get inside, after a ride or a walk in the weather. and again when i'm home again. and at random other times. but those times, without exception. and i blow my nose loudly. like an old man would, into his handkerchief.
in the winter time, or when i'm sick, i carry around a roll of toilet paper with me, because my nose knows. and because anyone who blows their nose as much as i do needs soft toilet paper. none of that cardboard shit that every public restroom has.
that's all i have to say about snot. i hate it. it makes me sick.
how it made me feel to write about it, and then read it: i guess i kinda wrote that out as i did it.
other unmentionables: for me, just sex. don't want to talk about it, write about it, use actual words to discuss it. i make up code words for anything sexual, and then refer to them in writing only as that thing.
rtw 4.
11/27/09
this is about the first time that words profoundly affected me.
i was young. but, at least 11. i know this wasn't the beginning of my love of words, but it was the first time that i remember being moved to tears by a book.
i don't remember now where i even got the book. it was called 'alex: the life of a child'. it was about this little girl who had a terminal illness. what was it? not ms. i wish i could remember. it will come to me. her lungs filled with fluid and she died, very very young.
anyways, i still have this book. i toyed with the idea of re-reading it recently, since apparently that is the mood i've been in. but i wasn't in the mood to cry the day i was studying the bookshelf, so i skipped it.
all i remember is that the little girl died in the end of the book. of course the book was about her life, it was about everything she went through during her medical treatments.
i don't know if it was st jude's or march of dimes book or what, but it was a book that was meant to move you to tears with the story of this little girl. so much so, that you would donate to the people who helped kids like little alex.
i want to say that it was told from her father's perspective; that he wrote it. and i know that i have not read this again since, so it's fair to say that this book left a lasting impression. these are my memories from over 21 years ago. and my memory sucks to say the least, so the fact that i remember any of this at all is a feat.
i remember reading, and fully understanding from the very beginning that this tiny sick little girl was going to die by the end of the book. whether it was written or not. and i even want to say that it was written out, right there in the beginning. and that the story was written from her death, backwards.
in any case, there it is. the first book that i remember as one that made me cry.
at 11, i must've been in, what? fourth grade? most likely. and for whatever other reason that this thing keeps coming up, it was when we had just moved into our new house, in our new neighborhood. in an effort to start over as a family. as a family who needed to move past tragedy and start fresh. but certainly the sadness that i'd been surrounded by for the year or two before, it gave the book even more gravity.
and, while on this subject, i should also add that just before this time, i was encouraged to write a book about my brother by my elementary school guidance counselor, ms tharp. how i loved and adored that woman. she was older then, and it makes me so sad to know that i will never see her again, for i'm sure she has long since been dead. she will never know what she meant to me, and how much she helped me, and my family as a result. she was incredible. an amazing lady.
in any case, every week i would go to her office and we'd talk about what had happened. and at a point when i guess she felt that i was ready, she had me start this story. and for all i know, it might have been the first story i ever wrote. i was in the third grade.
these two memories are forever intertwined in my mind. maybe this is why i'm visiting it so much these past few days.
because maybe this is exactly when i fell in love with writing and reading and books. and maybe this is why i'm stuck on it now. because if there is to be a rebirth, there has to be a death. and maybe i have to bury all this death, so that i can live again.
and so that i can write again.
and maybe, it's for the first time ever. to truly write about things that are not going to be about my life. because it's new to me. and i'm excited for it.
i am so tired of being so sad all the time. maybe it's just a lifetime of sadness that i kept burying. and that has been forever resurfacing. only to be shoved under again. and maybe i can't ignore it anymore. and maybe that is the key to unlocking the writer buried inside of me. who, until now, has only kept journals of her life.
this is about the first time that words profoundly affected me.
i was young. but, at least 11. i know this wasn't the beginning of my love of words, but it was the first time that i remember being moved to tears by a book.
i don't remember now where i even got the book. it was called 'alex: the life of a child'. it was about this little girl who had a terminal illness. what was it? not ms. i wish i could remember. it will come to me. her lungs filled with fluid and she died, very very young.
anyways, i still have this book. i toyed with the idea of re-reading it recently, since apparently that is the mood i've been in. but i wasn't in the mood to cry the day i was studying the bookshelf, so i skipped it.
all i remember is that the little girl died in the end of the book. of course the book was about her life, it was about everything she went through during her medical treatments.
i don't know if it was st jude's or march of dimes book or what, but it was a book that was meant to move you to tears with the story of this little girl. so much so, that you would donate to the people who helped kids like little alex.
