| November Spawned A Monster |
[Nov. 17th, 2006|10:21 am] |
Two weeks and the madness has set in, cabin fever spurred by a city and not a cabin. Do I live in fantasy, chasing ideals? I moved down to this place in the Deep South with high hopes and ambitions, seeking to chase away temptations and distractions. Geographically, it is astonishing. In all other respects, however, this place is no better than Illinois.
One would think that a city of over a million people would have something to offer. The arts, for example, some semblance of a music scene. Diversity in mindset and interest. No, I despair, for I have found that the grass is not in fact greener on this, the other side of the fence.
I miss home, but it is not purely homesickness speaking.
I am doing precisely what I was before: work, and church, and thrashing over an open notebook. No inspiration has come to me here. I have not made any friends (none to whom I can sincerely relate, anyway), and I've yet to meet one who shares my interests. Melancholy is poisoning my bones. Just like Illinois, but without friends and family.
And if anything, I have only regressed in my spirituality. Temptations have increased threefold, and disappointment in myself. I am treated as a piece of meat. People do not respect my vocation. I have not grown humbled, or charitable, though I pray and pray to be. Do I disappoint you, Lord? I have entered into an indescribable dryness.
And boy, am I whiney.
This morning I called and cancelled an appointment I had with my school advisor. On a whim, I have decided I will not be attending school in the springtime. I have contacted my spiritual director, Sister Agathe, and told her that I wish to begin entering into the order far sooner than I had initially planned. Before the summer, God willing. I have only just arrived, and I am already ready to leave it all behind. Hopefully I will be living with the Sisters by February.
I am so fickle, so indecisive. Flakey. Ridiculous. But I cannot deny the sadness I feel, and my desire to devote my entirety to God. I had said to myself so often that I would offer that sacrifice only after I have lived out my youth, but this "youth" brings me no happiness. I am tired of drinking, of "hanging out", of being surrounded by people I feel so detached from. I desire only God. |
|
|
| (no subject) |
[Nov. 6th, 2006|11:06 am] |
| [ | Current Location |
| | Birmingham, AL | ] |
| [ | music |
| | Murder City Devils ~ Empty Bottles, Broken Hearts | ] |
They abandoned me today.
They shed tears, ma and pa, hugging me, my brother bumping knuckles with me. "So long," Ben said. "See you at Christmas."
And now I am in Birmingham, Alabama, with only myself as company. I'm sitting at Coffee on Valley, the only place for me to leech internet access, and I'm thinking about how it still really hasn't hit me. Not really. There are many things to be done today (bank accounts and shopping and meeting my new boss), and then back to unpack the things stuffed into my room on Red Mountain. I will find a library. Words are the only things that ever save me.
What else have I got to say? I'm numb in a way that feels like thawing, that I will emerge from this strange shock and will come into my own.
Isn't that why I moved over six hundred miles away, to become the person God means me to be?
My thoughts are scrambled by the trees and the hills, by the weather twenty degrees warmer than my home town. My mind works in flash frames, and I think about my mom crying as she hugged me good-bye. It is the second time I have ever seen my mom cry.
I am resisting the homesickness, though I know it is a futile effort. |
|
|
| (no subject) |
[Oct. 22nd, 2006|04:15 pm] |
1. Pick your birth month.
2. Strike out anything that doesn't apply to you.
3. Bold the five-ten that best apply to you.
MAY: Stubborn and hard-hearted. Strong-willed and highly motivated. Sharp thoughts. Easily angered. Attracts others and loves attention. Deep feelings. Beautiful physically and mentally. Firm Standpoint. Needs no motivation. Easily consoled. Systematic (left brain). Loves to dream. Strong clairvoyance. Understanding. Sickness usually in the ear and neck. Good imagination. Good physical. Weak breathing. Loves literature and the arts. Loves traveling. Dislike being at home. Restless. Not having many children. Hardworking. High spirited. Spendthrift. |
|
|
| An Imposter |
[Oct. 14th, 2006|07:18 pm] |
| [ | music |
| | Sarah McLachlan ~ "Building A Mystery" | ] |
You are interested in me. It is much more than that. I have seen it in the flutter of your nervous hands, the lilt to your voice that skips octaves, how every part of you wants to look away but cannot stop trailing back to my face…
Through the steam, across the counter, in the other room; now we sit face to face, your hands scurrying, fidgeting, having nowhere to go, and when you look into my eyes I see fear in yours. Anxiety, self-doubt. Insecurity, because everything you thought you were is shifting so subtly behind those black-rimmed glasses. The apple in your throat (not so noticeable, but all of you angles) bobs when you talk. You talk—a talker!—nervous or interest and a genuine connection.
