i am tempted to believe that the older i get, the more old -fashioned i become... not because i cannot keep up with the times, but because perhaps that is how i have been all along.
... it's just hard to see that when you're thirteen and you think that, if you get your heart broken one more time, you'll curl up as ashes and blow away in the wind.
...
then again, at thirteen, i was physically and emotionally incapable of going with the flow.
working on it.
huh. :)
Friday, August 29, 2008
Sunday, August 24, 2008
Excuse me, Miss, but could you please tell me what country I'm in?
... Guess who's home?
[home as in Indiana University - Wright Dormitory - Room Roughly the Size of a Spacious Penitentiary Cell.]
.... yes, that would be me. :) And, after days of driving, unloading, unpacking (staring blankly at my possessions and trying not to:
1. break down in tears
2. scream obscenities
3. curse the local deity's name
4. spontaneously combust
I have finally ... finally ... gotten settled in. Hall-le-freakin-lujiah.
Perhaps it was the mindset that I shouldn't leave the containment quarters - er, my room - until I'd finished putting everything in its proper place that did me in - by the time 7:30 came around last evening, I had accomplished a great deal of nothing besides nearly taking my own life with the set of bunk beds (but I'm only one person!) and tacking up a picture of my Babci to remind me that murder and mass destruction go against the moral and religious grain. In other words... well... no, you understand.
Mais oui - 7:30 p.m, my mind checked out, and I could do no more. Hence the slight manhandling of my bike as I high-tailed it out of the building and onto the road for some quality me-and-my-masochistic-route-ideas time.
It was a good idea - I came back to my room around 9:30 and actually finished up before 1 a.m! A victory, if I do say so myself.
In any case - I used to think biking was a ... well, to be honest, a soft option. Mind, I consider myself a runner, so if I can't feel my legs literally pounding the pavement, something must be horribly wrong. However - flash back to last summer, when I ran every day and nearly destroyed my right leg... and all the resulting power walking I had to do in order to allow it to properly heal.
The term "dorkwalking" is in itself enough to make a person start to look at other means of beating the tar out of their own body.
Hence: the bike. I realized that it's what you make of it - riding down to WaWa is not an effective work out, but tearing around town and the Valley for an hour or so is. My only problem is I tend to get explorer-crazy when I bike. I see a new, foreign road - next thing you know, I have no idea where the hell I am. It adds to the fun.
"Dani, what the hell did you do for the last 3 hours?!"
"Oh, sorry guys ... [cue gasping breaths and hands clutching chest] I ... I didn't mean to be so late but I... [wheeze wheeze] I ended up in freakin' Canada man - no idea how I got there..."
".... Oh. Well. Did you bring back a souvenir?"
A few days before I came back to school, I veered off onto the back roads of Wilmington, Delaware ... as mentioned above, what we call the Valley. Gorgeous by day, slightly terrifying at night (rows upon rows of fields, winding roads, massive hills... you either get engulfed by a love of nature or swamped by a sudden desire to run away screaming from axe-murderers, aliens, Mel Gibson...) so I decided that a late afternoon escapade would work out. For the first hour it was brilliant - dodging cars that honked lovingly, swearing magnificently as I scaled the hills, pulling up my shorts after they fell down for the nth time - I was having a blast. Then... I turned right on a whim.
Suddenly, the roads are paved differently. The license plates all read Pennsylvania. There is an air of tension and foreboding, as if the daring of a native Delawarean to enter such a place is grounds in itself to send her body back to the First State in a box. Even the nature sounds treacherous - a lizard sunbathing distinctively stuck his tongue out at me as I rode by.
... as you can see, this was Serious.
The further I ride, the more and more I am convinced that I will somehow miss civilization entirely. Whatever signs of humanity I see are obviously inhabited by evil beings who want to see me get tired and finally get off of my bike. Worse, I begin to fear that, by the time I rectify my mistake by either turning around or finally recognizing my surroundings, the sun will sink down in a fiery display and leave me to wind my way home in the dark.
and... even if I survive the dark, I would most certainly not survive the lecture from my parents about riding in the Valley alone, at night, without a helmet.
As you might figure, I was in a pickle.
... until I came out of a tight curve and was deposited at a main road about 2 miles away from my house.
Needless to say, I'm still convinced that I passed unknowingly - even if only briefly - into a twilight zone area of Pennsylvania. Further - the next time I ride here, I may just end up North of the Border if I'm not careful - and I won't rule out Mexico either.
... I'll just bring money in order to retrieve something pretty as proof.
[home as in Indiana University - Wright Dormitory - Room Roughly the Size of a Spacious Penitentiary Cell.]
