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Saturday, January 03, 2004
Allright, okay, call off the dogs, obviously my life isn't miserable. As I've said before, a blog is a snapshot of a moment, and that moment passed quickly. And I got a good story idea from my boring New Year's, so ultimately it was for the best.
I'm back at work, and on the mend, and it's a beautiful day. It's strangely quiet here in the valley, which is why I have time to post this. We had a freeze last night, and frost on bare vines is even more beautiful than summer's full glory. There is not an ugly season in this valley.
I want to be a better tennis player.
That's all I have to say today.
I'm back at work, and on the mend, and it's a beautiful day. It's strangely quiet here in the valley, which is why I have time to post this. We had a freeze last night, and frost on bare vines is even more beautiful than summer's full glory. There is not an ugly season in this valley.
I want to be a better tennis player.
That's all I have to say today.
Thursday, January 01, 2004
January 1, 2004
When writers sit down to write about their own sadness, what is it they wish to accomplish? I’ve been wondering this about myself today as I composed the first line of tonight’s blog: “I’d write about the rather sad and uneventful New Year’s that I had last night, but let’s gloss on to bigger and better things.” This is the line I’ve been thinking all day, but as I crept down the steps, lit a candle, and sat down to write, I seem unable not to write about the last twenty-four hours. I’m not sure why. I’ve written of so many embarrassing moments, so many unsightly ailments and ugly disappointments and I’m just wondering exactly why. Or is it many things? “A lot of things” like my old friend Russ used to say? I know that by writing them down I also work through them. I also admit to them, call these evils by their name, even put a spotlight on them. Do I do this so publicly because that is the only way I’ll own up to what I’ve done? And if so, isn’t that rather false? Isn’t that marching down the street and blowing horns to show my faith?
Or, by writing them down, do I hope to create change? I think there is a part of me that would admit to this. It’s an odd hope, because nothing has ever changed as a result of posting my issues in this tiny slice of cyber-space. And yet, if I write about going to bed alone at 10:30 PM last night for want of anything better to do, do I at the same time make a grand wish that this will never happen again? Is that what is written between the lines? Or is it a more subtle despair, a quiet “maybe” that I won’t have to go through that particular trial again? I don’t know.
My dad once said that when he stepped off an airplane into Anywhere, California, he could suddenly breathe more easily. This state, be it southern or northern, is his home. This state is quite clearly not mine, and so I have to find a way to make it okay for the duration of my time here. I didn’t go to that party last night because 1) some of the people have disappointed me and 2) I didn’t actually want to talk to anyone who was going to show up. I spoke this past summer about wanting to meet people outside of the restaurant and theatre world. What I didn’t realize is that some of the best people I’ll ever know were seated at the kitchen table where I spoke those very words. I came out here to escape my life and am still stuck with myself. (Good company, I mean, I’m not complaining, but still.)
Honestly, the only real problem here is my incapacitating level of self-absorption. But that is one of the dangers of spending New Year’s Eve with only the company of a bad cold.
It seems as though I’m almost proud of my misery. I’m not. Ultimately I guess this is the way I deal.
I dated a man for over five years who thought sadness was weakness. At least, that is how he saw it in others. For him to be sad was poetry, in his eyes. “I never cry. I haven’t cried in years,” he sobbed in my arms, easily the third or fourth time that month. Naturally he was drunk and probably had already bruised me somehow that evening- never with a direct hit, but I bet you I could find the print of his hand somewhere on my body. But if I was feeling blue, or even if he walked in the room and I was staring off into space, he’d call me on it and say, “What is with you today?” with a half-smile reeking of malice and disappointment.
Man, oh man, FUCK YOU, Harry Wayne Asbury Jr.
Maybe that’s it. Maybe because I spent my twenties with a man so utterly full of shit, a man who approved only when I was sunshine and light and butterflies. Lucky for both of us that I often was that happy. But he didn’t want a rounded human being, he wanted a reasonably attractive fuck doll who would laugh at his jokes and hold him when he was drunk and sad.
There I go again, detailing my failures. But I know I’m not the only one, so by god, I’m going to keep writing.
