theology&geometry

If you keep your mouth shut and try to roll with the punches when something bothers you, you run the risk of being completely run over. Or of being called passive-aggressive later, when you draw attention to the fact that you knew shit wasn’t right but that you were picking your battles and trying to be understanding, even against your better instincts.

But if you open your mouth straightaway, you’re going to get called a nag.

You can’t fucking win. The game is rigged.

Tonight my dad commented on the size of my ankles.

Can’t sleep. Got a lot on my mind and no real good way to say any of it. But the thoughts keep me awake anyway. They need oxygen so they can burn up and leave me alone.

Saw a good show tonight. Young crowd. So many tall people or maybe I am shrinking. So many small and measured movements to the beats, hair stringy with sweat. Harshing my mellow, naturally, was That Guy. You know, That Guy — he who was thrashing about and gesturing to the band like he was exorcising their demons. Some dude eventually had his fill of That Guy’s shenanigans and started mock dancing with him, using hugely exaggerated movements that those of us looking on and paying attention read as total parody. Things escalated over a couple of songs and shit got real when choking was involved. A teary, trembling girlfriend stepped between the two and distance was achieved, and just as soon as things had become heated, they had dissolved back into sweaty dance. I don’t know why people can’t just fucking be cool. That Guy, and all That Guys past and present, just fucking be cool, would you?

It was good to see the Hi-Tone packed at nearly midnight on a Wednesday. I had this fear fantasy while getting ready that it would be a ghost town. While the prospect of getting a table and sitting perfectly still so as to become invisible comforts my fevered, neurotic brain, I always feel just awful at shows like that. I always clap harder at shows like that. Maybe if I sound like three people, they won’t notice I’m just one. But musicians, despite how they look, are probably good at math, what with the counting beats and all.

I’ve been working lately at feeling less pathetic, which has been a goddamned monumental task. In true Me fashion, I have handled it horribly. I have slid like Pete Rose, it seems, into some sort of spectacularly mopey rut featuring moments of such acute self-loathing that I cannot leave the house. Fuck, I don’t know what it is and why I can’t just think my way out of it like a good and resourceful smartfat chick, but I can see it in my face: a literal and metaphorical weight carving an angry line in my brow and settling existential dread in my eyes. The problem with being terminally single is all that fucking time you have to yourself to think about all that fucking time you have to yourself. The brain gets going and starts asking those questions that can’t be answered correctly, questions about what it is about you that must be so horrible. So fucking horrible.

There’s no way to win that battle with your own brain, so, on good days, I do my best not to even engage.

And that, friends, is why I sit outside and play in the dirt and point my camera at flowers.

There are people who used to be in my life who aren’t in it anymore. And I miss them.

I don’t understand people.

From ye olde Formspring: I’ve never introduced myself to you, in person at least. I think you are intelligent, attractive, a wonderfully acerbic wit, creative, enviable, enigmatic, intriguing, and constantly searching. What’s an ideal fella to you?

Hot dang! I like fellas who heap on the sweet words. That’s pretty much ideal. :) (<---- when I put an emoticon in an actual post, I mean it.)

This question immediately made me think of this long, drawn-out dreamboy description I wrote in my diary many, many years ago. And, because I'm stalling on how to describe my current ideal fella AND I enjoy every opportunity to laugh at sweet little virginal teenage me and her sweet little virginal teenage worldview, I’d like to transcribe what I considered the perfect dude on June 16, 1997:

Tall, about 5’11″ to 6’1″. Lean, but not skinny. Medium brown hair, amazing blue-green eyes, 5 o’clock shadow of light brown hairs.

His hair is a grown out bowl cut that wisps in and out of his face like Chris Hardwick’s. His jawline is perfectly chiseled and his voice is deep. It’s smooth and almost buttery. His laugh is infectious and boyishly cute. His smile is bright and radiant and reveals almost perfect teeth. His body is muscular, with only slightly defined pecs and a hint of a six-pack. A loose t-shirt hangs over his too-big-for-me-but-I’m-comfortable jeans that are cleverly buttoned just below the elastic wasteband [sic, yes I just sic'ed myself] of his plaid boxers. His feet are hidden beneath folds of denim, and are clad in scuffed looking Airwalks or Vans, probably close to a year old and borrowed from a friend. Inside this incredible-looking creature is a childish curiosity about the world in which he lives. He’s smart, but not in a conventional way. His grades are good (but not good enough for his parents) but he lacks scholastic enthusiasm. Often during class, he is caught drawing cartoons or sketching the teacher as the devil. (later edit: Or writing poetry.) He is a favorite among peers, but not because he’s popular or greatly desired. His popularity comes with his constant wish to be an individual and his incredible sense of humor. He is humble, never uttering a conceited word, and he is the most considerate being on earth. He treats his mother as if she were a porcelain doll, his father as a comrade.

