"but i don't have the range"
Jun. 10th, 2004 02:15 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
omnia_mutanturi realize this can't be not like me.
everything i do is like me.
it's just a matter of looking through different lenses at different times.
but i've all these words, and i can't seem to find time or space or energy to push them out. and this seems like another occasion of pitch the author into the atlantic to see if she can swim. like i'm supposed to take to it like birds to the air, all this relentless domesticity. like it's supposed to make sense. like the very idea of natural is applicable.
i wonder if this feeling of sociologist is fundamentally linked to depression, this looking into the dishwasher and forgetting for a second exactly why i'm unloading it, not understanding the extra toothbrush, or the coffee table that looks like it landed from another planet, another life, into this apartment which has not seen such solid furniture.
again, i'm not unhappy. i'm lost. and i'm walking around the parkinglot looking for my car, with the queasy feeling this is a nightmare, and my car's not going to be there.
i'm tired in ways i don't have words for. it's not bad, i'm certainly happy, and even the messy bits, trying to explain to remember what i say, not how i act, because i can chose my words and i can chip the walls down with them, but i can't change the facial expressions, i can't change the mannerisms as quickly, even the messy bits feel something like the home i'm not sure i had, though Red certainly gave me a glimpse of it, with pots of chili and packs of cigarettes and car trips. and i remind myself i'm not supposed to have to make it make sense all the time, if nothing else, he's got a practice at this that i don't have, and though i expect she and i have more differences than not, i also suspect we have our similarities.
it all comes down to language, and i don't have words for this, and i don't have instructions for this and i'm tired, and it's not always a good tired, sometimes it's a reminding tired. and i know we switch off, and he'll calm me in a couple months when i cry for days over Mech's seeming defection, but what am i supposed to tell him now? if i'm giving up control of my own direction, i need to see what's taking the reins over.
that's not it, though, this isn't something i'm pretending is his fault, or really a fault at all. just another early summer, and i'm scared of the angles of an ex's cheekbones, and i'm afraid of being forgotten even if i already have been, and i'm afraid i tamped too much down in order to deal with his back going out, and that i'm not sure how to start it again. and sometimes the maze through which you're supposed to talk to people seems impenetrable, i'm not exactly sure who is safe to say what to, and i'm inflexible, but i think it's a good inflexible.
i've a 10% off my entire purchase at b&n in the month of june, and i'm not going to let myself.
i want to be safe.
i want to believe language works.
i want bright colors, and a kitchen to cook in, and comments in my lj, and to feel like i'm being paid attention to, and to not have more than half of the important people in my life be on the other side of a monitor, rather than the other side of the couch.
i want to know what i did.
everything i do is like me.
it's just a matter of looking through different lenses at different times.
but i've all these words, and i can't seem to find time or space or energy to push them out. and this seems like another occasion of pitch the author into the atlantic to see if she can swim. like i'm supposed to take to it like birds to the air, all this relentless domesticity. like it's supposed to make sense. like the very idea of natural is applicable.
i wonder if this feeling of sociologist is fundamentally linked to depression, this looking into the dishwasher and forgetting for a second exactly why i'm unloading it, not understanding the extra toothbrush, or the coffee table that looks like it landed from another planet, another life, into this apartment which has not seen such solid furniture.
again, i'm not unhappy. i'm lost. and i'm walking around the parkinglot looking for my car, with the queasy feeling this is a nightmare, and my car's not going to be there.
i'm tired in ways i don't have words for. it's not bad, i'm certainly happy, and even the messy bits, trying to explain to remember what i say, not how i act, because i can chose my words and i can chip the walls down with them, but i can't change the facial expressions, i can't change the mannerisms as quickly, even the messy bits feel something like the home i'm not sure i had, though Red certainly gave me a glimpse of it, with pots of chili and packs of cigarettes and car trips. and i remind myself i'm not supposed to have to make it make sense all the time, if nothing else, he's got a practice at this that i don't have, and though i expect she and i have more differences than not, i also suspect we have our similarities.
it all comes down to language, and i don't have words for this, and i don't have instructions for this and i'm tired, and it's not always a good tired, sometimes it's a reminding tired. and i know we switch off, and he'll calm me in a couple months when i cry for days over Mech's seeming defection, but what am i supposed to tell him now? if i'm giving up control of my own direction, i need to see what's taking the reins over.
that's not it, though, this isn't something i'm pretending is his fault, or really a fault at all. just another early summer, and i'm scared of the angles of an ex's cheekbones, and i'm afraid of being forgotten even if i already have been, and i'm afraid i tamped too much down in order to deal with his back going out, and that i'm not sure how to start it again. and sometimes the maze through which you're supposed to talk to people seems impenetrable, i'm not exactly sure who is safe to say what to, and i'm inflexible, but i think it's a good inflexible.
i've a 10% off my entire purchase at b&n in the month of june, and i'm not going to let myself.
i want to be safe.
i want to believe language works.
i want bright colors, and a kitchen to cook in, and comments in my lj, and to feel like i'm being paid attention to, and to not have more than half of the important people in my life be on the other side of a monitor, rather than the other side of the couch.
i want to know what i did.