When writers sit down to write about their own sadness, what is it they wish to accomplish? I’ve been wondering this about myself today as I composed the first line of tonight’s blog: “I’d write about the rather sad and uneventful New Year’s that I had last night, but let’s gloss on to bigger and better things.” This is the line I’ve been thinking all day, but as I crept down the steps, lit a candle, and sat down to write, I seem unable not to write about the last twenty-four hours. I’m not sure why. I’ve written of so many embarrassing moments, so many unsightly ailments and ugly disappointments and I’m just wondering exactly why. Or is it many things? “A lot of things” like my old friend Russ used to say? I know that by writing them down I also work through them. I also admit to them, call these evils by their name, even put a spotlight on them. Do I do this so publicly because that is the only way I’ll own up to what I’ve done? And if so, isn’t that rather false? Isn’t that marching down the street and blowing horns to show my faith?
Or, by writing them down, do I hope to create change? I think there is a part of me that would admit to this. It’s an odd hope, because nothing has ever changed as a result of posting my issues in this tiny slice of cyber-space. And yet, if I write about going to bed alone at 10:30 PM last night for want of anything better to do, do I at the same time make a grand wish that this will never happen again? Is that what is written between the lines? Or is it a more subtle despair, a quiet “maybe” that I won’t have to go through that particular trial again? I don’t know.
My dad once said that when he stepped off an airplane into Anywhere, California, he could suddenly breathe more easily. This state, be it southern or northern, is his home. This state is quite clearly not mine, and so I have to find a way to make it okay for the duration of my time here. I didn’t go to that party last night because 1) some of the people have disappointed me and 2) I didn’t actually want to talk to anyone who was going to show up. I spoke this past summer about wanting to meet people outside of the restaurant and theatre world. What I didn’t realize is that some of the best people I’ll ever know were seated at the kitchen table where I spoke those very words. I came out here to escape my life and am still stuck with myself. (Good company, I mean, I’m not complaining, but still.)
Honestly, the only real problem here is my incapacitating level of self-absorption. But that is one of the dangers of spending New Year’s Eve with only the company of a bad cold.
It seems as though I’m almost proud of my misery. I’m not. Ultimately I guess this is the way I deal.
I dated a man for over five years who thought sadness was weakness. At least, that is how he saw it in others. For him to be sad was poetry, in his eyes. “I never cry. I haven’t cried in years,” he sobbed in my arms, easily the third or fourth time that month. Naturally he was drunk and probably had already bruised me somehow that evening- never with a direct hit, but I bet you I could find the print of his hand somewhere on my body. But if I was feeling blue, or even if he walked in the room and I was staring off into space, he’d call me on it and say, “What is with you today?” with a half-smile reeking of malice and disappointment.
Man, oh man, FUCK YOU, Harry Wayne Asbury Jr.
Maybe that’s it. Maybe because I spent my twenties with a man so utterly full of shit, a man who approved only when I was sunshine and light and butterflies. Lucky for both of us that I often was that happy. But he didn’t want a rounded human being, he wanted a reasonably attractive fuck doll who would laugh at his jokes and hold him when he was drunk and sad.
There I go again, detailing my failures. But I know I’m not the only one, so by god, I’m going to keep writing.
Wednesday, December 31, 2003
December 31st, 2003
It's New Year's Eve, 3:30 in the afternoon, and I am increasingly confident that I'll be staying home in front of the TV tonight. The party to which I'm invited isn't appealing enough to get me to drive for half an hour amongts drink-infested revelers. My good friend Elizabeth, who was to spend the evening with me, is instead spending it with her friends in Santa Barbara. Which is really all for the best, since my cold is still in full swing. I don't know if I can negotiate a) feeling crummy, b) a long drive and c) people I don't really want to see, just so I'm actually doing something on New Year's Eve. A month ago, I had a vision of exactly this, me staying home and getting some writing done in lieu of getting trashed with people I don't know very well. This holdiay usually disappoints anyway, so I don't feel too bad about being alone. I do wish that I could be going to Sean and Jordi's party. That does make me sad, that I can't be there. But, y'know, I've made some choices, and this is just a factor in the outcome.