.... yes, that would be me. :) And, after days of driving, unloading, unpacking (staring blankly at my possessions and trying not to:
1. break down in tears
2. scream obscenities
3. curse the local deity's name
4. spontaneously combust
I have finally ... finally ... gotten settled in. Hall-le-freakin-lujiah.
Perhaps it was the mindset that I shouldn't leave the containment quarters - er, my room - until I'd finished putting everything in its proper place that did me in - by the time 7:30 came around last evening, I had accomplished a great deal of nothing besides nearly taking my own life with the set of bunk beds (but I'm only one person!) and tacking up a picture of my Babci to remind me that murder and mass destruction go against the moral and religious grain. In other words... well... no, you understand.
Mais oui - 7:30 p.m, my mind checked out, and I could do no more. Hence the slight manhandling of my bike as I high-tailed it out of the building and onto the road for some quality me-and-my-masochistic-route-ideas time.
It was a good idea - I came back to my room around 9:30 and actually finished up before 1 a.m! A victory, if I do say so myself.
In any case - I used to think biking was a ... well, to be honest, a soft option. Mind, I consider myself a runner, so if I can't feel my legs literally pounding the pavement, something must be horribly wrong. However - flash back to last summer, when I ran every day and nearly destroyed my right leg... and all the resulting power walking I had to do in order to allow it to properly heal.
The term "dorkwalking" is in itself enough to make a person start to look at other means of beating the tar out of their own body.
Hence: the bike. I realized that it's what you make of it - riding down to WaWa is not an effective work out, but tearing around town and the Valley for an hour or so is. My only problem is I tend to get explorer-crazy when I bike. I see a new, foreign road - next thing you know, I have no idea where the hell I am. It adds to the fun.
"Dani, what the hell did you do for the last 3 hours?!"
"Oh, sorry guys ... [cue gasping breaths and hands clutching chest] I ... I didn't mean to be so late but I... [wheeze wheeze] I ended up in freakin' Canada man - no idea how I got there..."
".... Oh. Well. Did you bring back a souvenir?"
A few days before I came back to school, I veered off onto the back roads of Wilmington, Delaware ... as mentioned above, what we call the Valley. Gorgeous by day, slightly terrifying at night (rows upon rows of fields, winding roads, massive hills... you either get engulfed by a love of nature or swamped by a sudden desire to run away screaming from axe-murderers, aliens, Mel Gibson...) so I decided that a late afternoon escapade would work out. For the first hour it was brilliant - dodging cars that honked lovingly, swearing magnificently as I scaled the hills, pulling up my shorts after they fell down for the nth time - I was having a blast. Then... I turned right on a whim.
Suddenly, the roads are paved differently. The license plates all read Pennsylvania. There is an air of tension and foreboding, as if the daring of a native Delawarean to enter such a place is grounds in itself to send her body back to the First State in a box. Even the nature sounds treacherous - a lizard sunbathing distinctively stuck his tongue out at me as I rode by.
... as you can see, this was Serious.
The further I ride, the more and more I am convinced that I will somehow miss civilization entirely. Whatever signs of humanity I see are obviously inhabited by evil beings who want to see me get tired and finally get off of my bike. Worse, I begin to fear that, by the time I rectify my mistake by either turning around or finally recognizing my surroundings, the sun will sink down in a fiery display and leave me to wind my way home in the dark.
and... even if I survive the dark, I would most certainly not survive the lecture from my parents about riding in the Valley alone, at night, without a helmet.
As you might figure, I was in a pickle.
... until I came out of a tight curve and was deposited at a main road about 2 miles away from my house.
Needless to say, I'm still convinced that I passed unknowingly - even if only briefly - into a twilight zone area of Pennsylvania. Further - the next time I ride here, I may just end up North of the Border if I'm not careful - and I won't rule out Mexico either.
... I'll just bring money in order to retrieve something pretty as proof.
Friday, August 15, 2008
As I'm sure someone in a dither once said, "I am in a pickle..."
I once knew a girl who could not feel her toes -
it spread to her buttocks and up to her nose;
While sitting or standing, smelling or prancing,
Driving to dancing, trotting then lancing,
Hopping towards shopping and fanning while fencing,
No idea had she of what she was sensing.
The poor girl knew nothing of the life that she led -
so she opted to feel with her whole heart, instead.
-dm
Remember that whole business about my last post - about Love, but not Mine; the gnarley, disgusting travesty of emotion that made my stomach clench and my eyes water of their own accord?
Yes, well.... about that. This time, I have a dilemma, and it thoroughly - and intentionally - involves me. It is a Love, but I am horribly, 99% certain that despite my best efforts and the diligence of the other party, it is not *my* Love... (or very strong "like" - urgh.) again.
