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Uneasy Quiet

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(no subject) [Dec. 7th, 2009|11:35 am]
Uneasy Quiet

I'm turning into a sappy romantic, looking for a Sunday kind of love and all that.

The only time I saw the proverbial "Sunday" in my last relationship was from the other side of Saturday night, like a scene out of the fucking hipster olympics. I love you, baby. Let's put on our big sunglasses and nurse our hangovers together. Monday through Thursday was still fucking ugly, and after a while we weren't even together for the Saturday nights and the Sundays were filled with contempt and resentment.

Hanging out with him recently reminded me of what a fucking horrible bitch I can be. I hate that side of myself, and that it can be brought into such sharp focus so quickly. I hate that it exists, period. I am afraid that it's always waiting for an excuse to come out, and that I'm poised at any time to inflict grievous psychological harm on someone who knows me to be sweet and fun and doting.

In the meantime, I'm given the opportunity to be sweet and fun and doting for a few hours at a time, and it's easy given that structure to lay it on pretty thick...

My trysts exist in their own little universe, sweetly and quietly parallel to the one in which I am a ballbuster. The woman kissing you is so different from the woman hollering at her neighbors about a length of fence before spending an afternoon dismantling it with hammer and cat's paw in hopes of forcing them into a decision that makes some actual fucking sense.

So where is my Sunday love, the man who loves us both?
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Buying? [Dec. 1st, 2009|03:31 pm]
Uneasy Quiet

You came to my home and i laid my head in your lap and we listened to records while you stroked my hair. And even better- my face and neck. I closed my eyes and leaned my head back as far as it would go, wanting you to be able to touch every part of me at once. You did a genuinely admirable job of it, and you make me shy so i kept my eyes closed. Pleasant surprise registered as electric shock everywhere your fingertips landed.

You cannot be that which i seek, because that would be...silly. Ridiculous, even.


...laughing with you until i cried at obscure rock-and-roll humor, singing "come on, Caligulove me" through a debilitating fit of giggles...

you still wanted to kiss me (deeply and well) after i spilled beer all over myself trying to drink it without sitting up.

Am i going to hit a point in my romantic life where i can start reveling in "why we should" instead of "why we can't?"

I feel like there's a lesson here that the universe at large is trying to shove down my throat, and i feel like i'll be in a perpetual state of heartbreak if i don't learn it, but I DON'T WANT IT. It's too sad, too nihilistic, too inherently bleak. At least to me in this moment.
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Shopping. [Nov. 30th, 2009|11:06 am]
Uneasy Quiet

Not too nice, not too idealistic.
Not naive.
A bit of a mean streak- that makes it all the more special that you like me best.
Aforementioned mean streak tempered with oceans of compassion.
Thin, but maybe not beautiful. I've had beautiful.
Knowledge, common sense, capability.
A good driver, you drive almost as well as you kiss.
All the things below the surface that make your skin glow red in the dark, i want those too.
Being a tiny bit afraid of you is ok with me, in that delicious way that i'm afraid of shaky wooden roller coasters.

I want to lay my head in your lap and listen to records while you stroke my hair... where are you? Do you exist?

I only want you. Come look for me, find me.
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Le Pig. [Oct. 5th, 2009|01:38 pm]
Uneasy Quiet

Last night i lay propped up in my bed, knitting a sweater and listening to The Downward Spiral on my iPod.  I have big speakers and a subwoofer and a house with some pretty bitchin' acoustics, but headphones seemed comforting and appropriate.
Some thoughts:
  • Short of being the kind of woman that inspires a great song like Lover's Day, I will settle for being the kind of woman that inspires a great song like Reptile.  
  • I got a picture in my head of a very, very bewildered girl staring at the white envelope with no return address in her hand while the album plays on her stereo.  "Holy fuck," she's thinking.  "We just went out on a couple of dates, for fuck's sake!!"  The laugh this gave me was definitely partly self-effacing as I pictured a poor, bewildered guy reading my insane missives from BrokenGirlLand.
  • It takes a man as talented as Trent Reznor to make getting the last word into an art.  When anyone else does it, it's just petty and fucked.
I lost my job as the lovely assistant in a film version of my life that never could have been real. 

I'm trying to figure out why i latched on so inappropriately to this person, and keep myself from doing it again.  I'd love to believe my girlfriends that say he was a prick, but i spent all weekend thinking about the whole thing and finally understood what he meant about the bond.  I fucked up, pure and simple.  If nothing else, i didn't get out when i knew i had to, when i knew i was going to FREAK THE FUCK OUT in a situation that had been defined clearly enough.

Nothing quite so shameful as watching yourself behave like a petulant child that tries to prevent an adult from leaving by clinging to his pantleg.  As if it hadn't become clear enough already that something in my head was very, very broken despite all swaggering talk/behavior to the contrary.  I apparently was crying out to the universe to break me, to humble me, to remind me that those things i never did anything with but drink and fuck away aren't really GONE. 

Sigh.  It's not that no one has ever been sweet to me. 

