Argh!

There is something so completely wrong with my stupid brain. I think it
doesn't work right or the wiring is off or something, I wonder if I can
send it back to some repair shop and get one that doesn't ignore the
obvious so readily. I am a blush machine. Stop talking to me,
everyone!

Transfighter

Well and how to gauge whether a given thing is worth all the effort of getting involved, opening one's life up to change. There is a fortune sitting here that says, "You will come to realizations in you life that change you forever." No, that omission of the "r" is not a typographical error on my part. Anne was right, people need to be so much more conscious of how they live. So many ways to divert the attention during the free times. Aung San Suu Kyi used to say, "You must use your voice to speak for those who don't have one." I have made the first step, I have spoken out for the weakest me, and the challenge becomes to continue in that vein, externally.

It's early in the morning, and I'm full of coffee and anxiety and self-doubt. Such silly and crazy-making things, egos.

I have all of this lingering paranoia about getting involved in this city; the whole housing project and ken stanley initiatives have left me with a bad taste in my mouth. Licking the bottom of the garbage can taste in my mouth. "He wanted to save the world, but realized early on that the world was highly disinclined to being saved."

Yes.

It's still up to us, though; this realization may sound like a good reason to give up, but having privilege in life means using those advantages to make opportunities for those who otherwise would have none. I wonder so often how life on this planet has evolved this way, it seems so against survival. I particulary think about Olympia when I say this. Millions of cars, people going places, shops, cafes, sad faces, living on top of each other and yet not being even on a last-name
basis, loneliness. Walking to the grocery store to get lettuce would feel like navigating some kind of urban maze, a treacherous maze, you have no car here and thus have not "made" it [car = success = validation] We are surrounded by each other and haven't got the skills to reach out and ask for a hug when we need one. Jesus it's depressing.

But, it can stop here, with me. It would take two seconds to make this country a true and real land of opportunity, where no one goes hungry, no one begins life at the bottom of a shit-pile with no boots to help ease the journey. Two seconds! Let's try, let's try, let's try. No more lonely, sad faces walking down the street. I am less than one degree away from being the most destitute of the homeless, and you are too.

Shakin and a'quakin

Marcus Aurelius would lambaste me for my hesitation at this point. What I have come to realize is that, unless one is willing to take risks now and then, one will be relegated to a position of accepting whatever happens to come into one's life, by chance or happenstance or whatever other means. Just waiting for leftovers instead of getting the first crack at what's being offered. I can't do it anymore, though I'm full of fear, anxiety, apprehension. I have to be a brave warrior for the emily of tomorrow.

"Soon you will be dead, and then none of this will matter."

Last winter, a kid came in to get a copy of his transcript from me. He had graduated a year after me, and was going to be enrolling in LCCC. Most people sit in one of the lobby chairs while I get their transcripts ready, but this guy stuck with me during the whole process (he wanted me to fax it, too, and even came back to the fax machine with me.) The whole time he was with me, he was asking me about things, what I do for fun, etc. I knew what was coming, and it didn't worry me. It feels good to feel wanted. When I had finished up the process, I wished him luck with school, and he asked if I wanted to do something some time. I told him that I had a boyfriend, and that was that. Today I summon that kid's strength and fearlessness. I am a moment of singular, resolute action! (Let's just ignore my shaking knees....)

That Moby Song at Midnight, in the UP

Marcus Aurelius is the glue that keeps my head together during the crazy-making times.

"Keep in mind how fast things pass by and are gone -- those that are now, and those to come. Existence flows past us like a river: the 'what' is in constant flux, the 'why' has a thousand variations. Nothing is stable, not even what's right here. The infinity of past and future gapes before us -- a chasm whose depths we cannot see.

So it would take an idiot to feel self-importance or distress. Or any indignation, either. As if the things that irritate us lasted."

Last night I lay awake in bed thinking about devotion, compassion. The feeling that another human being is truely "with" you. I still search for an easy way to verbalize the myriad thoughts spinning around in my head, though most of me believes that if there are still questions about why things happened the way that they did, they'll only be answered by time and the excoriation of thought. When we were seven or so, Anne and I started swimming lessons at Crane Pool. The teachers had us all go to the shallow end of the pool, so they could test our swimming abilities, and thereby decide which class we should start in. The test was to do the doggie paddle across the length of the shallow end, which was about five feet. I was overcome by fear because I had no idea, whatsoever, of how to do the doggie paddle, and I knew that Anne had already mastered it. I couldn't bear the prospect of being seperated (for the first time) from Anne. I had no idea what to do; one's coping skills at seven are not so incredibly honed. The teachers began having the kids swim across, one at a time, down the gauntlet. Anne's turn came and I started to imagine what it would feel like to watch her pass me by, if this swimming test would perhaps be the first crack in a chasm between us. Anne kicked off of the wall, and amazingly, began to sink. She didn't extend her arms as I knew that she could, she didn't kick, she didn't do ... anything. She flopped her way back to the wall, looked at me and said, "your turn."

"Commitment" is an entirely different entity when you're a twin, I think. At least this is what I've come to believe. You're either with me 100%, or you aren't with me at all. Perhaps this sounds selfish, but that's the last thing that it feels like. [reciprocity.] When you're a twin you learn early that there really are other people in the world who understand you, would break their back if only to improve your view, and wouldn't even ask for a band-aid. I can't be a rock for you unless I know that you can be a rock for me, too. The woman was wrong, warriors don't walk alone. Each other is what they fight for.

