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Uneasy Quiet

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Say Goodnight [May. 9th, 2011|10:27 am]
Uneasy Quiet

I don't latch quite like I used to. My laziness is starting to permeate every corner of my world, and dates with promise get a shrug and a casual text. Breakups get a shrug and a casual text. Every day, my tan gets better. I smoke cigarettes in my chaise and conduct imaginary orchestras. I throw my hands up and smile and lip-synch along every time Dax Riggs sings "Say 'Goodnight' to the world!!" I need to clean but I'd rather dig and build. I need to be out on fifty dates but I'd rather clean. I enjoy the incredulous tone of the question "how do you like letting your hair go gray?"

I fail at something daily, I falter weekly, I backslide monthly, and some nights I can't think of anything i actually *want* to do besides get fucked up, which leads to sleeping early and long.

The simplicity and clarity of my emotions and desires borders on the painful, like a cloudless Montana morning in the dead of winter. I can shift them aside in a haze of sunshine and the oily mist of sunscreen on my sunglasses. I can blur the borders, turn them pastel, impressionistic.

I can't seek to deny my emotions and desires. I'm too grown up for such fakery and I can't pretend I don't know who I am. I have a bottomless ocean of love to give and what feels like a very limited time to find a lucky recipient. The perceived deadline does not move me to action, only to anxiety. Conversely, the red wine moves me to honesty and languid observation with no judgment. Saying goodnight to the world seems almost healthy sometimes. Goodnight to the things I can't change, goodnight to the way I think things should be, goodnight to the demons of loss and regret and mistakes and what-ifs and if-onlys and should-haves and would-haves...
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I thought I'd get back on a lucky run. [Feb. 22nd, 2010|10:10 pm]
Uneasy Quiet

I want to be the girl in the car. I want to be the girl in the cheap motel room in the Cohen Brothers' southwest.

Instead I am the girl with the government job and the mortgage that is enraptured by Joni Mitchell's Hejira and Mark Lanegan's Bubblegum.

I want to be the willowy blonde in her boyfriend's jeans, along for the ride with her ramblin' man.

Instead I am the stocky, gawky, sometimes-redhead that tries to make students, lawyers and others understand. They lie in my bed and listen patiently as I paint the fantasy that makes me so very, very sore.

I want to be crystalline in the mind of a tortured artist, angelic in my ability to induce tsunamis of regret.

Instead I am what I am. There's nothin' I can do.
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Wow.... [Jan. 5th, 2010|09:50 am]
Uneasy Quiet

I was buying a bottle of whiskey to share with my fellow concert-goers a few weeks ago in San Francisco. I was informed by the kind man behind the counter that i looked AMAZING... for my age. I am 28.

I remembered an experience I had a few years ago... I was probably 22, waiting in line for coffee somewhere, and a pair of 17- or 18-year-old ladies asked if the picture on my shirt was of a musician. "Yes," I answered, "It's David Bowie."

"Oooohhhhhhh... The guy from Labrynth?"

Who has those kinds of experiences at 22?

Apparently the same kind of girl who looks incredible for the ripe old age of 28.

I realized this morning that i am joining the ranks of aging ladies that look a little tired without a little makeup. In some strange way, I'm just looking forward to a time when my anachronistic tastes and sour personality can be boiled down to the kind of eccentricity that is only properly nurtured by age and solitude.
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(no subject) [Jan. 1st, 2010|10:53 am]
Uneasy Quiet

Why I thought anything would be different this morning is anyone's guess. I still want to lose myself in an imaginary man, I have a hangover so bad that i actually want my mommy, the thought of smiling is excruciating for reasons beyond the dryness of my lips. I want to be crushed by your (yes, YOUR!) sweet caress, and yet here I remain, sorely un-crushed. Whatever the antonym of "crushed" is.

"What's the fuckin' difference/ we all gon' die."
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NYE or something equally unimportant. [Dec. 30th, 2009|01:57 pm]
Uneasy Quiet

Color me unimpressed, 2009.

Assessing the year gone by during winter is likely a miserable idea, considering how tired i am of being alive by this point in the season.

I would wish for everyone that they start the year by kissing the one they love in a pure and hopeful expression of sticky sweet optimism... except that my year started that way. Maybe the difference is in whether or not the feeling is mutual... perhaps if i had been pouring all my heart into kissing someone that didn't already have his eye on someone else, things would have gone better.

though really, none of that has anything to do with anything according to my meticulously affected disbelief in anything beyond the purely coincidental.

I found love a million times this year before misplacing it again. Some relationships were strengthened, others jettisoned. The highs were high, and the lows were so low that there were times i couldn't tell the surface from the ocean floor. Nobody down here but me and the angler fish.

I crushed joy like a defenseless baby bird this year. Every time it flew in my window, i killed it trying to cage it. It died in captivity.

I look forward to the spring and summer, when happiness feels so abundant i can let it come and go as it pleases.

Until then, I'll keep my eyes wide open and my shotgun loaded.
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...and i don't know if i'll ever be back again. [Dec. 11th, 2009|11:56 am]
Uneasy Quiet

I suffer from a chronic inability to stay ahead of the coolness curve. I follow DJs on Facebook, hoping to find out about the coolest parties before everyone else does, only to realize that I'd rather be home watching Law & Order than be the oldest woman in a bar full of skinny hipsters.

Most of the time, anyway.

