Tuesday, January 18, 2005


over and over and over i restart typing whatever it is i want to say to the anonymous many in Glore-phoria. who knows why i even try to communicate; whenever i go there, all that comes out of my mouth is sobbing rancid complaints. perhaps i seek their sympathy for some perverse reason. i have no idea why i'd want that either. being that that location was my first ever blog-like situation, it was the first time i ever got the opportunity to notice, that the things i write about online are different from the things i write about on paper... completelly different stories about the exact same experience. you'd never know they were from the same person.. or at least that's what i told myself. really, i can't stand this grody feeling that's bleeding outwards from my stomach-- it really feels like my body is being taken over by some strange sort of alien acid... perhaps it is sadness... or whatever else is causing an endless, endless strand of sick and disheartening things to come pouring out, whenever i am on the stage in Glore, and in many other places.


I'm so exhausted of limetown-- it exhausts me even before i'm there. The thought of going back to the place in a few days is exhasperating. I don't want to be a part of that place right now-- memories of it make my stomach ill... even foxtown seems kindly by comparison; i'd really rather stay here longer... thing about limetown is, they seem to think that once i'm there, i'm going to be there for good... that is, that i'm just *there* now.... the same way they are... just THERE... going to be there... always been there... always'll be there... i grow sick, sick, sick just thinking about going there, and being stuck there, where i hear the rain has been keeping them wedged indoors. every indoors place i can think of there is just a trap of greater or lesser size... Then again, my 2 houses in foxtown are also grimly mirroring each other, playing tag.. now that my brother is out of the picture, i am the lone offspring to toss back and forth; all the weight of both families on me alone. i wish i had something i was *doing*, that counted as *doing* something in the eyes of anyone else but me. all i do is earn piddling for tasks others count as worthless or demeaning, or inconsequential at best. my psych said i needed an "activity" or something... something to get me "connected"-- i told her the internet makes me feel connected, but she said no, no-- that doesn't connect one to others, not in any deep meaningful spiritual way. all the people i have that "connection" with in limetown are just people i want to run away from. i don't even want to be awake at the same time as other people right now; limetown is such a cold dead shelterless place, like you're a moss clinging to a rock... i just cant stand living so pointlessly... like just surviving another day, just waiting for the day when that survivial is useless... it makes me so angry i can barely contain myself...

Sunday, January 16, 2005


Last night, in a dream, i got shot and died. Someone had told me, that the person coming in the room was going to kill someone, that he always killed someone, when he comes into that room. I asked if I was the one who was shot, every time he comes in that room. The person who was telling me this, said that there were always survivors, when the madman left the room. Then the madman comes in the room, and in the dream i am pregnant or I had just told everyone i was pregnant just to make them do or not do something, either way i think that influences his decision, or insane non-decision, for he shoots me and i die, and he and everyone else in the room walk away. Also in my dream, long before that, my two elvish friends are riding horses in a parking lot somewhere and I am watching; a short white one and a tall brown one. And they use the parking lot to ride around in for a while, but we are forced to leave by the police. Then we are in a long tunnel, running down it to get somewhere, and we land at a waterslide at an amusement park, a place i have been to in my dreams many times before, recently, and we wait in a line which trails up stairs, through plastic tubes, around waterfalls, all over. And the two of them eat a strawberry cake, and I am able to get a strawberry cake from someone else in line, who doesn't want the rest of theirs. The two of them then leave me there, for they have other business to take care of.

Friday, January 07, 2005


i am in foxtown. from here i can hear internet broadcast from london, a name which i have decided for the time being not to encode. i took time, earlier this afternoon, to view a website to which i have paid little attention in the last several months, though i remain a subscriber. the name is glore-phoria, and the people who inhabit it are not un-similar to myself in many ways, although these days those ways turn out to be slightly less than visible. among the people who convene at this site, are a number of girls, many of whom i have known as internet personalities, some whom i have only known in the way we know celebrities, and a few who i have met in person, in the physical world, either before or after i knew them as fellow identities on this site. i took a moment to read the words of one of those latter persons today, whose virtual personality was part of what initially drew me into glore-phoria's kingdom, now turning empire, and who i later met in person, and who suprised me at the smallness of her size. she spoke of troubles with her life, and she told of a general depression, and a sadness of such apparent depth that someone asked her in a coffeeshop "what's wrong?" upon simply seeing her, and recognizing something unseen. to this question she simply replied, "i'm tired," which is all anyone should expect, when asking such a question of someone in such a state. however, she claimed this statement was not untrue; and went on to explain that she is tired of this thing and that thing about her life, and tired of trying to fix it. i cannot say whether this was theraputic or surprising, or a strange mixture of the two, but it caught my eye, somewhere out there on the infinite landscape of stimuli, as it reflected somewhat my own situation, though it was more clearly and simply stated, and the point more punctually arrived at. and also what attracted me about this story, was that it was being told by a member of a group of people in which i had once desperately craved membership, the effects of whose denied inclusion still may hold murkilly some lingering effects upon me. the memory of such desire, still fresh enough to hardly be considered clearly something past, combined with this declaration of misery, held onto me as a curious and sudden suspension of all sense between desire and disgust.