A man of unbelievable education and experience worshipped the ground i walked on, inconvenienced himself in a million ways to please me, and was willing to subjugate every part of his life to my comfort level.  I loved him, but it killed me.  I just felt like i was taking advantage all the time, and that if this man was relying on me solely for his happiness, he could really be nothing but very, very disappointed.  I broke his heart, and i still regret it even though it was the right choice.

A man of unbelievable empathy, kindness, intelligence and beauty watched me sleep, stroked my hair, watched me put on makeup with reverence, held my face in his hands and kissed me with everything from appreciation to passion to raw, unadulterated lust.  He turned me to jelly, and he thought i was good for the reasons that mattered most to him.  Though the things he loved about me were never anything i would have considered attractive, it was truly an honor.  When he left, i thought i was going to die.  I subjected him to untold cruelties, always trying to punish him.  his sweetness survived, a testament to his character. 

Those feelings were wonderful and good, but ultimately not as intoxicating as what i experienced in a few interactions with a distant admirer.  Beautiful, cool, lovely and sweet.  Cool for the same reasons i suspected i might be cool.  "Such a lovely girl..." mumbled almost to himself while touching my dress, my leg.  It felt like tuning a guitar using harmonics, when the sound waves finally synch up and... magic.  Relief, even.

As much as the petulant part of me needs to write that off as not real, as a lie... it wasn't.  It's just that it didn't mean quite what i thought it meant.  it didn't merit my ignoring the truth.  it didn't merit me clinging to my fantasy, snapping and snarling when anyone tried to pry it gently from my hands. 

And now, it's true that i have to move on and stop thinking about it, and i know that given the amount of time this spanned i WILL get over it.  it will be little more than an uncomfortable memory in a little while, something that will make me wince when i think about my pathetic behavior.  All that is true.

However, i am petrified that no one will ever make me feel that way again.  I am petrified that the only people who can make me feel that way again are emotionally distant, are waaaaaay over there and unavailable.  I'm petrified that i have no capacity to control myself, to figure anything out before i pour my heart into whatever vessel looks solid enough to hold it. 

I am petrified, and i feel a little bit like I'm drowning in "who I've always been" as i realize it probably isn't who I want to be.  

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An uncomfortable bed and the glow of a soda machine. [Sep. 21st, 2009|10:48 am]
Uneasy Quiet
I woke up thinking that i would have done anything to see you, to be near you, to touch you and know that you're real, that you're alright.  I even reached for you, half-asleep out of pure habit, even though i was miles from where we used to call home.  Ironic how much you hate hearing about dreams, considering how profoundly this one featuring you affected me.  I was undoubtedly lucid dreaming, i was standing 50 floors up in an office building and told myself that since it was just a dream, jumping through a window would present no problems.  I sent you a message on the way down.  "I love you," it said.  

And i do, still, in some way but not the same way.  Just know that i'll never leave you to die in a town crumbling under the weight of apocalypse. 
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A man I admire... [Sep. 17th, 2009|11:08 am]
Uneasy Quiet
"Somewhere someone is thinking of you. Someone is calling you an angel. This person is using celestial colors to paint your image. Someone is making you into a vision so beautiful that it can only live in the mind. Someone is thinking of the way your breath escapes your lips when you are touched. How your eyes close and your jaw tightens with concentration as you give pleasure a home. These thoughts are saving a life somewhere right now. In some airless apartment on a dark, urine stained, whore lined street, someone is calling out to you silently and you are answering without even being there. So crystalline. So pure. Such life saving power when you smile. You will never know how you have cauterized my wounds. So sad that we will never touch. How it hurts me to know that I will never be able to give you everything I have." - from Solipsist by Henry Rollins

I don't know what to look for as i embark on yet another search-without-searching. 
the most attractive things to me are well-expressed waves of intense emotion... Sometimes that kind of emotion signals insanity. 

I want passion without excessive conflict, worship without groveling, commitment without suffocation.  Trust without fear.  I want to never again feel that gut-wrenching, lung-collapsing feeling of being second place.  Of pouring all of my blood and breath into something easily ignored, easily left behind.  Easily shelved in the face of distraction. 

Maybe i just need to learn to stop pouring, but that seems a shame somehow.  Even when i make stupid decisions, part of me prides myself on my capacity to catch so completely on fire, my capacity to turn molten again, no matter how many times i've cooled and thought myself brittle. 

the force of my emotions makes me feel separate and different.  The way the world looks when i'm sailing on a sea of them is surreal and colorful and almost nausea-inducing.  I suppose this is mania.  I suppose this is why i fear it as much as i want it from others. 

I've cried more in the past year than in the rest of my adult life.  Stunned-beyond-belief crying.  Hysterical, last-resort crying.  Lonely, inconsolable crying... Crying myself to sleep, crying into a bottle of wine.  Crying silently at work, trying to cover the fact that my face is soaked and my eyes are red, trying to make my breathing sound normal for the benefit of my coworkers.  sitting alone in my beautiful living room pressing my face into my sweatshirt covered in grease and oil and brake cleaner and grit, trying to keep the sound from echoing so profoundly.  Embarrassed to be crying that hard in front of a rabbit. 

