All over this river
I think it's a trick my mind plays on myself. Every time I say "I'm going to take a break from writing of all sorts," I end up staring at editpad again. Write write write. And it's by choice too - so I suppose it's a good trick to play on myself. I start mapping out the ways I'm going to write down the things that happen to me. I still have a few reservations. There are stories that aren't mine to tell, there are stories that would be hurtful if I told them. There are stories I don't fully understand, so writing about them would be short sighted. I'd only regret it.
At any rate, I shouldn't talk about that. One of the worst thing a diarist can do is say "Something happened, but I can't talk about it here." Maybe I will eventually though. Some things need to sort themselves out. Well, the short, analysis free version goes like this: Wednesday night I had huge blustering fights with my familly that resulted in some sort of resolution. Of the non-emotional (tangible) outcome, I promised that I would no longer post bra shots online, and I might get the camera back. Maybe. On the emotional front, more ground was made.
I will talk about this later, that I promise you. The emotional outcome was interesting, though draining. I spent thursday at home, I was thoroughly exhausted. In the meanwhile, how about some lighter fare? (Like you have a choice!)
---
I woke up at one in the afternoon today to my brother shouting - "Becca is here." I had forgotten about a community service meeting. I told Becca to go away. She came upstairs and pulled off the down comforter. There was lots of shouting, and angry words were exchanged. It's the strangest thing, but all of a sudden most of my peers have developed a sense of altruism and a work ethic. We're second semester seniors, and shouldn't be giving a shit about anything. Yet, I'm the only one completely slacking off. And I'm one of the only ones who hasn't been accepted to a college, too. Backwards, isn't it?
I don't really know if Becca was so hell bent on community service, or more interested in making me suffer through three hours of valentine's cards creation. I told her the other day that she was featured in my journal: on AIM I said "Thou art featured." She said "As satan's disciple of the week?" Being sadistic makes her intensely happy.
I struggled out of bed, and dressed, and went with her to make valentine's for senior citizens. I suffered through some good will and valentine's day cheer. And felt absolutely filthy by the time I got home. I'm neurotic about bath taking - I shower twice a day - but I hadn't been able to shower compulsively this weekend. The first thing I did when I got home, with the house to myself, was draw a bath. I started taking baths over christmas break, when I read The bell jar. There's a passage where Sylvia talks, for a page and a half, about the ritual surrounding bath taking. It just occured to me that I should fish out the novel and type up the passage, but feel myself physically reel back when I think of going through that book. I just can't handle it. The passage stands out in my mind though.
She says she "doesn't know of anything a bath can't cure." When she's sad she's going to die, or when she won't see someone she loves for two weeks she takes a bath. She talks about emerging, soft and sweet as a newborn, from the water. She talks about memorizing every ceiling she's ever stretched out underneath. She talks about dissolving completely. She talks about the water being hotter than you can stand it, and edging yourself into the bath slowly until it's up to your neck. She talks about not believing in baptism, but understanding that it's something very similar. (I know I'm doing a poor job of translating it, but I can't bring myself to read that book.)
I take a lot of baths. Sometimes I wonder if it's inflation. I take so many that they don't mean anything anymore. I don't feel any different after a bath than I did before. I think that's true. You can't appreciate being clean without being filthy first. There was something about the bath this afternoon that washed everything away, including my conscious mind. I was pure id. I probably dozed off in the water. I stretched out. I used up the last of my shampoo. I climbed out, and the stereo downstairs had reached the cure song. Catch.
...she used to fall down a lot
That girl was always falling
Again and again
And I used to sometimes try to catch her
But I never even caught her nameI'm a sucker for it. I sat on the steps, wrapped in towels, and was completely out of my head. I watched the matted dust on the wood floors. In a hazy, saturday afternoon stupor, I listened to the song. I climbed downstairs and stretched out on the white couch, while my cat kneeded my stomach. I might have fallen asleep; for all practical purposes I was unconscious. At some point it occured to me that my father and brother could come back from their errands, but I don't think I cared anymore. My cat attached himself to my arm, and treated it like a scratching post. I felt like I was glowing, the insides of my head had been scrubbed out and rinsed clean.
I don't care anymore. I have nothing to lose. Nothing I do has any consequences anymore. I have no shame. How I wish those statements were true, all of the time. How much nicer my life would be if I were pure id. At least, for me it would be nicer. I don't know about anyone else, though. I have a thin ammount of civilization, and now and then it gets rubbed away with soap.
You know I even think that she smiled like you
She used to just stand there and smile
And her eyes would go all sort of far away
And stay like that for quite a while---
Honey child, honey thighs. You don't even know what you're talking about anymore, do you? Not a clue. (the only way to go.) My good, dear, and evil friend katie said to me the other day, "You have menopause!" Maybe it was "You're going through menopause!" I don't think you can contract menopause. She asked me if I vent about my friends in my journal, and it stopped me for a moment. Do I? If I do, I don't remember. (a convenient excuse...) I assured her that sentences accusing me of acting as though I have hot flashes will be the sort of thing I will write in my journal.
I want katie to start an online journal. I used to keep a list of Katrinka Saying's ("'The product is good,' quipped the engineer.") online, and I must ressurect it some time. I'm trying to convince katie to fill a diary full of katie-isms. She told becca to fill a sink full of water, put a tomato in it, and dunk her head in. Then eat the tomato. And katie could write like that. Spastic, and random, and hilarious. I think it's brilliant - who needs introspective narratives? You all need to be weirded out now and then.
My online friend laura sent me a tape the other day in the mail. I've been meaning to write about it in here for a whlie now. Laura gets a kick when I write about her here. It makes me happy, too. In addition to the tape (with that cure song on it.) she included a bunch of random stuff in it. I feel really stupid, cause I just fished through my purse looking for the letter that acompanied the random stuff. I can't find it anywhere. It was hysterical though, I was going to type it up. She had included the lens of a cd player, which she noted was "The only part of the cd player that you are expressly warned against touching." She said that she had included it so that I could get my "daily dose of bad-ass-ness by touching the lens. Do it margaret! Touch the lens! DAMN THE MAN." There was also a magnifying lens, for the scientist in me. And a skeleton earing, which is the tangible incarnation of the word "tacky." And cabbage patch underwear, "in case your butt gets really small."
You can see a picture of this booty. (Isn't it nice to know I put my digital camera to such good use? My parents should be damn proud of my photography.) I've been listening to the tape constantly.
2000-02-12, An exceedingly random and light hearted entry.
before / after archives / website / hello book / diaryland
