quiet corner of the internet to archive my thoughts and feelings as i learn and grow and whatnot. i love to write and observe and think. i love milk and coffee. making coffee and buying my own milk is a pillar of my independence; as is thinking and writing. i decided to name this corner such. nothing written here is law. enjoy<3. fav old computer game for the nostalgia
My mind warps at the idea of the world being so large that there are people out there experiencing realities I haven't even had the chance to imagine just yet. When I found the word for this (Sonder) I was delighted. How many people would spend the eternity of their mortal life engaging in an activity that I've never stumbled upon - in my first life nor in my imagination - earning them a wage over the course of this lifetime, that I'll never engage with, nor witness, or imagine? Sonder in itself is an overwhelming and unfathomable sensation. As a child it would often occur to me that other people had their own mothers as well as their own mornings, afternoons, and evenings to experience. This realization no less potent each and every time it hits me since that first (in say - 2005?). Some other thinker is probably pondering the same as I write this; just as some child experiences it for the first time. As of recent the feeling of sonder is a sickening one for me, that leaves me with a bitter taste in my mouth. Even if I spit it out. Meaning, I can never even follow through with the thought. Every time I have this moment of realization, this sonder, I feel so small (in hindsight I kind of like this smallness). "12 deep sea jobs around the world." Out of how many?
Sometimes I mourn people before they go. I'm not sure why, and yet I know that somewhere I do (know why). Same as my uncertainty in that I must not be the only soul to do this (surely). Perhaps to mimic the high one gets in that brief moment where the mind is convinced that they have truly gone. With this high comes honesty. You begin to structure a goodbye - fashioning an explanation that may or may not satisfy the definition of their presence in your life; your past, or present. And of course within the (now) impossible future. I must admit that sometimes my feelings are not truthful. I often bring them on with contexts my imagination musters up; willingly and occasionally unwillingly. Like when I mourn people who are still here, who I have never known living without. I would never dare wish for their loss (au contraire I wish them life). They are so present within my own that I imagine the act of mourning them intimately perhaps as a means of practice (who practices death?). The gypsy in me who believes my thoughts summon reality - she would surely believe that if such losses were to be realized in actuality she'd be to blame; her mind over matter.
Might I indulge the reader with a moments reprieve to explain where I am as I write? I'm alone and I'm not sure where I am (a trick you see I'm good at this). My window is open (this is essential) and the sky is colored bright while it rains (please believe me). It is simultaneously 1888 and 2025 as I am synchronously Ruzena and Isabella. Imaginary death is a symptom of being an actress. Edit: I have just learned that this is called anticipatory grief.
It is truly essential that one should engage with the ideas (whether brought on by a poem, book, song, film, or figment of imagination) - it is truly essential that an individual engages with ideas that make them feel safe, and that we use our minds more to do this. With my mind I exist spatiotemporally. I can decide at any moment who and where I'd like to be thanks to my mind and its cultural footprint. With this, sometimes I am in Northumbria. Wessex. It is the the 9th century, and I am safe here. I have a man here; I know him well, and him, me - intimately. He is a man to follow and a man I listen for. I find him in the cold typically, and welcome him each time. With him comes his world which I also know well - hence my safety. I am far from home and my mother is not here but her memory holds. Other days (and more often nights) I find myself in Birmingham, England. It's the early 20th century and I have a history here. Leave me, I fare well here.
Sometimes my soul feels lost searching for yours. I'm not sure who you are or if you exist. Though you must if I feel your absence.
I decided today that he's not coming, so maybe now I will truly start living. I think I will move to Italy. Surely I will not search for him there. I suppose I should start by removing my headphones, and be present in my current state. My shades as well. The birds are singing and the trees are most green. Edit: I recently gave up on the task of finding a man to spend time with, which includes the men in my imagination (they only really existed in my imagination anyhow, I could never quite get close to one in real life - and I acknowledge this as some form of protection). And for the first time in 25 years I am going right to sleep instead of maladaptive day(bed)dreaming of an alternate reality. He is not coming and I am okay with this (finally). That is not to say never - it is to say I am AWAKE and selling myself a different dream.
