i have no words.
Watched Garden State tonight. It left me in one of those transcendent moods….or a stoned mood, whichever one you’re more familiar with. I was elevated over my normal, walking around state, not that much control over what I said. Saw my friends when I walked out…Tim Lenahan was calling this girl babe on his cell phone with a cigarette dangling out of his mouth and it was weird. People surprise me, really. That kid fucked around on the bus and now he is Mr. Pimp to the seventh-now-eighth grade whores. Bill and Chris walked away as soon as they saw me, conspiratorial glares painted right across their faces so I could see. I don’t care, I honestly don’t. I haven’t for a while. Meredith and everyone else squeezed me into hugs that pushed love into my chest. Godgodgod. Things are just…really good.
On another note altogether…read the newspaper this morning. Saturday’s paper, actually. Started reading an article about the hostages in Russia, because of interest and also my Russian Studies class. I started crying. I hid my face with the paper so my parents and my brother couldn’t see; they were intermittently discussing the violent deaths in Russia and birthday cards for my stepgrandmother, laughing. I stifled a lot of the tears, though. It would have been sobbing. I’m making this about me and not about the Russian children lying on the ground with bloody heads and their parents kneeling next to them caressing their faces, hopeless, devastated. I’m writing about me and not the girl in the back of the ambulance screeching and the kids who were driven in family cars to the hospital that doesn’t offer the kind of medical care that I’m used to when I go for an annual check-up. I’m writing about me because I’m doing what I am so afraid of doing, what everyone does. I am ignoring, I am instantaneously forgetting everything that is too bad for me to think about, that is too heavy. I distance myself. The stories and and and I temporarily succumb to it but then the emotion gets to be too much, an inconvenience, and we look away. We fucking look away, we talk about birthday cards. It really upsets me but I’m not going to stop. Listen to “The War Criminal Rises and Speaks” by Okkervil River. I cry just listening to the song. Listen to it. Now. Download it. God I just…sometimes I just…I disappoint myself.
On another note altogether…read the newspaper this morning. Saturday’s paper, actually. Started reading an article about the hostages in Russia, because of interest and also my Russian Studies class. I started crying. I hid my face with the paper so my parents and my brother couldn’t see; they were intermittently discussing the violent deaths in Russia and birthday cards for my stepgrandmother, laughing. I stifled a lot of the tears, though. It would have been sobbing. I’m making this about me and not about the Russian children lying on the ground with bloody heads and their parents kneeling next to them caressing their faces, hopeless, devastated. I’m writing about me and not the girl in the back of the ambulance screeching and the kids who were driven in family cars to the hospital that doesn’t offer the kind of medical care that I’m used to when I go for an annual check-up. I’m writing about me because I’m doing what I am so afraid of doing, what everyone does. I am ignoring, I am instantaneously forgetting everything that is too bad for me to think about, that is too heavy. I distance myself. The stories and and and I temporarily succumb to it but then the emotion gets to be too much, an inconvenience, and we look away. We fucking look away, we talk about birthday cards. It really upsets me but I’m not going to stop. Listen to “The War Criminal Rises and Speaks” by Okkervil River. I cry just listening to the song. Listen to it. Now. Download it. God I just…sometimes I just…I disappoint myself.