There's a pile of books on my floor in front of the bookshelf. Half of the bookshelf is empty where these books go. I took out all of the non-fiction women's studies books to show for my book club. It looks like an obsession with that pile and empty space, and that's only the non-fiction.
I told Andrew to warn me before I turn into Misha. Even with the splurging at used book stores and coming home with bags full, I've luckily got a long way to go. Misha status comes at having every wall taken with filled bookshelves.
I usually have two books going at once, minimum, one fiction and one non-fiction. Technically I have two more that are unfinished and on hold indefinitely.
For some reason I keep being drawn to the disturbing books even when I don't remember them that way. I reread Prozac Nation and I could feel the book pulling me down with it through I couldn't stop reading. I had to get to the end for both of us to come to a resolution.
I just reread Little Altars Everywhere. I'm rereading She's Come Undone. I read her being raped by her upstairs neighbor when she was thirteen on the bus this morning. I read him telling her that it was her fault too, him telling her that they're both bad people, him telling her that he has a gun and if she tells anyone he's killing himself and his wife and that there will be two deaths on her hands. The words are going through my head the way a song does.
The hardest part of Michael's
visit was going to bed last night. About one in the morning, after
the Vogue I went downstairs to say goodnight to him. We ended up
talking for a while and I knew if it wasn't for sleep and work I
could have stayed up all night talking to him down there. In fact,
I probably would have it I didn't have Andrew upstairs in bed.
At the risk of sounding insane, Andrew keeps the
voices away. I'm going to assume now that everyone has these kind
of voices, or at least that I'm not insane. I feel like I have 'Tetris
Syndrome' with the sounds of work. When I try to go to sleep I hear
the voices of the sales people and other co-workers in my head.
When Andrew is spooning behind me in my bed, usually
the only way I can both cuddle and fall asleep, he creates a bubble
where the voices and any other racing thoughts can't invade.
Writing the novel for Trent is having the unfortunate side effect of making me miss him. I'm used to having been able to find old friends online and get in contact again, the way I did with Michael, talk about things from the past with the benefit of being older. Whenever I think of things I want to tell him I hit that wall—he's not there to be found again.
I realized that I may have never explained who Trent is, though I've mentioned him various times so a faithful reader could probably tell he's a friend I had in Indiana, and "that guy I wrote the poem for".
We met the October I lived with my mom while working on a haunted house called Phantom Theater, made out of the old state hospital. The poem pretty well explains the rest. He was never a boyfriend though I know I wanted him to end up one. I don't know if I can say we were dating, more of that confusing terminology, but only because we never did anything that could be considered a date.
But we went to the river alone one night. We spent time at Phantom together. Maybe I can say we dated, but I prefer Izzy's idea that dating is just spending time with friends except with added expectations, so it's better not to differentiate. I think I just want to label him something so I can justify him having been an important person in my life.
I think Trent stands out so much because he was the first person to make me feel normal. With living in Maine and not having a single guy look my way, compared to being in Indiana and having more than one after me at once, on top of being shy, I never knew what to make of things. I think he was the closest I got to that casual dating thing people seem to be able to do.
Gryphon once asked me if I could change things around, would I have wanted to lose my virginity to Izzy? I told him no—which is true. I wouldn't have wanted to be that inexperienced with him. I was always embarrassed enough at my lack of experience with Izzy. I thought about who though, and if I could truly change things around, I would have wanted it to be Trent. The timing would have to stay the same—it would never have been right when I was younger living in Indiana, probably not for either of us.
These are all things I've wanted to tell him the benefit of being older now.
Speaking of Indiana boys, I remember the summer I spent going back and forth between Jason and Chris before having to choose (badly) Jason. I wish I could go back and tell myself, "You're 15 and neither one of these boys are going to be your life partner. You don't have to pick. Have them both. Have fun." I think how easy it would have been to say, "I'm dating you both, okay?"
Of course would I have listened to my advice? There's something about that age that you think everything will last forever. Well, actually it has nothing to do with age, because who says we outgrow it?
Zannah has a web site of things left to be forgotten. I'm sure I've seen a collection of perfect moments. I want to make a collection of things you would go back to tell yourself. I have advice, reassurances, and "You wouldn't believe this is the way things will turn out."
If I decide I want to attempt NaNoWriMo again next year I've remembered an old story idea I can use. Not this year though, I still have to write for Trent. I kept that idea in my head for a year so I can easily do it again.
One summer that I was visiting my mom we took a bus trip to Kansas to see her parents. Somewhere on that trip I picked up a little notebook, the first little but still as-thick notebook out there.