nothing makes me more red inside these days than the search for work--- and the criticism from everyone around me, for still being unsuccessful. Red, or brown inside, that i still have nothing with which to prove myself-- nothing with which to defend myself from accusations, which are approaching and often-times exceeding every day, that i am doing nothing at all; that i am *being* nothing at all-- indeed that i *am* nothing at all... it is making me half insane, this battle from inside and outside at the same time, which makes me a half-inorganic shell, a hollow battered tube... i can't seem to make the accusations stop, no matter what i do either in truth or in theory, or in plan... i can't seem to make anyone actuallly look at me and see other than nothing there... it is hard enough to live alone with me, who attacks me every day on waking for still being nowhere and still being no-one, but now i have the whole of foxtown on her side, all against me, all trying to see how long it will take, how many beatings per day it will require, before i finally give in and at last become the person they actually wanted to give birth to.

Tuesday, January 04, 2005


i'm having trouble these days thinking about careers, or my current lack of one. my dad is currently giving me no peace, and repeats the same bantering jibe over and over and over again and it's a painful confrontation every time we meet. and now this thing about cooking school, because, he says, "i can't think of any other way you're going to cash in on that art talent." the whole thing, life, the future, and living itself, is making me sick. i've completelly lost my apetite but i'm going to pretend to think about food for a while.


i'm in foxtown. the sky is nothing but cloud. the city only looks good this time of year, when the corners and edges of things are actually green, instead of brownish grey.
i am surrounded by people who would have been little children when i was living here. they are blatantly high-school people now, and as lousy and noisy as we were.... or at least i must suppose we were that loud.
my friends from those days, when i was in high school here, i've seen a few of them since being here. "A" has only five or so months to go before the navy lets him out. he doesn't know what he's doing after that, but i don't know anyone who knows what they'll be doing in 5 months; only those who believe they do. it's the belief that counts. it's the belief that i lack; that i simply can't grasp anymore. the faith has forsaken me, has forsaken many of the people around me. it's easy to forget it; what the point was in coming here, in doing any of these things. i used to know, or i thought i knew. i used to think things would be obvious, when they got to where i've come to. instead they are like a cement wall. impenetrable. pointless. purposeless but for obscuring.
My dad has printed out countless pages for me about culinary school. this dawned on him just yesterday: that I should go to culinary school. he's been on this trip about it ever since. i've been nodding and feigning excitement, just to calm him down. i haven't told him that i have my own concepts, my own school in my head. i have accepted that my dreams are only damaged when i let others see them, and so i have opted for the moment to remain silent. but let me tell you that i have figured the price of this program to be about $2500, an amount of money which i do not have, but have been fantasizing donating an egg or two in order to aquire. i fantasize too much. all over each step of this scheme i've covered with fantasies about what may happen. nothing i fantasize ever comes to pass, not even close. when i fantasize about making friends, i meet absolutelly no one. when i fantasize about killing myself, it never winds up happening. when i fantasize about a new job, i find myself still unemployed. it kills me in every way, the way i manage repeatedly to fail to get employed by anyone. by even fucking taco bell. it makes me really insane, actually, to think about it. another reason why i need to stop fantasizing; it just makes me crazier and makes things seem so pointless and meaningless.

Thursday, December 16, 2004


You know, there are things I've written or started writing, which were so clear and easy to narrate the first few days of their existence, but which faded away for whatever reason during the next few days. And they bug me from afar, that i've been unable to get back to that point, that state of mind in which they were so breezy and delicious and natural. And yet I try and try and haven't yet given up although it's been years, and I've wondered why it is that I can't will myself back to the natural state in which they came so easilly to me. I've thought of this curious puzzle a couple of times to myself; sometimes constructively and sometimes not. And I like to believe that other writers are working on the same problem, and that many of the phenomena like NaNoWriMo are a direct reaction to that humanly problem, whatever it is... It was strange, I was turning the corner from the off-ramp into my hometown of fox, and suddenly a new thing dawned on me: the question; what is it exactly that you're writing there, in that project, as opposed to the thing you're *trying* to write, and can't? I hope this small item makes some sort of sense, the same inexplicable and hollistic sort of sense it made to me, when i turned the corner and ran straight through a cloud of it, on my way home. I cannot tell if it makes no sense or not, at this moment, to anyone's mind but my own; but I can tell you that to explain with any thouroughness its meaning, to any who might not understand it in so many words, would take years of dense work and many pages of intense examination... A task which I may encounter in the future, after I've had a number of experiences like this. I cannot say whether my problem about the unfinished draft is solved, by that burst of intuition; but it gives me a new perspective on it and that makes me feel so much better that it feels as though i've made progress.


