the other journal (spelling and punctuation errors left intact)
I keep another journal. I stopped writing here for a while for a lot of reasons...beacause I was busy, because I felt like I had missed too much to go back and try and fill in the blanks, because i didn't feel like it...and sometimes, because i had things to work out that were too personal, too vitrolic, or too whatever to display where certain people might read.
here are a few excepts from said journal, from the months of August and September:
August 3, 2008
the echo of sunshine
the ache of gunpowder
the sound of your skin - poem fragments
my books are sitting on their new shelf. I'm scared to open them lately, for some reason. They've become fetished objects...i loved them once, and still do, but i'm scared of the dissapointment they could hold within them. There are few things as devasting in the world as re-reading a favorite book and finding it to lack all the good qulities you had attributed to it. Sometimes, it is the fault of the book, sometimes the fault of the reader. I fear i've changed to much to read the same things that gave me so much pleasure in the past.
I'm self destructive by nature. And most certainly mentally unwell. I don't know what it was in the environment or in my own nature that shaped the growth of my personality, but I have always been off. The earliest games I can remember playing by myself as a child we always dark. I would hide from passing cars, because I knew they were the enemy, that they would attack me, spy on me....and I ran away from home a lot. I hid in the woods, build forts of remarkable strength and durability from fallen branches and natural rocky caves and outcroppings. How I never managed to break a bone is a mystery to me.
I am tired of being self-destructive. Tired of trying to kill myself slowly with overeating, and undereating, and slicing at my skin in fits of pique, and driving mercilessly, and most of all drinking to kill fear and self doubt and most of all myself. I thought I was stable, finally had my feet under me...but sometimes I drink so much that I wonder how I could still be alive. And lately that happens more and more. I don't drink to get drunk. Well, that's a lie, I do. But I want to be drunk so that I can fit comfortably in my own skin. And then the more I drink, the more I loathe myself.
I shy away from all things that remind me of my father: drink, yard sales, artists, self-employed, kayakers, bicyclists, blacksmiths, cheap beer, gourmands, christmas decorations made from cranberries and popcorn. Sometimes I think I am so preoccupied with avoiding his fate that I have become his exact duplicate.
I want to write, but I am wracked with fear. Fearing that I will never complete what I start, fearing that I won't live up to the artistic standards I set for myself, fear that my thinly veiled roman a clefs will see the light of day and ruin the fragile balance of my life.
And solitary pursuits are frowned on by my social set. If I choose to spend an afternoon painting, or god forbid merely reading or writing, it makes my roommates worry about me. The last time I spent an afternoon painting instead of being social, they assumed I was mad at them for some reason. And then we didn't speak for a week. Which makes me want to make my solirary pursuts a secret, which is foolish of me.
Sometimes I am so happy here that I could never contemplate leaving.
I have shied from journals lately. I was religious with an online public journal from junior year of high school until last summer. It wasn't a concvious deciosn to stop, but It just sort of happened.
I am tired of my self-destructive nature.
I need to escape. Im many ways I am happy. I finally, for the first time have a suplus of money, and security. The security is disamring...it's taken me 8 months to get used to the sensation of knowing where my next meal is coming from, sleeping in a safe bed, knowing that I am finally in control of the direction that my life is taking.
I want to move to europe. And I wanted to do it yesterday. I want to school myself at the ancient universities of England, and I want to go on holiday to Italy. I think I might want to live in Italy.
I want to create a version of myself that is most true to my inner space. I want to create a version of myself that matches the inner vision I have of myself. A version of me that glides effortlessly in a formal black dress throughout a gala in a ballroom in Europe. A version of me with razor like wit that discusses politcs and art at a crowded cafe patio A version of me that only resorts to violence in defense of virtue. A version of myself that can fence, and play an instrument, and moves chameelon like among a thousand different castes.
I am afraid to create a world of fiction, so instead I will faithfully expose my viscera in a journal. I wish I could write a journal as captivating as Anais Nin or Samuel Pepys. I wish I could construct a world. Everytime I start a script or a novel, I have fantastic ideas for plot and characters. But I never know how it ends.
I want romance. I've waited this long, I refuse to settle for someone who isn't perfect. Not perfect of course, but perfect for me. I am driven to distraction by my sexual urges, but I can't satisfy them fully by myself. But I can't find a single person who will suit me. I am ferocious. I need someone, and soon, before I make a mistake.
Wednesday August 13th 2008
Bitterly, fiercely jealous and nostaligic. Have missed theatre ever since I went into self-imposed exile from theatrical community. Heard offhand of former classmate with new website; checked it hers and others.
I miss acting but i'm not sure if I can go back. I've lost my ability to become vulnerable. no. that's wrong. I am just afraid to be vulnerable. I left in the first place because I was getting used, abused, broken hearted.
I miss being able to live inside someone else's skin for a few hours.
