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omnia_mutanturOn the mundania front, I love my new coat with a blinding passion, even if it's a little too long, and I'd forgotten how much I adore buying coats. Probably the only big-ticket, clothes-related item I really enjoy. I think it's because I have some sort of cold-poverty association that buying pretty, fitting coats seems the very lap of luxury, but in an entirely justifiable way. I have too many coats, though I try and get rid of the excess on a fairly regular basis, but between this and the winter coat that I desperately need to get to a seamstress, I may try and convince myself never to buy another long winter coat again. This one isn't terribly flattering, the cut is pretty awe some, but the fake fur around the hood makes my face even pinker and rounder when it's all buttoned up.
I'm trying to sum my life up for an intermittent correspondent (Lesson, in fact), and can come up with nothing more than "I'm happy and I read and cook a lot" and I keep revisiting this lack of narrative and wondering if there's a way to have narrative without having either drama or a baby, since I'm not really interested in either. I guess moving or changing jobs would fit that bill, and I'm looking at the latter, but not particularly interested in the former. I've been trying to write this lj entry for a while, and have decided that maybe less white space will make it look more coherent, even if the thoughts probably all merit their own paragraphs. Dumpsterdiving through a huge folder of things I wrote in college, I find a lot of crap and a lot of really cryptic things, but I've also ended up haunted by a couple of my own lines, which almost makes me want to try and write again, but I don't feel like I know how to bleed in that particular way anymore, and I'm not sure I can pick up the skill of writing without at least a little blood. One of the pages has this scribbled across the top, and I know it's a quote from something, but google fails me, possibly because it's a misquote, or possible because it's just from some obscure and crappy novel. "I fear the road / I fear the way / I fear the wind will make me stray."
Last night, I added msn to my trillian account, in a specific attempt to talk to Chile tonight. I'd forgotten that I once used this particular medium to talk to Egypt. That was a startling and sickening thing to see pop up on the screen, and I'd really, really like to brillo my brain clean of the curiosity it left behind. I don't want to want to know how he's doing, and it was probably not the best thing to have happen so shortly after I was reading angry, angry poems his treatment of me had inspired, or so soon after having told the whole, sordid story to some from beginning to end, which was, I'm pretty sure, the first time I'd ever done that. I give people humorous little snippets, illustrative examples of how bad I was, but never the whole story, and seldom the fact that I was a little bit in love with him, even if they probably pick up on it from context clues. In the end, I'm just lucky to have walked away, since the potential for literal and figurative car crashes was nearly unavoidable.
I wonder who counts as the top five people who have fucked me up, and I wonder if that's even an okay thing to think about. In the sense I don't want to give anyone that much credit, I've spent years and years in therapy trying to convince myself, to be convinced, that everything bad that has ever happened to me isn't my own fault, and mine alone. And I've always been a little comforted by the fact that I'm the worst thing to ever happen to me, though there's a certain amount of hubris in that (and I acknowledge the fact that the emotional damage I've done to myself pales in comparison to, say, tsunamis and ethinc cleansing. All that aside, were I to create a list in some sort of high fidelity-inspired moment, Egypt would certainly place.
On the food front, we made an old comfort food of mine a couple days ago, something I was terrified wouldn't translate from childhood to now. (I do still miss tuna melts and creamed chipped beef in a way that almost transcends vegetarianism, but not quite). Spaghetti pie. Cooked spaghetti, tossed with olive oil, topped with a layer of beaten egg mixed with parm, a layer of mozzarella and ricotta mixed, and then a layer of a mix of fake meat and spaghetti sauce. And it was awesome, and satisfying and just a little bit gross but in a really, really enjoyable way. This week's also seen chickpea curry, fivespice tofu, and an egg drop soup tonight that is made mostly of garlic, teeny pasta shells and balsamic vinegar. And hopefully, this weekend, good Indian food, and maybe even some of B's awesome, awesome cooking.
I'm trucking my way through both the last Kushiel's book (finally) and the man who read the encyclopedia book, and then I've got a Butler, Stiff and something else from the library, and a gazillion books from the holidays as well as a couple I ordered myself in a spasm of half.com weakness. I've plateaued on the last song on Medium in Guitar Hero, and also need to start trying to play Psychonauts, though I think that'll be something I only play when Light's absent, since, just like everything else, I'm not comfortable at failing at video games in front of other people. I've got laundry to hang up, birthday cards to send, bills to pay, a bathroom to clean, errands to run, and I'm exhausted, but the pace also feels okay for the moment. We're out to Somerville this weekend, to stay with B, and see Chile and go to a museum.
And every time I go to the eastern end of the state, I'm a little conflicted. On the one hand, I feel very strongly that one should visit the person one is visiting, and not spread oneself too thin (completely antithetical to my opendoor policy of if anyone I know ever has need of crash space in the valley, they're more than welcome to stay with me) though my feelings on that might be based in part on the fact that being social makes me anxious. On the other hand, maybe I'm just being bitter again, letting unresponded-to emails or the general feeling of being snubbed dictate the direction in which a friendship or lack-of-friendship will go. I'm always afraid of pushing too hard, and so I try not to push at all, and yet I try and be as open as possible, and it's hard to figure out how the two connect. Do I stop saying the naked-sounding things in other people's ljs, am I being laughed at when I try, and is mockery worse or better than not being acknowledged at all?
and, now i'm home, and i'm going to nap. take that, chores.
