full of moxie and viscosity

Sometimes, things just don't work out.

-M

It's true, and in the realm of romance, sometimes you have to acknowledge that things aren't working out early on so you can sort of cut your losses and move forward in a timely fashion. It's important to not get caught up in a silly situation. I did it, for the first time ever, probably, I did it. I said, hey, is this working for you, because it's not working for me... and he said no, and we said, GOOD. And then, goodbye. And it was okay. It was okay and I did it without being mean or overemotional or silly. It all worked out. Now... what happened to that long-haired poet guy...

I'm so quick to judge people who aren't into literature or pop culture or music or whatever, but really, I'm not any better than them just because my energy is translated easier through the medium of art or teaching or whatever... it's just the way my particular energy was originally formed.... and through my consciousness and state of being and literally, my physical body, I have a very particular translation of the energy into concrete terms: be it a day of teaching, a poem, a song, a kiss, a touch. Just because my own translation takes form in these things doesn't make the translation more or less valid or more or less RIGHT... it's not a vertical scale... if that makes sense. It's a horizontal chart. It's not about vertical motion: only within ourselves. In reference to other individuals, it's just a matter of finding what we can relate to each other with and how our translations are similar. We are side by side, regardless of who we are. (Remember the sheet in I Heart Huckabees.)

My father brought up a good point to me yesterday: I have tons of Side Projects. I don't know what my Main Project is anymore-- probably the novel, still, but I seem to accumulate all of these mini-projects on the Side. Websites, editing college papers, CD design, professional a cappella groups, etc. I attract them.

I'm not annoyed at the side projects. It's just interesting to me how many of them there are. Right now I can count SEVEN projects I'm working on. Including the novel, EIGHT.

Maybe I should live my life on the Side?

I've been in such a good mood recently that I cut my own hair, decided against an obviously pointless situation, interviewed for a ridiculous new job, went to a poetry slam and read an impromptu poem about phone sex, wrote a new fantastic scene to the novel, and enjoyed every single second of my time at Sylvan today... the whole she-bang.

AND.

Last night I spent three hours talking to a mysterious, long-haired (seriously long, like, down to his waist), introspective, drug using, cigarette smoking, poetry writing, Kevin-Spacey look-aliking, heavy metal listening, political preference having, information-addicted, dramatic man of 26 who seriously had me laughing and swooning and thinking and fighting and really TALKING for the first time since I've moved out of Los Angeles. I tell you this. Fresno is definitely not what I expected.

Don't get all upset. I'm still moving to Los Angeles. Just feel happy for me that I am not completely depressed and fucked up. Things are not just okay anymore. They are good.

Found so much joy in driving today (Beck's Guero on the stereo), in an awesome iced chai from a tea place in Tower, and in writing a new scene to the novel. The best part?

"Everything I have is plaid. I realize this now, in a bass-filled note coming from my speakers. Nothing is solid, nothing uncrossed by something else- nothing my own. My lines extend to someone else's intersections forever.

I go inside and watch him twitch in his sleep, his astounding face crumpled into a smile. I kiss him and he clutches me close, kisses me back, asks me, smiling, 'Did you figure it out?'

I collapse beside him, crying in plaid."

Showered, shaved, tanned.
Rested, since I took a three hour nap.
I could go anywhere I want tonight. I have a car. Places to go.
The novel looks at me with its big, wasted eyes and begs for attention.
Alright, Susan, I'll write you tonight.
Cuddled up on my sheetless bed, I use a felt tipped pen.
My throat is dry, warped. Sleepless night, restful day. Drainage, allergies.
Recall the winter. It's hard.
It's good to be alone, I realize once again.

I purchased the car.
Today, while I sub, I'm going to have the kids suggest names for the car and I'll pick the top three. Those three names will travel with me to pick up said car and when I see her, I will be able to decide what exactly her name will be. I can't stop straightening my hair and I'm thinking of cutting a lot of it off. Summertime, and the living is crazy. (It doesn't seem like summer though- the wind is blustery and the clouds are out. Weird Fresno, weird.)

Also: I am so tired of guessing. I just give up. My friend, I just give up. The benefit of the doubt has reached the end of its proverbial rope and I can no longer be patient. I bought the car. Let the mobility begin.

Of all the things I could have thought about last night, while there was a pause in the music and the balcony was colder than I liked but the trees were so musical, OF ALL THE THINGS I COULD HAVE THOUGHT ABOUT: the thing I ended up filling my brain with was the truth of all of my intimate moments. Rather, questioning the truth of those intimate moments. Of all of them, which were real? Which were forced? I'm trying not to be crazy me, but I'm already feeling old habits creep under my skin this morning. Balcony thoughts about M or S or D are not helpful. Or J.

Whatever. I'm going to go shower. Hopefully, my common sense is on the soap dish.

On finding someone new:

I left one bachelor's pad feeling robbed. The brick sides of the building stared at me as I left, bending beneath my crying eye. I wanted to apologize to those walls, having forsaken intimacy within.

I drove two states.

Drove back halfway and stopped in my mother's arms, exhausted, penniless.

My words are written. Ribcage re-wired shut. Small incisions feel cool in the breeze, but the cutters are gone.

A new dim-lit house invites me halfway in- a new stubbly chin finds me blushing. I remind him of the past, but he watches me while I sing.

Halfway home, halfway naked, I touch the lacy underthings in my purse. Why didn't I charge my phone? I take out my schedule to mark down goals at a stoplight.

Perhaps I should open up a little, I think. Perhaps motion is only purposeful in waking hours. Subconscious and feverish, I put my hands on my heart and laugh, laugh.

It so happens that I am staying in Fresno for a little while longer than originally anticipated. May is too soon, way too soon.

