Noise

Noise all around me. I do not exist in a bubble. Ping pong ball bounces along the table, caught in hand. Wonders of limoncello brings me to Cinque Terre, cheap hostel a block from the water. Mario and Luigi running up and down the stairs finding beds for soaked tourists. Now we pass sweetness around, Kool-aid spiked, with an edge. Fair trade banana sit in front of me on the table, surrounded by various bottles of alcohol, rum, tequila, brandy, jaeger, pucker, all poured off in shot glasses. She pulls port from the shelf, tainted by memory. Pour some in the blue glass. Please. Giggles in the kitchen. Whiskey and Vodka join the party. Absolut swirls around the glass, moments captured, soft hair along my neck. Breakfast? Shall we make eggs? Surrounded by friends, a man drinking whiskey in front of me. Photos, photos, bottles in the lens. I'm a mess, crazy just like me. That's what they say. Memories of a hot haunted night; strip down. How? To what? A pintata throwing Smarties. Bottle to the mouth, why? why? Arm held out, snap a photo. Jaeger emptied into a punch cup. She loves me, she loves me.

so tired, revised

I wonder how eye resulution works. I can't cee really well, so I'm relying on others of dubious perction to see my mistakes. Odd how that works. I'm so tired and yet so alive I want to stay awake alone and alive. I feel wooy though and cannot keep my eyes open.. I amy or may not run 1p miles tomorrow and I canot see eh letters I tyle. and we all fal asleep, good night my love. rememver that you're mine sweetheart.

Editor's note on the entry above: Upon awakening this morning, I recalled the experience of typing and struggling to see the letters. I had a feeling that I blogged. Upon looking at my computer, I discovered yes, I did blog late at night in a state of altered consciousness brought on by triple fermentation, dancing and extreme exhaustion. At first, upon reading my entry, I wanted to erase it. It's rough, crude, odd; I do not know what to make of it. But it's a record of my mind in particular state. It's a tangled, brambly path--an attempt to make a trail by someone only half aware of what they are doing. It is that state of awake to sleep captured in letters. Not awakening, but the inverse. The falling of asleep. What would Freud or Benjamin have to say about that? I say it's a montage of the mind.

Mr. Prufrock

"There will be time, there will be time..."

I recently realized that I often find myself quoting short lines from "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock," T. S. Eliot's American/English lit gem that is the bane of so many intro lit students' existence. (Who cares about the yellow fog, women talking of Michaelangelo or if he ever eats that peach? Apparently, I do.) The line that often jumps to mind (apologies in advance for any misquotations):

"No! I am not prince Hamlet, nor was I meant to be..."

And on Monday, that part about him wriggling on a pin popped into my head in relation to a neologism: butterflied. (Butterflied refers to the act of metaphorically sticking something/someone to a fixed place within a classificatory system, for display, observation, control, objectification, simplification...you get the idea. I like this word, as it captures a concept that cannot be properly expressed in a single word or phrase.) As the concept of butterflied was explained to me, I found that the lines of the poem express the concept of butterflied most poingnantly. (But I wonder if butterflied is the best word, since it also refers to a certain style of cutting meat, and at first hearing calls up images of flight, which is completely denied by the definition. Anyone else have a better word for this concept?)

Anyway, with quotes from Prufrock clearly on the brain, last night I pulled out the old anthology (American or Brit lit will do) and read the poem from start to finish, out loud, under my breath so as not to disturb another present. It's a great poem to read aloud, with the words falling like rain. Generally, the drops fall steady and rhythmic, like a patter on the concrete, but occassionally the drops lighten and other times they build to a torrent. But they always fall like rain. So I let the drops roll off my tongue, falling with a melancholy splash onto the page, soaking me in images, emotions drenching me. I read the poem the way you would walk a long distance in a storm, with a resigned air, determined but unhurried.

I cannot quite say why the poem strikes me so. I would not model my life after Mr. Prufrock; in fact I almost wish to live in antithesis, but not quite. When I read it this time, I saw the depth he lived in his mind; the great passion he invested in a manner that no others could see. But such passion remained closed off from others, for what? Fear of others, the power to wound, the exposure, vulnerability... Better to live a drama in the head controlled, even if the outcome is all wrong, than to risk disaster in the unpredictability... How can I say just what I mean? I will read this and think, That is not what I meant at all, that is not it at all.

The poem says it so much better than I. I used to think Mr. Prufrock feared to live, but now I think he lived too deeply, too passionately, in his mind.

