It's Like, Yeah, Motherfucker, I'm Fine
So-some highlights and lowlights. Lux et Veritas. Truth and light. Truth in light. And of course, I’m left in the dark.
So Jeremiah and Annie and I saw Emerson perform Shostakovich 10 and then Jeremiah and I watched a little bit of West Side Story and I thought that things were going to work themselves out.
But things fall apart; the center cannot hold. Oh, Yeats. Oh, You. Comme tout le temps, bien sûr.
So if ever I led a boy on (hah), I would just like to thank Rice University for letting me know exactly how that sort of rejection feels. So I didn’t get into Rice, but I did get into Yale.
So that was a big, 210 lb. disaster. And I don’t know if the karmic balance is tipping for things I did years ago (months ago? minutes ago?) for which I've tried to redeem myself, but so much of me feels as if this shouldn’t have happened. But what happens happens.
So you get rejected from Rice at 3 AM after you’ve come home from your boyfriend’s house. And you’ve just lost an hour because you Sprung forward and then you fall back and have no idea what is going on. And you call your boyfriend but you cannot cry and then your parents yell at you and you get in the shower and sit on the floor and have a nice sob and wonder how you’ve failed and why you deserve this and then you go to bed. So you wake up and you decide you’re going to be pretty today. And you pretend it’s Spring and that you didn’t cry in the shower and try to forget about the fact that you are overwhelmed with an urge to throw up and hurl yourself out of your window. And it’s knowing words like “defenestrate” that got you into Yale. And you drive to school and you lie on the grass with Shane and put on your sunglasses and read Lolita and doze and you think that things may be alright, so long as you ignore everything. Then you go see your boyfriend and he says that he feels guilty because he knows he’ll be happy next year. And that’s all he has to offer and then you realize you love someone who is not all there but can anyone really help that and is it really worth trying to reel him in just so that you can let him out to sea? And don’t you just think that water metaphors feel appropriate today? And you wonder where he is. Where he’s gone. You wish you could achieve that sort of escape. You wish you could achieve that cool.
And then you feel hot and bothered and overwhelmed and you cry on your way home.
And it just seems as if you’re prone to misery. So everyone has convinced you. Misery sans company. Sans his company, at least.
And you don’t understand how you’ve come to love him for who he is despite the fact that he’s completely wrong for you. And nonetheless it will hurt when he goes and you know he will and you wonder why you’ve stuck around, and mainly, why you’re going to stick around in this place, this godforsakenIvylovingpretentiousfrigid place, and where he’ll go and when and who he’ll be and be with and who he is.
Stuck stuck stuck.
And then he brings you a flower and you put it in a vase with the flower he gave you when he got back from Spain that he’s probably forgotten about and the other flowers from other boyfriends. All dead. All past. But it’s a gesture and that’s all you need.
And you sit here chewing on ice and maybe you’re frustrated but at least you’re sane and safe and at least you can love. If you must. And maybe you called all of your ex-boyfriends tonight while he was asleep and you worried about him and maybe you realize that they may care about you in a different way than he ever will. But you never know. And you know he’s beautiful. And you cannot quantify how much anyone cares. You can only predict growth to a degree. And sometimes it does snow in April. But Spring is on its way. He has to come around eventually, doesn’t he?
And then you realize-This is Yale. This is not a table and this is not the holocaust. You are not biting into an apple and finding half a worm. You are eating a rice cake and you are going to a school that you fantasized about all through your childhood and what would you really have in Texas other than warmth and newness? How long does newness stay new, anyway? How long will you stay you? How long does anyone stay? And isn’t constancy a positive thing and doesn’t the most important change take root on the inside and pull you out? And I just want someone to pull for me a little bit. Pull me down and tie me up. Because I’ve been pushing so hard for everyone and maybe we could all just sit down for a while and have a picnic before the leaves start to change again.
And everyone says I cannot cannot go to Yale. Strangers and friends and foes alike. And I know I need escape.
And then I went to New York and realized that escape is not so simple and that I can sit on a train and I can find my way but I will not find comfort in indecipherable faces and maybe I shouldn’t run before I know exactly where I want to go. And I listened to Jono croon a little Schubert in my direction and it was lovely.
My car crossed the 100,000 mile mark and I didn’t notice and I wonder when I’ll be able to cry in front of my boyfriend and when I’ll stop feeling as if I’m playing dress-up, shuffling around in mommy’s heels and driving around in a Tonka truck. Because sometimes I think I’m just playing. But this is not a table. This is not a game. This is not a mid-life crisis. This is no crisis, at all. This has been tricky and sticky and messy, but so long as there’s ice to chew, I’ll have some sort of outlet. Now-to find a toaster and a bathtub.
Maybe I need to move to Morocco. But maybe I just need a little distance from everyone else and a little more personal proximity. Because this is year I made room for everyone. This is the year I drove everyone around and forgot about myself and my needs and let everything slide. But I’m done sliding and it’s time to enjoy myself and my own company- and if my boyfriend or anyone else decides to join me, I’ll greet him with open arms. And he can stay as long as he likes. Because I think I’ve done a good deal of expansion and I’ve got plenty of room and I’m glad that I’ll be somewhere I can see the leaves change and the snow fall and I will not let the winter embitter me.
But somehow the feeling that accompanies all of these people approaching me telling me that they cannot believe that I am sticking around and that doom is surely impending continues to beat on me from the inside out and I worry that these signs are flood warnings and I refuse to build a raft and I’m going to wash away. I suppose that would be one method of escape. And I’m allowed to worry.