i want to say that it was told from her father's perspective; that he wrote it. and i know that i have not read this again since, so it's fair to say that this book left a lasting impression. these are my memories from over 21 years ago. and my memory sucks to say the least, so the fact that i remember any of this at all is a feat.
i remember reading, and fully understanding from the very beginning that this tiny sick little girl was going to die by the end of the book. whether it was written or not. and i even want to say that it was written out, right there in the beginning. and that the story was written from her death, backwards.
in any case, there it is. the first book that i remember as one that made me cry.
at 11, i must've been in, what? fourth grade? most likely. and for whatever other reason that this thing keeps coming up, it was when we had just moved into our new house, in our new neighborhood. in an effort to start over as a family. as a family who needed to move past tragedy and start fresh. but certainly the sadness that i'd been surrounded by for the year or two before, it gave the book even more gravity.
and, while on this subject, i should also add that just before this time, i was encouraged to write a book about my brother by my elementary school guidance counselor, ms tharp. how i loved and adored that woman. she was older then, and it makes me so sad to know that i will never see her again, for i'm sure she has long since been dead. she will never know what she meant to me, and how much she helped me, and my family as a result. she was incredible. an amazing lady.
in any case, every week i would go to her office and we'd talk about what had happened. and at a point when i guess she felt that i was ready, she had me start this story. and for all i know, it might have been the first story i ever wrote. i was in the third grade.
these two memories are forever intertwined in my mind. maybe this is why i'm visiting it so much these past few days.
because maybe this is exactly when i fell in love with writing and reading and books. and maybe this is why i'm stuck on it now. because if there is to be a rebirth, there has to be a death. and maybe i have to bury all this death, so that i can live again.
and so that i can write again.
and maybe, it's for the first time ever. to truly write about things that are not going to be about my life. because it's new to me. and i'm excited for it.
i am so tired of being so sad all the time. maybe it's just a lifetime of sadness that i kept burying. and that has been forever resurfacing. only to be shoved under again. and maybe i can't ignore it anymore. and maybe that is the key to unlocking the writer buried inside of me. who, until now, has only kept journals of her life.
manic. and a letter to future self. nov 27th.
it makes perfect, complete, and total sense that i am apparently making up for lost time. the writing i should do in one week, i do in one day.
manic. it sucks to be so highly aware of it. how can i be completely silent for about two years, pick up a blank journal and have my way with it, then start a blog one random day? i think there were 80-something posts that first day, bc it had to be done all at once. just like now. if i was posting these in real time, for the virtual world to see, i'd have 6 posts in one day. RIDICULOUS. or, i prefer to think, inspired.
i would also like to delve into something here for just a minute.
see, i do this thing. i always did in my past other life. there's one boy. and he's all i can think about/breathe/do etc. and since i decided one day that it was ok to daydream, there have been.... i think five? correction: four.
first month or two, solid: boy one. next month boy two. boy two was inspired by a communication inititated by him. boy three was incidental to my real life. and four. well, four is a different ball of wax.
came in a dream. possibly inspired by a conversation with nina, but possibly not. and now, a line of communication initiated by me. flirting with mental disaster. but also flirting with the ultimate in inspiration.
stop it. stop it right now. this is not a good idea. this is not allowed.
wishing myself to hold hands with boy one and show him heima and play all of my music for him, beginning with the year when we stopped hanging out. for like ever, all night. awake drinking wine the way we used to be, more than one night in a row if time allowed - only kissing him once and for all. just to see what i was even missing out on for all those years.
and thinking that boy two had this desire to come to me. and show up on my doorstep one day. and ask me to run away with him. and thinking that i'd allow myself, if only for a few hours, to run away and see how that made me feel.
and, finally, wishing myself to be pushed into a dark space and get good and kissed by boys three and four. four is completely off limits. completely. well, all of them are. but four is, for a different reason.
all of this is unacceptable. so why do i do it? and why i have i let my mind wander here in the past?
maybe it also (manic) falls into line with the phases where i delude myself into thinking that i don't need sleep. or that i don't need as much sleep. and that it's ok to be up all night writing, or typing. scribbling my mad thoughts furiously in an attempt to not forget. holiday weekend lends encouragement.
maybe it's because the depressive phases last so fucking long, in comparison. that when i wake up one day and think 'i feel like writing today' or 'it's a beautiful day' or 'i've been meaning to read this', i do it. and then cannot make myself stop.
at least i'm able to keep typing, because if i was actually writing, my hand would've permanently cramped a long long time ago.
you really can't help when inspiration strikes. knowing that two books are on their way to me, that one has already arrived, and that two were discovered on my bookshelf, it only means that i sense some sleepless nights ahead. maybe i can write five books' worth. and hope that at least a few lines are good enough to make the cut.
i wrote this letter to myself in frustration a couple nights ago:
DEAR FUTURE TEA:
are you happy? are you still sad? are you still lonely? are you still unsatisfied? are you still unkissed? are you still wanting to be alone? are you still up at night, dreaming and writing about the same fucking place in your head you dwell in? and are you still up at night, late, just before fall reminiscing?
