Where is my mind?

I think I'm losing it. I'm kind of a wreck about my life. This weekend will be a nice escape, along with Toronto. Can't I just stay in Canada, get odd jobs like dish washing or something equally menial, and live out my youth?

On the upside (or extreme downside), I'm doing much more scribbling. It's nice to blow off some steam by writing something silly and poetic sounding. Meh, slightly more honest than anything I'd dare speak outloud.

post-symposium

I know who you love
And though I’m not included
I wish you another
Who knows you like I do

But does she know the curve of your hand in mine
Soft breathes slopping down an affectionate path
To your pleasant face

That I curse and maul
In swift, uneven thoughts
And darken purest visions
Of our callow youth

Should I fit you, force you in
Still after we have been severed
From undulating breast to withering chest

Of course, it should not settle on us
Where flowers cannot bloom
Because we are simple clowns
Carelessly turning chart-wheels in the air

Lull

Being alone, it can be quite romantic
Like Jacques Cousteau underneath the Atlantic
A fantastic voyage to parts unknown
Going to depths where the sun's never shone
And I fascinate myself, sure I do
When I'm alone


Sometimes I am quite overwhelmed by myself.

I mean, there's plenty to be overwhelmed by.

To assert grandly that I have some unspoken, clever plan for my life would be a lie. I manically swing from wanting to change the world to all too comfortably considering not going to school full-time and maybe even giving up on those life endeavors all together for awhile. I disappoint myself to the point of a familiar acquiescence when it doesn't (and it never does) go as planned.

'Isn't this just right? Charging ten steps forward, then stuck in the mud for fifty more paces?' I am particularly unforgiving when I'm overwhelmed by these paralyzing insecurities of the future, of any contribution I can make to it.

I want to write a book--no, I want to write several books. I want to join Americorps. I want to travel. I want to learn to knit. I want to swim in the ocean without flailing about, concerned about drowning. I want to run without my lungs rattling helplessly in my chest. I want to become a lawyer without hating myself. I want to wear that dress without feeling like I'm over-compensating for any short-comings I may feel I have in physical attractiveness. I want to fly a plane. I want to own a restaurant that just happens to have a perfectly brewed coffee and beer that don't taste like the charred Earth or the inside of a boot. I want to lock myself away somewhere and read for days straight. I want to love someone so much that the possibility of belonging to any one else would be impossible.

I want. I want. I want.

And, if that wasn't enough, I beat myself up for being capable of feeling so damn much, yet being equally incapable of sharing it with someone else. Oh, but who likes to admit to being lonely? Loneliness is embarrassing enough when you aren't constantly chastising yourself that you indeed have a significant haven of loving, caring souls that for one reason or another are offering at the very least companionship.

However, I never know what to do with myself when friendship is not enough and romance is non-existent. Not that I give myself much of a chance at romance. I have championed being aloof and intimidatingly careless. I make meager attempts at being flirtatious. (Mary and Joseph, do I even know what flirting IS?!) I am too nervous to learn how to properly make myself up, hiding behind a haphazard fashion sense most of the time.

My greatest obstacle to actually falling is my anxious disposal of any boy that does show interest in me. Now, I'm not going to pretend like I always have such a quick turn-over rate because I'm picky and have high standards. While I would never settle for some schlep who has no ambition or someone I couldn't force myself to be attracted to, I am mostly afraid of wandering into the Land of Vulnerable Emotions.

In that territory lies trust, honesty, and sensuality: three things that often make me terribly uncomfortable. I wonder if the reason I tense just thinking about these things is because I desire and value them in others, and ultimately they are what I want in a man. Yes, a man.

But, I'm still only a girl! I'm far from being a woman; at least, I'm worlds away from being the woman that deserves those things. The back of my neck still bathes in heat when an attractive guy tries to maintain eye contact for more than thirty seconds. I fumble blindly for wit when I meet someone new, and I am constantly caught off guard by the sheer idea of going on a date.

I have always been a guys' gal, a good friend that doesn't mind talking sports, throwing back beers, telling you to fuck off, and laughing at vulgar innuendos about other girls. Even with my scattered groups of girlfriends, I was never the one to have a boyfriend or speak openly about crushes. It was like this unspoken rule: Vicky is asexual, and therefore not allowed to be attracted or attractive to the opposite sex. I always felt like I was struck with some sort of single disease, expected to perpetually be indifferent about relationships and boys.

Okay, maybe that's in my head. Maybe that isn't what they've done to me, but it certainly feels like it sometimes. I'm terrified of chatting up guys at parties when I'm in the presence of friends. I stop short gestures of affection, what could amount either to a simple hand-hold or a lingering hug, under what I assume is their scrutiny. (Even when I'm dating the said person these affections are coming from!) Then, I get flustered because I know it's RIDICULOUS. I realize no one gives such over-analyzed consideration to my every action except for me.