Perhaps I am a shallow person - I'd like to think that I am not, but hey, you never know. If it is any consolation (to myself), the men in the past that I have fallen for have not necessarily been considered Don Juans - or worse (better?) the Derek Zoolanders and Hansel's of their time. All the same, no matter how wonderful of a relationship - a friendly, marvelously peachy, platonic coexistance... I craze a physical attraction. I've heard the phrase "just like kissing my brother", and I have to disagree with that particular wording, as kissing my brother would most likely traumatize me for the rest of my living days, but in the sense that the romance, the spark, the ZING... isn't there... well... I need the Zing.
Perhaps I am a shallow person, but the man in question pulled a movie moment and I ... felt... nothing. [cringe]
[side note: my ex boyfriend has pointed out that platonic relationships, when you actually read some goddamn plato, are far more intimate and intense - true, maybe not as romantic, but about as deep and complex as you can get - than your ordinary sex 'n sugar squeeze significant other. I've read plato - and I've kicked myself for not figuring that one out before he did.]
Mais oui - nothing. No zing. No spark. And... now... absence makes the heart grow fonder - I've heard - and we're finally seperated for the first time since June 16th... and still, zilch.
(then again, texting does take away the illusion of distance.)
I want to try. I want to try and see if I'm just a confused bint in a pickle, and once I head back up to IU I will suddenly feel that spark, those fireworks, the great lean towards truth, love, and happiness, though not necessarily in that order.
... I am concerned that I will not.
... and... I'm pretty goddamn sorry, because I have been trying the whole summer... and I don't think this is something you "try" at.
My toes and my nose and my buttocks (well, that's okay) are great - my heart needs a jolt or two.
it spread to her buttocks and up to her nose;
While sitting or standing, smelling or prancing,
Driving to dancing, trotting then lancing,
Hopping towards shopping and fanning while fencing,
No idea had she of what she was sensing.
The poor girl knew nothing of the life that she led -
so she opted to feel with her whole heart, instead.
-dm
Remember that whole business about my last post - about Love, but not Mine; the gnarley, disgusting travesty of emotion that made my stomach clench and my eyes water of their own accord?
Yes, well.... about that. This time, I have a dilemma, and it thoroughly - and intentionally - involves me. It is a Love, but I am horribly, 99% certain that despite my best efforts and the diligence of the other party, it is not *my* Love... (or very strong "like" - urgh.) again.
Perhaps I am a shallow person - I'd like to think that I am not, but hey, you never know. If it is any consolation (to myself), the men in the past that I have fallen for have not necessarily been considered Don Juans - or worse (better?) the Derek Zoolanders and Hansel's of their time. All the same, no matter how wonderful of a relationship - a friendly, marvelously peachy, platonic coexistance... I craze a physical attraction. I've heard the phrase "just like kissing my brother", and I have to disagree with that particular wording, as kissing my brother would most likely traumatize me for the rest of my living days, but in the sense that the romance, the spark, the ZING... isn't there... well... I need the Zing.
Perhaps I am a shallow person, but the man in question pulled a movie moment and I ... felt... nothing. [cringe]
[side note: my ex boyfriend has pointed out that platonic relationships, when you actually read some goddamn plato, are far more intimate and intense - true, maybe not as romantic, but about as deep and complex as you can get - than your ordinary sex 'n sugar squeeze significant other. I've read plato - and I've kicked myself for not figuring that one out before he did.]
Mais oui - nothing. No zing. No spark. And... now... absence makes the heart grow fonder - I've heard - and we're finally seperated for the first time since June 16th... and still, zilch.
(then again, texting does take away the illusion of distance.)
I want to try. I want to try and see if I'm just a confused bint in a pickle, and once I head back up to IU I will suddenly feel that spark, those fireworks, the great lean towards truth, love, and happiness, though not necessarily in that order.
... I am concerned that I will not.
... and... I'm pretty goddamn sorry, because I have been trying the whole summer... and I don't think this is something you "try" at.
My toes and my nose and my buttocks (well, that's okay) are great - my heart needs a jolt or two.
Wednesday, August 6, 2008
so let go, let go, jump in - boundless pleasure with boundless pain
Tonight, I do not understand.
Rather, I see, but I cannot for the life of me comprehend my body's reactions. I have been told that I'm a sensitive person, but usually by my family for losing rationality and, thus, "my cool", upon being teased, joshed, messed with, and generally disoriented.
I've also been told that I have more hot buttons than a Manhattan Elevator.
... yeah. Well. Just 'cause it's true doesn't mean it should be tested.