And maybe I would be happier if someone felt happy for me. But maybe it’s just time for me to be happy for myself.
So Jeremiah and Annie and I saw Emerson perform Shostakovich 10 and then Jeremiah and I watched a little bit of West Side Story and I thought that things were going to work themselves out.
But things fall apart; the center cannot hold. Oh, Yeats. Oh, You. Comme tout le temps, bien sûr.
So if ever I led a boy on (hah), I would just like to thank Rice University for letting me know exactly how that sort of rejection feels. So I didn’t get into Rice, but I did get into Yale.
So that was a big, 210 lb. disaster. And I don’t know if the karmic balance is tipping for things I did years ago (months ago? minutes ago?) for which I've tried to redeem myself, but so much of me feels as if this shouldn’t have happened. But what happens happens.
So you get rejected from Rice at 3 AM after you’ve come home from your boyfriend’s house. And you’ve just lost an hour because you Sprung forward and then you fall back and have no idea what is going on. And you call your boyfriend but you cannot cry and then your parents yell at you and you get in the shower and sit on the floor and have a nice sob and wonder how you’ve failed and why you deserve this and then you go to bed. So you wake up and you decide you’re going to be pretty today. And you pretend it’s Spring and that you didn’t cry in the shower and try to forget about the fact that you are overwhelmed with an urge to throw up and hurl yourself out of your window. And it’s knowing words like “defenestrate” that got you into Yale. And you drive to school and you lie on the grass with Shane and put on your sunglasses and read Lolita and doze and you think that things may be alright, so long as you ignore everything. Then you go see your boyfriend and he says that he feels guilty because he knows he’ll be happy next year. And that’s all he has to offer and then you realize you love someone who is not all there but can anyone really help that and is it really worth trying to reel him in just so that you can let him out to sea? And don’t you just think that water metaphors feel appropriate today? And you wonder where he is. Where he’s gone. You wish you could achieve that sort of escape. You wish you could achieve that cool.
And then you feel hot and bothered and overwhelmed and you cry on your way home.
And it just seems as if you’re prone to misery. So everyone has convinced you. Misery sans company. Sans his company, at least.
And you don’t understand how you’ve come to love him for who he is despite the fact that he’s completely wrong for you. And nonetheless it will hurt when he goes and you know he will and you wonder why you’ve stuck around, and mainly, why you’re going to stick around in this place, this godforsakenIvylovingpretentiousfrigid place, and where he’ll go and when and who he’ll be and be with and who he is.
Stuck stuck stuck.
And then he brings you a flower and you put it in a vase with the flower he gave you when he got back from Spain that he’s probably forgotten about and the other flowers from other boyfriends. All dead. All past. But it’s a gesture and that’s all you need.
And you sit here chewing on ice and maybe you’re frustrated but at least you’re sane and safe and at least you can love. If you must. And maybe you called all of your ex-boyfriends tonight while he was asleep and you worried about him and maybe you realize that they may care about you in a different way than he ever will. But you never know. And you know he’s beautiful. And you cannot quantify how much anyone cares. You can only predict growth to a degree. And sometimes it does snow in April. But Spring is on its way. He has to come around eventually, doesn’t he?
And then you realize-This is Yale. This is not a table and this is not the holocaust. You are not biting into an apple and finding half a worm. You are eating a rice cake and you are going to a school that you fantasized about all through your childhood and what would you really have in Texas other than warmth and newness? How long does newness stay new, anyway? How long will you stay you? How long does anyone stay? And isn’t constancy a positive thing and doesn’t the most important change take root on the inside and pull you out? And I just want someone to pull for me a little bit. Pull me down and tie me up. Because I’ve been pushing so hard for everyone and maybe we could all just sit down for a while and have a picnic before the leaves start to change again.
And everyone says I cannot cannot go to Yale. Strangers and friends and foes alike. And I know I need escape.
And then I went to New York and realized that escape is not so simple and that I can sit on a train and I can find my way but I will not find comfort in indecipherable faces and maybe I shouldn’t run before I know exactly where I want to go. And I listened to Jono croon a little Schubert in my direction and it was lovely.
My car crossed the 100,000 mile mark and I didn’t notice and I wonder when I’ll be able to cry in front of my boyfriend and when I’ll stop feeling as if I’m playing dress-up, shuffling around in mommy’s heels and driving around in a Tonka truck. Because sometimes I think I’m just playing. But this is not a table. This is not a game. This is not a mid-life crisis. This is no crisis, at all. This has been tricky and sticky and messy, but so long as there’s ice to chew, I’ll have some sort of outlet. Now-to find a toaster and a bathtub.
Maybe I need to move to Morocco. But maybe I just need a little distance from everyone else and a little more personal proximity. Because this is year I made room for everyone. This is the year I drove everyone around and forgot about myself and my needs and let everything slide. But I’m done sliding and it’s time to enjoy myself and my own company- and if my boyfriend or anyone else decides to join me, I’ll greet him with open arms. And he can stay as long as he likes. Because I think I’ve done a good deal of expansion and I’ve got plenty of room and I’m glad that I’ll be somewhere I can see the leaves change and the snow fall and I will not let the winter embitter me.
But somehow the feeling that accompanies all of these people approaching me telling me that they cannot believe that I am sticking around and that doom is surely impending continues to beat on me from the inside out and I worry that these signs are flood warnings and I refuse to build a raft and I’m going to wash away. I suppose that would be one method of escape. And I’m allowed to worry.
And maybe I would be happier if someone felt happy for me. But maybe it’s just time for me to be happy for myself.