"i would not even have to try"

Five different paragraphs, five different topics, and at least twice as many moods.

it feels like it all comes down to the same basic story. i script myself these little fantasies about why people don't write back, or im back, and then i get fed up with myself and pitch internal tempertantrums. and then i worry about the people i do hang out with, and if i'm hanging out with them too often, or if there's some sort of charity involved, even if the people themselves have never really done anything to give me that impression. or, i forget that people can not always assume the worst of me, that just because X's friend doesn't like me, doesn't mean that X thinks i'm worthless. i open up instant messaging and look at a bunch of names that i don't have the balls to say anything to. which isn't a complaint, really, the handful of people who are in my life are wonderful and most days, i consider myself lucky past compare to have what i have, i'm not looking for more, and i think i'm teaching myself not to look for what i had, either.

the past few days have been weirdly restless, i think in part it's financially related, that the joint account hasn't sprung back from the falconridge hotel cost, and that my personal account won't be springing back from anything for the foreseeable future. but there's something else, and i think it has something to do with not cooking anything new this week. (we did try an onion/feta risotto, but Light made it because i was more in a clutching my head and moaning migraine/allergy kind of space that evening). or maybe it's my lack of computer leaving me feeling sort of cast adrift. cross-stitch helps a little, and i think it's time to linger over recipes, push my boundaries a little bit either in terms of cooking skill or unfamiliar tastes. or i need to clean more, or learn to paint the inside of our house, or post to my livejournal more. and maybe it's just that i'm slowly recovering from the mono, and i've been making do with too little energy for long enough that having energy confuses me.

there are a dozen shows coming up that i want to go to, Rachael Davis at PACE, Girlyman in Boston, Kris Delmhorst and EFO and Erin McKeown at the Iron Horse. And frugality inclines me not to, and i tell myself we don't really need to see these people, we only want to, and i'll see them all at Falcon Ridge, but i guess that's what money's for, and i can't spend all my time hording every penny against the storm that's coming eventually. (i'm hoping to postpone the first round of surgery until August, and that's the affordable part. (for the moment, i'm ignoring the part where i worry about how much it's going to hurt.))

i worry sometimes about not worrying. or worry about not worrying about not worrying. what light and i have is good past my ability to comprehend, i can't imagine life without him, and that lack of ability doesn't upset me, but instead comforts me, and i look at that comfort, and think i should worry about it, and i don't. it's not about borrowing trouble, it's that i can watch myself twist these circles and giggle a little bit. as problems arise, i think we work them out, but there's a appropriateness that makes waking up to him a little bit like having christmas every morning, except without the part where the giddiness wears off. my latin prof told me to never let one's love life influence one's theology, and even if he was talking about propertius, i can see where the warning comes from now, in a way i couldn't before, because the idea of believing in the unprovable starts to have a certain resonance.

i have a sudden surging urge to read modernists, order boxes of spices and looseleaf teas, and visit museums. i want to be coddled, and catered to, and i want out of this 9-5, even if it actually happens 7-3:30. i want to peel off my skin and find out what lies underneath. i want something to change in a way that challenges me, rather than the disappointingly predictable ways the past few months have given me. i'm full up of being sick and worried about money for my teeth and my car and left behind by people and blown off by my parents. i want to say convincing things to someone, i want passionate email correspondences, i want to sit on my back porch with my feet up, dripping fudgesicle on myself, i want people to feed more often, i want to finally make the cardamon cookies, i want invitations and private jokes and waterfalls. mostly, i think, i want a world that conforms to at least half of my whims and a free pass to every museum on the eastern seaboard.
--

"i would not even have to try"

Five different paragraphs, five different topics, and at least twice as many moods.

it feels like it all comes down to the same basic story. i script myself these little fantasies about why people don't write back, or im back, and then i get fed up with myself and pitch internal tempertantrums. and then i worry about the people i do hang out with, and if i'm hanging out with them too often, or if there's some sort of charity involved, even if the people themselves have never really done anything to give me that impression. or, i forget that people can not always assume the worst of me, that just because X's friend doesn't like me, doesn't mean that X thinks i'm worthless. i open up instant messaging and look at a bunch of names that i don't have the balls to say anything to. which isn't a complaint, really, the handful of people who are in my life are wonderful and most days, i consider myself lucky past compare to have what i have, i'm not looking for more, and i think i'm teaching myself not to look for what i had, either.

the past few days have been weirdly restless, i think in part it's financially related, that the joint account hasn't sprung back from the falconridge hotel cost, and that my personal account won't be springing back from anything for the foreseeable future. but there's something else, and i think it has something to do with not cooking anything new this week. (we did try an onion/feta risotto, but Light made it because i was more in a clutching my head and moaning migraine/allergy kind of space that evening). or maybe it's my lack of computer leaving me feeling sort of cast adrift. cross-stitch helps a little, and i think it's time to linger over recipes, push my boundaries a little bit either in terms of cooking skill or unfamiliar tastes. or i need to clean more, or learn to paint the inside of our house, or post to my livejournal more. and maybe it's just that i'm slowly recovering from the mono, and i've been making do with too little energy for long enough that having energy confuses me.

there are a dozen shows coming up that i want to go to, Rachael Davis at PACE, Girlyman in Boston, Kris Delmhorst and EFO and Erin McKeown at the Iron Horse. And frugality inclines me not to, and i tell myself we don't really need to see these people, we only want to, and i'll see them all at Falcon Ridge, but i guess that's what money's for, and i can't spend all my time hording every penny against the storm that's coming eventually. (i'm hoping to postpone the first round of surgery until August, and that's the affordable part. (for the moment, i'm ignoring the part where i worry about how much it's going to hurt.))

i worry sometimes about not worrying. or worry about not worrying about not worrying. what light and i have is good past my ability to comprehend, i can't imagine life without him, and that lack of ability doesn't upset me, but instead comforts me, and i look at that comfort, and think i should worry about it, and i don't. it's not about borrowing trouble, it's that i can watch myself twist these circles and giggle a little bit. as problems arise, i think we work them out, but there's a appropriateness that makes waking up to him a little bit like having christmas every morning, except without the part where the giddiness wears off. my latin prof told me to never let one's love life influence one's theology, and even if he was talking about propertius, i can see where the warning comes from now, in a way i couldn't before, because the idea of believing in the unprovable starts to have a certain resonance.

i have a sudden surging urge to read modernists, order boxes of spices and looseleaf teas, and visit museums. i want to be coddled, and catered to, and i want out of this 9-5, even if it actually happens 7-3:30. i want to peel off my skin and find out what lies underneath. i want something to change in a way that challenges me, rather than the disappointingly predictable ways the past few months have given me. i'm full up of being sick and worried about money for my teeth and my car and left behind by people and blown off by my parents. i want to say convincing things to someone, i want passionate email correspondences, i want to sit on my back porch with my feet up, dripping fudgesicle on myself, i want people to feed more often, i want to finally make the cardamon cookies, i want invitations and private jokes and waterfalls. mostly, i think, i want a world that conforms to at least half of my whims and a free pass to every museum on the eastern seaboard.
--