I would like to say that my decision to stay in Fresno, California was an uncomplicated, easy-made decision based on rational thought processes and well-thought through pragmatics. But then again, I wouldn't like to say that, because that would be extremely unlike me. There are a couple rational reasons: the money situation is not where I want it to be, I have to buy a car and the idea of 900 rent in LA is not super tasty, and I've made the executive decision to not go to USC... all good reasons not to go to LA. However, what actually happened was that tonight, Lizzy emailed me and said that living with her is probably not going to happen, which is valid; she needs to experience living alone. Of course I could still live in LA alone, get my own place (also probably a good idea) but instead of thinking of options, all of a sudden, in a rush of sentimentality for Fresno and in Classic Rachel Roellke Mode, I made the decision based on a small bump in the road of residency that could have been easily fixed. It's Fresno (YES!) at least until the end of the summer. I'm gonna have to quit Sylvan as soon as I find a new, good job that pays me a million dollars OR... get a job waitressing at Hooters. The subbing thing will probably only last until the traditional schools get off track. Then all the traddy teachers want to sub during the summer and I get the shaft. So a new job is most definitely in the works, somewhere.

The addition of Amy A to the scene has made things so much more tolerable that I can genuinely see myself staying for longer without slitting my own throat. She works with me at Sylvan and we just work well together -- she's random and fun and super smart... and probably the best dancer I've ever seen in my entire life. We're the best of friends, you see? I can stay here because there is reason to. (The new He is not a bad reason, either) People.

AND: I still haven't picked. It's way harder than I thought it would be, but I'm sticking to it, and I find that the added confidence from not hurting myself all of the time has also given me some patience.

I will buy a car and then see what happens. See what happens. I am patient and strong.

I was talking to Seth and it came up that he doesn't know what picking means. I had to try and describe it to him in some sort of careful way. He said he thought I was far too smart to deal with any emotions like that. He said he was concerned.

It became difficult to explain to him what I do and how I do it, mostly because for once, I'm actually not doing it, and with this distance from the act I see so clearly the ridiculousness of it.

I told him that on some base level, I think I'm never going to get the one thing I really want, love, and that in order to self-fulfill that prophecy I have to make myself unattractive to both myself and others: the best way I could think of to do that was to make my skin imperfect. Plus, the pain of the act took away from any sort of loneliness I may have been feeling at the time (only for those few precious seconds that I had with my fingernails under my skin)- the dissociative aspect.

I think it freaked him out, but it felt good to talk about it in the past tense. I'm still not sure I'm completely done (says the alcoholic to his bottle of Jack), but I know that I've made some serious, irreversible progress.

The.space.bar.here.in.this.classroom.where.I'm.subbing.doesn't.work!
Regardless,I.spoke.with.Erica.last.night.and.she.said.I.sound.happier.than.I've.sounded.in.a.long.time.
I.know.that.it's.true.
I.would.like.to.say.it.has.nothing.to.do.with.him,but.that.would.be.a.total.lie
I.just.feel.happy.that.we.reunited...I.was.concerned.that.I.would.never.see.him.again
Thanks.to.Amy.Aston.and.the.Starline...I.got.to.not.only.see.him.again.but.I.got.to
hold.him.again.and.that's.what.I.was.hoping.for.
And.there.is.a.certain.tenderness.I.feel.for.him.and.I.am.unsure.where.this.tenderness
comes.from...perhaps.I.just.want.to.use.the.word.tenderness.because.it's.such.a.nice.word.

The.last.thing.he.said.to.me.was:
"Get.the.hell.out.of.my.house."

whoop whooop
no picking!
back to subbing (so many days off was getting old!), feeling happy.
want to buy that mother fucking caaaar, biatch! come on, phil, give me the VP price for the LX... and 2.9 apr.... come on...
he wants the sale, he should make it happen.
i wanted the sale. i made it happen. ka-ching!

Today marks NINE DAYS of no picking. I don't intend to start up again.

In speaking with Jaime online, and having similar experiences in Barcelona with a guy I met on Saturday night, and listening to Dacia talk about how much she wants to travel, I have thought heavily about our inherently transient nature at this age.

We feel so temporary inside, and so the mere movement from place to place feels so natural and easy. It feels right. I know that for myself, I've had a hard time NOT being in transition in Fresno. Or rather, not knowing what the next step is going to be. Traveling is different: when you travel, you are aware of your final destination, which is home. Home. Knowing where home is and wanting to be there are two very different things. I think the bottom line is that as a group of individuals, our age group wants to be moveable, changeable, transitory, adaptable. Our anthem changes depending on where our suitcase falls open. We are ramblers, knowing we have a home somewhere, wanting to be elsewhere.

NO PICKING
And last night, I reminded myself to be forgiving (am I losing that signature quality?) and gave in to reckless abandon, really, and it felt awesome.

no picking
Today I buy a pair of brown flats in celebration of one whole week of no picking.

(no picking... everything looks lovely...)
Cried when I heard "Your Body is a Wonderland" on the radio today. Driving along the ol' 41, feeling happy about everything, and I heard "I'll never let your head hit the bed /Without my hand behind it" and just lost it. Briefly, like the scarf fell for just a moment and I was aware enough to recover it: brush it back into place. I shook my head, surprised.

I guess I have to thank DP for being sweet when he didn't mean to be, or have to be, and for saying my name; I have to thank Stacy Burcham for her laryngitis message today that sent me into a moment of beautiful nostalgia, and I really have to thank VF for everything. She knows what I mean. We've been very... verbal about how much we love each other recently, and it's all so satisfying and tangible and lovely. For a depressed girl, I sure do feel clean.

Also, many many thanks to Amy for being so funny and upfront.
This Academy Award speech of a blog must come to an end, because as we all know, gratitude is the most inarticulate of the emotions.