Almost Christmas . . . Yecch

Boo Christmas
I’m soo not in the Mood
Watching West Wing
Smoking
Trying to Finish up some Paintings
Going to Steph’s?
11:30 am
December 24, 2004

Almost Christmas. . Yecch.

The time of brotherly love, goodwill towards men, and rappant commercial capitalism is upon us. Last night we went to a Christmas party, and it was lovely.

Joni and Beauford are friends of Diane’s that we know. Truly sweet sweet people. Christmas margaritas, venison sausage, dove breast, cheese spread, artichoke spread. They had a chiminera outside with chairs, and hand made shawls on every chair for all those that came out to enjoy the view, air, or lack of drunk people. Country Christmas carols, a room called the “Cowboy Room” and lots of good stories and laughter. Beauford used to be a cowboy. Real, honest to goodness bronc buster. Pretty hot right?

After that, Eric came over and we sat up late talking. It’s really nice to be completely honest with someone, someone who know you so well, and also knew you so well back in the day. We decided that we need to have transcripts of our conversations: we come up with some pretty profound shit. He agreed with me that I’ll probably end up being in a very “Dharma and Greg” relationship eventually, but that Dharma and Greg is stupid show. We of course talked of the Bi-Partisan Clash, and Tall Blond Bio-Chemists. And I think that I’ve finally come to terms with all that.

I wish Steph would call.

I’m supposed to go out to her house, and see her brand new kitchen, but she’s not picking up her phone. Her and Dan are having issues. Seems that he doesn’t fight in a way that’s at all constructive to their relationship. He just wants to make his point, and in the meantime, invalidates her feelings. He doesn’t understand that the point of fighting, at least the type of fighting that doesn’t end in hurt and dispair, is fighting over substantial issues – no things – and eventually ending. Everyone makes their feelings heard, both parties think about how the other must be feeling, and since you know each other so well, it’s not hard to do. Then we all apologize, take away what we’ve learned so we don’t mess up again, and move on with our lives. She says he does that thing where he does nice things for, supposedly because he loves her, cares about her, and that’s what you do for people you care about. But while that may be his original intent, when their fighting, he brings up all the kind acts he’s performed as of late and uses them for fodder in their battles. And that’s just not cool.

To be honest, I haven’t spoken to Dan at all, and I doubt I will, but I know Steph and I can see that she’s unhappy. And more then anything, Steph will go to any lengths to be “happy.” I see that she loves Dan, cares about him, and would like him to be a part of her life forever, but she isn’t going to join a union in which both parties will be miserable, or at least not that elusive happiness. At this point, it doesn’t appear as if he’s on the same emotional level as Steph, and she’s therefore not emotionally satisfied.

Advice was dolled out, drinks we drank, shots we downed, and we both left feeling much better and much drunker at 3:00 in the afternoon.

Hooray for country living.
Time for pie and coffee, then back to painting.

I love the way I’m acting like that’s this huge big pain in the ass. “Oh God, this sucks, I’ve got to, what? Paint all day? Fuck!”

We all know I live for this.
Hooray for country living, boo for real deadlines on my creativity.

Sheer Space

My Amazing Purple Stool
My Room
Getting Ready to go out with My Daddy
6:06 pm
December 23, 2004

Sheer Space

Sometimes, when I’ve spent the day in the vast expanse of money and Jesus that is Tyler, the weather channel is a scary thing.
Let me be specific: when I watch the nation-wide coverage, it gives me the heebie-jebbies.
I live there? It’s really that cold?
But look – that right there, in the nice 65 degree, green sunny place, that’s where I am now. Huh? My real life is way up there in the white? I’m not sure how I feel about that. Do I really have to leave my land of weed and honey, journey to the frozen north? Sludge through snow, sleet, all for some measly education? Why, God, why?

“But who doesn’t want to sleep in my pants? I mean, obviously.” Me, to Eric

“according to our gallop poll. . “

Stupid Zales Commercials

My Room, of course
Watching West Wing
About to meet Steph at the Dog
Thinking about Christmas
11:51 am
December 23, 2004

Stupid Zales Commercials

So, I’m sitting here, putting on the needed precautions for leaving the house in Tyler, when a Zales commercial. In this ridiculous piece of advertising, a woman is given a beautiful tennis bracelet, marketed at a mere $499, basketed in a snowball, followed by this cute couple cuddling in the snow.
My first reaction was, damn, that bracelet’s really beautiful, but does she really have the life style that’s going to allow her to wear that bracelet more then once or twice a year?
I realized that, at that specific moment, what I wanted, was not the loving relationship presented therein, but I wanted that in the context of a lifestyle that would allow me to wear all that nice jewlry on a regular basis. I mean, because if you watch TV at all, the only thing to get the women you love is, of course, jewelry.