So, I bottle it up, and there are months like this. In the late July heat, I effervesce with uncertainty and need, torn between finding contentment and riling myself up with possibilities.

And I get overwhelmed.

que mal

eidolon

All that affection doesn’t play so easily

On my heart’s taut strings

Since you tug a little too gingerly

With your irresolute knees

Oh, little boy

I wonder if you’ll grown into

This love I’ve been giving

It’s a distressing wish

But a venture I’m devoted to

And darling

I ponder on the pieces

This love is missing

Somedays

But your teasing is

Too much ambient noise

A bombardment of barely feeling

With wary eyes and

If you were to submit as mine…

Reality is so far removed

From any points of interest

And I’ve been practicing

This foolish loyalty at

Too close-a distance

So, lover lover lover

I wonder if you’ll ever grow

Into all that I’ve been giving

Maybe it’s this wish

That I’m more faithful to

Oh, Sweet darling

I ponder on the pieces that

This love is missing

Somedays

i love finding my random (bad) "poetry"

burst and bloom

i gave you something that no one's gonna give you
my sleeping skin and my heart deep down in you
i'll never tell you, you're my little scar
goodbyes are hard and they're hard
yeah, they're hard
-"it's okay" land of talk

the fifth month doesn't drag along like the preceding winter months. may charges through time, bringing summer more quickly than i thought it would. with the spring semester over, i can't help but reflect (read: dwell) on the constant progression of my life. is progression even the right word?


am i moving forward? in many ways, i get the impression that my feet are just falling up and down very quickly in place, not really taking me anywhere. i still can't say that anybody is holding me back but myself, yet this daily routine without successful or meaningful variation makes life feel out of my own supervision.

nonetheless, i'm hoping to get little projects off the ground. i'm hoping the book club takes off successfully in june. if only we could choose a book. i'm awaiting the arrival of Philip K. Dick's "Valis". A dope addict on a quest for God........we'll see what kind of read it is. I'm already fascinated my the few pages I previewed on amazon.

[“What he did not know then is that it is sometimes an appropriate response to
reality is to go insane.”]


summer classes have started, and i'm already regretting my decision to try to sweep them out of the way with the 6-week, 6-hour, two days a week schedule. i'll be happy as an undisturbed, uneaten clam when july 2nd comes around. until then....


last bit of rabble rambling: i bought Cursive's "Mama, I'm Swollen..." album a few weeks ago. After listening to various youtube performances and reading through most of the lyrics that this one was less of an axe that Kasher could grind his anti-religion crux on. Maybe I'm more affected by Happy Hollow because the record isn't simply anti-religion; Kasher specifically puts Catholicism under his tempestuously critical lens, and I hate it. I'm not saying some of his complaints are without merit. It's true that there are dissenting actions occuring in the Catholic Church (there always have been), but I don't believe these actions represent the true spirit of the Church or the faith. I feel like these lyrics are imbuing the minds of all of the fans who aren't of the Catholic or Christian faith and causing a slightly ignorant and discriminatory view of what the Church is. (i.e. All priests molest innocent children and are power hungry con artists.)

My dilemma is that I still enjoy the music, and I'm not one to close my mind or ears to something just because I don't agree with the overall message. At the same time, I'm wondering if listening to albums like this doesn't contradict whatever faith values/beliefs I have.

With all that said, I think "I Couldn't Love You" is the best track on the album.
Listen and enjoy:

unfinished quasi-poetry is lame

my body would like to say something to one specific part of itself right now: why are you trying to run me into the ground, you inconsiderate asshole??

maybe i should give up drinking coffee at 11 PM for Lent. good idea. i am up and writing ridiculous things because i have neat friends that stimulate my brain almost as much as caffeine.

extant gratification

i am on a plane with the new gloss of a precious and stolen metal
but you wave at the terminal, heavy with your baggage
and dead end thoughts
please know the compass in your heart
gravitates in my direction
always chasing me
hear me through the streets and walls
hear me as you dance with sleep
and the breathes that are not too far behind
bathe in their satisfaction, their hunger for your needs

i am your song of joy
your echo of guilt
but the vine of a fruitful seed

i now require sleep, so i can wake up in 10 hours and realize this doesn't make as much sense as i thought it did.

warmest regards as i mutate into a zombie,
v.m.a

I wanna publish zines and rage against machines

Good readings: The Namesake by Jhumpa Lahiri
Song on repeat: (ALBUM, rather) The Story by Brandi Carlile

I seem to be forcing reading patterns on myself. A few months ago, I was really into the memoir/ biography thing, and now I'm caught up in a "books made into movies" fad. All of the books I've read or am currently reading (i.e. Revolutionary Road, The Road, He's Just Not That Into You, and The Namesake) are books that have been adapted into movies. I've only seen HJNTIY and The Namesake, which were fantastic movies in their own right. I've yet to watch The Road because I don't particularly feel like crying my eyes out. Now, if my hick town would get with the times and show Revolutionary Road here, maybe I could compare it to the book.