You know, i notice a shift in my "voice," if you know what i mean, not the spoken one but the written one, over different days, on different topics and in different blogs; between things written online and things written in dark little physical pages for no one, between things written when I'm thinking about someone who might be reading this and when I'm not thinking about anyone's reading it. Also in the time of day, the distance between myself and whatever it is I'm writing about... in whether i'm sad or not. Isn't that funny, that one's very think-apparatus could be so seemingly flimsy?... Or inconstant?


this time away from Limetown, hiding away in my Dad's place in foxtown, has been like a respite for me; which was as I'd planned it. I gravely needed one, and perhaps still not a long enough one-- but it is time for a change. If the days start looking too alike, room for havoc in the mind breaks in. Today I'll go elsewhere... That is, towards Limetown, in order to pick up a few things... But we'll see if there's anywhere to stop over on the way there. I have a photographic quest in mind, which may or may not be accomplished. You have no idea how pretty the road is, between here and Limetown. That is, during the months when you can clearly see the mountains. They are taller and stretch out for longer than you can possibly imagine; i mean, i myself can hardly imagine them even now, though I've seen them many times... Which is why I want to take pictures: so I can believe myself my memory, when I am not looking at them... When I am indeed lightyears away from anything alike.


I've been thinking about Nightengale. He needs to write a book, instead of spending all his thoughts by rattling them off to me, who will never remember, and to whom they will never fully make sense again, after he's done spilling them. But it seems he will never do what he says he will do; it seems he will never actually put the effort in to accomplish what he proudly proclaims he is here to do. He seems resigned to this. He seems obsessed with formulating excuses why he has so much to give and yet does nothing. That seems to be his decided lot in life, lost upstairs with his maddening collection, and he doesn't tire of assuring you that this is his role, his luck, his jinx. He seems a perfect example of what to prevent by any means necessary of happening to your mind, your life, your strength and sense of self... He seems a perfect reflection of every seed of doubt I've ever experienced in my own mind, in the light of having been allowed to spread and flourish thirty years, and provide excuses and reasons to do otherwise, and turn from a seed into the ground itself. It is so cruel, how easy it is to let one's purpose slip by and be ignored all life long. Or perhaps it is so cruel how harshly we put it down, and sublimate it with other joys, and prefer to think of ourselves as one type of king than another; to invent kingdoms to rule that are far smaller and more plastic than the ones we were meant for: while the real kingdom fades in the wake of our denial... It is hard to lay the blame on any one person, or on every person who suffers the loss of purpose, and falters into an early destruction, and floats like reckage on the waters of existence until the end... I find it hard to be very accusatory towards anyone... But hearing Nightengale talk and then hearing him plan, and then seeing him ignore the whole thing and return to bed and wait for death, it is hard to simply ignore the seemingly intentional process of deterioration... Hard not to react somehow, whether it be to cringe or try to remember what he said; while the clamor in my own mind protests, that I can't do his job for him... I don't believe in damnation, but I believe in a purpose that we are "here" to fullfill... I'm not sure if I believe in being able to miss that purpose; but Nightengale's example seems to speak otherwise.


Oh, and the lawns are quartered in so neatly here; the geometric plantlife lines the edge of every person's universe. And the sun is so kind here, and the morning chill not so vicious for the wind. And every house is perfect along the fence-high horizon... you might think you were in Hell, or even in the center of America, but as I've been to neither place I can only go on stories about them, for use in any comparisons. It all depends on where you're from, whether you see Heaven or Hell in a blade of grass, a chimney and a clear empty sky. All depends on where you're from, where you're going, and where you ARE... But what is the most astounding, is the view you get from both of these angles at the same time; a paradox between extreemes arises, though you cannot see it more than just a moment, before it slides down one or the other side of the hill. This is a vantage point we will discuss later on, as it is treacherous and the meaning of life. And so instead I look simply at the frost, and the shadow as it creeps, hiding the dying salt of the night, and shrinking up against the friendly fence until it dissappears. It is simple to turn off the winds of judgement and see only colors, if that is what you really want to do. And when the winds become so over-harsh, so painful and so merciless, you do: you are taught to want otherwise. You are taught to want to have mercy on yourself, in seeing a plaster house, a picket fence. You are taught to desire an end to the ongoing dialogue, between people you've never met who are from places you've never been, whose existence you have every reason to doubt. When the simple act of singing brings with it all the forces of heaven and hell, all the crafts of Satan and of Michael, you find there is reason to shush the speaking void that knows no satisfaction, no quenching of its thirst... and the only way to satisfy its lust is not to listen, not to know of it... Oh and if there was a way to see back, backwards to the eyes of those who never saw any of the sights that make up our universe; if we could see anew, truly, and truly be of other than the eyes of our States and the wills of our Masters; therein what would we see? Therein, what would we be then? And where would we begin; in simple and non-speaking registry of color? of photons of light, alone and freed from meaning, freed from eons of layered doubt and hopes, alone in darkness, shining out like fire, like a simple point of existence in itself? We need both sides of our minds, in order to think this. That gap between the scientific mind, and the artistic and humanitarian mind, must be bridged for either to do its work. The hopes and dreams of the every word of literature, are alone and will say nothing unless the access, the connect is made, into the thoughtless mind of movement, of action like that of stars. We are weighed down, and perhaps made mute and immaterial, by the very division which we think are at core of our studies: the separation between the sciences, and the arts. The further down we drive the stake between them; putting even the two genders themselves at their opposite extremes, to increase the implied breakage; the further away we place ourselves from where we want to be: from what these talents might bring us. To cripple them and to cripple ourselves in doing so, is the one and greatest downfall of the study by humans of the world. Perhaps it can be put this way: on the one side, is the study by humans of the world in which they exist; and on the other, the study by humans of themselves... Or at least, this is what their definitions would have us believe... This funny and bewildering distinction may be of use, or it may be of detriment, to our learning anything. And what is it to have learned something, anyway? Far away, divided by generations and lifetimes from the learners, can it really be said "we" learn anything? By demonstration of a new machine's existance, does it signify "we've" learned? By demonstration that we still exist, somehow, and cornered safely off between these fences we may dwell somehow in peace, does this say "we" have learned something else? Something to which we cannot point concretely but yet must assume, must be led to believe, that has been done to "us", that has made "us" different from those eyes of millenias ago, to whom none of this would presumably make any sense? Is there, then, any learning, any changing that is ever done, from one lifetime to the next, or is it merely a rearranging of photons; of objects for the eye to see, to catch between one darkness and the next? Taught anew each time we open our eyes, what to see in front of them and how to see it; taught to see like we are taught to walk; is there a chance even for free-seeing to occur, is it possible anymore, or was it ever? I know not, but I know the experience, of feeling the voices of definition drown away, subdue themselves in silence, I know physically the feeling of them evaporating away, as I let myself be lost in the yellow of sleeping lawns, in the air of a tight morning, asking myself again and again, why are you here? why are you here? and then ceasing, suddenly, in its own preposterousness.