But I like where I am now. I am secure. I can afford to pay my rent. I have actor friends on uneploment and on foodstamps. If you have the choice, why not make a shit ton of money? I have health insurance, which few of my friends do.
Still, the life I am leading now is not the life I want to lead. I feel too old. My job ages me. I want a new car, and I want to study shakespeare. I think I need to go back to school before I lose myself in my new life. I want a house .
Stupid disfiguring disease.
I can live in a fashion I have only dreamed of. I don't ever have to look at price tags when I shop, because I make that much money.
And yet. The person I used to be ..she didn't have money. And she was miserable sometimes too.
If I could get my ass in gear, i'd save more money. I'd save enough to take a year and do nothing but act or sleep on beaches or write or cook or go back to school.
Everything is an accusation, a command, a sly depricating comment that cuts to my core and makes me want to open my veins and pour my blood at her feet so she will be satisfied.
Eventually, fear will take over all my life. Fear keeps me from writing, from theatre, from sex, from love, from friendship. When fear owns all of me, what will I have become?
At times, I lose sight of myself. There are warring factions in all people. Some days, I am the rebel against corporate america. Other days, I am it's slave. Some days i'm an activist, others, only apathetic. Sundays I am a garish barfly, dripping obvious sex and desperation, always on the attack, always on the verge of tears. Mondays I am strait-laced, conservative...or slovenly. In me, there is a pin-up goddess, a waif, a jane austen heroine, a depraved sex maniac, a bondage fetishist, a cook, a mother. I think that's what drew me to theare...i never had to know what I was on the inside because I was never wholly my own. My body, my mind, my hair and nails and teeth and voice always belonged to a theatre or a director, or an imagined or desired project. Now that I am fully my own again, I don't know who or what I am.
I want a body like an action hero. But I love being soft and having DD massive porn star breasts. I want hair that ends sharply at my jawline, and hair that flows in soft waves past my waist.
My thoughts are all in a blender. I'm losing my grip on my own mind. I can't speak without stumbling and slurring, I can't form a story or a thesis.
21 Sept 2008
Strangely, I don't feel trapped. I am, in a way, a victim of monetary circumstance. I am tied down to this apartment and this job, at least for The time being, but I make enough money to live comfortably, excessively at times, and to save and eventually I will get a raise and I will be able to save more and go to grad school and get the hell out of here.
Do I agree with most of these things I wrote? No, not at this time. Probably not ever again. But I thought I would post them, just the same.
Jeremiah and I were talking the other night about how hard it is to remember little things, like what wine you drank on a certain night, or exactly how many times you've seen a band live....and that's the reason I bring this back. I write things here, and promptly forget them. I return to read old entries, and rediscover lost parts of myself.
here are a few excepts from said journal, from the months of August and September:
August 3, 2008
the echo of sunshine
the ache of gunpowder
the sound of your skin - poem fragments
my books are sitting on their new shelf. I'm scared to open them lately, for some reason. They've become fetished objects...i loved them once, and still do, but i'm scared of the dissapointment they could hold within them. There are few things as devasting in the world as re-reading a favorite book and finding it to lack all the good qulities you had attributed to it. Sometimes, it is the fault of the book, sometimes the fault of the reader. I fear i've changed to much to read the same things that gave me so much pleasure in the past.
I'm self destructive by nature. And most certainly mentally unwell. I don't know what it was in the environment or in my own nature that shaped the growth of my personality, but I have always been off. The earliest games I can remember playing by myself as a child we always dark. I would hide from passing cars, because I knew they were the enemy, that they would attack me, spy on me....and I ran away from home a lot. I hid in the woods, build forts of remarkable strength and durability from fallen branches and natural rocky caves and outcroppings. How I never managed to break a bone is a mystery to me.
I am tired of being self-destructive. Tired of trying to kill myself slowly with overeating, and undereating, and slicing at my skin in fits of pique, and driving mercilessly, and most of all drinking to kill fear and self doubt and most of all myself. I thought I was stable, finally had my feet under me...but sometimes I drink so much that I wonder how I could still be alive. And lately that happens more and more. I don't drink to get drunk. Well, that's a lie, I do. But I want to be drunk so that I can fit comfortably in my own skin. And then the more I drink, the more I loathe myself.
I shy away from all things that remind me of my father: drink, yard sales, artists, self-employed, kayakers, bicyclists, blacksmiths, cheap beer, gourmands, christmas decorations made from cranberries and popcorn. Sometimes I think I am so preoccupied with avoiding his fate that I have become his exact duplicate.
I want to write, but I am wracked with fear. Fearing that I will never complete what I start, fearing that I won't live up to the artistic standards I set for myself, fear that my thinly veiled roman a clefs will see the light of day and ruin the fragile balance of my life.
And solitary pursuits are frowned on by my social set. If I choose to spend an afternoon painting, or god forbid merely reading or writing, it makes my roommates worry about me. The last time I spent an afternoon painting instead of being social, they assumed I was mad at them for some reason. And then we didn't speak for a week. Which makes me want to make my solirary pursuts a secret, which is foolish of me.