"But you are you, ever gleaning crumbs to feed upon, so you listen closely while feigning nonchalance" (Sophie Mackintosh "Cursed Bread"). While slipping into the French Countryside constituted by Mackintosh's material 1951, fantasy brushed my reality's shoulder - and I was inspired to use this line to define circumstances I keep close and quiet. I am talking about monitoring spirits. Peers close to you that watch, listen, imitate; with no remorse and ill vigor. I have a monitoring spirit close to me with whom I am not sure what to do. I have never told this spirit that I see them for what they are, and sometimes I suffer in this silence. I have been told to take such monitoring and parroting as flattery or praise. As a creature of inspiration myself, I admire the negotiations between women that manifest visions of beauty and community. But the thorn in my side is that this individual is so internally wounded that their character would never allow them, in their parroting, to acknowledge their behavior as a form of adoration. I refuse to remain in such discomfort so I write to manage the thoughts. Sophie Mackintosh has written up a character of similar force, a woman gleaning crumbs to feed upon - listening closely and parroting all the while feigning nonchalance and an air of speciality. I could not ignore the similarity and I enjoy the words she found for such a creature. I however remain abundant, safe, protected (fiercly, divinely) attractive, and joyous. Now I will wander a worlds away.
I'm leaving soon, so it's really just maintenance now. I've been home for some time, slipping between timelines and paying no attention. I smoke an awful lot more than I ought to, but I enjoy it - awfully so. It's funny because with all this time I've gotten to spend with myself, I've managed to find my way back from a 3 year hiatus. Of course I never truly let go but I had shelfed my dream for a moment there (literally - I put my scripts in a manila folder and I shelfed it).For 3 years it has sat between the texts I collected from university libraries for my research. Ironic that my scripts sat next to texts that define actresses and starlets -literally and phenomenologically- (or I suppose it's ironic that I just noticed this irony). Or that I ever felt far from it at all. I suppose something in my gut told me to take it home from Los Angeles (as opposed to leaving it in storage with the rest of my adolescent library) so that I could slip it under my pillow again - so as to add another file. I will add another file. But anyways I'm leaving soon and I don't think it matters. I think it will be good for me and for the manila folder. What can I do with the knots in my stomach until then?
Often times when I am out I see a version of myself in blonde. Maybe I shouldn't say often, but at least 3 times now. The first two in California. I hope it is not disagreeable to say that I always find her incredibly taking (physically). I'll never forget the first, I was on a walk in Los Angeles. On a route that I had taken often for 3 years. As I came around the bend of a hill I saw her, walking right towards me - on her route, on her journey. We were doing the same thing, listening to our selected music and walking around for the same sake (to exercise). The sight of her was endearing to me because she reminded me of a version of myself in a recent past, that I had been for a distance of time. Her body was taking; her hips wide and her breasts accentuated by her garb. She had black athletic pants on with a yellow top, paired with a grey sweater tied around her waist. Presumably she got hot while out on her walk - removed it, and tied it to sit on her hips (another effortless coincidence of accentuation). By some chance I had gone through this exact turn of events while on my own walk. So as I passed by her, both our hips swayed bound by grey sweaters tied to our waists - the defining distinction between us being our hair color. She was blonde. My first blonde foil. It is important to note that this was my first walk in the new season of warmth in California, after having lost a bit of myself (willingly). Her form reminded me of my previous one (one that I had judged harshly for so long). To see her, taller and wider and more beautiful in my eyes than I had ever felt in that pattern, was a dispatch to myself that I must be a sight for others' eyes as well. In her blondness she restored a bit of my strength and all she had to do was walk by. The world extended us this quiet acknowledgement as we brushed past one another, exchanging not words but the silent currency of the air we carry.