there is frost on the grass in the precise outline of the shadows of the neighbors' trees and the fence on the other side of the lawn. The reason i can see lawn is i'm in foxtown; i've been here a number of days; i meant to, as a kind of respite. i screwed up with my employer in the glass place somehow; she's telling me my resume doesn't represent what i've done under her wing at the glass shop; from her perspective my listing the projects in which i took part "makes it look like you did the WHOLE project," and that's "misrepresenting yourself." i tried to explain that that wasn't what i intended to portray, by writing them as a simple list, and she quickly snapped back: "well that's what it looks like it's saying." there was no use trying to tell her that she was likely reading it with a bit of professional chauvanism and personal paranoia, so i merely said "ok" when she ordered me to change the wording on the resume. i left the place furious; it is so ugly to feel like you're being accused of something, and uglier to wonder whether that's IT with the glass shop, with that whole quadrant. How it was that she got a look at my resume in the first place was a matter of bizarre and unfortunate circumstances and mistakes; and at first i thought that the one lesson i had learned from the tangle was to keep my mouth shut. but now i'm not sure what the lesson is. to keep my documents to myself? to be more deeply judging of personalities? somehow i knew, as soon as i heard her message on my answering machine, by the very tone of her voice, saying "i want to talk to you about the application... and your resume," i knew that there was something that she wouldn't be able to be talked about with. i was thereafter avoiding the glass shop like the plague and resenting that i still had half-finished artworks of mine in there; in fact cursing the fact that i had anything that i *needed* to get out of there... i guess a second lesson is to not trust too many locations with important objects and belongings... it steamed me up so much when face to face with her, though; especially when i saw, that she was not going to be convinced that i wasn't deliberately trying to lie on my resume, and that she wasn't going to go to the effort of seeing it in a different light; but was going to insist that i act, that i change, that i respond because of this, whether or not i saw it. the very tone in which she said "you're misrepresenting yourself," perhaps you can imagine it, the very intention of getting under your skin and terrifying you into obeying, or guilt-tripping you into bending; seeking horror. i have been not in any mood to affect my affairs because of someone else's misreading of the law, or of the meaning of words that are supposedly concrete and universal, or of the way in which things are supposed to be done. i've had to sway because of other's paranoia far, FAR too many times in recent past, and i was so steamed and angry, standing there, just saying ambiguously "ok... ok... it's done... ok don't worry about it, it's done," in response to her ongoing accusations and orders to change the document, and also to the mild threat of not helping me if i needed her as a reference in the future, i didn't want to explain to her, although i maybe could have if i'd been in a different mood, that i *have* no single concrete resume, no one document i hand to everybody like you're supposed to have; because i have no one defined goal in terms of career i'm going for and also because most of the things i've done are useful as experience only to a very few of the jobs i'd ever be applying for... including all the projects at the glass shop... so telling me "you need to change your resume, i mean your master copy," is rather futile since there is none; there's a long list of notes and then i recreate a resume from it every time i need one... which maybe is a stupid way to go about it but you've no idea how chaotic my life has been, in every single aspect, including the job-search... but anyways i didn't feel like telling her all this; i just felt like i needed to get out of there, out of the way of fire, just get my crap and go... and so i just told her "ok, it's done," which caused only a bewildered look to appear on her face, and for her to repeat the request, but i repeated only my chosen answer. i didn't feel like making much sense. none of the world around me was making much sense. the gal's already laid me off, long ago; this was like dealing with a demon from the past, come back to life at random, even if the past wasn't that long ago. And, as i said before, i walk away from the place, exasperated, wanting so badly out of Limetown, far away from the tiny community, the high-strung tempers and the built-in paranoia, a consequence of having dreams constantly on the line. One day i'll go into a phase in which i'll learn every intellectual property law, and i'll have more than just a hunch when something's wrong. but not now, not yet; i've got something else to learn first...