The High Water Mark

The impossibility of communication. The impossibility of saying
precisely what is on one's mind, the awkwardness of it all. He gets up,
begins to dress, wonders about the implications of hoop earrings and
well tailored cotton shirts, hand clad with one solitary ring, silver,
reaching out, reaching out. His mind wanders. The scenario repeats
itself forty miles away, and an hour later. She finds it difficult to
sleep. What does the haircut say about the person underneath? If I
were to say x, would y and z follow? We watch each other like two
battleships passing through neutral waters; guarded, infinitely
curious. The distance from your deck to mine feels unfathomable.

Friday mornings. Sometimes I find that I have far too many
expectations. Well, at any rate, the work party of this weekend is
currently unfettered by, you know, anything the slightest bit more
intriguing. Perhaps I sound jaded, so be it! I feel as though I am
currently on the spin cycle with no inclination as to when the wash will
be over.

1030 Hours

I am one who is acquainted with the "sex look."

Under Construction

"It's not catastrophes, murders, deaths, diseases that age and kill us;
it's the way people look and laugh, and run up the steps of omnibuses."
-Virginia Woolf

It reminds me so much of a conversation that Pat and I had last winter,
about the small things in life, this is so incredibly apt. You aren't
the greatest painting that you ever put to canvas, or your fastest mile,
or year of highest revenue; you're how you squeeze the tube of
toothpaste, whether you leave your street shoes on inside, whether you
greet people with a smile or a firm handshake. You are three hundred
million infintessimal things, choose carefully, choose carefully. I
love the pattern that your brush-stroke makes upon the gessoed fabric,
but your hairs around the drainring and tub base make me gnash my
teeth. We are who we are.

Got the Timbos on the toes this morning, the smell of new leather
reminds me of being a kid, the first day of school. While Anne and Pat
are in Portland this weekend, I need to construct the robot, paint the
downstairs chair rail, mud the kitchen, so much work to be done! The
weekend. Two days of not working. I was thinking yesterday afternoon
that I will never date again, I'll just develop hormone-laden,
impossibly dire crushes on people that I have no intention of getting to
know better, they'll burn at both ends for awhile, and it will be over.
This thought fills me with such a small amount of trepidation that I'll
just ignore it. It's not worth it, getting your heart invested, only to
find out that the other person hates that you squeeze from the middle,
or clip your toenails methodically into the trash can, or crunch the
unpopped popcorn kernels during the quiet parts of movies. I am the
last one [emily] standing.

Silently

A quick second for breathing.
Now is the time to begin one of those myriad projects that I told myself I would undertake this summer. All that's missing is the motivation. [Beginning is the most effort-intensive part.]

It's quiet at work today. The forced air presses too hard against the exhaust vent and my mind begins to tune out the resulting din. How many hours have I spent at this very desk, staring at this very computer screen, does it even matter. It no longer affects me, who comes in and out of the front door. It is liberating to say this. I am the one that I want. I am that one.

Virginia Woolf has a way of capturing the bleakness that one only sees in the most abstract recesses of ones' mind, there are no words for these thoughts, how she has done this eludes me. It is a talent that I wish to possess, though not just with bleakness. Fumbling around for words of late. I still don't exactly follow the story of Jacob's Room, but its language is an artwork. It will require a second reading.

I've got love...

The soundtrack from the Transporter is echoing around in my head. There is a slight caveat with this album; if you'’re looking to buy it, make sure you get the Eurporean (Stanley Clarke) mix, and not the American edition. Apparently the American edition doesn'’t have the actual club
mixes that were used in the film, just the hip-hop songs that the mixes sample. Cheap for those of us who like to hear the wax being cut.
...

I had, quite possibly, the worst sleep of my life last night. Two nightmares, both heavy with overtones of death and inescapable, certain, sadness. There was no one to wake me, save the cats that bivouacked on my bed like two interloping pirates. When I woke I wondered if I had made any sound. At any rate, to compensate for this mournfully unrestful slumber, I have had much more than my fill of coffee this morning, and I suspect that my body will begin to quake once this fourth cup hits my blood stream. Work goes on, life goes on, the clock waits for no one, not even anguish can end its interminable staccato march. I feel that my use of commas today is somewhat Gogolian. So be it! My brain is floating somewhere around the height of the ceiling, along with the rest of my body. So very, very detached.

Things get so difficult sometimes,
silence marks in conversation
the words encased in {brackets},
never being spoken,
no purpose but to hang about in the air, lingering,
pestulantly darting about the words we speak.
{I am so afraid.}
If I turn my back,
can you promise me that you'll still be there when I turn back around?
Such a selfish thing to say.
Sandy was talking to me about relationships,
"it's all about what you're willing to settle for. How much you can compromise."
There is something in me that instantly agrees.
{I love to feel your fingers touch my skin.}
Motivation.
Piles of our life together sitting dormant on the floor.
I was thinking this afternoon,
a few months ago we would have probably spent the day playing EQ.
Those days were so much fun,
but somehow the silence marks began multiplying.
A note for you, emily:
{lighten up, lighten up, lighten up right now.}

Blogstizzle

For some reason, Blogstudio has eaten my blog, no word from the webmaster, no nothing, just a blank white page which never fully loads, Siberia.

Anyway, there's some amount of revolution going on here and [now.]
Good revolution.
Let's be good to each other...
no pretention
no blame,
two advocates for each other.
In a years' time we'll look back on the us of today and shed tears of happiness for the strength that we had for ourselves.