Every once in a while, I'll feel the need to scratch that itch to get out of the house and pay cover and too much for drinks. Sometime around March of 2009, when my best friend and I were living together, we decided that our living room was no place to meet men. We made a pledge to go out and seek nightlife like normal women of our age and (relative) good looks. We shut off The West Wing, we put down our knitting needles, we put on some makeup, and we got the fuck out of the house.

In my attempts to know about everything cool and good in town, I'd received a message about a club happening on the roof of a building in our very own little downtown area. The cover was reasonable, particularly with the discount that came with the message (it may be uncool, but I’m still a girl and last I checked, girls still love sales). We decided to go.

It was raining but not cold, and there was something oddly magic about being in a posh bar, sitting around a fire on wooden Adirondack chairs, smoking cigarettes and feeling raindrops on my face and head.

We spent the evening being underwhelmed by a British fellow and his douchey friend. I caught my girl hiding from douchey friend, and then I lost British fellow. I was ready to call off the hooking up portion of the evening until a boy sat down next to me. He had beautiful eyes and sexy piercings and a sweet way about him. He was about 5 years my junior. I had about 5 whiskeys in me. We were making out within about 45 seconds of "Hi, what's your name?"

I brought him home with me while my friend went elsewhere. Until about 2 pm the next day we listened to the rain from my bed in a haze of smoke while my iTunes played on indefinitely. During a period of sleepiness, we lay close and kept warm. This song came on and he whispered "Is this the Decemberists?" into my neck. "Yes," I answered. "This is the first thing I've recognized since the music started," he whispered, sleepier this time.

In a minefield of pain and uncertainty, that night brought me more comfort than I thought possible. Even the jaunty ridiculousness of this track seemed to fit, and I drifted off to sleep with a smile on my face.

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The Best [Dec. 10th, 2009|03:40 pm]
Uneasy Quiet

Listening to my "Loved Tracks" station on last.fm, I heard this one and remembered why i put the little heart next to it.

The back story goes like this: my boyfriend left me, and I left on a trip I'd had planned for months with my dad to ride our motorcycles all over central/southern CA, camping out and not drinking even CLOSE to enough. Just before pops and i took off, my friend Gary gave me a DVD full of music he thought I'd like to hear. Worlds Apart by ...And You Will Know Us by the Trail of Dead was on there, and before I gave any of it a really judicious listen, I scraped it onto my iPod with the intent of checking it out while I was riding.

This idea was both marvelous and terrible. Marvelous insofar as hearing something new while I ride is a fantastic feeling, it really heightens the sense of meditation that I get from both activities. Terrible because I must have heard this song ten times over the course of five days, and given that I was a little busy, I couldn't exactly take a peek at my iPod screen to make a note of the artist/title. It positively haunted me as a result.

I'm a sucker for the pacing of this song. Trail of Dead's sound is so BIG, and the halting rhythm gives a sense of muscles tensed, of raw power barely controlled with an iron fist. The inflections and tone of the vocals invoke a sense of pleading desperation. When Conrad Keely insists that things "couldn't be better," that they are "the best," I get the sense of a lie so gigantic and ominous that he's given up trying to convince anyone and has moved on to begging for help.

These elements combine to convey an existence on the brink, of a person trying to hold it together in spite of the blood and broken bones. The listener begs for some kind of resolution, for some musical release in the form of volume or chords that resolve... Just.. SOMETHING. Instead, there's a period of orchestral quiet followed by a woman screaming and sobbing as though she's just watched her child die in front of her.

My heart was freshly broken, and I knew exactly how she felt. I fancied she knew how i felt, too. As unsettling as it was, i took a very perverse comfort in hearing those chilling last few seconds many times over my period of mourning.
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Met a girl who knocked me offa my feet/ trade her for the hooker that said i was sweet... [Dec. 10th, 2009|09:20 am]
Uneasy Quiet

"Give up on what you like."

I get this advice from time to time. Clearly, my taste is bad. The stuff that attracts me is rotten. My choices regularly fly in the face of that special kind of contented happiness that women are supposed to have found by now.

There's a weird luxury in emailing you now... as much as i DO care what you think, as much as i am DYING for you to like me, i have nothing to lose. I can call you out on being a caricature, on your role in the You Show, starring You with very special musical guest You and the YouTones. I do it partly because it's true, and partly because i don't think anyone else does that to you.

god knows being special would be wonderful right now.

I'm learning the new rules of our interaction... nothing heartfelt AT ALL. I get it.

I know i don't matter to you beyond a bit of entertainment, but by god, contact with you is pretty addictive. having to be a bit creative to get my fix is fun.
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Hm. [Dec. 8th, 2009|10:26 am]
Uneasy Quiet
As nice as it is to be liked, i'd rather be liked by someone worth liking.

I can't abide the idea of a man so hooked on rescuing women that his life is a bit of a disaster because of it.

However dark i may seem, i don't really need saving.

Done, done, on to the next one.
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(no subject) [Dec. 7th, 2009|05:56 pm]
Uneasy Quiet
If i focus on what i *CAN* have, will i be happy? Even if it's not exactly what i want? Is there merit in trying to shoot the moon, even if it means i'm alone most of the time?

I'm steadily remembering how good i am at being alone... and the thought of breaking a sweet heart is much worse than the prospect of experiencing a bit of solitude.

as with all of my romantic disasters, however, i'm just gonna hang in for a couple more weeks and see where things go.

Maybe the sex will be mindblowing. Then, everything should be fine.
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