sorry this is just stream of consciousness
I found a beautiful Judy Grahn reader at work that I cannot afford. Ohhh how resisting was hard. I want to read the full edition of "A Woman is Talking to Death" so badly!
This is one of the more sterile apartments I think I've lived in, though always in the past I've had the luxury of living at least two hours away from most of my furniture, which was easy to fill an apartment with. Here I'm living on what I can slap together creatively or what I was able to fit in my CR-V, so things are a little more empty. I miss my paintings and my bookshelves. I think I could probably even live without my bedframe if I just had my bookshelves. And my books. Oh hell I miss my books so much it's a travesty. I keep thinking in conversations with friends, "Ah, I'll get that for you," and then realising, not only can I not get the book because it's in Kentucky, but I can't even tell you which tub it's in, so there's no way I can bring it back with me. I want my design books, my photography books, my fiction and above all my POETRY. I miss my little green bookshelf that's living in Indianapolis in Georgeanna's house and my cheap-as-shit bookshelf that I got from Target and then painted and mod-podged within an inch of it's life and had all my friends write their favourite quotes on.
First world problems, right?
The concept of home is so important to me. My mom even gets on me for it, though she didn't have that the way I did as a child, so I think it isn't something she can understand--that love of home, hearth, security and stability. She was so annoyed with me when I lost it when she and my dad moved from the house where I grew up--although to be fair to me, they didn't tell me when they did it, and I could have easily come "home" to an empty house. On the flip side of that, I remember my dad feeling so guilty and sad when I found out from out neighbours that they were moving--and he said, "Do you hate me now?" And I felt so bad for being so attached to brick and mortar and that amazing backyard and basement where so many miracles happened in the lives of so many children. And in my own life and growth as a person.
Oh, that damn house. I wish I could let it go.
I can't decide if nights alone like this are good or bad--they allow me to wallow a little, and I think that perhaps the only negative is that I don't have anything I can paint wildly on or write poetry on the walls or find some kind of wild and untamed outlet to break down on.
I think it's almost time to re-read Dangerous Angels. I'm beginning to understand why Witch Baby hates Cherokee sometimes, why she's so angry and filled with lonely rage. (and thank you, amazing f-list, because I didn't reply last time you guys were so beautiful and sweet to comment on my Witchy needs.)
I need strawberries. Oh gosh, I think I have to go buy some strawberries. And maybe raspberries. I wish I had some champagne. Or Prosecco. Italy, I miss you.
Elizabeth says that my biggest problem in class is that I haven't had an emotional breakdown yet. That I'm trying too hard to make it through strong, to avoid fragility and all of the shit and fear that comes with it. If I knew what kind of emotional breakdown would help me re-learn how to act, I would gladly give in to it. But I don't know. I'm lost when it comes to me in that aspect. There's nothing wrong with me--I was given a beautiful childhood, and no one ever did anything horrible to me when I was a kid, or a teenager. I've lead a charmed, albeit lonely, life. But even the loneliness is probably self-inflicted, right? Lonely is easy. I can mope over it, but really I know how to do lonely. So where does this breakdown come from? From wondering where God's voice comes from sometimes? From the pain of the waiting? From the angst? What bullshit. What simpering, cheap, tawdry shit.
Sometimes... (and I'm so glad Jannel felt the same way when I admitted it the other day) Sometimes I'm so scared that God has given me such beautiful talent with kids because I'll never get any of my own. And that, one day, I'm just going to have to look around and say, "Okay. This is fine. I can be content because I have these beautiful children who aren't mine but whose love is so absolutely mine. I can be happy anyway." But I also don't feel like that's fair. Because I believe strongly that God plants these desires in our hearts for a reason. I have to trust in Him or I really have just nothing.
Oh, Kentucky. My heart hurts. I'm so unsure of myself out here. Even Arezzo made more sense, because my solitariness and fears had a voice and a rhythm. There was a poetry to it all when tucked into the hills of Toscana. Here... it's just bumpy and craggy and every step feels like it's in the dark. But it's odd, because I don't feel lost, just like I'm spending my days and nights on a ledge, waiting for the moment when the footholds give out.
Emily, I hope you're right. I'm afraid that you're not.
Food for thought:
Joan: The light changes again, as the guard leads her to a three-legged stool; she is alone now in her cell. Blessed St. Michael, blessed ladies Catherine and Margaret, are you never going to come again and speak to me? Why have you left me alone since the English captured me? You were there to see me safely to victory: but it’s now, in the suffering time, that I need you most. I know it would be too simple, too easy, if God always held me by the hand: where would the merit be? I know He took my hand at the beginning because I was still too small to be alone, and later He thought I could make my own way. But I am not very big yet, God. It was very difficult to follow clearly everything the Bishop said to me. With the Cannon it was easy; I could see where he was wrong, and where he was wicked and I was ready to give him any answer which would make him furious. But the Bishop spoke so gently and it often seemed to me he was right. Are you sure that you meant that, God? Did you mean me to feel so afraid of suffering, when the man said he would have no chance to strangle me before the flames could reach me? Are you sure that you want me to live? (a pause. She seems to be waiting for an answer, her eyes on the sky.) No word for me? I shall have to answer that question myself, as well. (A pause. She nods.) Perhaps I am only proud an self-willed after all? Perhaps after all, I did imagine everything?