This guy’s heart is open to all walks of life. He judges but not purposely or vindictively. His concience [sic!!!] forces him to always admit when he’s wrong; saying he’s sorry is never a problem.

When he loves, he loves with every fiber of his being. His is romantic, not afraid to share his feelings, or say what he means.

His dreams are vivid and shiny; mostly about fame, but he realizes the reality that covers them. He doesn’t shun the idea of marrying and having a family; it’s his #1 dream.

He’s multi-talented and loves all forms of art. Music is his companion, art is his friend, and his friends are the world to him.

But when he is in the mood for private-time [sic], he retreats to his room and daydreams of his love, and their future together.

He would never neglect her; she means the world to him. He would sacrifice all just to see her happy.

He’s mature and caring, not entirely afraid to cry, but very masculine when he needs to be.

In other words, internet, I totes thought I was going to meet and marry a skateboarding-themed JC Penney ad some day. Jeez O. Peete.

I wrote that description of my ideal man as I was being slowly and excruciatingly pocket vetoed by my first boyfriend, who had just graduated high school and suddenly, without warning, had stopped talking to me in anticipation of all the sweet college ass he was about to get once he arrived in Knoxville. It took him a full three weeks of no contact with me before he caught me in the chip aisle of the grocery store where he worked and dumped me on the spot. I didn’t protest; I just sort of nodded my head expectantly, trying to be super understanding because why WOULD a college freshman want to stick with a high school sophomore, especially me, especially in Hardin fucking County, population LAME? We shook hands — really — and I snatched a bag of Doritos and got the fuck out of there. I buried that confusion and resentment deep, though. Real deep. You can’t tell at all, I know!

So. In the intervening years, my expectations for what the male sex should offer me have, uh, simplified somewhat. I no longer daydream about crumpled denim cascading around skateboard shoes or (wince) wispy, grown-out bowl cuts, but I do love a man who can make me laugh. That’s absolutely No. 1. And before, when I said he had to be smart but not conventionally smart? Yeah, no. I now fully admit that I like ‘em nerdy. Nerdy and booksmart, in my self-indulgent little bubble, also implies a certain set of sociopoliticalpsychoreligious beliefs I needn’t really get into here. I don’t mind some ambition. A good work ethic (and, obviously, a job — maybe even a career — and plenty of independence). He’s got to be easy on the eyes, but my definition of that is ever-changing, so I won’t spend any time defining it now. Creativity. BUT NO MORE MUSICIANS. No offense, musicians. You’re all just too, uh, complex for me. That said, we have got to be able to share music. Swap mixed CDs and get wistful about hooks and lyrics and interesting chord progressions and finding songs that speak to the now in the way that so much good music does. He should be kind, at his core. He needs to be silly. And to know that my favorite game will be trying to embarrass him in public. Or not trying and embarrassing him anyway. Because I’m a fucking dork. He’s got to get my humor. He’s got to get me. And he’s got to want me. Every fucking crazy inch of me: The me who sings in the car, talks to herself at the house, speaks in complete sentences to the cats, takes pictures of everything, has an unscrubbably filthy mouth, and always laughs a tick too loud.

He should have a grand romantic gesture or two up his sleeve that he can pull out periodically to make sure I am not completely eaten up with cynicism.

He needs to have a good relationship with his family, and be able to fit into my crazy family with relative ease. He should probably be open to having a family of his own, because, despite my better instincts, I imagine I would like to have a family some day. And I’m going to need a solid partner.

Well. I thought I had simplified what I want, but maybe I haven’t. Nope, I’d say maybe I’m pickier than ever.

I’d like to stave off writer’s block. So. Ask me anything.

Got a real “fuck the world” current running through the noggin tonight. This horrible mood is a hog and damn near everyone and everything around me has been slopping it lately: Little chunks and pieces of shit that conspire to send me over the edge.

No one’s any different than they were the day before; I just managed to let the ol’ hog stall, so to speak, stink up the place. It’ll run its course and get flushed out eventually. Always does.

Me: will you be my life coach in 2010? i need to turn this ship around.
Nick: you and me we’re like cavier, it takes a refined pallette and a sense of self importance to choke us down and pretend we taste good
hmmm
thats not a good metaphor

I had a moment to myself in the wee hours of Monday morning, when I went outside and sat in the driveway of my parents’ place and listened to the rising symphony of insects and night birds as they called to each other from the shadows. I grew up in the country but I never quite got used to the country dark. Country dark is dark. Impenetrable and vast. It was weird at first but I heard the dogs settling in around me and I saw stars — all of them, every last one — and I sat there and wept with gratitude and fear and hope and sadness. I tried bargaining with the sky but I suspect it will take a lifetime to tell if my offer was accepted.

[Project 365]