A confession rattles me. My composure is regained quickly, smoothly, and after a minute it has returned because I am unconvinced of what you claim to be. Who you came to be. Is it okay that I know your secret? Am I the reason for the secret?
There is something in me, irresistible, and you are questioning yourself. It is confusing; you attempt diffusion by reassuring yourself of past loves and experiences, but another confession, then. You looked at me, you said, had looked at my body, had admired my body, had admitted to wondering of your own perception of black and white.
It is not all black and white; I am a whorl of greys and reds in your cup of desire, a new taste, a possibility.
Won’t you open yourself to me? |
|
|
| As I Travel the Whole Wide World |
[Sep. 28th, 2006|01:14 am] |
| [ | mood |
| | Itchy. So fucking itchy. | ] |
| [ | music |
| | Nick Cave, et al. ~ Lyre of Orpheus | ] |
St. Catherine of Siena's body is in Rome, her head and right thumb in Siena, and her foot in Venice.
...my thoughts exactly.
In other news, it would seem that my apartment is under attack, and fleas are the enemy. I look like I have chicken pox, for the love of God. Hopefully a thorough shampooing of everything (non-animated and the cat) will take care of the little bastards.
Otherwise, war will be declared. |
|
|
| (no subject) |
[Sep. 24th, 2006|03:26 am] |
I was sleeping, but my heart kept vigil;
I heard my lover knocking:
"Open to me, my sister, my beloved,
my dove, my perfect one!
For my head is wet with dew,
my locks with the moisture of the night."
I have taken off my robe,
am I then to put it on?
I have bathed my feet,
am I then to soil them?
My lover put his hand through the opening;
my heart trembled within me,
and I grew faint when he spoke.
I rose to open to my lover,
with my hands dripping myrrh:
With my fingers dripping choice myrrh
upon the fittings of the lock.
I opened to my lover--
but my lover has departed, gone.
I sought him but I did not find him;
I called to him but he did not answer me.
The watchmen came upon me
as they made their rounds of the city;
They struck me, and wounded me,
and took my mantle from me,
the guardians of the walls.
I adjure you, daughters of Jerusalem,
if you find my lover--
What shall you tell him?--
that I am faint with love.
Song of Songs 5:2-8
***
And with passages like these, how can one not be enamored by the literary devices of the Bible? |
|
|
| (no subject) |
[Sep. 18th, 2006|10:13 am] |
Since I am not wont to whore myself in such a way, it has been awhile since I've shot my face into the ethernet.
Yuh.
 |
|
|
| "Beds, Bathrooms, You and Me" |
[Sep. 15th, 2006|04:44 pm] |
| [ | music |
| | Loretta Lynn ~ "High On the Mountaintop" | ] |
think of all the beds
everywhere
used again and again
to love in
to sleep in
to die in.
and all the bathrooms
used again and again
to bathe in
sometimes to love in.
in this land
some of us love better than
we die
but most of us die
better than we
love
and we die
piece by piece
bit by bit
in parks
eating ice cream, or
in igloos
equipped with refrigerators,
of dementia,
or on straw mats
or upon disemboweled
loves
or
or...
beds beds beds
bathrooms bathrooms bathrooms
the human sleeping systems
the human bathing systems
are the world's greatest
inventions.
--Charles Bukowski
***
And also, to a sister elder, happy newest here on the brink of your thirtyith. It has been a joy being your junior of eight years; a miracle that I can call you sister, a blessing I can call you friend. Happy day! Happy birth! |
|
|
| A Divine Comedy |
[Sep. 1st, 2006|11:45 am] |
| [ | mood |
| | Oh. You know. | ] |
| [ | music |
| | The Kings of Leon ~ Aha Shake Heartbreak | ] |
It's funny, the things you learn about faith and God when you're trying not to know anything at all. How presumptuous, to assume that God will find you. Like laying back and being pleasured and never mind returning the service. Getting to God is a lot of work, and when it seems like it's all in vain, we become the john. Lie in waiting; God will find us in due time. It's his duty, after all.
But God created stubborn, a game he is much better at than you are (but then, he's had more time to practice, hasn't he?), and you lie there and wait, and soon the bed grows very cold. Is it possible for your lover to abandon you? You howl and moan, saying God has left you dry. Saying God has failed you, never seeing that it's your lack of effort that's the disappointment. How can you reap what you sow when your seeds are in your pocket?
