full of moxie and viscosity

(no picking, not really)
Ooops.

(no picking)
Some people just like to fuck with your head. It's fun to let them do it, but it's not so easy at night. When you're alone with just their manipulations, it's a lot different. The glow in the dark stars you hung on your ceiling when you were fourteen shed light on the mature complication you've designed for yourself, and suddenly, that late night message you were about to send feels so vulnerable. Those emails? Something a child would send. You cringe remembering blood you shed, little reassurances you gave to them. You search your brain for anything they ever gave to you- remember a few little slipups, confessions, "I'm insecure," they said. Doesn't seem enough.

If they call tonight, you promise yourself, you won't answer the phone.

NO PICKING yesterday!

Today I called in sick to substituting, partially because I am sick, partially because I have a buttload of stuff that I can't do unless I take a day off. So, today is PRODUCTIVITY DAY. I'm going to kick ass.

I AM IN A GREAT MOOD.

NO PICKING yesterday!

Setting up a dangerous rendezvous with the past for sometime this week. Dangerous, indeed: necessary? COMPLETELY.

Also, LA update: Lizzy and I are going to be moving into a new apartment (not Ellendale any longer, we are growing up!) after July 31st. Absolutely cannot wait. Final decision regarding USC is a NO. Too much $$$.

Also, I will be posting a YES or NO at the top of each blog to denote whether or not I picked the previous day. Be glad for NO PICKING and be sad for YES PICKING. Here it goes....

Last night I made a list of goals for myself. A week goal, a month goal, a three months goal and a year goal. Then I made a picking goal worksheet, too, with rewards. If I don't pick for a week, I get new shoes! Three weeks, a trip to Portland. Six weeks, a new digital camera. The reason this is going to work is that I really want these things. They aren't things that I'm fleetingly, arbitrarily choosing as rewards. I CANNOT get these things until I do not pick for that amount of time. Clock starts at zero if I slip up. I have a chart on my door with stickers to keep track. Short of going and getting medical attention, this is the best plan I can come up with for now. I can't afford counseling, basically. This will do.

Just got around to watching the last season of Sex and the City. I didn't mean to, but of course I ended up bawling and feeling inspired and happy about being a writer and being feminine and all of the things they want you to feel after watching. For someone who hates television as much as I do (note to self: due to lack of interesting blogs recently, an anti-television blog might be quite the medicine), I certainly buy into every last weepy violin note in every last soundtrack to every last episode. I buy into every line, every kiss, every relationship. The ultimate in voyeurism, the ultimate in hope, envy. I want to translate it into my art, now, make it somehow speak through the writing. That voyeurism, that hope. The novel might have an even newer, fresher ending to it.

Even as this blog is written, a strange occurrence... a message? A text? Little leaping lizards, what is this? Sigh. It never ends, no matter how much I write. It never ends.

waiting for now, exploding dog.com

Moments of clarity are few and far between these days for me, but today, in the fog of fighting with my sister, mother, self, I am having one.

I am going to be okay, because there is much to learn, still. I'm moving to Los Angeles in May, and there I will remember who I am.

I can work on my sanity while I'm there.

I should feel so much more joyful than I do. For some reason, the admission to USC has made me feel very low. Confused, purposeless. Sad. It doesn't help that though I have much luck in many areas of my life, there is one key area I never seem to get through with any prosperity. We all know. There's just that one certain thing I have no luck with at all. That should be okay. But it's not. It's all the more confusing when I can't even settle.

Emily's arms felt like home last night, holding in some kind of tantrum I was trying to throw. I long for release, I long for release. I'm trying hard to be perceptive and cool and mature about all of it, but I feel really slippery inside my ribs.

Vicki's response was: Argh. Yay! Argh. Yay!
And that's exactly how I feel at this point.
I was admitted into USC's MAT program for my Master's in Education and my multiple subject credential.

Now what?

I am SO famous:
A certain mann with whom I am completely in love is going to be touring with ALANIS MORRISETTE. I am not lying, and I received a personal call from said musician, and that makes me incredibly famous.

Secondly, Melanie is in contact with some random Japanese man who wants to form a "vocal band" of all girls... hot vocal percussionist needed. Needless to say, I have been corresponding with him for the last week, and things are actually moving pretty nicely... I'll send him a resume and head shot pretty soon.

As Stacy and I discussed last night, I am very famous not only in my own right (all in the land of a cappella, but shit, a cappella has a pretty nice following) but because lots of famous people love me a lot. When I walk into a room full of these famous people, they are excited to see me. That makes me famous. Better than famous, really. I'm the behind the scenes famous. Industry famous.

I really must be in LA.

I feel faced with a few insecurities. A few flaws, I guess. Vicki and I were talking and it came out that all of my good soul-searching came in Vancouver, and now that I'm in a slightly less productive or fertile environment, I am seeing the ugly parts of myself instead.

I think I'm extremely scared of being alone, but even moreso, I'm scared of settling. At some point, I'll just decide that being married is more important than being happy, and I'll marry whatever guy is in front of me at the time. The Idealistic Rachel Roellke says that will never happen, I am far too perceptive and rational for that kind of thing. But in talking to a somewhat jaded former counterpart last night, I hear him saying he's ready to settle. Maybe that's me in eight years. Ready to settle. Ready to have kids and put my art on the back burner and watch TV and have a house. I'll write on the weekends. Right? God, that sounds awful. I want the writing, the art, the photography, the singing to all be a part of my life, an integral part of my relationship and my life and the lives of the people I care for. If I can't have that, then it's not worth doing it at all.

Not that marriage is even a consideration right now, lord knows I'm in no position to be thinking about marriage. I'm not opposed, but I don't know who I'd marry. I guess that's the issue. Regardless, I'm just talking about commitments and responsibilities. Decisions about things that I have to make right now, like whether or not I'm going to USC or staying in Fresno for a year (impossible without medication, I've decided).

