(no subject)
I got sad, I got happy again, and lord knows I got sad again. They say it, so it's true: a blind hog does eventually find an acorn.
Lubbock's nice but only because I have nice friends. My downstairs neighbors are strange, eccentric people, and I love them. I've never had neighbors I like and it's so nice. It's so nice to know that I have people who will drop everything to take me to the hospital when I cut my thumb open, or feed me weird food every couple of days.
I have a group of friends for the first time in years and years, and it's fun and beautiful and great.
I am listening to Interpol, currently, which is my veg-out music of choice. I love Interpol because I identify with the way he talks; I speak in riddles, in questions, in understatements, because I don't know how to truly explain how I feel. As if it were a color that you couldn't understand, and it's not because you're dumb or different or bad or whatever--it's because I am so strange, so much different internally than the way you work, and because the translation is never as good as the original. There is nothing as useful as an original version. We'd all do well to remember that.
I waft in and out of understanding; I am ethereal in that way. Doubtful, unpredictable, and difficult to understand. I understand that you think I may be talking about you, or that you think I'm trying to hide something, but the truth of the matter is that I'm trying my best, that I'm doing everything I can short of semaphore, short of Morse, to convey the way I feel to the rest of the world. My friends here, they think that I'm so outgoing, so friendly, so fun-loving, and the truth of it is this: that I am afraid of people, that I am afraid of talking, so afraid of my own success and abilities that I am constantly paralyzed, stuck in a weird place--but not stuck alone. I'd like, one day, to try to create a dictionary for myself, a short collection of misinterpretations, of words I misuse, of signals--I'd like to reduce myself to binary, beeps and bleeps and dots and dashes until I'm as predictable as language, or as understandable as symbols. I'd like to hieroglyphic myself, contract and contract into and out of myself until I am like literature: boundless, interpretable, so minutely detailed and perfect that the right comma in the right place changes the entire world. I suppose this makes me normal--what does anyone want but understanding? But I want more than that. I want someone to read my index, to cite me in a paper, to cite a paper on me--to understand me so thoroughly that I cease my predictability (for I am assuredly predictable) but cast off my opaque, inordinate self and shine like sand in the sun, waves cresting on a beach, but the same even though the particles change.
Lubbock's nice but only because I have nice friends. My downstairs neighbors are strange, eccentric people, and I love them. I've never had neighbors I like and it's so nice. It's so nice to know that I have people who will drop everything to take me to the hospital when I cut my thumb open, or feed me weird food every couple of days.
I have a group of friends for the first time in years and years, and it's fun and beautiful and great.
I am listening to Interpol, currently, which is my veg-out music of choice. I love Interpol because I identify with the way he talks; I speak in riddles, in questions, in understatements, because I don't know how to truly explain how I feel. As if it were a color that you couldn't understand, and it's not because you're dumb or different or bad or whatever--it's because I am so strange, so much different internally than the way you work, and because the translation is never as good as the original. There is nothing as useful as an original version. We'd all do well to remember that.
I waft in and out of understanding; I am ethereal in that way. Doubtful, unpredictable, and difficult to understand. I understand that you think I may be talking about you, or that you think I'm trying to hide something, but the truth of the matter is that I'm trying my best, that I'm doing everything I can short of semaphore, short of Morse, to convey the way I feel to the rest of the world. My friends here, they think that I'm so outgoing, so friendly, so fun-loving, and the truth of it is this: that I am afraid of people, that I am afraid of talking, so afraid of my own success and abilities that I am constantly paralyzed, stuck in a weird place--but not stuck alone. I'd like, one day, to try to create a dictionary for myself, a short collection of misinterpretations, of words I misuse, of signals--I'd like to reduce myself to binary, beeps and bleeps and dots and dashes until I'm as predictable as language, or as understandable as symbols. I'd like to hieroglyphic myself, contract and contract into and out of myself until I am like literature: boundless, interpretable, so minutely detailed and perfect that the right comma in the right place changes the entire world. I suppose this makes me normal--what does anyone want but understanding? But I want more than that. I want someone to read my index, to cite me in a paper, to cite a paper on me--to understand me so thoroughly that I cease my predictability (for I am assuredly predictable) but cast off my opaque, inordinate self and shine like sand in the sun, waves cresting on a beach, but the same even though the particles change.