Speaking of He's Just Not That Into You! I didn't think it was possible for me to care even less about being in a relationship, but ALAS! I have found sweet, sweet approval for my debonair attitude towards men (read:boys) and whatever interest they may or may not take in me.
I shudder to think that a self-help/love advice book actually helped me in some way, but it was certainly a knock on the head in certain ways. What a female trait to not listen to our own common sense...

In other news, my friend has recently procured a 90-minute time slot on the local KCC radio station. We had a well-intentioned brainstorming meeting, but I couldn't think of any solid topics/themes yet. The trouble is that I don't listen to much radio anymore. It's sad to think that podcasts and CDs and mp3s have destroyed good old-fashioned tuning in. To think, I complain about on-line newspapers when I'm contributing to the downfall of my brethren media outlet.

Resolution: listen to more talk radio. This might be easier if my AM station worked...NOELLE!! (Note: My vehicle was previously owned by my friend and beloved neighbor, who I like to blame for all current or future problems I may have with it.)


I've also been recently inspired to look into making a zine. I know the psychological motivations of this are contrived, and zines are so 90s, but I'm hoping to collaborate with some people so this doesn't become my symbolic other. Isn't that what blogs are for? I've gotten suggestions to do an e-zine (because I'm so tech saavy, right?), but I'd prefer to do a printed one. Maybe I can start out with a fanzine and work my way to a more general one....suggestions/ideas/submissions/advice/outright objections?

I must admit, this idea of a zine is mostly derived from my frustration with my own creativity. Maybe I am hoping to reaffirm my artistic identity. When did I even have one, anyway? If I did, where did it go? We live in this funny, technologically bombarded world where we're given options of what to like and how to think, and rarely do we choose to create. It's like we're being constantly fed, but we aren't growing any of the food. I'm going off on a stupid tangent.

On a more nostalgic note, I read some Calvin and Hobbes today, and it reminded me how much I hate those bumper stickers that show Calvin pissing on some representative of an opposing view (team, state, religion, politician, etc.), or even the one where Calvin is praying. They totally misrepresent the character of--well, the character. Calvin and Hobbes wasn't like other comic strips; it wasn't all about serving the punch line. I learned too many life lessons to see Calvin reduced to a malicious douchebag.

I am getting far too upset about a cartoon character, but on the real...THIS is what Calvin and Hobbes was all about:

Many happy returns of the day,
Virge

V.R.R.A

I had something much more important to blog about, but I'd rather talk about how some guy was a total tampon, driving recklessly on the highway.

I was making my merry way down Interstate 57 toward Charleston (almost exactly like Kankakee County), IL to visit my engaging friend Andy Baldwin at Eastern Illinois University. From Bourbonnais, it's quite the trek. Going 90 mph, I could cut the trip by at least a half an hour. So, I was driving at a pretty steady pace, hoping to make the basketball game in the nick of time. About twenty minutes into my mission, I come up on a gigantic boat of a car. Happily, I found he was going at least 85, but there was enough room for me to get around him. I pass the behemouth red Cadillac and continue my pace. Two minutes later, he speeds up and swerves in front of me, almost hitting my car while cutting me off and barely missing the one inches away from him in the right lane

I'm thinking, "Really?? Are you serious?", and in a moment of frustrated driving, I went to make an unkind gesture at him because he's decided to slow down to 70. I get back in the right lane, thinking there's enough open road in front of me to pass him again. He goes just fast enough to stay beside me and to ensure that my car gets boxed in by the next vehicle in front of me.

Anybody who knows me should know that the next words out of my mouth were "oh, it's on!". I get back behind him in the left lane for a few more miles of 70 mph driving, until we pass up the other cars that I can't believe could possibly go any slower than we were.

Now it's just me, this insane man (with a car full of passengers), and miles of outstretched, open highway. I get back in the right lane. We hit 80, then 90, then finally 105. His whale was humming along just fine at these high speeds, thanks to the laws of inertia, but my poor little Malibu was practically begging for me to have some common sense.

At 105 mph, my brain turned back on, and I let him triumphantly pull away from me and cut me off again. (I'm telling you, he was outside of his mind.) Not five minutes later, we see blue and red lights on the other side of the highway. Two miles away from them, another pair, and a State Policeman idling in the turnabout, waiting to pull someone else over. Of course, we conformed to the speed limit. I sure didn't want a ticket. The cop pulled onto the highway to follow us.

This is when I happily realized that my friend in the red Cadillac didn't have a license plate on his rear bumper. Laughing perhaps a bit too spitefully to myself, I got into the left lane and passed him and a truck, allowing the cop full view of that moron's bumper.

Payback is a biiiiiitch.

I may just consider starting a club. Victims of Road Rage Anonymous, or is there already an organization against idiots?