All there is

Quick note: this entry is weird. I know. By the way, I got my camera back. Yeah. Already putting it to good use.

The most frustrating part of driving is having to look ahead the entire time. I drive home along a quiet country street, and at every turn I want to stare out the window at the trees and the fields. It isn't that there aren't beautiful sights ahead of me, or that I can't catch them outside of my peripheral view, but I want to stare out the windows and take in everything. I generally prefer to be a passenger to a driver. I don't want to see what's behind me or ahead of me, I want to see what is going on all around me. I let my eyes wander, and reality will snap me back and I'll realize that I've drifted out of my lane, or that there's an oncoming car. It's not that safe to be philosophical while driving.

I sit here, in the silence of this cold room (except for my cat's snoring), and feel like I'm missing part of me that makes me human. It's silly when I write that. I had this thought that I could find the Thing that Made me Human while walking down the sidewalk. As though I were a children's toy - I were missing a peg or a piece of the whole. A small, physical, brightly painted thing. And I could find it - left in a gutter or by the side of a road - and then I could be a human.

I don't know why I think of things like that. It's true though - I was driving home and caught myself watching the side walks. Wouldn't want to pass the missing puzzle piece by watching the oncoming traffic. It's my new strategy to write spasmodic journal entries. I want to write about the really strange places my mind goes. My last entry wasn't that great, and it was agony to write. I stared at the screen, wrote a sentence, deleted the sentence, and buried my face in my hands. It was wearing. I've been scrapping entries because they weren't introspective enough, or they made too much sense. I talked to the guy who writes right hand rule (has he a name? or does it not matter?) on AIM. I complained "I'm tired of writing such long entries." "So write short ones!" he replied. It's guilt, though. I feel obligated, whether or not I should.

I dreamed about bloody letters last night. I dreamed I was writing a smudged letter in red red ink. And I woke with blood oozing between my legs, and felt so terribly stupid. (I hate the word "menstruation." I don't usually complain about words, but I've never taken to "menstruation." It's just too clinical.) My brain sends me messages before I start bleeding - it's been doing this for years and I still haven't picked up on it. The day before I start bleeding, right before I fall asleep, I panic and say "How many days has it been...?" I shrug it off, and fall asleep, and wake up with my sheets soaked. Yeah, if I were practical and organized I would have a calendar. Honestly though, I'm not even conscious of today's date - let alone the date 28 days from now. I'm hurting right now, and I have been all day.

I am neither practical nor organized. Ever. My house is swirling vat of chaos - both in terms of laundry and emotions. You know, I think I rather it this way. When things are clean, the books on the shelves leer at me, and the dishes neatly stacked are just lying in wait. When things are clean, it's oppressive. I do nothing but sit very still and feel the silence and order watching me and waiting for me tip the scales and foul the equilibrium.

I'd been crying for two days straight. It's always a relief to know that there were hormones to blame for some of the tears. I'm prone to mood swings, but they'd been particularly intense lately. Almost off the register. This is a pattern I've noticed through keeping a journal. In late October, I went driving and soon couldn't see because tears were falling. I pulled into the parking lot of the True Value and left the car running and bawled and coughed and leaked fluid from every orifice on my head. I pulled myself together enough to get to the library, where I hiccoughed and wept in the company of Becca the Librarian. Next day, I realized that I had been off the charts because of hormones. It's sort of reassuring and disturbing at the same time - reassuring that it's only my body, and disturbing that just because of some chromosomes I have to suffer through mental anguish every month. It's also disturbing that it's taken me so long to figure out that most of my behaviour is strictly hormonal. I'm dense sometimes.

The other night, my father said (for no apparent reason), "It's all work, Margaret." I had been crying, he had half-heartedly tried to comfort me. He was failing. "I have to go to work tomorrow," he said. He rose to leave me - crumpled on the couch. "Life is work. Nothing but work." He wasn't telling me because I had said that it wasn't. He wasn't telling me because I was an emotional wreck, a whimpering mess. I don't even think he was speaking to me. I think he was just stating it. Just making sure that he knew, just reminding himself. He wasn't complaining, but he wasn't exalting in the statement either.

For four years now, I've learned a latin poem and recited it in competition. It's really the only activity on my highschool transcript that I'm at all proud of. (We all know I'm terrible at community service. I go to the meetings on valium.) Latin poetry - it's my opportunity to pretend to be an intellectual. I try to muster all the love for the poetry I've got. I salivate at the chance to play the nerd. It's kind of confusing - where does my feigned love of the poetry stop and my true interest begin? I've become such a good actor I've got myself fooled.

I changed the header at the top of the page. It used to say "Lazarus" in red letters, and I changed it to "After the fall" for a few very specific reasons. The easiest to talk about would be the PJ Harvey song, rope bridge crossing. "I'll be waiting. Wait through it all. Be there to catch you after the fall." It keeps with the herky jerky nonsensical biblical theme. I considered naming my first online journal "After the fall" though I had absolutely no reasons for wanting to call it that. And then there's the loss of innocence. Coming of age, giving up the halcyon days voluntarily. These past few months have been difficult and dark, and I know that there's nothing but work ahead of me.

It's worth it though. It's what makes me human, and eventually it's what's going to make me an adult, and I'm grateful for these experiences. I know that they're probably not over, and that this will drag itself on like a wounded dog for a few more miles. Eating that apple was the best thing she could do for us. Why do people blame her then? I'd thank her, if I had the chance. I read Genesis in my english class, which is part of the reason that this is on my mind. Depending on how you count, I've been stumbling out of my easy childhood into a less than easy adulthood for a year or two. Maybe that's a month or two - it depends on how you count. After the fall.

2000-02-17, I'm not really sure why I wrote this entry, but well...

before / after

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