(my favourite part? "I'm not very big yet, God.")
This is one of the more sterile apartments I think I've lived in, though always in the past I've had the luxury of living at least two hours away from most of my furniture, which was easy to fill an apartment with. Here I'm living on what I can slap together creatively or what I was able to fit in my CR-V, so things are a little more empty. I miss my paintings and my bookshelves. I think I could probably even live without my bedframe if I just had my bookshelves. And my books. Oh hell I miss my books so much it's a travesty. I keep thinking in conversations with friends, "Ah, I'll get that for you," and then realising, not only can I not get the book because it's in Kentucky, but I can't even tell you which tub it's in, so there's no way I can bring it back with me. I want my design books, my photography books, my fiction and above all my POETRY. I miss my little green bookshelf that's living in Indianapolis in Georgeanna's house and my cheap-as-shit bookshelf that I got from Target and then painted and mod-podged within an inch of it's life and had all my friends write their favourite quotes on.
First world problems, right?
The concept of home is so important to me. My mom even gets on me for it, though she didn't have that the way I did as a child, so I think it isn't something she can understand--that love of home, hearth, security and stability. She was so annoyed with me when I lost it when she and my dad moved from the house where I grew up--although to be fair to me, they didn't tell me when they did it, and I could have easily come "home" to an empty house. On the flip side of that, I remember my dad feeling so guilty and sad when I found out from out neighbours that they were moving--and he said, "Do you hate me now?" And I felt so bad for being so attached to brick and mortar and that amazing backyard and basement where so many miracles happened in the lives of so many children. And in my own life and growth as a person.
Oh, that damn house. I wish I could let it go.
I can't decide if nights alone like this are good or bad--they allow me to wallow a little, and I think that perhaps the only negative is that I don't have anything I can paint wildly on or write poetry on the walls or find some kind of wild and untamed outlet to break down on.
I think it's almost time to re-read Dangerous Angels. I'm beginning to understand why Witch Baby hates Cherokee sometimes, why she's so angry and filled with lonely rage. (and thank you, amazing f-list, because I didn't reply last time you guys were so beautiful and sweet to comment on my Witchy needs.)
I need strawberries. Oh gosh, I think I have to go buy some strawberries. And maybe raspberries. I wish I had some champagne. Or Prosecco. Italy, I miss you.
Elizabeth says that my biggest problem in class is that I haven't had an emotional breakdown yet. That I'm trying too hard to make it through strong, to avoid fragility and all of the shit and fear that comes with it. If I knew what kind of emotional breakdown would help me re-learn how to act, I would gladly give in to it. But I don't know. I'm lost when it comes to me in that aspect. There's nothing wrong with me--I was given a beautiful childhood, and no one ever did anything horrible to me when I was a kid, or a teenager. I've lead a charmed, albeit lonely, life. But even the loneliness is probably self-inflicted, right? Lonely is easy. I can mope over it, but really I know how to do lonely. So where does this breakdown come from? From wondering where God's voice comes from sometimes? From the pain of the waiting? From the angst? What bullshit. What simpering, cheap, tawdry shit.
Sometimes... (and I'm so glad Jannel felt the same way when I admitted it the other day) Sometimes I'm so scared that God has given me such beautiful talent with kids because I'll never get any of my own. And that, one day, I'm just going to have to look around and say, "Okay. This is fine. I can be content because I have these beautiful children who aren't mine but whose love is so absolutely mine. I can be happy anyway." But I also don't feel like that's fair. Because I believe strongly that God plants these desires in our hearts for a reason. I have to trust in Him or I really have just nothing.
Oh, Kentucky. My heart hurts. I'm so unsure of myself out here. Even Arezzo made more sense, because my solitariness and fears had a voice and a rhythm. There was a poetry to it all when tucked into the hills of Toscana. Here... it's just bumpy and craggy and every step feels like it's in the dark. But it's odd, because I don't feel lost, just like I'm spending my days and nights on a ledge, waiting for the moment when the footholds give out.
Emily, I hope you're right. I'm afraid that you're not.
Food for thought:
Joan: The light changes again, as the guard leads her to a three-legged stool; she is alone now in her cell. Blessed St. Michael, blessed ladies Catherine and Margaret, are you never going to come again and speak to me? Why have you left me alone since the English captured me? You were there to see me safely to victory: but it’s now, in the suffering time, that I need you most. I know it would be too simple, too easy, if God always held me by the hand: where would the merit be? I know He took my hand at the beginning because I was still too small to be alone, and later He thought I could make my own way. But I am not very big yet, God. It was very difficult to follow clearly everything the Bishop said to me. With the Cannon it was easy; I could see where he was wrong, and where he was wicked and I was ready to give him any answer which would make him furious. But the Bishop spoke so gently and it often seemed to me he was right. Are you sure that you meant that, God? Did you mean me to feel so afraid of suffering, when the man said he would have no chance to strangle me before the flames could reach me? Are you sure that you want me to live? (a pause. She seems to be waiting for an answer, her eyes on the sky.) No word for me? I shall have to answer that question myself, as well. (A pause. She nods.) Perhaps I am only proud an self-willed after all? Perhaps after all, I did imagine everything?
(my favourite part? "I'm not very big yet, God.")