***
is it just the weather? is it something else entirely?
manic. it sucks to be so highly aware of it. how can i be completely silent for about two years, pick up a blank journal and have my way with it, then start a blog one random day? i think there were 80-something posts that first day, bc it had to be done all at once. just like now. if i was posting these in real time, for the virtual world to see, i'd have 6 posts in one day. RIDICULOUS. or, i prefer to think, inspired.
i would also like to delve into something here for just a minute.
see, i do this thing. i always did in my past other life. there's one boy. and he's all i can think about/breathe/do etc. and since i decided one day that it was ok to daydream, there have been.... i think five? correction: four.
first month or two, solid: boy one. next month boy two. boy two was inspired by a communication inititated by him. boy three was incidental to my real life. and four. well, four is a different ball of wax.
came in a dream. possibly inspired by a conversation with nina, but possibly not. and now, a line of communication initiated by me. flirting with mental disaster. but also flirting with the ultimate in inspiration.
stop it. stop it right now. this is not a good idea. this is not allowed.
wishing myself to hold hands with boy one and show him heima and play all of my music for him, beginning with the year when we stopped hanging out. for like ever, all night. awake drinking wine the way we used to be, more than one night in a row if time allowed - only kissing him once and for all. just to see what i was even missing out on for all those years.
and thinking that boy two had this desire to come to me. and show up on my doorstep one day. and ask me to run away with him. and thinking that i'd allow myself, if only for a few hours, to run away and see how that made me feel.
and, finally, wishing myself to be pushed into a dark space and get good and kissed by boys three and four. four is completely off limits. completely. well, all of them are. but four is, for a different reason.
all of this is unacceptable. so why do i do it? and why i have i let my mind wander here in the past?
maybe it also (manic) falls into line with the phases where i delude myself into thinking that i don't need sleep. or that i don't need as much sleep. and that it's ok to be up all night writing, or typing. scribbling my mad thoughts furiously in an attempt to not forget. holiday weekend lends encouragement.
maybe it's because the depressive phases last so fucking long, in comparison. that when i wake up one day and think 'i feel like writing today' or 'it's a beautiful day' or 'i've been meaning to read this', i do it. and then cannot make myself stop.
at least i'm able to keep typing, because if i was actually writing, my hand would've permanently cramped a long long time ago.
you really can't help when inspiration strikes. knowing that two books are on their way to me, that one has already arrived, and that two were discovered on my bookshelf, it only means that i sense some sleepless nights ahead. maybe i can write five books' worth. and hope that at least a few lines are good enough to make the cut.
i wrote this letter to myself in frustration a couple nights ago:
DEAR FUTURE TEA:
are you happy? are you still sad? are you still lonely? are you still unsatisfied? are you still unkissed? are you still wanting to be alone? are you still up at night, dreaming and writing about the same fucking place in your head you dwell in? and are you still up at night, late, just before fall reminiscing?
***
is it just the weather? is it something else entirely?
rtw 3.
i don’t remember.
i don’t remember the color of your eyes anymore. only the color of his.
i don’t remember what i forgot to do today. which is always the case.
why is it that when i’m charged with ‘write i remember’ or ‘write i don’t remember’
i can only think of the opposite thing?
i don’t remember why i ever stopped going to school. i don’t remember giving up so much of what i wanted to be and become for this life. it just happened.
i don’t remember ANYTHING. which is why i write down everything. for future reference.
and i don’t remember the really amazingly good times.
and mostly don’t remember the really horribly god awful times either.
i don’t remember.
i don’t remember the names of certain places i used to go. i don’t remember what streets looked like before they looked the way they do now.
i don’t remember people’s faces when i see them. i only remember things about them that are usually blind references rarely repeated to inspire the connection. because i am the queen of pneumonic devices.
