Monday, October 11, 2004
This house is quiet, but the fan is clicking loudly in the other room.
Perusing the Internet. The endless supply of the lives and details belonging to persons I have never seen or heard, and probably won't in the future. Blogs about sex, politics, and cute ones that 13-year-olds have to appear cool to their friends, all littered with high school slang and scissor-sliced American English. Blogs in other languages I wish I could read.
It's got me wondering why we do this. It's like we're all just reaching out like, "Hello, I'm here."
I thought about something last night or this morning. It was a reminder thought. One I thought often in the last few days in Washington this summer. I had a thought about the kind of person I want to be. The things I want to do. The things I spent so much time trying to piece together in some cosmic picture and frame on some wall in my mind so I could have continuous access to the picture. The picture has become dusty with a new film of doubt stuck in a hazy alcoholic environment.
"I want to be a good person," I thought. And I thought about all the things I wanted to do. All I'm doing right now is working and hanging out with my friends. And I think it's the best time ever, when I'm not thinking it's a waste of time.
I'm drinking a lot. I keep telling myself that I know it's because I don't have my acoustic guitar. I don't have my guitar because a friend of mine loaned me money and is holding onto it for collateral. I could probably buy it back sooner if I weren't buying alcohol. But then again, I know I'm so hard on myself.
I worked 11 shifts in my first week on the floor at work. The six I was scheduled. Plus five extra. This week I want to do it again.
I get so down. I'm paying people off, and bills, so even though I'm slowly working my way out of the negative at least in that department, I never actually have any money. I'm two shades away from dreaming still of getting my own place anytime soon. I'm so lucky to have the support system of friends that I do.
The other night I went to a party at a house I hadn't been to in what seemed like such a long, long time. And so many people just made me proud to be alive. They hugged me. They expressed gratitude for my coming to hang out. We caught up on old times.
While I agree that a person should not judge her self worth on the responses of others, I do believe their is a kernel of truth to finding reflections of the self in that way. If I was a horrible person, people wouldn't want to be around me.
My little sister turned 23 today. My dad asked my sister how she felt about getting older. I asked my mother how she felt about my sister getting older. My mother said she felt old when my other sis turned 27 two months ago.
I couldn't stop thinking about my mother next to her at the dinner table. What it would be like to sit down with a husband and three kids, at the youngest's 23rd birthday. I absolutely have no way of comprehending how that feels.
On the way to dinner, I thought about how grown up Renee is. She is her own person, and has always been. We were raised like twins, always dressed in the same clothes, always going to the same school on the same bus, knowing the same people. We did the same activities in high school even, and she went to the prom my senior year with our friend's twin brother. But she has her own hobbies, taste in clothes and music, everything. I feel like these sentiments are so trite, like whomever you are reading them, you're probably shaking your head and letting out a big "duh!" but it's nonetheless true, I guess.
As you can see, this mood I'm in is a sort of spread-out, reflective one. I was sick all day but I went to Renee's birthday dinner anyway. I couldn't miss it; it was the last birthday of the year for my family. I was in Austin for mine, drinking. Trying to diffuse my homesickness and confusion, and everything else. And I wasn't home for my older sis's or my father's either. It hurts.
It stung. The sentimental pain I got watching Renee open one of her presents. A single-serving teacup and kettle that had in pink painted cursive something about making the time to remember while still creating new memories. My sister had tears in her eyes when she turned it around and read it. Mine too. I can't remember the last time we all got together like that. Months.
Well, I'm off to lie down on the couch and think of everything or nothing, whichever comes first. Maybe both.
Perusing the Internet. The endless supply of the lives and details belonging to persons I have never seen or heard, and probably won't in the future. Blogs about sex, politics, and cute ones that 13-year-olds have to appear cool to their friends, all littered with high school slang and scissor-sliced American English. Blogs in other languages I wish I could read.
It's got me wondering why we do this. It's like we're all just reaching out like, "Hello, I'm here."
I thought about something last night or this morning. It was a reminder thought. One I thought often in the last few days in Washington this summer. I had a thought about the kind of person I want to be. The things I want to do. The things I spent so much time trying to piece together in some cosmic picture and frame on some wall in my mind so I could have continuous access to the picture. The picture has become dusty with a new film of doubt stuck in a hazy alcoholic environment.
"I want to be a good person," I thought. And I thought about all the things I wanted to do. All I'm doing right now is working and hanging out with my friends. And I think it's the best time ever, when I'm not thinking it's a waste of time.
I'm drinking a lot. I keep telling myself that I know it's because I don't have my acoustic guitar. I don't have my guitar because a friend of mine loaned me money and is holding onto it for collateral. I could probably buy it back sooner if I weren't buying alcohol. But then again, I know I'm so hard on myself.
I worked 11 shifts in my first week on the floor at work. The six I was scheduled. Plus five extra. This week I want to do it again.
I get so down. I'm paying people off, and bills, so even though I'm slowly working my way out of the negative at least in that department, I never actually have any money. I'm two shades away from dreaming still of getting my own place anytime soon. I'm so lucky to have the support system of friends that I do.
The other night I went to a party at a house I hadn't been to in what seemed like such a long, long time. And so many people just made me proud to be alive. They hugged me. They expressed gratitude for my coming to hang out. We caught up on old times.
While I agree that a person should not judge her self worth on the responses of others, I do believe their is a kernel of truth to finding reflections of the self in that way. If I was a horrible person, people wouldn't want to be around me.
My little sister turned 23 today. My dad asked my sister how she felt about getting older. I asked my mother how she felt about my sister getting older. My mother said she felt old when my other sis turned 27 two months ago.
I couldn't stop thinking about my mother next to her at the dinner table. What it would be like to sit down with a husband and three kids, at the youngest's 23rd birthday. I absolutely have no way of comprehending how that feels.
On the way to dinner, I thought about how grown up Renee is. She is her own person, and has always been. We were raised like twins, always dressed in the same clothes, always going to the same school on the same bus, knowing the same people. We did the same activities in high school even, and she went to the prom my senior year with our friend's twin brother. But she has her own hobbies, taste in clothes and music, everything. I feel like these sentiments are so trite, like whomever you are reading them, you're probably shaking your head and letting out a big "duh!" but it's nonetheless true, I guess.
As you can see, this mood I'm in is a sort of spread-out, reflective one. I was sick all day but I went to Renee's birthday dinner anyway. I couldn't miss it; it was the last birthday of the year for my family. I was in Austin for mine, drinking. Trying to diffuse my homesickness and confusion, and everything else. And I wasn't home for my older sis's or my father's either. It hurts.
It stung. The sentimental pain I got watching Renee open one of her presents. A single-serving teacup and kettle that had in pink painted cursive something about making the time to remember while still creating new memories. My sister had tears in her eyes when she turned it around and read it. Mine too. I can't remember the last time we all got together like that. Months.
Well, I'm off to lie down on the couch and think of everything or nothing, whichever comes first. Maybe both.
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