2003 has been a strange year for me. I've had one of the worst health-scare years in history (and some of them weren't even scares, they were the real thing). I became a cyclist, I quit my job, I started a novel, I loved working on the novel, I trashed the novel, I almost fell in love, I recovered from almost falling in love with comforting speed, I vowed to never wait tables again, I moved to California... and ultimately gained more confidence in myself than I've ever had. My sweet Dad is continually telling me how proud he is of me for what I've already accomplished here. But what I've realized, more than ever, is that there is simply nothing I can't do. Well, no, I could never be a calculus teacher but I have great confidence that anything to which I apply myself, that I actually care about and want to do, I will accomplish. So obviously very few things fall in that category, with those qualifications. But I've found great confidence in my abilites. Strange, considering the doubt that I've lived in for years now.
I have New Year's resolutions, but they are private (unlike just about anything else in my life). And I know myself well enough to not say I'm "resolved". What I am is hopeful. I have about ten very clear hopes for my own life... well, no, make that three, but with addendums and the like, and even a shred of hope for the 2004 election, and therefore, hopes for the world. I'll be thinking about them at midnight tonight as I'm drinking a bottle of Schramsburg and eating leftover lasagna, by myself, in the heart of Napa Valley. Actually, who am I kidding. I'll probably be asleep.
My great hope is that someday soon, somehow, I'll be living near my brothers again, near the friends I hold so dear, and near both my mom and dad as well. I don't know how this is possible, but it is my ideal, and since it is my wish list I'm going to do with it what I will. And really, "near" is a relative term, isn't it?
Happy New Year, everyone. I hope you all spend it with people dear to you. May 2004 hold even just a little promise for all of our wishes.
It's New Year's Eve, 3:30 in the afternoon, and I am increasingly confident that I'll be staying home in front of the TV tonight. The party to which I'm invited isn't appealing enough to get me to drive for half an hour amongts drink-infested revelers. My good friend Elizabeth, who was to spend the evening with me, is instead spending it with her friends in Santa Barbara. Which is really all for the best, since my cold is still in full swing. I don't know if I can negotiate a) feeling crummy, b) a long drive and c) people I don't really want to see, just so I'm actually doing something on New Year's Eve. A month ago, I had a vision of exactly this, me staying home and getting some writing done in lieu of getting trashed with people I don't know very well. This holdiay usually disappoints anyway, so I don't feel too bad about being alone. I do wish that I could be going to Sean and Jordi's party. That does make me sad, that I can't be there. But, y'know, I've made some choices, and this is just a factor in the outcome.
2003 has been a strange year for me. I've had one of the worst health-scare years in history (and some of them weren't even scares, they were the real thing). I became a cyclist, I quit my job, I started a novel, I loved working on the novel, I trashed the novel, I almost fell in love, I recovered from almost falling in love with comforting speed, I vowed to never wait tables again, I moved to California... and ultimately gained more confidence in myself than I've ever had. My sweet Dad is continually telling me how proud he is of me for what I've already accomplished here. But what I've realized, more than ever, is that there is simply nothing I can't do. Well, no, I could never be a calculus teacher but I have great confidence that anything to which I apply myself, that I actually care about and want to do, I will accomplish. So obviously very few things fall in that category, with those qualifications. But I've found great confidence in my abilites. Strange, considering the doubt that I've lived in for years now.
I have New Year's resolutions, but they are private (unlike just about anything else in my life). And I know myself well enough to not say I'm "resolved". What I am is hopeful. I have about ten very clear hopes for my own life... well, no, make that three, but with addendums and the like, and even a shred of hope for the 2004 election, and therefore, hopes for the world. I'll be thinking about them at midnight tonight as I'm drinking a bottle of Schramsburg and eating leftover lasagna, by myself, in the heart of Napa Valley. Actually, who am I kidding. I'll probably be asleep.
My great hope is that someday soon, somehow, I'll be living near my brothers again, near the friends I hold so dear, and near both my mom and dad as well. I don't know how this is possible, but it is my ideal, and since it is my wish list I'm going to do with it what I will. And really, "near" is a relative term, isn't it?
Happy New Year, everyone. I hope you all spend it with people dear to you. May 2004 hold even just a little promise for all of our wishes.
December 30, 2003
It’s all too obvious that I’m back in the land of no wireless internet connection. My dad and I actually discussed the idea of hooking up satellite internet today, but I have yet to do any serious research. Night falls, I’m thinking about blogging and I hit my head once again for not pursuing this matter during the day. But what I can do is write every night, and post when I can post. I hope you, my fair readership, will not mind a little scrolling when it comes time to check into my wee world.