Read the poem. Let me know what you think, if you like. Or just enjoy the raindrops slowly soaking your skin.

http://www.bartleby.com/198/1.html

Corsets

Tonight, I wore a corset for the first time. Surprisingly, I did not find it nearly as restictive as expected. I found it most uncomfortable when I first put it on; the snapping and lacing leading to some discomfort. However, once the device fell into place, I found myself getting used to its bodily strictures. When standing, I found it correcting my posture defects, reminding me to tighten my lower core. Other women told me of similar experience, with girdle-type implements correcting slouching and lax muscles. One definite downside: I found myelf breathing harder when biking, with my lungs straining against the fabric. Definitely not workout wear. I'll stick to the sports bra, thank you Victorians. Interestingly, I did not remove the corset immediately upon arriving home. I wore it briefly while dawdling around my room before bed, essentially forgetting it constraining presence on my body, internalizing its shape. Upon realizing this, I though, Maybe they're not so bad. But I took it off anyway. Upon removal, I immediately changed my mind, feeling my entire body sigh in time with my breath. Complete relief and relaxation overcame my physicality.

As much work as it is, I prefer the muscle corset, for now. (Even if I do not own it.)

Cheesy Chain Emails

Know how you get those cheesy chain emails about how friendship is like a warm loaf of bread, or some other ridiculousness like that? I always smile and appreciate the sentiment, however hallmark-personal, relayed from a friend who cares enough to send me a pre-formulated expression of her emotion. Because i know in her own unreflective way, she is saying that she values my friendship. Sure, I would prefer a long, newsy email about her life and emotional state, complete with minutia of her day, but sometimes you have to take what you can get. Life is busy and technology does not always bring us closer when time or distance separates what used to be intimate.

But then something happens and a friend--a real, true, honest friend--is there for you in a way that manifests all the cliches and trite comparisons riddling your inbox. She knows you better than you know yourself, saves you from yourself, sets you straight, stops the world to listen, gets you drunk on cheap wine, shares a tub of cookie dough, fights for you, laughs with you, supports you, loves you. And the cliches don't seem so silly anymore, or at least less trite, since you can't find better words on your own. (Although maybe this says more about my creative abilities, an over-saturation of sentimentalization or the commodification of emotion.)

Maybe I need to make up my own cliche, my own words to describe how desperately vital I find my friends. Maybe language is inadequate. Maybe all the good lines are taken.

Maybe the point is I am one lucky bitch to have such kick-ass friends.

Two in one night

Well, all my adoring fans, after such a long absence I return with two posts in one night. Mostly out of an unplaced boredom. Is Benjamin right that the greatest things are borne out of boredom? Is boredom necessary for genius? In that case, i should do my best work around 2 in the morning.

I think a lot about patterns, metaphors, stories lately. And words. always words. Right now I think about falling, as is evident from my last post. Maybe it's just the season?

Hmm...I thought I had more to say, but apparently I was deceived. Possibly the stupor of sleep overtakes my brain, drowsing out thoughts of coherency, leaving only rough outlines, comprised of vague ideas and unformed images. No flash, no punctum here. If the moment of awakening is so crucial and special, what about the moment of almost sleeping, of drifting between awake and sleep, but moving toward the sleep state? Why can I not think of a word for this state of almost-asleep? Is there a word? I do not linger there long when in bed. I revel in the half-consciousness between sleep and awake but not awakening other times. Sitting at a desk (sometimes), reading (often), writing (sometimes), listening (sometimes), walking (once), standing, (rarely). I love drifting when reading, as my mind recreates the text in a half-nonsense form that sometimes makes more sense that the words on the page. New ideas surface, an unexpected visitor appears, only to disappoint me upon wakening with their elusiveness. I am not drifting now, but I feel I haze overtaking my face. Remove your encumbrances and sleep. Drift away.

Falling

Falling away

Falling out

Falling off the map

Falling into it

Faling between the cracks

Falling from grace

Falling down

Falling at my feet

Falling into her lap

Falling all over him

Falling in love

Falling apart

Falling asleep

I fall, I fall, I fall.

In matters of Passion, I Fall. Recklessly. Try as I might to tread lightly, I Fall.
Dancing on the precipice I fall. Laying to sleep I fall. Running down the trail I fall. Reading the rhythyms I fall.

Bruised, broken, cut, scraped, scarred. Pain flows. I bleed. I live.

Catch me. Unexpected arms cradle me. Bushes cushion the blow. Dreams confront secrets. The water envelops me. Sometimes.

To fall, to fly. Dizzy gravity, drunk on myself. Vividly Alive.

Fall, Fall, Fall