i've changed the name of my blog again and i think this will be the last time. i think it always meant to be Caliway Days, but i just never had the courage to give it it's actual name. funny how and when things occur to you. funny how hard clicking a certain button and typing a certain something can be, at times.


last night i dreamed i rented a studio space, along a sidewalk which was very dangerous and on which high-schoolers had to tread each morning to school. there was a person there that they were trying to kill; i couldn't tell if the killers were fishermen or government people, and i couldn't tell if the person was a humanized mermaid or a spy or both. they were trying to immobalize her by spraying huge amounts of mustard at her. one of my elvish friends was there, in fact the both of them were, also starting up a studio. i caught myself wishing to be her again; i remembered thinking i wished to be the other one too, not as much like her, in fact a polar opposite in many ways. and in my dream i was certain, as though i'd made up my mind for sure and was looking only for the money, that i was going to learn to teach english as a foreign language in this program i ran into online the day before, in praha. but largely i remember watching my elf-girl putting up snazzy gothic decorations and everybody complimenting, and then my thinking i need to get decorations just like that, make my space look just like this-- and for the first time perhaps it caught me as strange that i was having such thoughts.

Monday, December 13, 2004


In the last week or so I have felt really that I will die, if I don't find a reason to live any longer. I have screamed at heaven in my mind; what have you put me here for? And things I've done have lacked joy, or any moving motivation for their doing, other than to progress on the treadmill; a treadmill that has looked more and more like a sorry excuse for proceeding on with existance. I have thought that I cannot live any more in that place, that Lime place, with its walls of people crumbling around me everywhere; everything going to shambles, into just a massive mess. I can't do anything right there. I can't do anything right in the "real" world outside the university walls. I can't even put a meal together, basically; I find nothing with which to nourish myself. Everyone has become an accuser, and people who I thought I would know for years into the future have revealed themselves as jackals at the heart. And so I ride under a valley-time sun shaded with the cloud of grave misunderstanding or mis-awareness, and the orange trees are on either side of me, where they have always been. In and out I go from this pandemonium, throughout my days. I suppose i must have felt this way in college from time to time as well; screaming at the sky to have given me a reason to endure all of this, some purpose in my being here for I see none, none before me, none around me, only orangefields... And it is impossible to say really what is going on when one is in that situation. My body feels it will break under the pressure...


It has been a labyrinth, writing what's going on with myself, these last few weeks. I open up a page on which to write a blog entry, and my heart fades away and leaves nothing left to write. And jibberish about nothing fills the screen for a few minutes, deleted and filled with new and no more meaningful jibberish, until I cannot fake it anymore and put the project away, the content of my mind left unsaid. And this leaves me with a sick feeling after a few days. I suppose it could be stage fright or ambarrasment, or it could be that things are so confusing that they are forming no stories clear enough for telling. Or it could be that the stories are so new, that the emotions in them are speaking louder than events, and a logical procession of bits of information just don't come out; don't feel at home yet to be flung to the virtual winds, and so come out as haywired convoluted chaos. I cannot explain the feeling in my stomach, in my sides, in the center of my ribs below my chest, that burns and feels heavy although hollow, and that will not go away, and that seems to compel my eyes to water as I feel it, and seems to dizzy my head and drag my brow down with them, to wherever they go. I cannot explain either what is giving me this feeling, or what could be the sequence of events which have led me to feel this way, these last few weeks. I suppose the list of events could form a road as long as memory backwards into time, and include as many different things as I have ever experienced in my days... But like a wound it has spread, is now effecting my lower back; this feeling of pointlessness, of meaninglessness, of purposelessness, of lack of a reason, any reason, for existance.


I've returned to foxtown, since Limetown has become too heavy. Or I've come to feel too heavy there, as everything that's been happening has become a weight on me. In my desire to fly away I've flown only home, or towards the only home I ever held that held me in return. I was getting the clear impression, in Lime, that I am either pathetic or a threat, in everyone's eyes. It is hard to say how, but I think I've seen myself, the image of me seen by others, shift from the pityable person they saw in the beginning, to someone to beat back against, to protect themselves against; their own footholds, their own claims to talent... The situation I thought I was in at Angel Studio has turned out to be something else; the illusion of safety, of comfort, has become a reality of turmoil and paranoid persons, resorting to desperate and illogical conclusions, in order to prevent the forseeable future from coming to pass. It is hard to say what really is going on; I had only to decide and say in silence in my mind: "I'm done-- I'm SO done-- I'm done with this..." and then ensuing events take place, to finish me off even faster. I feel as though the bridges are being burned behind me without my even setting them on fire. If I were to return to the track I was on, before the last year's series of disasters, would I ever hear of all those people I've known in Limetown, ever again? Would not the whole life that had gone by there, turn out to have been like some elusive dream, evading reason, evading comprehension, evading even memory? Were I to return to academics, to the world of teachers and assignments, where everything has an order and a reason and purpose behind it and the things we do makes sense, would I even be able to tell or describe to anyone the year as I've spent it, "outside"? At this moment I feel very forlorn, very full of longing for that lifestyle to return: that of studies and reasearch, that of that type of creation... I feel an immense pull from within, a gasping clinging to the memories, to the prospect of a renewed relationship, even more ingrained and focused than before... My first and last years at the college in Clear Mountain were consumed in overwhelming chaos, too constant to see outside... Actually, when I think of it, there was only one semester during that whole time when things felt real, felt safe, felt wonderful and acted like they were going somewhere... And they say that those four years are supposed to be the best of your life... Perhaps I'm just too ingrained in madness, in chaos, for my joys and my years of supposed pleasure to be made of anything else. Coming from chaos, going always towards chaos... I was in a state of desperation, to flee Limetown, to return to this panic-stricken town, which I have also gone crazy to leave in the past; it was as though reaching out for something, anything of firmness, of concrete actuality, some time in the past were at least if all sight and sound were in chains, at least they knew, like everyone else, that they were there, and also what they were.