Sometimes I am so happy here that I could never contemplate leaving.
I have shied from journals lately. I was religious with an online public journal from junior year of high school until last summer. It wasn't a concvious deciosn to stop, but It just sort of happened.
I am tired of my self-destructive nature.
I need to escape. Im many ways I am happy. I finally, for the first time have a suplus of money, and security. The security is disamring...it's taken me 8 months to get used to the sensation of knowing where my next meal is coming from, sleeping in a safe bed, knowing that I am finally in control of the direction that my life is taking.
I want to move to europe. And I wanted to do it yesterday. I want to school myself at the ancient universities of England, and I want to go on holiday to Italy. I think I might want to live in Italy.
I want to create a version of myself that is most true to my inner space. I want to create a version of myself that matches the inner vision I have of myself. A version of me that glides effortlessly in a formal black dress throughout a gala in a ballroom in Europe. A version of me with razor like wit that discusses politcs and art at a crowded cafe patio A version of me that only resorts to violence in defense of virtue. A version of myself that can fence, and play an instrument, and moves chameelon like among a thousand different castes.
I am afraid to create a world of fiction, so instead I will faithfully expose my viscera in a journal. I wish I could write a journal as captivating as Anais Nin or Samuel Pepys. I wish I could construct a world. Everytime I start a script or a novel, I have fantastic ideas for plot and characters. But I never know how it ends.
I want romance. I've waited this long, I refuse to settle for someone who isn't perfect. Not perfect of course, but perfect for me. I am driven to distraction by my sexual urges, but I can't satisfy them fully by myself. But I can't find a single person who will suit me. I am ferocious. I need someone, and soon, before I make a mistake.
Wednesday August 13th 2008
Bitterly, fiercely jealous and nostaligic. Have missed theatre ever since I went into self-imposed exile from theatrical community. Heard offhand of former classmate with new website; checked it hers and others.
I miss acting but i'm not sure if I can go back. I've lost my ability to become vulnerable. no. that's wrong. I am just afraid to be vulnerable. I left in the first place because I was getting used, abused, broken hearted.
I miss being able to live inside someone else's skin for a few hours.
But I like where I am now. I am secure. I can afford to pay my rent. I have actor friends on uneploment and on foodstamps. If you have the choice, why not make a shit ton of money? I have health insurance, which few of my friends do.
Still, the life I am leading now is not the life I want to lead. I feel too old. My job ages me. I want a new car, and I want to study shakespeare. I think I need to go back to school before I lose myself in my new life. I want a house .
Stupid disfiguring disease.
I can live in a fashion I have only dreamed of. I don't ever have to look at price tags when I shop, because I make that much money.
And yet. The person I used to be ..she didn't have money. And she was miserable sometimes too.
If I could get my ass in gear, i'd save more money. I'd save enough to take a year and do nothing but act or sleep on beaches or write or cook or go back to school.
Everything is an accusation, a command, a sly depricating comment that cuts to my core and makes me want to open my veins and pour my blood at her feet so she will be satisfied.
Eventually, fear will take over all my life. Fear keeps me from writing, from theatre, from sex, from love, from friendship. When fear owns all of me, what will I have become?
At times, I lose sight of myself. There are warring factions in all people. Some days, I am the rebel against corporate america. Other days, I am it's slave. Some days i'm an activist, others, only apathetic. Sundays I am a garish barfly, dripping obvious sex and desperation, always on the attack, always on the verge of tears. Mondays I am strait-laced, conservative...or slovenly. In me, there is a pin-up goddess, a waif, a jane austen heroine, a depraved sex maniac, a bondage fetishist, a cook, a mother. I think that's what drew me to theare...i never had to know what I was on the inside because I was never wholly my own. My body, my mind, my hair and nails and teeth and voice always belonged to a theatre or a director, or an imagined or desired project. Now that I am fully my own again, I don't know who or what I am.
I want a body like an action hero. But I love being soft and having DD massive porn star breasts. I want hair that ends sharply at my jawline, and hair that flows in soft waves past my waist.
My thoughts are all in a blender. I'm losing my grip on my own mind. I can't speak without stumbling and slurring, I can't form a story or a thesis.
21 Sept 2008
Strangely, I don't feel trapped. I am, in a way, a victim of monetary circumstance. I am tied down to this apartment and this job, at least for The time being, but I make enough money to live comfortably, excessively at times, and to save and eventually I will get a raise and I will be able to save more and go to grad school and get the hell out of here.
Do I agree with most of these things I wrote? No, not at this time. Probably not ever again. But I thought I would post them, just the same.
Jeremiah and I were talking the other night about how hard it is to remember little things, like what wine you drank on a certain night, or exactly how many times you've seen a band live....and that's the reason I bring this back. I write things here, and promptly forget them. I return to read old entries, and rediscover lost parts of myself.