So, good times here. I’m meeting Step pretty soon. Step, for those of you who don’t know, is one of my dearest friends. She was a bartender at the Dog when I first started working there, age 15, and she let me barback for her. Not only did I learn to bartend, but she never treated me like I was so comparatively young. We’ve been friends ever since. We go camping together, hang out, and hold girly sleep overs where we sit in the Jacuzzi, drink wine, and attempt to resolve all our life issues.
Steph’s 24, and the man she’s engaged in is 52, and I’m supposed to be a bridesmaid in their wedding. Don’t get me wrong, I love Dan. I think he’s great. He’s got his life mostly figured out, or at least has a solid handle on it most of the time. He’s a pilot, owns his own house, and adores Steph.
But, as my Dad tells me, there might not be wedding bells in the future. So, of course, Steph and I are meeting and we’ll talk, solve all our problems, fix the universe and everything.
I’m in a strange state. Have been since Monday, and my bi-partisan clash, and I thinking talking to Steph will be a dose of well needed medecin.

I know that part of what’s wrong is I’m feeling the stress of Christmas.
I feel bad about the lack of gifts I have to give.
Yet, I don’t really feel like painting.
I have no “spirit” of Christmas, what ever the hell that means.
Oh, and I have all this drainage and wet, sticky cough.

Honestly, I have so much painting to do. I think that this strange, pseudo-religious pressure I feel to buy buy buy give give give is interfering with my creative abilities.

And, I’m feeling mildly apathetic about my birthday too, which is inifinitely stranger. I’m usually a freak when it comes to brithday’s, at least other people’s, but I’m not feeling the urge to cause a raucous over my own. Maybe that’s just it: I personally don’t have it in me to do it myself. I need a friend like me, I guess.
Damn, I need to remember: never watch stupid wedding/love related crap on TLC. I’m watching a show called “Perfect Proposals;” I’ll let you fill on the blanks. I guess in theory, it’s a sweet thing. This guys care enough about how they propose to not only plan and stress, but to get the aid of a mega corportation to perform this giant spectacle that will not only go down in memory, but will be shared with millions of Americans. I’m not sure what that says about love, but I bet it says something nice.
I wonder what the stastics are on divorce amongst people who are on marriage related TLC shows. That would be interesting to know.
Lord God almighty – I simply can’t stand one more minute of mind-numbing love-engorged television.
So, I’m off to capture a salad at the Dog.

We Can't Pick Where Home Is

My Room
Watching “A River Runs Through It” in honor of Chez Maclean
About to Jump into the Lion’s Mouth
Christmas Shopping = boo
So, duh. Smoking a bowl.
1:10 pm
Friday, December 17, 2004

We can’t pick where home is.

As Kenneth put it, I was vagabond for the days before my homecoming – living out of my car, sleeping on couches, surviving on cigarettes, liquor, and bottled water. Come Wednesday afternoon, I was ready for my domain.

I called Dad Tuesday, and he shared with me some wholly wonderful news: before going home, I should stop in Dallas and partake in the tamale making festivities. And oh did I ever. I of course, walked in, ate, and promptly took a nap. Damn, grandparents are awesome.

Fast-forward to almost home. The drive has been uneventful – no new revelations, lack of total absorbtion in any one train of thought. Yet, when I turned onto State Highway 110, I couldn’t deny that I was home. The fields opened up, the road curved through the dark pines as I realized that this piece of land is the place that calls to me. Says, come back, come be at peace, come home.

And then I drove into Tyler, and realized, Damn, This Place is Fucked Up. I called Lauren to have someone else reaffirm this realization. Tyler Lee won state, 5A High School Championship for Football, which everyone here took as solid proof that Tyler is not only the greatest place on earth, but the best people on earth come out of it. [Let the records show, I give Less Then A Fuck.] Lauren an I lamented the strangness of Tylerites, while I yelled at them for their piss-poor driving, winding my way around the Loop until I hit the country roads again.