Imagine you move away (across the country will do) to pursue a degree beyond the one you had already received (perhaps even 2) and each time you return home to recharge and show face, you are questioned as to where your partner must be (they are worried I am not wondering too). The truth is if I had a boyfriend right now I'd be much more advanced than him so what is the use in that? (I only say this because I want so badly to find a man who is more advanced than me - he is hard to come by. If I were to settle for a boyfriend instead what use would he serve? Please do not take offense). I am taking it up a notch and leaving the country entirely (Europe will do) and imagine this; they have graduated from asking me and now they tell me instead I will meet him abroad. How foolish. Did I not say I have a prospectus to write? Imagine in my revolution and revulsion to this sentiment, I, internally critique my own feminism and ask - so what?- So what if they want you to meet someone (and so what if you seceretly hope you do too?). I'd like to admit something else actually; I find it all quite ordinary (at least in the circumstances with which I'm currently presented) and I am beyond ordinary. I believe it's a dream to be fulfilled in a different level is all. The minutes that pass between each sentence written depicts entirely my confused position on it all. But I relinquish my temptation to want anything anymore. That is what I am letting go of ahead of my journey. Those things now want me, and I am moving towards them cautiously and intentionally. I hope you understand.
I imagine I am not the only soul to experience a dull ache. A seed planted by something in you so long ago you can never rid nor tire of the ache. Mine takes form in various corners of my life but today I put my finger on it (even if only ever so slightly). I would like to be remembered and remembered well. I would like to be a part of a story well written. I'd like to be seen and heard and remembered. Maybe that's universal. But I have in my head, a way to achieve this. I want to be experienced in my youth (by the camera would suffice - so I photograph myself raw).
I will risk sounding radical to make my point here. For the first time in my life I feel as if my body is perfect. It's not necessarily important (my soul is the same) but it is a pleasure I don't mind indulging. My hands recognize my skin and they want to recognize it. It is a rewarding experience.
It's sad really, because I am not exaggerating. I'm so far from home and for some reason each day I'd rather go hungry and dissatisfied than push my boundaries or embarrass myself a little. I'm reeling actually, each day from this baptism by fire. I'd like so desperately to make myself proud - so I revel in the fact that each day is a new day, and what a comfort that is. Tomorrow will be better. But there it is - I don't want to live like that. I want to live like there is no tomorrow, and what I'm realizing is that takes immense courage. Courage that I guess I do not have just yet. I hope to find it some day (maybe tomorrow?). It's so tempting to look outside of myself for this strength, to find someone to lean on. But I tried, last night, and it brought me no joy (after having thought on it for a day). I have to keep reminding myself to look inward for it. I know exactly what I need, so surely I can be just that. Edit: I have not perfected these tasks but I have improved, I do not feel so uncomfortable in the discomfort now, is all (actually, I quite enjoy it).
I was stood up today. Well kind of, I'm not sure if you could call it that. 21st Century online-metaverse bullshit. He cancelled on me, then he wiped me from his realm with a swift unfollow. I'd never even met him but it hurt my feelings. The truth is, I have no place here just yet. Or at least, when I leave my house and go into the city center I feel placeless. Like a fish out of water. The truth is, I wanted guidance and connection and I thought he could at least give me one afternoon of that (he told me he would that's why I thought so). I've been sick with the feeling all night, and I know tomorrow I will face the hour of which would have been. And I know I'm lucky to face that hour (or any hour), so I am frustrated that I made space for someone to take that from me. The truth is every day I am losing my ability to hold faith in the things that present themselves less and less as the years go by. How could I want something that has never shown its face to me? That is blind faith. I have blind faith in l*ve unfortunately. Or maybe fortunately. Believing so deeply in something that has never revealed itself to you personally, you want it so badly to come knocking at your door...It's exhausting really. Now I have to rid myself of the idea of a man, an idea which I should have let alone in the first place - should have never picked it up. I'm not sure what I was thinking. My ego suffers a momentary blow and so does most of my energy. It is dangerous actually, how easy it is for the idea of a man to wipe your desire for your other dreams. That is telling enough to me.