i don’t remember why i didn’t kiss you. i can’t. for the life of me. remember. something about being stubborn and not just putting my face near yours to see if you accidentally put your lips where mine were. why didn’t i? fucking a.
i don’t remember why i stopped talking to him. i don’t remember why i wouldn’t just go for that one drink.
and i don’t remember if i had a big fight with her, or a discussion, or if one day i just stopped calling. or if she did.
i don’t remember because i block things out. especially hurtful things.
i hate that my brother keeps coming up here, because it’s so dark and fucking DEPRESSING, but i know that i didn’t go to the funeral, and i can’t remember what i did instead. i know where i was, but not what i did. and i remember a lot of food at our house. and that everyone was drinking ensure shakes for like a million years afterwards, because everyone seemed to think that we all just needed to drink. because none of us felt like eating.
i don’t remember a lot of things.
i remember smells, without fail. i remember the charged feeling in the air on very specific days of the year.
but i don’t remember street names anymore. i do remember how to get places when home for a visit, most of the time. but never specifics that would enable me to give directions.
one of the most aggravating things that i can never remember is: where did i leave that shirt? where did those pants go? i mean... seriously... i’m a very modest girl. it’s not like i take my clothes off and leave them laying willy nilly at people’s houses. so where the hell have all my clothes gone? i wish i hadn’t given so many back to the goodwills that they came from. and i only know of one shirt’s destiny. i knew it when it happened. and it was verified over 10 years later. at least it was loved to death.
i don’t remember the names of some of my teachers.
i don’t remember what happened after i made big decisions.
i don’t remember my logic when i was not writing, and apparently couldn’t think my way out of some really sticky situations.
again. i don’t remember what i don’t remember.
maybe this is why i am interested in hypnosis. but at the same time, i don’t want to remember what i’ve buried. is there a way to tap only into what i want to remember, and leave forever buried what i do not?
memory is a bitch.
i don’t remember the color of your eyes anymore. only the color of his.
i don’t remember what i forgot to do today. which is always the case.
why is it that when i’m charged with ‘write i remember’ or ‘write i don’t remember’
i can only think of the opposite thing?
i don’t remember why i ever stopped going to school. i don’t remember giving up so much of what i wanted to be and become for this life. it just happened.
i don’t remember ANYTHING. which is why i write down everything. for future reference.
and i don’t remember the really amazingly good times.
and mostly don’t remember the really horribly god awful times either.
i don’t remember.
i don’t remember the names of certain places i used to go. i don’t remember what streets looked like before they looked the way they do now.
i don’t remember people’s faces when i see them. i only remember things about them that are usually blind references rarely repeated to inspire the connection. because i am the queen of pneumonic devices.
i don’t remember why i didn’t kiss you. i can’t. for the life of me. remember. something about being stubborn and not just putting my face near yours to see if you accidentally put your lips where mine were. why didn’t i? fucking a.
i don’t remember why i stopped talking to him. i don’t remember why i wouldn’t just go for that one drink.
and i don’t remember if i had a big fight with her, or a discussion, or if one day i just stopped calling. or if she did.
i don’t remember because i block things out. especially hurtful things.
i hate that my brother keeps coming up here, because it’s so dark and fucking DEPRESSING, but i know that i didn’t go to the funeral, and i can’t remember what i did instead. i know where i was, but not what i did. and i remember a lot of food at our house. and that everyone was drinking ensure shakes for like a million years afterwards, because everyone seemed to think that we all just needed to drink. because none of us felt like eating.
i don’t remember a lot of things.
i remember smells, without fail. i remember the charged feeling in the air on very specific days of the year.
but i don’t remember street names anymore. i do remember how to get places when home for a visit, most of the time. but never specifics that would enable me to give directions.
one of the most aggravating things that i can never remember is: where did i leave that shirt? where did those pants go? i mean... seriously... i’m a very modest girl. it’s not like i take my clothes off and leave them laying willy nilly at people’s houses. so where the hell have all my clothes gone? i wish i hadn’t given so many back to the goodwills that they came from. and i only know of one shirt’s destiny. i knew it when it happened. and it was verified over 10 years later. at least it was loved to death.
i don’t remember the names of some of my teachers.
i don’t remember what happened after i made big decisions.
i don’t remember my logic when i was not writing, and apparently couldn’t think my way out of some really sticky situations.
again. i don’t remember what i don’t remember.
maybe this is why i am interested in hypnosis. but at the same time, i don’t want to remember what i’ve buried. is there a way to tap only into what i want to remember, and leave forever buried what i do not?
memory is a bitch.
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