All of this is on the heels of a frustrating night out in Fresno, in a new tank top and hairdo, waiting for a call that never came (most likely never going to come) and taking care of myself in the old-fashioned Rachel Roellke kind of way. Never healthy, never healthy.


Okay, secondly, and I know this is a very boring blog, but I just must write this (that epiphany on the heels of a rash of "why do we blog?" blogs, all of which made me realize I don't give a fuck about my audience): I am not a good dater. I can't date! I'm horrible at it. I'm jealous and too intense and I can't settle into just having a few dates with someone and being casual about it. I freak out immediately. I've never really thought about it before, but I am fucking high maintenance. Am I that girl? The girl who needs constant reassurance and who will flip out if you have friends that are girls? No, god help me, I'm not that girl. I think I do well with a little bit of reassurance, not constant or overbearing reassurance. I do well with friends that are girls, as long as I know you aren't boning them. I think the reason I freak out is that I don't want to be that girl, but I don't want to be alone, either. I crave intimacy and intellectual stimulation, but it can't be on solely your terms. I did that for a long time and I ended up really hurt. That's rational. A relationship should be on both members' terms anyway. Okay, I've convinced myself. I'm not that girl. Whew.

Letter to Lauren:

he is not an artist or musician or writer or filmmaker and i was thinking today if it would bother me if he was never able to understand my poetry or my writing or if he would never want me to read any interesting writing to him and really, i just can't know that. maybe it would bug me a fucking lot or maybe i would be so involved in so many other aspects of my life with him that my art would not matter as much in the context of my romantic relationship. i don't know. it seems odd to think about things outside of my artistic terms.

i'm starting to understand that life, especially mine, does not have to revolve around the purposeful soulsearching loo loo land that i'm so quick to fall back into. i should soulsearch, but there is a lot of stuff going on in this world to actually participate in. i'm going to focus on participation.

My mother is obsessed with the little critters that come to our backyard. She has a bird feeder, a squirrel feeder, a bird bath, and a chair near the bird feeder so the squirrels can hop up onto the feeder. When a squirrel or bird comes around, she yelps, "ooh! A blue jay!" or whatever animal it is. Emily makes fun of her for it (Josh used to partake, also) and I can see why, but I decided to refrain. Regardless, it is quite amusing to see how much her face lights up. I would liken it to the way she looks when we return from being away. She knows she's provided a living thing somewhere comforting, filling, and well-lit. We are her little squirrels. Our backyard is a sight to behold these days, as well. The light in Fresno is pretty beautiful this time of year, and everything is blooming. The pool is clean. The patio, swept. You can't help but feel like Snow White when you step onto our patio and look out at a couple little squirrels on the fence and a few birds lounging in the bath or on the feeder. Good work, Mom.

I love texture in music: the moving, light textures of folk music; the cacophony in Radiohead and Twilight Singers- the burlap texture- the thickness of it, the layers, the movement: I like the way that melody sits on top of texture in music.

Even moreso, I love the way melody can sometimes be a part of the texture in such a complete way that you forget it's separate. Examples: Zero 7, Bonnie Raitt, Sigur Ros, Lennon and McCartney. When that happens, I think that's when I lose my sense of self the most. That's when I just sit there, spellbound, waiting for the moment when I can sing along. Waiting for the moment when the melody becomes apparent.

First of all, I LOVE KIMMIE RASCHKA. I called her to discuss RO and the next thing you know, we're both taking off our pants. God, I love that woman.

Secondly, and I am not saying this one moment too prematurely, I think I met someone. I mean, I know that I met him. Isn't that a silly function of our language. "I met someone." Meaning, a Certain Someone. A Special Someone. Oh, the intricacies of our innuendos. Sigh.

Regardless, I met him, and then we had drinks, and a couple dinners. All I can really say about it now, without jinxing everything, is that I'm really comfortable around him, and he's NOT AN ARTIST OR MUSICIAN. He's a DJ, but that doesn't count. He's... normal in a way that I really crave right now. No games, no tortured confessions. I'm being an honest blogger right now, perhaps in a dangerous way. What if he should read it? Ah, fuck it, I want him to read it. Oh, and for those of you concerned with my little age problem I tend to have (my obsession with the little boys, all of whom are way too inexperienced for me...)- this one is over 25. Whew.

He has a roommate named Pepe and wears funny shorts.

Fresno's not so bad, after all.

The dog has many friends because the wag was put in his tail, not his tongue.

Feeling fresh today. I think the novel deserves some much-needed attention, and I might revisit it tonight after I a) update my father's elementary school site and b) finish Dylan's CD cover. I didn't get much sleep last night (thank you, Benton) and should go to sleep the second I walk through my door tonight, but I can already tell there is much to do.

I'm thinking mostly these days about my "situation." My "context." What that means in a larger sense. I like to think of myself as transient and moveable but not in a rambling, nomadic sense, more like a purposeful, aware traveler. I don't think I'm there, not quite yet, but I know I'm on my way.

The timing blog got deleted so I'll repost part of it: everything is timed so poorly. I want to be somewhere I'm not, I want to be alone, and then suddenly, I can't be where I want to be and I'm not alone. Sigh.

Had to delete the last two posts.
Computer troubles all around. My blog, my home computer. Luckily, the Vicki Forman laptop is working quite well. Thank god.
No word from USC. Secretly hoping they never respond.
A very fun new friend in the picture. He sings a lot and dances weird. He's genuine. I like him.
The fantasy previously mentioned in the now-deleted posts? Not easily forgotten, but easily pushed to the back of my brain for now.