I'll just sing about you/songs of love that made you smile/in the darkness I can pretend
Thank goodness for late night Comedy Central. Chases away the disquieting feelings that make me still slightly embarrased when they move me to dance with myself on a trip back from starbucks in the grass outside my dorm.
I always feel weirder alone, like older younger eternal weirder. I had a flashback tonight while gulping down my current crack (iced chai tea latte) of when I was 13 and had the same feeling so I would go out at 3 in the morning on the driveway of my house in Virginia with a blanket and some pillows, my cd player and my favorite songs I've listened to over 30zillion times and just lay back shivering on the blanket with my eyes open to the heavens above, quivering. Not being able to relax cause I was so aware, of my body and the air and the moon. I felt like I was being watched and like I could hear things i normally couldn't, like those high pitches dogs could. I made me want to dance, to perform under the moon. To run until my muscles were forced to uncoil. To climb trees and sleep there. I still think that's magick rising up in my veins, responding to some call I didn't notice was being placed.
Of course it's May Day *snorts* I get to change the calendars! Yay for rituals.
I wish I had more access to drugs, or more initiative to stress the connections i do have. I'm not talking about like alcohol or something, though that'd be nice too. And I am legal now, so technically I could go out and buy shit if I wanted to help me quiet my mind. If I felt ok enough to use my father's money for that purpose, which I don't. Actually, alcohol is kind of my mood tonight, slow and low. Working steadily towards that goal of falling asleep warm and safe in my room locked up tight and me inside. I was never claustraphobic, but the opposite. Much rather me locked out than locked in. Actually, in jail (that's right 14 year old Shannon, full of Bravado and wanting to be Bad-Ass so you wouldn't seem Weak and Screw the so-called Authories, yet Safe in the knowledge that you weren't a Bad, Stupid person, so those Consequences were never really worrisome. Jail over public drunkeness, how terribly mundane and not noble. If only it was over protesting or shooting someone in the kneecap for saving a loved one. If only I could be righteous and defiant instead of wearily complacent) right, in jail. I was fine locked up with 7 other women, safe. Had a tv, a toilet, a bench to stretch out possessivly on, food to arrongantly deny eating since it was disgusting and I wasn't that hungry. But the minute I was free outside in the cold air with charity shoes and my precious cell phone given back but not wanting to call my father and face the crushing shame, realizing I was so close to home yet had no idea how to get there even though I really should, adult enough to get arrested yet not enough to learn self-preservation. Of course that's when I break down and wish for rescue, for the safety of four walls and safe bed and droning tv voices. But yes, drugs. I mean pain killers. Weed burns my throat and alcohol makes me nauseous but pills are quick and medicinal, non-judgemental and precariously lethal yet much more easy to deny being self-greedy with, if only so I'll have more for next time.
*sigh* It's so nice to daydream. To write poetry and journal entries, to walk and still be suprised at how green the grass is after 3 years lived in the desert. I like my head, even if it's overzealous. It keeps me company, it's familiar in its detours.
That poem I read yesterday at the literary magazine open-mic night I read proudly. The nervousness left as soon I started, and I think I even said it right, with the amount of emphasis and softness I felt writing it. Of course walking up to the stage and jumping off my nerves were salsa dancing erratically, but when I was reading everything was still. I still wanna read it to Brenda, since she's half of it. Can't seem to write anything without her creeping in. Sandra laughed about it, said she saw Brenda's head poking in stalker-slow in all my thoughts and me smacking her away like a paddle-ball. I'm just glad she seems to like my stuff, is willing to listen and look. Otherwise I'd be foisting it on Sandra, and that girl knows too many true-confessions of mine than she ever wanted to. But yeah, it's nice to feel proud, to tell my dad about "reading it out loud? in front of people?" like an afterthought and smile amusedly when his incredulous voice says how didn't know that about me, it's nice to feel confidence like a silk dress instead of a leather jacket.
I'm gonna rewatch Xena start to finish. Then Hercules. Thank bejesus for the internet and other people being as obsessed with their tv shows as me and posting those shows so everyone can enjoy. Warrior Princess and Bardess will keep my company while I finish finals, reinforce their role-model status I had when i was 10.
But first, lots of slash fanfiction. Angel, Supernatural, Sherlock Holmes, whatever the fandom. So delicious, and so much available. The thought makes me content in itself, as a fully stocked fridge or folder after folder of porn, as the buckets under my bed overflow with books. Safety in having more than strictly needed.
Back to Comedy Central for now (damn Dane Cook is hot), till it turns to infomercials in half an hour. I'm starting to mellow out and my legs don't want to take me deep into the forrest, burning and pumping until they're pumped out. Feel like curling up fetal position wrapped in glorious, forgiving blankets and gaze receptively at my tiny television, willingly be sucked in.