I don't have secrets -- you need to have people to keep from before you can define anything as hidden. And I'm running away right now. I cut my ties in Canada, in the midwest. I am trying to disappear into somebody else.
Nausea's dying down, thank god. I'm talking in circles because I don't know what I want to say. I'm getting older and I'm seeing a little more than I used to -- and that has to be enough. God, I can only hope. I'm two years late, two years behind as it is. What good's the extra degree done me? Bought me a little time. This is still a matter of buying time.
Oh, that's right. I got here -- and I haven't settled yet, so there's a vague feeling that it isn't too late yet. I could go away, still. I should go. Why am I here? Running from, running to. I don't miss them yet -- well, it's only been a few weeks, and I've always lived by the vaguest thread of the notion that if it's out of sight, it's irrelevant. Not even out of mind. Nonexistent.
I am here because I live out all my worst ideas.
At the core I still, I think, want to write. I want to live like a sentimentalist.
Well, no. I want to tell stories. To a particular person. There's a difference between that and the idea of writing, which is product. You can't tell to a void.
But I want, I want. I'm here because I can't figure out what I want, and so I started with the most basic direction: away. "I don't want to be here," and there I ran, straight across the country. Lingering because I can't stand the thought of going back. I don't know why. It isn't as if we didn't fix most of our problems --
What a lie! Even if we've mended them for now, it'll never be enough. Like a drunkard, eating emptily.* I've never felt like enough was a thing. I just don't know what I want, beyond "more than this."
Well--right now I just wish I wasn't so fucking nauseous. (Nauseated? This, I don't know, although nauseated implies an outside effect.) And I want to be safe--racking up new levels on Maslow's outdated hierarchy.
And I love you, oddly.** I wanted to say it somewhere. I haven't been telling you anything for weeks and I don't know why (I do know why: telling you things makes them real), but I love you. I'm a sentimentalist, can't be helped / tamed / whatever, and we're not the absolute best of friends and maybe this is our plateau, but hey. I -- don't know what to say, what promises to make or things to trade or compare for the sentiment. I just do. Absolutely.
I'll see about starting with effort (!!!) the day after tomorrow. Just one more day to tote the weary load, Scarlett. And someday you'll be home.
(* Like a drunkard eating, emptily. Like, a drunkard eating emptily.
See how the comma placement changes all the nuance?
** Comma placement makes no difference here; in all the ways it could be meant, I do.)
Orange hasn't dulled that much -- she's just expanded her text and started talking about things beyond the body. She's at her best when she's discussing the actual-sensual, physicality in literalisms, but her plot is shit and her character voices are bland, if generally accurate.
I just really want to stand in a kitchen with one of those painstaking little handgrinders they use for nuts, cut the ends off of each clove in a huge stack of garlic, and go to town while catching up on really shitty old shows. Like Supernatural. The Borgias. Something.
(Fuck you, Orange!!)
I don't care that they invented machines to make that shit more efficient. This is my desire.
Oh no, fuck me. I want to stay at home and ... maybe not clean but I guess somebody'd have to do it ... and cook and forcefeed people who came through the door until they (1) regret it or (2) can't move.
I'm moving into domestic nesting mode. That is what this shit is.
Memory: a soured-dry tongue, typing on stomach with laptop balanced on the laundry box, a weird arch in the neck, minifridge humming feet away. The room is a mess. I'm always a give-a-fuck-free mess when something goes wrong with the body.
And outside, the sound of a million ... frogs??? NO BIRD HAS EVER MADE A SOUND LIKE THAT, NATURE. NOR CRICKETS. THOSE ARE TOTALLY FROGS.
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no subject
I don't have secrets -- you need to have people to keep from before you can define anything as hidden. And I'm running away right now. I cut my ties in Canada, in the midwest. I am trying to disappear into somebody else.
Nausea's dying down, thank god. I'm talking in circles because I don't know what I want to say. I'm getting older and I'm seeing a little more than I used to -- and that has to be enough. God, I can only hope. I'm two years late, two years behind as it is. What good's the extra degree done me? Bought me a little time. This is still a matter of buying time.
Oh, that's right. I got here -- and I haven't settled yet, so there's a vague feeling that it isn't too late yet. I could go away, still. I should go. Why am I here? Running from, running to. I don't miss them yet -- well, it's only been a few weeks, and I've always lived by the vaguest thread of the notion that if it's out of sight, it's irrelevant. Not even out of mind. Nonexistent.
I am here because I live out all my worst ideas.
At the core I still, I think, want to write. I want to live like a sentimentalist.
Well, no. I want to tell stories. To a particular person. There's a difference between that and the idea of writing, which is product. You can't tell to a void.
But I want, I want. I'm here because I can't figure out what I want, and so I started with the most basic direction: away. "I don't want to be here," and there I ran, straight across the country. Lingering because I can't stand the thought of going back. I don't know why. It isn't as if we didn't fix most of our problems --
What a lie! Even if we've mended them for now, it'll never be enough. Like a drunkard, eating emptily.* I've never felt like enough was a thing. I just don't know what I want, beyond "more than this."
Well--right now I just wish I wasn't so fucking nauseous. (Nauseated? This, I don't know, although nauseated implies an outside effect.) And I want to be safe--racking up new levels on Maslow's outdated hierarchy.
And I love you, oddly.** I wanted to say it somewhere. I haven't been telling you anything for weeks and I don't know why (I do know why: telling you things makes them real), but I love you. I'm a sentimentalist, can't be helped / tamed / whatever, and we're not the absolute best of friends and maybe this is our plateau, but hey. I -- don't know what to say, what promises to make or things to trade or compare for the sentiment. I just do. Absolutely.
I'll see about starting with effort (!!!) the day after tomorrow. Just one more day to tote the weary load, Scarlett. And someday you'll be home.
(* Like a drunkard eating, emptily. Like, a drunkard eating emptily.
See how the comma placement changes all the nuance?
** Comma placement makes no difference here; in all the ways it could be meant, I do.)
no subject
Orange hasn't dulled that much -- she's just expanded her text and started talking about things beyond the body. She's at her best when she's discussing the actual-sensual, physicality in literalisms, but her plot is shit and her character voices are bland, if generally accurate.
I'm so mad. BE A BETTER WRITER.
no subject
(Fuck you, Orange!!)
I don't care that they invented machines to make that shit more efficient. This is my desire.
no subject
I'm moving into domestic nesting mode. That is what this shit is.
FUCK THIS, LAW SCHOOL AND WRITING IT IS.
no subject
That's really gross, and that's why we're not going there.
no subject
Memory: a soured-dry tongue, typing on stomach with laptop balanced on the laundry box, a weird arch in the neck, minifridge humming feet away. The room is a mess. I'm always a give-a-fuck-free mess when something goes wrong with the body.
And outside, the sound of a million ... frogs??? NO BIRD HAS EVER MADE A SOUND LIKE THAT, NATURE. NOR CRICKETS. THOSE ARE TOTALLY FROGS.
new otp: this state / me.
Okay, now we goin' to bed.