Sunday, December 05, 2004

Inside Out

It is a bleak day in Clear Mountain... My head aches sorely from last night's few drinks, I must be in a fragile state these days... I haven't been enduring alchohol very well in any amounts recently; a few beers gives me a ripping hangover the following day, these last few weeks... Or perhaps it is the changing weather, drying me out or shrinking my ability to stand up to toxins... The house I live in has no heating, and I shiver at night... Here in this town, not fifteen minutes away but on the other side of the planet as far as culture, I am surrounded by people who cause me to think: i'd forgotten that people look like that. I fear that i have grown mousey and prudish-looking by being stranded in Limetown where I'm on trial as a prostitute at every minute of the day, for having been born at all as the fem-monster i am... I was with two people from Lantern Cove on Halloween, we got to know each other by guessing each others' ages. We were both far off; but I was suprised when she guessed my age at 30, even though I was in costume and very closely jacketed because of the cold, because very rarely do people guess me at older than i am; especially by as many years as that. It made me think my appearance must have changed; that I have grown so inward-aiming, so concealed and so closely guarded about my combined youth and femaleness, from having been in Limetown so long. Gone are those days when I would go out on Friday and Saturday nights wearing leather and carrying only a key and a water bottle full of vodka, just in case I didn't find free alchohol of the kind or amount i wanted, when i wanted it, and just drink the bottle through the night, looking around the college campuses for amusement and loose fools. I described that time to Nightengale and he replied, "I wish I'd known you then!" He doesn't realize that he killed that person, caused her to go into a secret place. My psychiatrist said that she thinks I've really been beating myself up about staying over a year in Limetown; this confused me: I didn't know whether to ask, do you really think I'm wrong not to want to be there? Or, what reaction do you think I should have, from being there? She repeated that quote, that part of enlightenment is not changing our surroundings but learning to see with new eyes... I'm really not sure what her impression is of my dislike of this town I'm in... I've never yet lived in a place I didn't hate except of course for during college, but a college is different from a town, and the town it was in was right here in Cloud Mountain, to which I have retreated this morning in this half-broken state... I think she does understand that Limetown is like poison or tar that I've become stuck in; somewhere between the physical landscape and the tar of my own psyche; my inability to see my way out. Really when I think of "leaving" Lime the only means my mind seems to know, is to get in the car and simply drive away... But there is no image of what happens next; no clear idea of where I'm supposed to go afterwards, but "away." I've had a huge burning compulsion to simply go "away" for a long time, but it has always come across as that: as just this imagined departure towards nowhere in particular; whether out towards the desert or to candyland or Saudi Arabia or wherever else lies at the end of all these tangled freeways... I can see from here that my psychologist wants me to reconsider just exactly what this longing to "leave" is all about; since it's the exact feeling I always had while living in foxtown... Today I actually have a longing to drive back to foxtown; to where there's heating at night and a shower with hot water and where, even though I cannot be either of the people I've discovered myself to be out here in the shadow of Champaigne Coast, I don't have to hide one using the other, I am simply and finally that third person I've been ever since I graduated; the loose-end, the missing sibling, the random lost child that's stubborn not to be found... Where there's meals and internet access and none of my crazy piles of mad-headed searching lie around me; screaming at me the need to find a job, to apply for this and that; actually what appealed to me most about foxtown, last time i was there, was this abscence; the abscence of panic. I live in constant panic, here in Lime. The lists of things to do are made entirely of urgent screaming needs, that if left unfullfilled will keep me longer in the dust, in the pit of tar, in the dirt of my own life, my own dishevelled and misused mind. In foxtown, instantly all these things are forgotten. Far away as though on the other side of a dream, as though they never were real. I always find it funny how all the things that torment and obsess me, and claim my every waking thinking moment here in Lime, can so quickly evaporate and entirely become as unreal as any nightmare, simply by going physically far away from the place. I must have made a real pit of the room I rent, I cannot focus there, I cannot read or think there, it is hard to sleep there, and I can hardly even dream there; though my dreams continue to be vibrantly strange. The one improvement I have made, to this unlivable living space I still rent, is to follow a friend of mine's example and put everything in binders. As though excorcizing past ideas from my mind, it was relief to see a huge stack of binders on my floor, instead of simply being aware of the clattering random scatter lost deep inside my computer, or creeping darkly in folders tossed in dresser drawers. The one relief is finding a way to keep these things in order: while my mind continues to pump out new thoughts and new *things* of which to keep track every day, while my hands continue almost automatically to put things together, while seemingly my very *existance* seems to produce an insurmountable, astounding amount of clutter in the form of collected objects, created objects, written notes, accumulated reading material, and other objects of random interest, gathered from every corner of my increasingly complicated life, building in piles and making me afraid to look at them; I loose track of how to make sense of it all; of what really is the point, of what I'm supposed to be getting out of all of this, or *doing* with all of this... All of this stuff, all of this time... Of what all of it, or any of it, is *for*... Of what the hell *I'm* for... Or about... Of what could possibly be the connecting principle running between all of this, connecting it in any way... I suddenly walked into my room the other day and thought; it feels so much cleaner in here! And the only thing I could notice that was different was that there was a pile of binders now on the floor; my assembled portfolio, every image I'd done since high school, or at least all the ones I can find remnants of, all reproduced and put into plastic slipcovers; safely contained and tamed and framed and under control; locked in binders where they can no longer haunt me, where they can no longer creep in and out of forgetfulness, lingering in the light of recollection for a while and then being replaced by another of them; so many past creations tossed into the void of disuse... What the hell do I create images for, I often wonder these days. Because the artist is supposed to keep building; to be always in the state of production of the next show, the next opening, always building and building the repertoire, the portfolio... Where, though, is the actual point in the thing; image by image, object by new lonesome object, forced into existance by the need to fill the walls in a longed-for space... I have said before and I will repeat to you again, although no comment by me has given me more criticism from others: I never wanted to have anything to do with galleries; something about the very principle of the thing, the very concept of that particular institution, discusted and unnerved me to the core from the very first moment I ever heard of them. And now when I try to explain this feeling of mine, this first and lasting impression my mind had on these places, I always recieve a great deal of unrelenting objections from everyone around me, which do not cease until the objecting party has satisfied themselves that they have changed my mind, that I have been converted to right-thinking and to gallery-worship, as we all are required to do, if we are born with a creative cell in us. But no matter what amount of time or experience expires, this feeling of mine does not change. It is a burden even to think of galleries; to gather info about them, to consider their walls as the end-all purpose of all my creation... And so many orphan artworks, of which I am only superficially fond and which fall cleanly and entirely out of my mind and memory as soon as they are out of my sight, are created singularly in the effort to participate in that world, in that circle, which revolves around the gallery, or the many galleries, or the far-distant galleries, the international galleries, the endless ongoing road of galleries, like a list of chores going off painfully into the distance. Why do I feel that if a special bomb hit which shattered all the galleries on the planet to the ground, I would feel my art utterly unaffected? My family has interpreted my distaste for galleries as a sign that I could be a lawyer after all. It seems to them that it's less important what I "am" than *that* I could possibly *become* something else. Like a lawyer i something that is made, out of a raw individual, rather than born. My dad is a born lawyer. my brother-in-law is not. My dad is still practicing law in his late 60's and will stay healthy into his 80's i have no doubt. My brother-in-law is getting sick and bent in his mid 30's, admitting he has no love for his work; but he believes it is work he has to do... financially speaking. He really believes that the sharks are out to get him if he does not make as much money as possible. I think Dad has come to believe that too, even though I know he didn't when he was my age. Admittedly grad school does start to look an appealing alternative to the life I'm leading now, not so much in the activities I know would be a part of it; the series of academic tasks I know so well and from which I was only recently released; but more for the kinds of people who inhabit that world. Here in this Cloud-town place, the college people surround me; they look different, even down to the looks on their faces. They are happy, involved with their existence, in a way that Limetown folks aren't. It makes a person sad, to be involved only with their own poverty, their own fluctuating bank account or civil status. I know now what Professor "H" meant, that most mysterious professor of mine, when he said that he hoped I would take "a year or two" away from academics before proceeding with grad school; I can see now, that academic study takes on a different meaning, after one has been "outside" of it. I don't mean in the financial sense... I mean in the cognitive sense. People don't *think* "out here," people don't talk about thoughts, about ideas. People have conversations about things like corn dogs, "out here," and their cars. Discussions end in nothing. People don't follow you into complicated imaginings or concepts; people fall by the wayside far, far before you get to where you're going, and the only impulse they have is to pull you back to the place at which they fell. No one wants to change; they are only satisfied to change you, to match them. To go for seeming months and months without contact with what *I* know as the real world; the world where people at least try to think about their lives, hearing what I know of as "real speech" sounds like a breath of fresh air; like someone suddenly turning on a fan inside my head and letting my braincells breathe... I can almost feel my brain gasping for air, to hear someone talk, actually *talk*, about goings-on in, say, another country; on another continent... Not just regurgitating the news, or sharing in the idle joking talk or racist banter which so easilly comes to the tounges of those to whom the news speaks... But to hear someone say something that actually *says* something; which tells me something else, something *real*, about the place... These people amongst whom I live in Lime, look down their noses at me for having only so recently come to live in the "real world;" they don't seem to accept or believe that I had no choice other than college for the last four years of my life-- they can't seem to accept my actual age or that I actually am 10 to 15 years younger than all of them... They have visceral reactions when they ask me what I "do" or what I "want to do" and I can't answer... Or when they ask me what