And now I’m here. Turns out my Dad keeps less food in the house then I keep in my college dorm. Yea, it’s pretty funny. But, we’ve gotten Special K Red Berries and soy milk, so I’ll survive.

I decided that the perfect way to acclimate myself back to Tyler traditions, was to make a voyage to our local bastion of commercial foodstuffs: Brookshires. Oh glorious store with your huge aisles and well labeled sections. Oh land of the cute grocerty clerks who actually, not shitting you, carry your groceries to your car. It seems I had forgotten the grand ceremony of life Grocery Shopping is for southerners, especially the East Texan kind.

People don’t just go to grocery store, it’s an event that has with it it’s own rules. You shouldn’t go to Brookshires in your PJ’s, hungover, looking like you haven’t had a good night’s sleep in about 5 weeks, because that is when 54 people you know, or at least went to school with at some point, are going to suddenly take a very excited interest in your life.

Not that this what I did, but you get the point.

As I walk around, jamming with Keller on the iPod, I see no less then two joyous reunions amongst the produce.

Now, I’m all for reuniting with lost friends, lovers, pets, cars, beds – we all know I enjoy familiarity, but this is not that. This is running into that kid from middle school that you kinda talked to, never knew very well, but was always around. Nothing wrong, nice guy, but you probably don’t remember more then his name, and one random disconnected fact that was somehow vitally important for about 8 seconds in the 7th grade. Now imagine everybody you ever had this sort relationship with, all in on shopping establishment. True, one well lite, clean, shopping establishment, but none the less. Do you really want to stop and chitchat with all these people, when in the end, neither of you really, truly care? I think not.

And imagine all the times it’s not someone to whom you had such an inoccusous relationationship. Shiver.

My personal journey was not that traumatic, interesting or exciting, but it serves as the perfect microcosm of Tyler sociology. It is virtually impossible to not constantly run into people you know, kind of know, used to know, know of and dislike, knew through a friend, knew back in the day, et cetera, ad infinitum.

I may have escaped Brookshires scath free, but that's about it.
I had an encounter of the Sean Kind.

Stephanie called and asked me to go to the Laughing Dog, and I of course said yes because I refuse to live with myself if I don’t go where I want to, despite how I may run into. Thank you, Rhett Butler. And of course, when I first walk in there, Pam, Sean’s mother is there. Both being southern women, we are both adept at purposely not seeing each other, and we do this. And of course, Sean walkes in, with Jamie, the roommate. And this, honestly, wasn’t bad. It was self-empowering.
Then Rusty got involved. I’ve known Rusty for years.
I’ve known most of the people up there for years, and they me. They’ve watched me grow, been my client, and eventual friend since I was 15. The MacRae’s, Diane, Steph, Tim. Rusty and his band were playing, and of course, Rusty saw me walk in, and Diane freaks out.
So, Rusty has to make a huge announcement. Which was lovely, flattering, and pretty freaken’ awesome, except that it made being ignorant of my presence impossible.
So much for social graces.
Nothing was said, and I found the whole thing largely amusing.


And I think that’s about all I have to say for this entry. Eric, Bryan and Hafffner came over after I got back from the Dog, I’m going out with Dad tonight, and there’s possibly a gathering on Monday. But for now, I’m hungry, and Le Peep and Hitchikers Guide to the Galaxy calls my name.

So, You're Gonna become a Douche?

Eric’s Room
Yea, Still Smoking Resin
11:30 am
December 15, 2004

So, You’re Gonna become a Douche?

I’m not sure if I agree with this. Eric decided that the way to get more ass is to “adopt a homophobic frat-fuck’s attitude. Start listening to Nickle back, Lincoln park, some shitty ass songs. God-damn those dudes suck, but most of them do it and fuck hot chicks.”

"So, you're going to become a giant douche?"

I hope that this isn’t the state of the world we’re in.

Hooray for sitting up and talking to friends.
I’m not alone in the world.

Maybe I Should Have Known Better

Eric’s Room
Hiccupping
Fuck, This sucks.
Only 12:02 pm
Wednesday, December 15, 2004

Maybe I should Have Known Better

I wish I was warm and cuddled somewhere.
Then, maybe, I wouldn’t be suffering this misery that is being alone.

