Friday, November 30, 2007

irony omigosh

I never get things done on time. When I do, it's rarely to my satisfaction. I have problems with time management. It is something I keep planning to wean out of my system, but I haven't figured out a fool-proof method yet. Guilt only gets me through the day before my deadlines.
Meanwhile, I have an unexpected extension and I've taken on a little more work than I had planned previously. Will it work out? Will I do what I'm supposed to?? WILL I KILL THAT FAT TOAD OF AN EVALUATOR????
Stay tuned to find out.

Here is a development - I know a person with no humility.
I don't know why I didn't see it before; I've spent enough time with him before. It was only tonight that I discovered what it was about him that rubbed me the wrong way entirely. And now I look to see all the people I like least - and they are all arrogant. Some of them with more right that others, of course
What strikes me as ironic (is it, Alanis?) is the fact that I might have turned out like that myself... Sometimes I try to remember incidents that might have changed the way I looked at myself and at the world, but I'm rarely successful. I do know that I was once more confident, and more oblivious to others' feelings, than I am now. But how does one weigh what might have been?
Have I gained in empathy what I lost in confidence?
Is it a fair trade?
Am I allowed to ask that question?

Tonight was a night of revelations. I've always known that I never let people in because I was afraid they will hurt me. Tonight I realized that wasn't entirely true: I don't let people in because I fear they will misunderstand me - and in my heart that is the bigger crime.
I don't believe people are capable of making an effort to understand someone who does not show what she needs seen.
I don't trust you to like me; any of you. I don't trust you to understand me.
Do I have so little belief in human intelligence?

Am I really that vain?

Wednesday, November 28, 2007

advisory: disturbing content

I have a new phone; it was a birthday present.
(My birthday was a week and a day ago - the 20th of November. Make a note, will you?)
It plays music, has an FM radio and takes pictures.
My sister took a picture of me in one of those pre-programmed frames. It was a clown; I think it is funny.

Yesterday I had an imaginary conversation with you; it was about me. I said, "Yes, I know. I like taking pictures of dead animals I see on the street. I don't see what the problem is - they're dead, aren't they?"

Today, the power went out at home around eleven. The sister went out to check if the lift was working, because if it was, that would mean the power had only tripped in our apartment and not in the entire building.
She came back inside screaming and crying because she'd seen a dead squirrel caught in the wires in the lift shaft.
Why did it have to be right outside our house?


I won't lie to you - I took a picture of that animal. I hate when animals die because they stray into the path of bulldozing human "progress"; but a dead animal is something that my fingers itch to document. I took that picture even as my guts rolled and my stomach clenched.
I fear there might be something wrong with me.

I won't be putting up that squirrel picture any time soon.
Road accidents are not public entertainment.

That, however...

Saturday, November 24, 2007

too much information

I was staring at the sky
Just looking for a star
To pray on or wish on or something like that
I was having a sweet fix
Of a daydream of a boy
Whose reality I knew was a hopeless to be had
But then the dove of hope began its downward slope
And I believed for a moment
That my chances were approaching to be grabbed
But as it came down near
So did a weary tear
I thought it was a bird but it was just a paper bag

Hunger hurts and I want him so bad, oh it kills
Cuz I know I'm a mess he don't wanna clean up
I've gotta fold cuz these hands are too shaky to hold
Hunger hurts, starving works when it costs too much to love

And I went crazy again today
Looking for a strand to climb
Looking for a little hope
Baby said he couldn't stay
Wouldn't put his lips to mine
And a fail to kiss is a fail to cope
I said honey I don't feel so good
Don't feel justified
Come on put a little love here in my void
He said it's all in your head
I said so's everything but he didn't get it
I thought he was a man but he was just a little boy

Hunger hurts...
Hunger hurts...
Hunger hurts...

Fiona Apple - Paper Bag

Tuesday, November 20, 2007

it's my birthday.

yes, it is. :)

Sunday, November 18, 2007

almost twentythree

Please beware of them that stare
They'll only smile to see you while
your time away
And once you've seen what they have been
To win the earth just won't seem worth
your night or your day
Who'll hear what I say?

Look around you find the ground
is not so far from where you are
The dumb to the wise
For down below they never grow
They're always tired
and charms are hired from out of their eyes
Never a surprise

Take your time and you'll be fine
And say a prayer for people there
who live on the floor
And if you see what's meant to be
Don't name the day or try to say
"It happened before."

Don't be shy you learn to fly
and see the sun when day is done
If only you see
just what you are beneath a star
that came to stay one rainy day
in autumn for free
Yes, be what you'll be.

Please beware of them that stare
They'll only smile to see you while
your time away
And once you've seen what they have been
To win the earth just won't seem worth
your night or your day
Who'll hear what I say?

Open up the broken cup
Let goodly sin and sunshine in
Yes, that's today.
And open wide the hymns you hide
You find renown while people frown
at things that you say
But say what you'll say
about the farmers and the fun
and the things behind the sun
and the people round your head
who say "Everything's been said."
and the movement in your brain
sends you out into the rain

Nick Drake - Things Behind The Sun

Tuesday, November 6, 2007


I love stories. They are my escape from the world: from boredom and loneliness and panic. It is the simple story that I love the best - the one where everything works out in the end and everyone gets exactly what they deserve. I have always hated betrayals and misunderstandings - in books, in films, in television... Every story with a twist in its tale must end with the triumph of the worthy, the earnest, the good. I think, sometimes, that the kinds of stories I find myself most drawn to are the ones that end the way I wish my life would turn out - with justice for all. It shames me that I cannot, in my own life, judge people as they deserve to be judged.

It seems to me as though I choose, consistently, the wrong kind of person to place my confidence in. It is as though, even after twenty-three years on the planet, I still have no idea of how to choose a friend for all the reasons that I truly need a friend. Perhaps there is supposed to be a difference between the kind of people you admire and respect and the kind of people you love - it is just that my head cannot tell the difference.
In my head the people who are the most important to me are the ones who make me think, and wonder, and question - and so I become enamoured with them all: the smart people; the talented people; the people who are destined to make this world a brighter, bigger, more interesting place. They are the ones who make it worthwhile to wake up in the morning, the ones for whom it is sensible to give up your time, your energy, your heart. It is as though your life becomes better simply because it is lived in the outer circle of their influence.

It is hard - to find myself so often in this position, where I have misjudged and attributed to a person qualities of kindness and goodness that he or she does not have. To imagine affection and fondness where there is none. To expect attention and concern when I have no right to. To see a kindred spirit where none exists. If I am to be ruled so decisively by my emotions, what chance do I have to survive in the bold, bad world?
It has been eight years since my first introduction to the wonderful world of duplicity, and yet I continue to make the same mistakes again and again. I recognize the syptoms each time, even as the disease progresses; and each time I think this time will be different. There is no cure - I am doomed to eternal blind optimism - I will persist, until I die, in the delusion that all people are truly as wonderful as they appear to be.

I will always tell people just exactly what they mean to me, and they will always care not one whit.
Why is desperation so utterly despicable?