Underground

2 summers ago I started writing my own version of Dostoevsky's Notes from Underground.  It was an interesting exercise.  It turned into a weird stream of conciseness or something very like it.  Anyway, this is "chapter 5"...

Chapter Five

I took a walk with myself tonight.  I often walk at night.  Sometimes with my siblings; sometimes with myself—never alone.  I needed time to be quiet and think, to mentally digest all the thoughts whizzing through my head.  People often need a time to get away--away from the bustle of life—time to spend with themselves.  What am I thinking about today?  Listen.  Be still.  Paying attention to the thoughts swelling and surging inside me.  Brain waves—rapid fire!—shoot through my  mind.  Ting ‘a’ ling zhingk zhank zhow!  Fast thoughts.  Oops…they’re gone.  What is left?  Whispers.  Why can I not remember?  It’s too late.

We all need time to reflect.  How will we ever know ourselves, ever understand our own ideas and thoughts and beliefs, if we do not take the time to get acquainted with ourselves?  Life progresses at a dizzying speed—never stopping, never even slowing.  A minute creeps by.  It’s gone forever.  Fast.  We get caught up in the business of life; it becomes pandemonium, chaos.  Stillness.  This is what I crave.  Quiet.  This is what I need.  I need to hear myself think.  I need to feel myself connect—connect with the still waters that supposedly run deep within.  How do I reach those waters?  How do I ever find the time to slow down?  Who knows.  Sigh.  (You’re bored now, I know it.  You’re thinking, who cares about all this?  Shuttup, girl!)  Well, I’m just thinking.  Introspection is a good thing.  We all need some time for it.  Get to know yourself.  Don’t settle for just getting by.  Delve.  Reach the waters.

I took a walk tonight.  Thoughts flit through my head.  A constant stream of phrases representing vague thoughts flash across my frontal lobe.  Watch out!  My ipod plays classical music.  No words.  Just me thinking.  I am taking a walk with myself.  Hi, I’m Grace.  Remember me?  I haven’t had much time for you lately.  I’ve been busy.  What is going on, on the inside…inside my brain?  What have I been too busy to see?  Words rush, ideas crash.  I’m forgetting them already.  It’s a jungle in here!  I must weed through it.  I need quiet.  Hush, brain!  I live in a land of headaches.  It cramps my head.  I squint.  I breath deep.  Flick the clove to the concrete and start a fire.  A concrete fire in my brain.  I’m clearing it out.  Where does that leave me now?  Tired.

2:48am

I hate this stupid research paper...

old stuff

I'm feeling very deflated tonight.  This weekend has been a trip.  So I'm revisiting old stuff.  Here's something I wrote for class in high school.  It's an imitation of an excerpt from Ulysses, by James Joyce.

Imitation of Ulysses by James Joyce

   In a steady drizzle the rain drops fall, washing away, puddling, muddling. Mulch in the flowerbeds will be swept away. Maybe; hopefully not. Time will tell. Rainfall sings, listen: flsh, fsss, mmmhh plsh. Light water fall through clouds, ethereal mists, trees. On the roof it raps: rat ‘a’ plat tat: guzzling in gutters. Now soft; now hard. If falls purring frizzle, silver veil sizzle, constant dreamy drizzle.
   Under the refreshing cloudburst the floaty green trees sway lazily and drop precious little leaves, like kisses, to the ground, in splish-splashing drops dancing like light-stepping fairies. Day after day, spring showers come and go: leaving the earth soft, misty, sweet. Earth is refreshed: and, with water tickling through its veins, it breaths life into its inhabitants. I feel it, stirring in creation: thriving, oh yes, exalting in the coming of spring.

untitled ramblings of hurt

Her love crowned her like a shroud
as it fell from her breast
to her feet.
crushed.
A mockery
of all her work,
of all her tenderness,
of all her hopes.
Laughing.

Ah! the heart!

Ah, how do we handle our hearts?  I can't deal with it.  It's breaking into pieces.  Crunching.  Grinding.  My soul clenches.  What do I do?  I can't control my eyes.  Tears.  Sobs.  Struggling to choke them back.  Oh to be loved.  To feel the warming security of being loved.  To rejoice in the fact that no matter what, the one you love loves you.  How sickening the "I love you"'s that fall flat.  Deflated.  Devoid of ardency.  I long.  I want so badly.  I cry.  Why won't it just work out?  Why!  Please, something greater and beyond me explain!  I'm crawling.  My pride has been ripped from me one tear, one "I'm sorry," one "I love you" at a time.  Am I not good enough, not close enough the the mental picture of ideal?  Am I a bad person?  Selfish?  The questions kill.  Prying.  Lying.  Squeezing the brain and suffocating.  It's happening again.  Things are slipping.  Falling.  Crashing to the ground around me.  How do I hold on?  How do I keep this I care so much for from ripping my heart out and leaving me alone?  Running.  Praying.  Hoping so hard for what might.  But this is what we go through to make it work.  This is what love is.  The deeper your suffering cuts into you, the deeper the roots of your love will reach.  No wonder I jump into love so whole-heartedly.