No matter what I say, I always hope it’ll end up better then this, while never honestly counting on much more. No matter what I wish for, I somehow always am left with this.

Incomplete good-byes.
Shifting focus.
Never settled goals.
Unrealized dreams.
Unfinished tasks.

When did I become the road not taken?

And I’m not sure I’m alright with that. Maybe I’m not the crème du jour, but I still deserve validation in my own right. Do I feel less qualified because I haven’t received my physical/mental cum-up-pence that I deserve? Or is that the cause of the funk?

Let’s not lie to ourselves: If the world I lived in mentally existed physically to the degree I wish it so, then I probably wouldn’t be so isolated.

As it turns out . .
I’m not worth that much.
I’m not worth caring about, second time around.
No matter how I convince myself otherwise.

Damn, coming to terms with your own apparent mediocrity, is immensely sadder then realizing you can’t connect with the people around you, no matter how hard you try.

Je suis a Chez Moi?

Je suis à Chez Moi?

Eric’s House
Smokin’ the Resin
“Cus we’re heads for one,
For two, my personal stash and my friend’s stash ran out.
Had I any other, It’d be devoted to you.”
Worried about Tall BioChemistists
Fuck.
Waco, Texas
11:11 pm
Tuesday, December 14, 2004

Je suis à Chez Moi?

Wow. So, I’m here.
Adam may be coming.
How do I feel, I don’t know.
Am I drunk?
Possibly.
Oh, in case you’re wondering: yes.
Yes? I still having feelings for him.


Oh, and Rebecca. I’d really appreciate it if you’d quit reading my blog. More importantly, I’d wish you’d stop taking my blog and using it as a weapon of diverson, trying to start shit between me and dad. He knows. I talk to him at least every two days.

When he read my blog about how I got swamped with lesbians, his first thoughts was, “Were they at least attractive lesbians?”
“Yes. It was lovely. I’ll tell you about it tomorrow.”

So, when you said you were going to keep your noise out of my business, you meant except for going where you’re explicitly not wanted? Reading my blog eh? And sending it to Dad? Oh you’re sneaky. Did you think we wouldn’t talk about it?

I love the way I’m “You’re Daugheter,” when you call Dad, while Dad refers to you as, “My mother.” Dad at least give me my own independent being.

Look, please stop reading my blog. I’d really appreciate it.
Or, at least stop reading my blog and mailing it to Dad because you hope that he’d feel as outraged, incensed as you, and therefore justify your self-worth. Just Quit.

If you want to know, just ask.
But don’t be surprised with the response.

Again, as always. You take me out of context.


Oh, for the rest of you: I’m in Texas. And I love it.
Oh, but those Tall Tall Bio-Chemistists.
Do you remember?

I know there was dramas we won’t discuss here; I would never be so rude. But the point remains: I still care about him. As far as I can tell, I haven’t crossed any social boundaries, and seriously, neither has he.

I understand. And I don’t hold it against you.

[Point in fact: I just busted out my one-hitter. And everyone thought it was a cigarette.
“You totally out witted me.”] I’m not quite sure who, or what I out-witted, but something, somewhere was defiantly out-witted.

And, bio-chemists still don’t call.
Maybe I shouldn’t like biochemists at all?
I don’t think that’s true,
And find myself adrift in the wasted sea of youthful exubriance.

Purgatorial Passage

The Smoking Lounge
Atlanta international airport
Waiting to go home
1:50 there, 2:50 here
Saturday, December 11, 2004

Purgatorial Passage

I think that the smoking room of airports might be the most despondent place of cross-country traveling. Not wanting to take off my shoes, coat, purse, baggage again, I’m not venturing into the outdoors. Instead, I sit amongst the smoke and muse, letting the soft gurgle of southern accents wash around me, a gentle stream of softened consanants.

I’m halfway home, so as always, it’s time for quarterly reflections.

All things considered, this was a good one. Much debauchery true, but much learning, growing, and letting go as well. Not only have I learned to live as an independent person, I have learned what it’s like to be in college and not in a relationship.

I enjoy the flux of people in here. The strained, yet happy college kids – sleepy, yet finished with school, lugging full backpacks towards their own beds, their proud parents and food that doesn’t give them digestive problems.

