(no subject)
Well...I haven't been exactly doing so hot with this livejournal thing.
These last weeks have been a blur...an odd, dreamlike state from which I am sure I will wake from at any moment, and find myself somewhere else.
Where? That thought changes depending on my mood. Some days, I think I will turn over in the morning, open my eyes, and be back in California, within those walls I thought I would never leave, and that became so familiar and comforting and safe, and more "real" than my life left behind in Gainesville, that I felt I could linger there forever. Although, ironically enough, all I wanted to do, much of the time, was run...run as far from there as possible, from the inescapable food, and devastating emotion, and the stripping of all I thought myself to be. Granted, the only thing I could run to was my old familiar self- empty, numb, and two-dimensional...a contrived form made up of pieced together beliefs and desperate ritual.
I want a third option, godammnit.
Which is where I want to wake up, somewhere altogether different from everyplace else I have been. I want to whirl around, and find clear, calm eyes that look back from a mirror I don't fear. I will be, in this new life, fully awake and aware and alive, writing, successful, a sharply dressed form navigating the streets of some rich, vibrant city with a confidence and command that makes others turn. I will eat without panic and hate, sleep contented, love with passion, and "be" without the frenzied juggling of hastily glued together masks.
If only I was god, how ordered and resolved my life could be. Regretfully, I didn't quite succeed too well at even the saint level.
Maybe, I spend too much time in my head.
Outside, things are going alright. I am taking this writing workshop, and although the feedback has been mixed, I think it is helpful(my last story garnered some uneasy looks and I was told that it was "beautiful", "mesmorizing", "extroidinary", albeit "depressing as hell" and that most liked the style, but apparently, my "abstractness" lost them completely, and no one got what was really happening. Translation: either I'm just fucking too brilliant for them...or I write pretty, but can't carry a plot. I like the first better, but have gone back to my laptop with a vengance, feeling the sting in the probable truth of the second). Oh well.
Jacques Derrida died this week. Some friends and I paid homage to him over multiple bottles of wine at Maude's. We all agreed on the instability of language,and how texts subvert, exceed, or even overturn their author's stated purposes (Aha, my response to the whole "I didn't get the plot" whine from my peers). And then, as anyone would do after drunken deconstructing, we went to Market Street, and sang karoake. I reprised my last alcohol drenched karoake experience (with my wonderful singing partner, Nick), and did a rendition of "Caberet". At one point during my performance, the girl running the thing slipped up behind me and slid a white feather boa around my neck. So I worked it...slinky, bawdy, trying not to set it on fire with my cigarette (always good)...I actually drew catcalls and whistles, which I must admit, I loved.
It's not that I have low self-esteem, it's just that I'm sober too much of the time.
Anyway, I could get into other stuff...my battles with the whole eating thing this week, the friends I miss, how sick I am of politics and, at this point, would kill Bush myself just so I wouldn't have to hear about this shit anymore (and I think it might finally buy my way into heaven), or plans for Jason and mine's upcoming trip to New York (!!!)where we will escape Gainesville (cleverly, over the dreaded and obnoxious Homecoming weekend), and see Nick (although now that he lives there, recently visited George Lucas's ranch, AND is now a freelance editor for Marvel Comics (way to go, babe), he may be too cool for me...small town girl that I am).
I could go into that stuff, but the stack of work on my desk has been growing at a frightening rate as I have been typing this.
Sigh. Back to the real world, or at least my current version of it.
Lori
These last weeks have been a blur...an odd, dreamlike state from which I am sure I will wake from at any moment, and find myself somewhere else.
Where? That thought changes depending on my mood. Some days, I think I will turn over in the morning, open my eyes, and be back in California, within those walls I thought I would never leave, and that became so familiar and comforting and safe, and more "real" than my life left behind in Gainesville, that I felt I could linger there forever. Although, ironically enough, all I wanted to do, much of the time, was run...run as far from there as possible, from the inescapable food, and devastating emotion, and the stripping of all I thought myself to be. Granted, the only thing I could run to was my old familiar self- empty, numb, and two-dimensional...a contrived form made up of pieced together beliefs and desperate ritual.
I want a third option, godammnit.
Which is where I want to wake up, somewhere altogether different from everyplace else I have been. I want to whirl around, and find clear, calm eyes that look back from a mirror I don't fear. I will be, in this new life, fully awake and aware and alive, writing, successful, a sharply dressed form navigating the streets of some rich, vibrant city with a confidence and command that makes others turn. I will eat without panic and hate, sleep contented, love with passion, and "be" without the frenzied juggling of hastily glued together masks.
If only I was god, how ordered and resolved my life could be. Regretfully, I didn't quite succeed too well at even the saint level.
Maybe, I spend too much time in my head.
Outside, things are going alright. I am taking this writing workshop, and although the feedback has been mixed, I think it is helpful(my last story garnered some uneasy looks and I was told that it was "beautiful", "mesmorizing", "extroidinary", albeit "depressing as hell" and that most liked the style, but apparently, my "abstractness" lost them completely, and no one got what was really happening. Translation: either I'm just fucking too brilliant for them...or I write pretty, but can't carry a plot. I like the first better, but have gone back to my laptop with a vengance, feeling the sting in the probable truth of the second). Oh well.
Jacques Derrida died this week. Some friends and I paid homage to him over multiple bottles of wine at Maude's. We all agreed on the instability of language,and how texts subvert, exceed, or even overturn their author's stated purposes (Aha, my response to the whole "I didn't get the plot" whine from my peers). And then, as anyone would do after drunken deconstructing, we went to Market Street, and sang karoake. I reprised my last alcohol drenched karoake experience (with my wonderful singing partner, Nick), and did a rendition of "Caberet". At one point during my performance, the girl running the thing slipped up behind me and slid a white feather boa around my neck. So I worked it...slinky, bawdy, trying not to set it on fire with my cigarette (always good)...I actually drew catcalls and whistles, which I must admit, I loved.
It's not that I have low self-esteem, it's just that I'm sober too much of the time.
Anyway, I could get into other stuff...my battles with the whole eating thing this week, the friends I miss, how sick I am of politics and, at this point, would kill Bush myself just so I wouldn't have to hear about this shit anymore (and I think it might finally buy my way into heaven), or plans for Jason and mine's upcoming trip to New York (!!!)where we will escape Gainesville (cleverly, over the dreaded and obnoxious Homecoming weekend), and see Nick (although now that he lives there, recently visited George Lucas's ranch, AND is now a freelance editor for Marvel Comics (way to go, babe), he may be too cool for me...small town girl that I am).
I could go into that stuff, but the stack of work on my desk has been growing at a frightening rate as I have been typing this.
Sigh. Back to the real world, or at least my current version of it.
Lori