Wishes of a mind lost at sea

     I wish I were on a boat right now.  A boat lost at sea.  Drifting along a northbound current.  I would run my hands through the water as jellyfish float along and mermaids skim by, darting under my boat and criss-crossing through the water.  Pelicans would fly to me and bring news of my friends--glass bottles containing precious letters held safely inside their stretchy beaks.  I would catch flashy tropical fish for lunch and dinner.  Breakfast would be biscuits from the store of food I brought with me for the journey.  It's a never-ending supply of biscuits--which can get old after a while, actually.  I would made coffee for myself.  Stiff, dark, bitter coffee.  I love it.  The sea air would wrinkle my skin and bleach my hair, but I wouldn't care.  No one would ever see me again.  Until I found an island.  My island.  There I would find my true home.  Someone will be waiting for me there.  We'll be happy.  Together.  We'll start a life.  It'll be good.  But this is all wishes on a day when my mind is lost at sea.

     Sometimes I wonder what I lost.  Sometimes I wonder why I'm so emotional.  I don't understand it.  I wish I wasn't.  Yet I like it.  I makes me feel alive.  But I feel so weird and vulnerable.  Sometimes I wonder if it weren't for all the stupid mistakes I've made what sort of person would I be.  Better?  Yes, probably.  I'm sure I would.

wishes

     I wish I had a guitar playing dinosaur that would follow me around all day and keep me company. He would wear a blue striped t-shirt and blue jeans cuffed at his scaly ankles. I would feed him french fries and raw meat at meal times, and he would sleep on the floor in my room. His name would be Ichabod. Yes, I wish I had a guitar playing dinosaur.

*clears throat* Ahem.

*written to a stacato piano chord beat*

It's a very sad thing to be stuck on the sunny side of lane by yourself eating an ice cream sundae that you absolutely cannot enjoy because not only are you lactose intolerant...but you're just not in the mood.  I'm jealous.

It's a very aggravating thing to walk into lane and not find anything for yourself to eat except another day another bagel (which for some reason tastes like onion...even though it's cinnimon...)  I'm jealous.

It's very pathetic to be blogging in a race against the time it takes your computer to die because you aren't anywhere near an outlet and you have no hope of finding one.  I'm jealous.

It's a very silly thing to be surrounded on both sides by tables full of laughing, chatting people as you look longingly at ice cream you can't eat and count down the hours until Into the Woods gets out.  I'm jealous.

It's a very stupid thing to be secretly jealous of an inanimate object that steals so many of your friends every night for a week and leaves you by yourself on the sunny side of lane with ice cream you can't eat.  I'm jealous.

My computer died.

An Imaginary Story: still continued

     So a few extra people were hired at the place where I work.  This means I get one day off a week.  The day is subject to change, of course, but still--one day is good.  This day--whichever day of the week it happens to be--has become my "open door" day.  Well, "open door" morning, rather.  I don't spend my only free day walled up in my apartment.  At least not every free day--I do love to take rambles about town or go to the markets.

     I've become braver as I grow accustomed to the openness and vulnerability that follows from such open doored living.  My wardrobe has become more varied and interesting, depending on my moods.  My cooking more enticing and delectable.  I mean, after all--I don't want my neighbour smelling eggs week after week....  It's led me to discover new musical tastes.  It has been a very interesting experience.

     And he and I have become better acquainted.  We have grown from friendly nods and waves to short hellos and small bits of conversation.  Last week I asked him what he was reading.  I thought about the idea of asking him a question for a while.  Mulled the idea over in my head.  Decided no.  Maybe sometime.  Not now.  Later.  (It's always later with me.)  But the words sprang out anyway.  They felt awkward in my throat.  Bubbling up.  Uncontrolled.  Some deep seated, subconscious something had flung the words from my stomach.  And as the words tumbled from my mouth, I thought to myself how very brave I'd grown.  But at the same time, I panicked.  Why!  Why am I set on mortifying myself like this!  However, to my surprise, the question didn't sound awkward.  It was friendly.  Not at all how I had expected myself to sound saying anything more than polite niceties.  I thought I would sound big and all full of corners.  The voice unwelcome in the sound of the music entwined between our two hovels.  But it didn't.  It sounded pleasant.  My voice wasn't square, but more like a wave.  And as I sounded forth my question, which had fought its way out of me so valiantly, I was pleased.  And he has such a pleasant voice.  Not  soft or anything.  But pleasant. Warm.  Kind of raspy, but not gravely.  Undeniable a man's voice--but not pretentious.  I like it.  He's a very appealing man.  I don't really remember what he answered.  I was too caught up in my small accomplishment.  So I smiled at his voice as he answered.  And as I grew red, realizing I had no idea what he said, just turned around, hoping I didn't seem too ditzy or rude.

Dionysus

     I want to do something impulsive.  I want to tear down the columns and go crazy.  I'm tired of putzing.  Tired of fuddy.  Tired of going to bed and getting back up again.  Tired of this pokey old whatever.  I find myself wanting the "good ol' days."  Hankering for carousing.  Or something.  Carousing isn't the right word...  But I want excitement.  I want something to happen.  I want to be young and live out my youth to the fullest.  Why am I not "sowing my wild oats"?  Why aren't I enjoying my youth?  Why am I just a duddery old pudge of day in and day out same old nothing.  I want to delve the depths of my youth.  I might make mistakes--but I want to make them.  I want to flop.  I want to jump of the cliff.  I want to do something.  My life has become a predictable cycle.  I need change.  I need to run for a while.  I don't care if I commit some stereotypical youthful mistake.  Maybe I'll regret it later.  But maybe I won't.  Maybe I'll see it as youth lived out to it's fullest.  I mean, I wasn't a saint before, but I don't have regrets, necessarily.

     But in the end, it all comes down to the fact that I have no idea what I want.  Two sides war within me.  One longing to fulfill my youthful, hedonist desires; the other to become more than this.  This is the Dionysus within.