In any case, my head is reeling and my stomach is rejecting the peaches it consumed earlier... I'm at a loss.
... more or less, the problem is Love.
Not mine. Being single has its benefits - I don't have to worry about the possibility of being sucker punched. However.. there is something about the summer that brings out the best and worst in people. (I know I'm being vague, but I'm trying to also be respectful. I don't do it all that often - forgive me.)
Allow me to explain. Kind of.
At age 20, I am sitting here musing over the "loves" I have had. Won't lie, I've had a few. At least, I've felt so strongly towards certain men that the consequences have both uplifted me and sickened me. If I were to delve further into it, I have probably committed the same atrocious acts of unintended (... and sometimes intended...) hurt that have been done to me. I will go so far as to say that everyone on this planet, no matter how or why, has marred someone that they have "loved", or that has "loved" them.
I have never cheated, nor have I been cheated on. (As far as I know.)
I have, however, been unexpectedly dropped like a hot dish at a restaurant.
I have also done my fair share of dropping. Insecurities, stupidity, paranoia, angst... the list goes on for a while. I'm not the brightest crayon in the box - I am just lucky that the people I have hurt have it in them to forgive me when I screw up.
[good god, I'm scatterbrained tonight. back to the original point]:
Again, this is not my love. And... the person that housed that love... I have known for less than two months. I would call us friends, but not close. Music camp is miraculous in the sense that people form friendships ridiculously quickly, but the two of us don't sit and chat over cocoa, if you know what I mean. However, when you are with the same people for 24 hours a day, seven days a week, for a little over seven weeks... you can put pieces together.
To see this person, eyes red, head in his hands - my body began to feel wretched.
It is not my problem. It is not my love. Maybe it was the way that he would talk about his, though - or the calm, collected demeanor he radiated without even trying. Perhaps it was in the way that he acted as if seemingly impossible, untouchable things were nothing at all...
No one could understand how such a person could be reduced to tears.
Or... at least... no one could fathom the hurt that would cause it.
Maybe that's why my body laments it. It is not my love. But to see the depth of another's and watch it explode...
Frou Frou says that "there is beauty in the breakdown". Maybe. All I see is pain.
Rather, I see, but I cannot for the life of me comprehend my body's reactions. I have been told that I'm a sensitive person, but usually by my family for losing rationality and, thus, "my cool", upon being teased, joshed, messed with, and generally disoriented.
I've also been told that I have more hot buttons than a Manhattan Elevator.
... yeah. Well. Just 'cause it's true doesn't mean it should be tested.
In any case, my head is reeling and my stomach is rejecting the peaches it consumed earlier... I'm at a loss.
... more or less, the problem is Love.
Not mine. Being single has its benefits - I don't have to worry about the possibility of being sucker punched. However.. there is something about the summer that brings out the best and worst in people. (I know I'm being vague, but I'm trying to also be respectful. I don't do it all that often - forgive me.)
Allow me to explain. Kind of.
At age 20, I am sitting here musing over the "loves" I have had. Won't lie, I've had a few. At least, I've felt so strongly towards certain men that the consequences have both uplifted me and sickened me. If I were to delve further into it, I have probably committed the same atrocious acts of unintended (... and sometimes intended...) hurt that have been done to me. I will go so far as to say that everyone on this planet, no matter how or why, has marred someone that they have "loved", or that has "loved" them.
I have never cheated, nor have I been cheated on. (As far as I know.)
I have, however, been unexpectedly dropped like a hot dish at a restaurant.
I have also done my fair share of dropping. Insecurities, stupidity, paranoia, angst... the list goes on for a while. I'm not the brightest crayon in the box - I am just lucky that the people I have hurt have it in them to forgive me when I screw up.
[good god, I'm scatterbrained tonight. back to the original point]:
Again, this is not my love. And... the person that housed that love... I have known for less than two months. I would call us friends, but not close. Music camp is miraculous in the sense that people form friendships ridiculously quickly, but the two of us don't sit and chat over cocoa, if you know what I mean. However, when you are with the same people for 24 hours a day, seven days a week, for a little over seven weeks... you can put pieces together.
To see this person, eyes red, head in his hands - my body began to feel wretched.
It is not my problem. It is not my love. Maybe it was the way that he would talk about his, though - or the calm, collected demeanor he radiated without even trying. Perhaps it was in the way that he acted as if seemingly impossible, untouchable things were nothing at all...
No one could understand how such a person could be reduced to tears.
Or... at least... no one could fathom the hurt that would cause it.
Maybe that's why my body laments it. It is not my love. But to see the depth of another's and watch it explode...
Frou Frou says that "there is beauty in the breakdown". Maybe. All I see is pain.
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