The airport workers who know each other, chat amicably and are the only souls that don’t seem displaced, jet lagged, and hasseled.

The families that congregate near the smoking room are the strangest. The parents started smoking before smoking was deadly, and don’t see a reason to quit now, so they sit near the exit and keep an eye on the kids. These children are used to this and swarm around the entrance (because you have to be of age to enter this den of vice), playing and desperately trying to get out of eyesight before that blessed nicotine calms their parents nerves. I’m not sure if I could handle traveling with kids. Once my own enter the picture, I will train them in the art of efficient transits.

There’s the army dudes that shouldn’t be smoking, the people who are obviously on lay over and spending the duration in here. Most people sit down and calling loved ones – reassuring themselves that once they leave this purgatory, home will still be there. Old ladies in white keds, single-serving friendships, frosted hair, runny make-up, bags of Christmas cheer. A handful of individuals that hastily form a transient, ever shifting group. And of course, the occasional passerby stops to lecture us on respitory health, unaware that, as he is not a member of our exclusive club, their presence is resented. Give us these stolen moments of peace.

Let me describe this horrific oasis. It feels like there was a bit of unused space between the overpriced stores that don’t have to follow the rules of modern commerce since they exist in this artifical economy. So, they put a glass front on this space, didn’t bother to put in a ceiling, threw together some random chairs – probably saved from a dumpster after renovations. Movable island-like ashtrays stake out cylindrical space on the grubby tile floor, and people converge around them. Pipes, badly hung lights, wire, insulation and other dangerous looking things snake from the ceiling – an eyesore for the weary folk that blow their carcinogens upwards.

And me. Smartly dressed, backpack bulging to the brim, typing and smoking. I do think I cut quite a figure today: black skirt that fits snuggly on the hips, but flares out around my knees – perfect for lindy hop. My black fuck me boots, tights, and the most delicious cream sweater, cabled of course. For warmth I wear the long camel colored trench Jaynie gave me, and my fake black pashmina. Make-up and coffee cover the hangover, and I refuse to even think about sleep. Lauren insists that not matter what I do, I have ceased to look Southern, and I fear she may be right.

More people stumble in, drop their belongs, and with a happy sign, begin the rather frantic search for something to sooth their nerves. Time for me to smoke another.

The closer I get to home, the bigger the hair gets, the softer the consonants. Time to find my gate, a restroom, a beverage, and another outlook.

What Goes Up, Must Come Down

My Room
NOT studying for Neuroscience
Weird Mood
Angsty
10:26 pm
Monday, December 6, 2004
4 days till Tejas!

What Goes Up, Must Come Down

So, I've been a little manic lately. Hence, the four-day weekend of whiskey and making out with large groups of lesbians. (We don't speak of such things, so don't ask.) That's all fine and good. Great fun was had by all, and it didn't interfere with studying or such.

But now I'm coming down. I can physically feel the depressive stage sinking in, and the mental aspects are catching up.

Boo for:
Neuroscience exams
Irritated digestive systems
Friends who assume to know all about you, and then proceed to be WAY off base
For times when one obscure comment can ruin my whole day
Achy back, trick knees, and headaches, headaches, headaches
Fighting the overwhelming urge to wrap myself in the snoozing quilt and crawl under my desk, and cry, in the dark.

Hooray for:
Friends who actually do know me all the way and are willing to help via the phone
Harry Potter III
Back medication
Hugs
Giordano’s pizza
Cut free haircuts by an amazing lady
Candles that actually make my room smell nice
Going home in four days

I'm not going to worry about:
Seeing Sean
Being a financial burden
My own lack of funds
Failing neuroscience (I studied! I'm smart! I studied! I'm smart!)
Albert and Albion surviving the break at Katie's
Being called anorexic -- which I'm not
Any manner of other things that won't help my mental condition

Here's to staving off mental catastrophes. I am a warrior.

I Wrote This Once

Chillin'
Should be writing my ASL Paper
Smoking with Alii
Reading Period, I heart Reading Period
3:51 pm
Thursday, December 2, 2004

I wrote this down once. When, I don't know. Sometime either right before I came here or shortly after my arrival. I just wrote two, articulate, well spoken, true statements, honed, seeking existence. So I wrote them down, got them out, between faint blue lines of a list notebook that morphed into the ASL notebook, that shape shifted yet again to that notebook that rides around in my back pack for no reason, yet should be there. It contains old lists: kitchen supplies, how to make jam, ideas for painting jotted before they can escape, Eric, Adam's, Bryan and I's top 8 "Monty Python and the Holy Grail" moments, random scraps of bookeeping. This is home of my mental escapee, still true.

