the proof that piles in the trash can.
Phew, it's been a while since I've written. I've been writing impressively in my travel novel that Sarah bought me a ways back.
Well, the usual Barnes and Noble with Kristen and life lessons with Kim, and slightly off conversations with my parents and sister. I'm content but waiting, pensive but not consumed with anything in particular. Thrilled with grades that shouldn't be quite as good as the energy that I didn't put into my classes this semester. I'm in love with paleoclimate research, and find myself unable to sneak it into conversations, which I know most everyone sort of trips over....wait, what? haha, the science pulls me away a bit from my artsy friends, who I usually relate to more than my science girls. I just love the details, the never-ending questions and the process of imagination that it all requires, and also pairing personalities with interests. What brings someone to question why our oceans change direction, what makes it so bizzare and incredible as opposed to children's theatre? As opposed to social programs, or the lack of, or the market trends?
What posseses someone to spend hours and days and years in a lab, fondling equations, plugging in variables, humanizing data, and what pulls them out of their science spell into taxes and friends with Don Juan tequila, and into a bed with a sensitive cuddler?
I'm tossing and turning about, and without Dave, and I realize that I have always appreciated someone's presence in these times of solidarity. I still curse myself for not grabbing a hold of Sarah, with as much vigor, during our summer's together. I miss her terribly, always. And I worry that it doesn't show. Because truthfully, how could it? It's completely illogical to believe that I could spend this much time away from someone, not putting adequate amounts of energy into seeing or hearing from them, and still crave their presence, their energy and their spirit. But I do. And I still recognize how insanely unique she is from anyone I have ever come into contact with.
A similar feeling actually tugs at me when I leave Dave. How can someone not recognize his worth, as I didn't really before our intense cuddling semester. And although I am nervous around him, and I do shy away in social situations, I still truly value our conversations and our mornings. And I wonder what to make of it all. Of course, it is only on windy, quiet family nights that I analyze all of this. In real, non-virtual, trudge-through-the-snow-to-school, life I focus on the extending future, on the papers and tests and interviews and silly friend nights. I feel much richer after a night of watching Nip Tuck, mostly for the reactions from friends, but also for the taste of television, the minutes of pop culture that I do not keep up with at the Crittenden house.
I just wrote a few paragraphs about my love for Becca and my other Sarah, and my acceptance of myself as no longer an island in terms of recognition and realization about my quasi-relationship with Dave, but I just accidentally deleted it all, and just felt a part of me slip away. A bit dramatic? Yes. But it's true. My damn key pad causes me so much grief, mainly in emails or other silly virtual monologues. I will try to pick up the pieces.
Nope, it's gone for now, but I tend to come back. I really do believe that these journals are more for my own posted satisfaction that any reiteration for onlookers.
It's so odd to know that everything I've just lost, the 100 so words, are still inside me, but they might not come out as eloquently as a few minutes ago, when they were freshly in mind. But I also appreciate that. When I right, every thought is instant, it has been swimming around in my mind for days but only truly takes shape with a click on the keyboard. I can only review it and edit it in my mind after translating it into online fluff. I tend to think that not writing it all down, my hopes, my despairs (sp?), my momentary frustrations, helps to loosen them, to allow me to get through my daily life without too much of a limp, but now I wonder...specifically from my other Sarah (R) what to make of this tendency. Am I lying to myself and those around me but pushing away many fears, or by shrinking them to fit the convenience of others, or even myself. Should I be more open to the irrational doubts and terrors in order to fully learn from them and understand myself? To me, this all seems rather hippy or even selfish, or at least it has in the past.
One of the joys of this semester is hearing Sarah (R) and her weekly moments in Humanistic Pyschology, a sort of group therapy session. She has confided in me, frantically this summer, and with greater thought this semester and I've truly been transformed by her honesty and her courage...what I would see as allowing a very vulnerable side of her come out, to me. She nearly hugs her own frustration and discomfort in certain social situations, and doesn't let it fly past her. It scares and intrigues me, much like my real Sarah does, although with less fear. It is with a different tone, a bit more scientific. With Sarah (R) it is unadultrated, especially with any booze, and I actually love it. Certainly not her frantic, hurt moments, but her straight-up acceptance of a mood.
Similarly, I've realized how important the tiny details mean to friends, and I'm trying to realize that it is not necessarily a burden, but a gift, at times and in proportion.
Tomorrow I will take my sister out to a coffee shop and get her to only sign with me, pretending that I require practice with ASL, but with an ulterior motive: I listen to her more closely and take in her words with more care when she signs. I somehow remove my own bias and resentment, mostly, when we are using such a dance-like form of expression. I realize that she is reading this entry, but hopefully not until after we talk. I admit, the resentment stems completely from my own frustrations in not being able to maintain the patience that our stunted communication requires.
But it is not a hearing-deaf communication road block, or not completely, but often a Welzer family charm...the ability to speak without saying much of anything personal, or to bond without communicating an actual belief or hope. I don't mind it, but it does put distance between me and my father and mother...but not Nicole and I. Not when we can escape somewhere and truly talk. I feel her sense my stand-off-ishness as uppity, snotty, or uncaring, but it's truthfully my own difficulties with eye contact or patient louder speaking, or even the general discomfort with re-aquainting. But I need to work on all of that, and it will not pass me by.
The book I'm currently reading, Fifty Degrees Below has inspired so much thought about sociobiology, which I will not get into, only because this journal entry is approaching unacceptable lengths.
And so, at 1:26 on a winter break night, I end this rant. And send out love to all readers.
Jonny - I adore cat power. And I want to see you this break.
Sarah, if you read this before you get my email, CALL ME! I NEED to see you:)
Love love love, so much unspoken love.