You give it up, and it's expected of you, because you have to be weak in character before you can be stronger. God steps up to the plate, offers you a favor, not that you deserve it. He's a good guy like that, God. You don't really realize it for all it's worth, not at first, but it doesn't take long to hit you. Your answers don't come neatly packaged, and God forbid you should have to work for them. He has pity, seeing you struggle so pathetically, so he sends some help your way. I think he figured you wouldn't see it for what it is, but you're smarter than you're given credit for. Sometimes.
He sends her and she helps you, drags you back to realistic expectation. She shows you some figurative light or another, and just like that, click!, you see everything in perfect clarity. And boy do you feel like an ass once you do. Humbling, isn't it?
Don't think God isn't laughing. |
|
|
| When the Rope Isn't Long Enough |
[Jul. 12th, 2006|09:30 am] |
| [ | music |
| | Lou Reed, more Lou Reed | ] |
"Four be the things I am wiser to know:
Idleness, sorrow, a friend, and a foe."
-Dorothy Parker |
|
|
| Where Lead These Roads (She Never Knows) |
[Jun. 28th, 2006|01:32 am] |
I gave the songbird to the wrong man, but it wasn’t like anyone came along to point out the errors of my ways. Wasn’t really like anyone would have told me even if they had been there to see. One songbird is as good as another in a world like this, and I think the wrong man ended up being more of the right man, anyway. Way he held it, way he sang to it. Everyone’s responsibilities all mixed up but we were happier that way. If he could have traded places with that old songbird, I think that man never would have even hesitated. Even the wind and rain lets up sometimes, and a songbird always has a place to sleep. And some of us, we’re not quite so lucky.
Course, I’m not usually so nonchalant about my mistakes. The things I play with are not to be taken lightly; one slip up could mean another existence fizzling out, sssst!, wet fingertips to a match and they never would even know what hit them. That’s how it usually goes, though. The end. All caught up in our day-to-day oblivions. It’s a tragedy that’s a luxury that we’re rarely afforded, being able to be there to watch it all go tumbling down. And it’s all very beautiful, don’t get me wrong, but I’ve seen far too many for my age. The man with the songbird ended up saving four generations of life (though which I cannot say), but I can go as far as swearing to the great debt both I and the rest of humanity owe him, can go as far as saying that I owe myself to mischief. The man with the songbird lied to me, but if all lies were even half so redeeming, truth gets a vote for obsolete.
So these things go. |
|
|
| (no subject) |
[Jun. 20th, 2006|11:41 am] |
Ode!
People talk. Those people. Say I don’t know how to treat you right. Hot little thing like you. Black as sin, just as tempting. What do they know about us? It’s true, all that about how I sugar you up. They try to tell me it’s too much, over-the-top; unheard of. It’s a good thing they don’t see me pouring my milk into you like I do. Good thing they don’t see all the nasty things I put you through. It don’t matter though, baby. You always end up at my mouth, wanting in. How could I say no to you? Besides, you smell divine. So my lips part for you, my tongue desires you. My hands shake and don’t know what to do until I see you again. Darling. You take away all my problems. Make me smile, smooth thing, thick and delicious. Without you I am nothing.
An Ode! to Coffee |
|
|
| We Take Apart Our Nightmares and We Leave Them By the Door |
[Jun. 16th, 2006|06:25 am] |
| [ | music |
| | Bad Religion ~ "Generator" | ] |
It is insomnia that drowns me in the morning. I had only three hours of sleep last night but a combination of Baby Jesus (my kitten) and words pushed me out of bed. I am not tired. I do not have to work today, but here I am, being the good little writer, up devoting herself to the only thing that matters in this world.
I began to write a piece of erotic fiction, spurred by an episode of Real Sex I sat watching with my sister and brother-in-law last night. I was going to finish it, too, but I just happened to check my word count and lo, it is 666. The novelty made me stop. It is dreck, but I figured if this journal can be used for nothing else, it may as well be for the shoddy fiction I churn out. You know. Just for fun. So have fun!
( In A Box ) |
|
|
| Franz Kafka Pool Hall |
[Jun. 10th, 2006|01:36 pm] |
| [ | music |
| | Tom Waits ~ "Big In Japan" | ] |
I've only too lately realized the error of my ways. A sponsored account was bad judgment indeed. I apologize, future lj-admirers, for an obnoxious account. I can still give a blowjob like a thirsty demon. |
|
|
| navigation |
| [ |
viewing |
| |
most recent entries |
] |
| |
|
|
![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small}
when_she_was's journal