I'm trying to sum my life up for an intermittent correspondent (Lesson, in fact), and can come up with nothing more than "I'm happy and I read and cook a lot" and I keep revisiting this lack of narrative and wondering if there's a way to have narrative without having either drama or a baby, since I'm not really interested in either. I guess moving or changing jobs would fit that bill, and I'm looking at the latter, but not particularly interested in the former. I've been trying to write this lj entry for a while, and have decided that maybe less white space will make it look more coherent, even if the thoughts probably all merit their own paragraphs. Dumpsterdiving through a huge folder of things I wrote in college, I find a lot of crap and a lot of really cryptic things, but I've also ended up haunted by a couple of my own lines, which almost makes me want to try and write again, but I don't feel like I know how to bleed in that particular way anymore, and I'm not sure I can pick up the skill of writing without at least a little blood. One of the pages has this scribbled across the top, and I know it's a quote from something, but google fails me, possibly because it's a misquote, or possible because it's just from some obscure and crappy novel. "I fear the road / I fear the way / I fear the wind will make me stray."
Last night, I added msn to my trillian account, in a specific attempt to talk to Chile tonight. I'd forgotten that I once used this particular medium to talk to Egypt. That was a startling and sickening thing to see pop up on the screen, and I'd really, really like to brillo my brain clean of the curiosity it left behind. I don't want to want to know how he's doing, and it was probably not the best thing to have happen so shortly after I was reading angry, angry poems his treatment of me had inspired, or so soon after having told the whole, sordid story to some from beginning to end, which was, I'm pretty sure, the first time I'd ever done that. I give people humorous little snippets, illustrative examples of how bad I was, but never the whole story, and seldom the fact that I was a little bit in love with him, even if they probably pick up on it from context clues. In the end, I'm just lucky to have walked away, since the potential for literal and figurative car crashes was nearly unavoidable.
I wonder who counts as the top five people who have fucked me up, and I wonder if that's even an okay thing to think about. In the sense I don't want to give anyone that much credit, I've spent years and years in therapy trying to convince myself, to be convinced, that everything bad that has ever happened to me isn't my own fault, and mine alone. And I've always been a little comforted by the fact that I'm the worst thing to ever happen to me, though there's a certain amount of hubris in that (and I acknowledge the fact that the emotional damage I've done to myself pales in comparison to, say, tsunamis and ethinc cleansing. All that aside, were I to create a list in some sort of high fidelity-inspired moment, Egypt would certainly place.
On the food front, we made an old comfort food of mine a couple days ago, something I was terrified wouldn't translate from childhood to now. (I do still miss tuna melts and creamed chipped beef in a way that almost transcends vegetarianism, but not quite). Spaghetti pie. Cooked spaghetti, tossed with olive oil, topped with a layer of beaten egg mixed with parm, a layer of mozzarella and ricotta mixed, and then a layer of a mix of fake meat and spaghetti sauce. And it was awesome, and satisfying and just a little bit gross but in a really, really enjoyable way. This week's also seen chickpea curry, fivespice tofu, and an egg drop soup tonight that is made mostly of garlic, teeny pasta shells and balsamic vinegar. And hopefully, this weekend, good Indian food, and maybe even some of B's awesome, awesome cooking.
I'm trucking my way through both the last Kushiel's book (finally) and the man who read the encyclopedia book, and then I've got a Butler, Stiff and something else from the library, and a gazillion books from the holidays as well as a couple I ordered myself in a spasm of half.com weakness. I've plateaued on the last song on Medium in Guitar Hero, and also need to start trying to play Psychonauts, though I think that'll be something I only play when Light's absent, since, just like everything else, I'm not comfortable at failing at video games in front of other people. I've got laundry to hang up, birthday cards to send, bills to pay, a bathroom to clean, errands to run, and I'm exhausted, but the pace also feels okay for the moment. We're out to Somerville this weekend, to stay with B, and see Chile and go to a museum.
And every time I go to the eastern end of the state, I'm a little conflicted. On the one hand, I feel very strongly that one should visit the person one is visiting, and not spread oneself too thin (completely antithetical to my opendoor policy of if anyone I know ever has need of crash space in the valley, they're more than welcome to stay with me) though my feelings on that might be based in part on the fact that being social makes me anxious. On the other hand, maybe I'm just being bitter again, letting unresponded-to emails or the general feeling of being snubbed dictate the direction in which a friendship or lack-of-friendship will go. I'm always afraid of pushing too hard, and so I try not to push at all, and yet I try and be as open as possible, and it's hard to figure out how the two connect. Do I stop saying the naked-sounding things in other people's ljs, am I being laughed at when I try, and is mockery worse or better than not being acknowledged at all?
and, now i'm home, and i'm going to nap. take that, chores.