- Brip.
Well, the usual Barnes and Noble with Kristen and life lessons with Kim, and slightly off conversations with my parents and sister. I'm content but waiting, pensive but not consumed with anything in particular. Thrilled with grades that shouldn't be quite as good as the energy that I didn't put into my classes this semester. I'm in love with paleoclimate research, and find myself unable to sneak it into conversations, which I know most everyone sort of trips over....wait, what? haha, the science pulls me away a bit from my artsy friends, who I usually relate to more than my science girls. I just love the details, the never-ending questions and the process of imagination that it all requires, and also pairing personalities with interests. What brings someone to question why our oceans change direction, what makes it so bizzare and incredible as opposed to children's theatre? As opposed to social programs, or the lack of, or the market trends?
What posseses someone to spend hours and days and years in a lab, fondling equations, plugging in variables, humanizing data, and what pulls them out of their science spell into taxes and friends with Don Juan tequila, and into a bed with a sensitive cuddler?
I'm tossing and turning about, and without Dave, and I realize that I have always appreciated someone's presence in these times of solidarity. I still curse myself for not grabbing a hold of Sarah, with as much vigor, during our summer's together. I miss her terribly, always. And I worry that it doesn't show. Because truthfully, how could it? It's completely illogical to believe that I could spend this much time away from someone, not putting adequate amounts of energy into seeing or hearing from them, and still crave their presence, their energy and their spirit. But I do. And I still recognize how insanely unique she is from anyone I have ever come into contact with.
A similar feeling actually tugs at me when I leave Dave. How can someone not recognize his worth, as I didn't really before our intense cuddling semester. And although I am nervous around him, and I do shy away in social situations, I still truly value our conversations and our mornings. And I wonder what to make of it all. Of course, it is only on windy, quiet family nights that I analyze all of this. In real, non-virtual, trudge-through-the-snow-to-school, life I focus on the extending future, on the papers and tests and interviews and silly friend nights. I feel much richer after a night of watching Nip Tuck, mostly for the reactions from friends, but also for the taste of television, the minutes of pop culture that I do not keep up with at the Crittenden house.
I just wrote a few paragraphs about my love for Becca and my other Sarah, and my acceptance of myself as no longer an island in terms of recognition and realization about my quasi-relationship with Dave, but I just accidentally deleted it all, and just felt a part of me slip away. A bit dramatic? Yes. But it's true. My damn key pad causes me so much grief, mainly in emails or other silly virtual monologues. I will try to pick up the pieces.
Nope, it's gone for now, but I tend to come back. I really do believe that these journals are more for my own posted satisfaction that any reiteration for onlookers.
It's so odd to know that everything I've just lost, the 100 so words, are still inside me, but they might not come out as eloquently as a few minutes ago, when they were freshly in mind. But I also appreciate that. When I right, every thought is instant, it has been swimming around in my mind for days but only truly takes shape with a click on the keyboard. I can only review it and edit it in my mind after translating it into online fluff. I tend to think that not writing it all down, my hopes, my despairs (sp?), my momentary frustrations, helps to loosen them, to allow me to get through my daily life without too much of a limp, but now I wonder...specifically from my other Sarah (R) what to make of this tendency. Am I lying to myself and those around me but pushing away many fears, or by shrinking them to fit the convenience of others, or even myself. Should I be more open to the irrational doubts and terrors in order to fully learn from them and understand myself? To me, this all seems rather hippy or even selfish, or at least it has in the past.
One of the joys of this semester is hearing Sarah (R) and her weekly moments in Humanistic Pyschology, a sort of group therapy session. She has confided in me, frantically this summer, and with greater thought this semester and I've truly been transformed by her honesty and her courage...what I would see as allowing a very vulnerable side of her come out, to me. She nearly hugs her own frustration and discomfort in certain social situations, and doesn't let it fly past her. It scares and intrigues me, much like my real Sarah does, although with less fear. It is with a different tone, a bit more scientific. With Sarah (R) it is unadultrated, especially with any booze, and I actually love it. Certainly not her frantic, hurt moments, but her straight-up acceptance of a mood.
Similarly, I've realized how important the tiny details mean to friends, and I'm trying to realize that it is not necessarily a burden, but a gift, at times and in proportion.
Tomorrow I will take my sister out to a coffee shop and get her to only sign with me, pretending that I require practice with ASL, but with an ulterior motive: I listen to her more closely and take in her words with more care when she signs. I somehow remove my own bias and resentment, mostly, when we are using such a dance-like form of expression. I realize that she is reading this entry, but hopefully not until after we talk. I admit, the resentment stems completely from my own frustrations in not being able to maintain the patience that our stunted communication requires.
But it is not a hearing-deaf communication road block, or not completely, but often a Welzer family charm...the ability to speak without saying much of anything personal, or to bond without communicating an actual belief or hope. I don't mind it, but it does put distance between me and my father and mother...but not Nicole and I. Not when we can escape somewhere and truly talk. I feel her sense my stand-off-ishness as uppity, snotty, or uncaring, but it's truthfully my own difficulties with eye contact or patient louder speaking, or even the general discomfort with re-aquainting. But I need to work on all of that, and it will not pass me by.
The book I'm currently reading, Fifty Degrees Below has inspired so much thought about sociobiology, which I will not get into, only because this journal entry is approaching unacceptable lengths.
And so, at 1:26 on a winter break night, I end this rant. And send out love to all readers.
Jonny - I adore cat power. And I want to see you this break.
Sarah, if you read this before you get my email, CALL ME! I NEED to see you:)
Love love love, so much unspoken love.
- Brip.