I hope Henry Rollins sticks to politics and all those other things that fill him with righteous, searing, razor-sharp anger tonight.  If he talks about women, I'm going to fucking lose it in front of everyone, i swear. 

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Updated 16 weeks ago... [Sep. 14th, 2009|09:10 am]
Uneasy Quiet
I have been dating non-stop.  I own a home now.  I've put more miles on my bike.  I met a man that made me weak in the knees.  I failed a test that had no rules.  I sobbed for about half an hour, alone in my home, the one i own.  Heartbreak almost ruined a Saturday.  I refinished a table to occupy my hands.  I painted shelving to occupy my hands.  I hydrated myself.  I smoked enough cigarettes to give Joni Mitchell pause.  I talked to my best friend. 

I am no longer dating.  I can't make good decisions.  I know what i want now, but don't trust myself to do what's necessary to get it.  Part of it is habit, part of it is that i have no idea how.  How do i break the habit of being who i've been for so long?  "Men give love to get sex," he said.  I waved him off.  Surely men must know they need not go to all that trouble with me?  Surely men must know that my heart is protected by far less than my body.  Surely men must know they need not bother with sweet words.  Surely men must know that sweet words will go straight to the center of me and change the things i hear, change the things i believe. 

Being objectified is not scary. 

finding meaning in every nicety is scary.  determining if there's a lie in an unblinking gaze is scary.  giving myself over to the pleasure i take in words is scary.

Do i function poorly as part of grieving, left incomplete?  Am i still bleeding without realizing it, all these months and months and months (over 12, to be exact) later?  It seems absurd that i have more grieving to do.  Unfair.  What does the sting of jealousy every time we talk mean?  Must every step of the healing process be painful and itchy?  Did i cheat it somehow, consuming an endless parade of free drinks and making up a hundred nicknames?  Going out, going out, where do you like, happy hour, work until 4:30, back to my house, dinner at my house, up late on a school night....

Just like in the kitchen with an exceptionally sharp knife, just like when something is reopened by an exertion of force that distracts from the pain of the wound itself.  It takes droplets on the floor, on the cabinets, a sudden slickness where i'm working. 

"oh, shit... i'm bleeding."
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Meaningful. [May. 19th, 2009|08:18 am]
Uneasy Quiet
I missed the "Meaningful" prompt on audiography , but fully intended to write about "Young Folks" by Peter, Bjorn & John. 

I was sitting in my mom's backyard a few weekends ago with my friend Patrick, when my iPod found "Young Folks."  I closed my eyes and told Patrick about lying on my couch when it was still just my apartment, singing that song to each other.  It was during a time of discovery--he was discovering a bit about my history, and I was discovering that my history bothered him a little. 

"Could you go around with someone like me?" 

I still remember how it felt: our eyes locked, and my heart broke open.  It cracked and spilled like oil from a ship.  My focus, so fuzzy from lack of sleep and whiskey, locked sharply and suddenly on damming the torrent of emotion that was pushing its way so rudely up for air.

I stumbled upon something bittersweet in the retelling.  Something between the things I said out loud, and the things I silently touched in my mind.  Tactile landscapes of feeling and impulse, discovery, epiphany:

The fact that I was able to experience the first few months of that relationship makes everything worth it.  The pain, discomfort, insecurity, self-loathing, sorrow and regret that peppered the later parts are a small price to pay for the unmitigated joy i felt during every second of the beginning.

If only i could wait for the second marshmallow.  Funny how my desire for instant gratification rears its ugly head in the most unexpected, unintentional of places.   

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Not sure why I can't x-post, but oh well... [May. 6th, 2009|08:21 am]
Uneasy Quiet
Check out the audiography community. I think there's a few of you that read this that would totally enjoy writing for it and reading it. thanks to hopeleslove for turning me on to it.
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I heard a strangled cry on the end of the line. [Apr. 30th, 2009|06:27 pm]
Uneasy Quiet
My favorite song by The Dercemberists is “The Bagman’s Gambit.” I have had more fantasies than is really cool or appropriate about hearing that song live with the one I love.

That song represents one of my favorite things about The Decemberists' music. There is nothing at all relatable to my life in the lyrics. I’ve never given up confidential documents to have a gay love affair. I’ve never bought anyone off to bring my lover home safe from the gulag. I’ve never even been to Washington D.C. That being said, I still feel something when I hear it. I feel the sorrow, and longing, and anger, and rueful regret dripping from the music. I swear I can hear the tears in Colin Meloy’s voice and the lump in his throat when he spits out that he “paid off a bureaucrat.”

It has a similar structure to “A Day in the Life,” pairing slow, contemplative melody with a soaring, anthemic chorus that leads to a jangly apex before gliding to a halt in relative quiet. The structure definitely contributes to the effect in “The Bagman’s Gambit,” painting the emotional roller coaster of an exhilarating relationship better left untouched.

And so it is that a song that tells a story taking place in a city I’ve never visited and describing things I’ve never done cuts me to the quick. Lyrics be damned, I can definitely relate.
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