I think I was still in Indiana when I put the title on the first page. I don't remember where it came from but I wrote 'Pink Floyd Can't Help You Now'. I do remember Jason telling me I couldn't use that name and me saying something along the lines of 'whatever'. I started actually writing in Maine, a completely surreal thing that started on the bus trip home, but sprinkled heavily with song lyrics and poetry.
I had to be in a certain mood to write it, a certain mixture of depression, and I suppose, surrealism. In fact getting back together with one of my Indiana boys kept me too happy to write well for a while. I realize now that I could have been such the stereotypical goth in high school had I known enough to wear black clothes and makeup. I already had the moods and bad poetry.
In a high school creative writing class I reused my story idea twice, taking out all the copyrighted parts of course, both times now titled 'Last Bus, Leaving St. Louis'. The first was a 'list' poem and the second an actual piece of fiction
This year I'm doing the novel writing month with an idea that came to me one year ago, Halloween night, just missing the registration deadline. My book, 'Letters to T,...Things You'll Never See' is the story of everything I've wanted to tell Trent before and after he died.
I started the web journal to make myself write. I've called myself a writer. I've insisted that I'm not. I've decided at various times that I can at least put a sentence together better than the average person, though I have to question that each time I try to fit run-on thoughts into some kind of grammar. I've thought that the number of notebooks I'd filled should speak for themselves. So, of course, should the fact that I haven't filled any in however long it's been.
This site existed through various designs, 'hidden' behind my portfolio without a direct link, to keep them separate.
When I realized I would update more often if I could post smaller random things as I thought of them, I signed up with Blogger and happy-clicker was born. It's been overshadowing the web journal since son after. I've always thought of h-c as a cross between bareSquare and Zannah's site, hoping that I'm balancing well enough on the fine line between influence and ripping off.
Andrew registered the domains for our first Christmas. Kris is hosting, and dilinger provides nameservers. I'm not doing bad for nearly free.
My dilemma comes in as I try to expand happy-clicker into a "real" weblog, whatever that means. I think the word I'm looking for is 'standalone'. But, what dilemma? I've already decided I can't get rid of this neglected site any more than I can promise to take care of and water it every day, or even when the leaves start turning brown.
I'm getting used to having legs again.
It was the first morning this year that I could
stand and be sure my legs would hold me. A bit sore, in the generally
good way that means I did something--but did I really walk that
I have trouble convincing myself that I wasn't
lasy for the last two weeks, now that I feel better. When I'm
sick I feel like I have to justify every second or else I must
have been making it up. But I really was taken to the doctor when
I couldn't walk five steps without fear of collapsing, and before
that Jason did notice that I sounded out of breath just walking
to the kitchen.
Yes, it was real. Two whole weeks worth of real.
It's not exactly news anymore, but here's
I've been sick since New Years Eve, and it turned
out to be an inner ear infection that had me too dizzy to work
this week. By the way, (Paul), it's really mean to wave your hands
in someone's face after they tell you they're really dizzy and
already feel miserable. I was nearly crying at work from that.
I'm home on medical leave for the week, with
a drug that's supposed to make me non-dizzy but tired (and yet
one of the rare side effects is dizziness.) So I've been spending
a lot of time in bed, or curled up with my cloak in Jason's big
I thought time off seemed like the perfect opportunity
to get things done, but, who actually wants to *do* things when
they're sick? I'm eating chicken & stars - comfort food -
and potatoes, because I actually have a wonderful roomate who
gave me potatoes he cooked when I wasn't eating anything else.
Being at home all day bored has gotten to me,
since I'm not stable enough to go out by myself. I thought I could
today until I realized I feel okay because I'm at home, always
within a couple steps of somewhere safe to sit, or hold on to.
I had to go out Vogue Wednesday night though (I explained that
one of the main rules of being sick is to go get as much sympathy
as you can :) ) and went crazy not being able to dance. I know
Doug never plays that much good music on any other Wednesday night.
I just have to wonder what anyone who doesn't know me thought
of me that night, no balance, always holding on to things.
Selina asks what the plan
for Halloween is. I tell her Andrew and i are considering the
Wet Spot party, but remembering it costs money, I said there's
always the Vogue since it'd be free.
"Just because you're practically
sleeping with the DJ."
"Okay, so it's the DJ's wishful thinking."
Izzy hears about this and says, "No way!"
and says that he's much more likely to sleep with Doug due to
both of their high scores (90+%) on the gay
test. (I'll have to remember when I describe Izzy to say he's
the gayest straight boy I know.)
I took the test as I can't pass up stupid spark-type
tests -- 50% gay, much higher than the average straight girl,
but I'm sure only because there isn't a large choice of categories
(not even Selina's 'None of the above')
At least I'm not a man pretending to be a lesbian
on a women-based list... with chicken pox in weird places.