I've been doing so far and all I have to tell them is school... This was worse a year ago when I was new here... People almost went insane, demanding why I wasn't moving faster; like I was some kind of rift in their universe that they had to fix as quickly as possible, or else torment until it fixed itself. Now I'm like a person who suddenly came into existance one year ago for them, and yet who paradoxically is in my 20's, and I disobey the laws of the universe for not being at the same level of progress that they were in at this age... That is, that I haven't been out of high school for five years and working the whole time on my career; dealing with what's "real" instead of with what's going on with people in countries far away whom none of us will ever see... Thus even though I'm just as much of an alien to this world of current-college people, here in Cloud, I can feel more at home amongst them... Amongst faces that look far into the distance to see what's going on "right now..." That strange professor "H", he held more sway on this town than I think even he realized. From such a far-distant place himself, and having experienced a war-torn life first hand, he had many things to say about our war, our president, our communities and ways of life. There was always an edge to him that was just outside of my understanding; something in what he said that I just couldn't grasp. Perhaps it was my lack of experience, in such things as he was familiar with. Perhaps it also had to do with my very illegal lust for him... But there was a brief time when I knew that I had stumbled, entirely by accident; completelly by way of my own prodding and exploration of my own questions, my own consciousness, when I found that I had reached him, and really communicated. It was his assistant who told me of this; coming to sit next to me as I sat in that college square. She eagerly told me that "H" had read my essay; she was in herself a mysterious figure and somehow hard to read, but she told me very directly that he had mentioned the essay to her, and told her that it was one of the best by an undergrad he'd ever read. There was a legend around the school that Professor "H" was a genius, and everyone who heard him speak or took a class from him was bound to see why; he was so incomprehensibly brilliant in the way he spoke, in what he had to say. His grasp of things was certainly beyond normal; something had gone astoundingly, bizarrly right in the devellopment of this person. The assistant finished off by saying, "and you know that when *he* says something is good..." and she finished by nodding, her eyes wide with implication. For a time afterward, I detected Professor "H" looking upon me with different eyes; seeing in me something not usually detected: the part of me that communicated to him, on his level, in his own language... My acquaintances in Limetown have no idea of this person, this identity of mine. My friends in Champainge Coast have no better idea. My family may have at one point been vaguely aware of it but it has been almost entirely forgotten. They point at the financial benefits of grad school, when they point towards it. They have no idea of this other connection, of this other language of mine that exists only there. I wonder at this time whether "H" would still remember me... Or that person he recognized... He has since transferred himself to a university which pays him better... I think he witnessed my deterioration, during the last and most horrible semester of my college years. I had become so mentally frail that I clung to the hopes of some kind of twisted relationship with him, and other illegal persons... I had little real to hope for or to point my desire towards, at that last, fleeting, panic-strained time; and I went half nuts craving those who I bent myself into believing I wanted... Who knows if I even learned anything from him that semester... or from anyone... Perhaps, just perhaps he detected part of that, and perhaps that also was what he was talking about, when he said he hoped I would take "a year or two" before continuing with my education again... At this rate it will be three or four, but surely I needed space between myself and that madness; that flailing, desperate plea in the dark for comfort, for an anchor; for a shelter from above or some idol to respond to my offerings... I was living in some twighlight of consciousness, when the life I had been born and designed and contrived to fullfill was nearly over, and day and night I spent dreaming in desire for some missing individual, and believed that I wanted nothing, nothing more than this person I was guaranteed not to have... I made myself sick over it, and appeared in his office half a person, when I had to for academic reasons... In every aspect of my life I was failing, not failing to pass but failing to live up to my own standards and expectations... I had just become introduced with those people I'm still friends with in Champaigne Coast, and I remember the first and last time they came out to visit me; to see me perform in that play, that half of my life... They expressed such suprise to see me do so well; they hadn't expected at all that I was talented. It's hard to say who exactly they think I am: they seem so shocked whenever they actually find out anything about me. I regress; I am hard on them because I expected everything of them... Needed everything of them; they were so different from the people who knew me in Cloud, who, while they may have understood nothing of my character and nature, at least recognized and responded to my talents, and knew to include that characteristic of mine, when speaking of me and to me. Do I seem snootish, speaking this way? It is hard to be instantly and permanently transferred to a world where i seem to have no hope of getting that back; that recognition. No matter what I do, I can't seem to be recognized as any kind of talent. Just as a long list of absences and lackings and errors. A long list of not's and hasn't's. I am lonley in a different way now than I was before, and all tired of trying with all my might to prove anyone anything. Especially when the success is so small a difference, in this huge open void where only the TV tells us who are the winners and who are the losers; that is, everyone on the *other* side of the screen is the winner; and everyone on *our* side, is lost.