"For once, the chaos has subsided, yet I miss its overwhelming presence. The frenetic can be soothing it its consistency."

The mental clutter is getting a little out of hand at the moment, but I appreciate the last part profoundly. I'm ready for a break, a mental vacation. The sweet compassionate promise of Winter Break is hidden by the monstrosterous mass of mental regurgitude. Meh.

I think I'll have a dance party.

Right On Man

"I value words. I am curious about the way words sound, how they draw pictures and provoke unexpected emotional reactions. A single disconnected word or phrase can stop you cold, give you a new world to live in. I like reading unathorized excerpts of the minutes of private meetings. I like reading photo album captions, want ads, my son's homework, Chinese AIDS-prevention pamphlets, lanudry lists, foreign phone books, obituaries, awkward subtitles, road maps, lost-pet fliers fading on streetlight poles, old and forgettable books, instruction manuals I do not need but have found torn out of publications or removed from the packaging of the obsolete product concerned -- useless information that I imagine having discovered or saved from extinction. I enjoy reading how people wrote in another time about what I do not understand." Viggo Mortensen Introduction to "The Best American Nonrequired Reading"

Right on man.

Ho Hum

My Room
Sipping Caroline's and Coffee
Preparing for my ASL final?
Strange Mood
John Mayer, Howie Day, Ryan Adams, The Hudsons on Mixer
First Snow of the Year is on the Ground!
10:38 am
Wednesday, December 1, 2004

Ho Hum.

I'm in a strange mood, possibly stemming from the fact that for the first time all year, I shut myself in my room last nightg and got real work done. It was nice. My neuroscience paper is some of the most quality work I've done all year. I had to post a sign on my door telling everyone to go away unless a) it was vitally important to their continued existance, or b) they came bearing tasty treats. It work, and therefore I worked for about 6 hours.

Why haven't I been doing this more? I feel more at peace when I actually get things accomplished with the intensity and dedication that they deserve. I realize now that I don't work well when I try to do homework socially. I'm ready to accept that.

More importantly: I'm in love with being alone. At the moment at least. Since Kenneth basically moved into my room, that basic necessity has come into short supply, and I can't have that. I feel kinda bad because when I get in ass-kicking mode, I don't have the capacity to spend much time/energy/thought on him, and he seems to get all discombobulated and disjointed. I don't know how I feel about this.

I know that part of my weirdness is my not being used to him not lighting up my world. Don't get me wrong: I like him, and I enjoy spending time with him. But, at the same time, I realize that my heart doesn't glow everytime he walks in the room. Next question being, is that a good thing? With Sean, that was status quo, and I loved it. Maybe in the end, it was destructive, but I blame that more on circumstances and Sean being an emotional-broke-ass-sell-out-lying-sack-of-shit then emotional overkill. And even though the thought of another all-consuming, heart fluttering, wobbly-knees, skip through the tulips, can't help but think of you realtionship scares the fuck out of me, deep down -- That's what I need.

And I refuse to settle for less.

I deserve to be loved that way, and I know myself well enough to know that one, I need to love someone that was as well, and two, love, a relationship, whatever, will only work, i mean truely function on a deeper level that is wholly satisfying to both parties, if degree of emotional involvement is even. That doensn't mean that the dynamic of the relationship is such that both parties occupy identical roles, but that they're both committeed to said construct with the same level of devotion.

I slept alone last night. And it was wonderful. I woke up this morning alone, and completely okay with that. In fact, leaving my bed unmade for a minute, jamming out to morning music, and being a general fuckaround -- I mean 'studying for ASL' -- was great, is great.

And then the bottom falls out?

"You want to stay but you damn well I want you gone."
"What you're doing is screwing things up inside my head."
" And there 's a painful love. And it's me who has all the control."
"When it's cold outside and I got nobody to love. You'll understand what I mean when I say there's no way we're going to give up. Like a little girl who cries in the face of a monster that lives in her dreams. Is there anyone out there, becasue it's getting harder and harder to breath."