I’m sick again, which is both ridiculous and baffling since I was ill less than a month ago. Sick enough to be sent home from work, sick enough to be told not to touch anything in fear of infecting the household. But I had an inspiring day: I finished Richard Russo’s “Empire Falls” and watched “Whale Rider” on DVD. If a girl has to stay home, miss out on work and therefore desperately needed cash, and is too sick to enjoy a brilliantly beautiful post-rainstorm California afternoon, she might as well absorb some great art. I also did two crossword puzzles. It has been an infinitely satisfying day if you don’t count the quart of snot that, by exiting through the proper channels, has destroyed the delicate skin between my mouth and nostrils.
I watched “Whale Rider” on my laptop. Which is also immensely satisfying. The resolution is terrific, and frankly, I’m pretty sure this computer could poach eggs if only I could find the right program. I’ve already lost hours researching Africa with the included “World Book” software, and accidentally watched the “Forest” screen saver for about ten minutes. I feel better knowing that my little white miracle machine is here waiting, beckoning, daring me to do anything other than slap away at the perfect little keys. Do I sound a little overenthusiastic, a little nuts? Well. I might be the most fortunate writer I know, having at my disposal a computer I could never afford, and a welcoming roof over my head. I do not take these things lightly. It’s the break I’ve prayed for and I’d be a total putz to not appreciate it and do my best by it.
The strangest thing about this computer is the version of Word. When I’m working on a document, there is a little dialogue box with an animated computer that watches me type. Obviously I could close it, but it is far too amusing. When I screw up a spelling, it jumps up and fixes it for me, When I ignore it, its little legs jump in the air and it plops down and hits its feet together like a six-year-old. When I stop typing, it looks to the right to see who has disturbed me. Geeky as hell, aren’t I? But I wonder who created it, decided that it would be so entertaining? Whose baby is this?
Ahh, the late night musings influenced by Nyquil…
It’s all too obvious that I’m back in the land of no wireless internet connection. My dad and I actually discussed the idea of hooking up satellite internet today, but I have yet to do any serious research. Night falls, I’m thinking about blogging and I hit my head once again for not pursuing this matter during the day. But what I can do is write every night, and post when I can post. I hope you, my fair readership, will not mind a little scrolling when it comes time to check into my wee world.
I’m sick again, which is both ridiculous and baffling since I was ill less than a month ago. Sick enough to be sent home from work, sick enough to be told not to touch anything in fear of infecting the household. But I had an inspiring day: I finished Richard Russo’s “Empire Falls” and watched “Whale Rider” on DVD. If a girl has to stay home, miss out on work and therefore desperately needed cash, and is too sick to enjoy a brilliantly beautiful post-rainstorm California afternoon, she might as well absorb some great art. I also did two crossword puzzles. It has been an infinitely satisfying day if you don’t count the quart of snot that, by exiting through the proper channels, has destroyed the delicate skin between my mouth and nostrils.
I watched “Whale Rider” on my laptop. Which is also immensely satisfying. The resolution is terrific, and frankly, I’m pretty sure this computer could poach eggs if only I could find the right program. I’ve already lost hours researching Africa with the included “World Book” software, and accidentally watched the “Forest” screen saver for about ten minutes. I feel better knowing that my little white miracle machine is here waiting, beckoning, daring me to do anything other than slap away at the perfect little keys. Do I sound a little overenthusiastic, a little nuts? Well. I might be the most fortunate writer I know, having at my disposal a computer I could never afford, and a welcoming roof over my head. I do not take these things lightly. It’s the break I’ve prayed for and I’d be a total putz to not appreciate it and do my best by it.
The strangest thing about this computer is the version of Word. When I’m working on a document, there is a little dialogue box with an animated computer that watches me type. Obviously I could close it, but it is far too amusing. When I screw up a spelling, it jumps up and fixes it for me, When I ignore it, its little legs jump in the air and it plops down and hits its feet together like a six-year-old. When I stop typing, it looks to the right to see who has disturbed me. Geeky as hell, aren’t I? But I wonder who created it, decided that it would be so entertaining? Whose baby is this?
Ahh, the late night musings influenced by Nyquil…