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i walked?

23 Nov

Hum-fucking-drum.
I find the older I get the more I notice things out of the realm of others’ sight. It is strange and it firmly cements me in my earthly binds, which might be a good thing, I guess, but currently things are confusing me and I can’t seem to find the air I’m swimming towards.
I am lying on a twin-size bed in a house that isn’t really my home but will have to do at least for this week while some people I don’t know go into my house and replace the tiny Mount Vesuviuses of tile that are stuck to the floor. The room that the bed and I are in is a yellowy off-white, probably named something infinitely clever by the company who manufactures it. Probably something like “cloud” or “7th Heaven” or maybe something vaguely angel related: “we have heard on high” comes to mind; or something similar.
More worrying, though (at least to me) are the dreams and general ennui plaguing me involving The Poet. I look into a window and think I see his face- I hope fervently while I work that I’ll look up at one of the tourists and it’ll be his smiling face looking down at me, asking “well, imagine this!” and presently congealing into a lovely conversation. I miss this Poet. I miss him a helluvalot. I want him here, or I want to be there, or something– somehow, I want us to talk again under the leaves of old oak trees, watching water cascade into fountains– or running home in the rain, clutching a hot crepe to our chests.

So many memories. I can’t keep them from flooding my mind.
Wil visited Paris a few weeks ago, I am very jealous. I hope it’s treated him nicely. I hope he went to Rue Vavin and stood there, quiet and pensive. I hope he understands the changes it created in all of us. I hope he knows.

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hammerhead

18 Oct

I don’t know a lot about things.
One thing that has given me much consternation in the past and will continue to give me consternation in the future is my total and utter inability to understand people. To read people. To figure out their emotions toward you, toward inanimate objects, towards other people.
It is for this reason that I am tormented by the idea of someone hating me, mainly because I will constantly ask myself what I could be doing wrong and trying not to bother the person and so on and so on. Usually this just makes the friendship I am trying so desperately to cultivate unravel. So frustrating.
Currently wondering the very question above about a few people. I am scared and I am hoping my assumption is false because I would in all honesty like to be these people’s friend and little else. Maybe someone with which to exchange words, perhaps. Or something. It is difficult and it is annoying and it makes me want to try and forget about people and just go to some out-of-the-way island somewhere in the Azores and play Smiths records all day, alone, letting Morrissey sing me to sleep and not caring a whit about any other human activity and/or judgementalness.

maybe sometimes

22 Aug

I hate, hate, hate Facebook drama.
So far, in the last month, I’ve been nearly brought to tears twice: once because the main people I hung out with in Paris all defriended me over the course of two days, with no prior explanation, leaving me with no way to contact them whatsoever and stuck in the proverbial dust.
Second one happened about five seconds ago, when I realized that Kyna no longer showed up as anything but “Facebook User.” Cue freak out, as I went to a bunch of people’s profiles making sure that it wasn’t just me, wasn’t a bug. She deleted her account, I think, which makes me feel a little better because I understand the whole business now (but I won’t be able to see her pictures! DANG). I also still have ways to contact her! Yay! Friendship will go on!

But now my inner peace has been skewed and I no longer feel quite so great. I must think of peach light and zeppelins. I need to take a few deep breaths and try to let this whole business roll off like water on a duck’s back.

I think that as the year rolls on, the defriendings and other random acts of cruelty will disappear and vanish. Maybe. In any case, I won’t feel them as much. My memories will suffice.
I know which ones will still hurt, though.

((((((wading out of the caverns))))))

he was born with the same blue eyes

19 Aug

Listening to CocoRosie, I am digging their stuff a lot more than I thought I would. The nostalgic effects of hearing Werewolf swirling its hesitant way into my ears are kind of screwing my thoughts up and turning them to mush, wavering and curling to illegible scribbles of things I felt–
I love their lyrics. Seriously, I haven’t heard a single sentiment I didn’t like. They need to compile their poetry and publish it somewhere: I would buy it, read it. I’m sure I wouldn’t be alone.
I suppose now, while the memories are fresh, is the best time to come clean about Guillame.
I don’t think I loved him, that’s for sure. I felt something strong for him, but I can’t figure out what it might’ve been: a deep friendship? Lust? Anger and jealousy?
Well, whatever it may have been, he set the tinder ablaze and created something he didn’t know how to control. Guillame was used to being able to control people through his words, and he outlined the technique for me near the final days: how he enjoyed it, it was like chess-
I told him I was terrible at chess and he laughed.

But I’m skirting it again. Let me come back to the reason: the first night he had me put on his jacket for no apparent reason, and I asked “why?,” puzzled; he only replied “just, could you?,” so I shrugged to the voices in my chest protesting and slid the fabric over my arms, zipping the silver tab up over myself, encasing. Warm and suddenly sleepy, we talked with the others until the curfew, when I took the jacket up to my dorm and draped it gently over a chair.
The second day I gave it back and he looked at me with a question in his eyes I couldn’t understand.
That night, lying/sitting on the bottom bunk (my head ducked because the bunk above was far too low for any neckroom) watching his videos that he’d made, laughing and offering ancedotes that invariably fell flat (I am bad at telling stories but significantly better at writing them), I realized our hips were touching, shoulders too– and how warm–
the third night it all went to hell. well, it didn’t seem as such from the start, but I look back and pinpoint this moment (or series of moments) as the start of the things that broke me down a bit by bit. But I can’t change it. It’s the way the moment was structured, and so it goes:
Three people talking on the bottom bunk, Guillame and I on the top, lying/sitting with our legs hanging over the edge of the bed, me trying not to get my feet in the way of the conversation downstairs.
We are listening to music. Andrew Bird, to be specific (I only remember him, and CocoRosie, but no one else): I am being lulled into a deep calm by the violins and decide to crack Guillame’s knuckles for him. I do so, him smiling and almost laughing, and then our wrists twist around each others’ and we lay our hands between us on the bed.
A moment passes. Tense. You can feel it in the air.
I gently, so carefully, decide to strain or break that tension and cup his hand in mine.
Another moment passes. Sparks begin to slowly drip down my spine, molasses.
He slowly opens his fingers, moving my hand, and threads them between mine: the webbing of our hands touch and we cross our thumbs over each others’.
The sparks fly like bats from hell.
A few moments pass before he slowly separates our hands, then runs his fingertips down my palm, feeling every line and scar and callous, memorizing the hills and valleys of my knuckles, turning my rings and touching the hard tips of my fingers, worn from guitar strings and stained from that afternoon’s art class. He stops, waits, and I carefully run my thumb over his, feeling the delicate bones of the back of his hand: pianist’s hands, I remind myself, and they are: big, slender, flexible. His palm is soft and unmarred. His fingertips are like velvet and I wonder how he’d ever take to playing a stringed instrument, marring the softness and creating something new, maybe specialized, out of his digits.
Then another moment passes and my thoughts swirl on.
We clasp hands again, thumbs gently rubbing against each other, CocoRosie’s hesitant poetry poking and prodding at strange parts of my conciousness, creating momentary poetry that vanishes in a blink.

We sit there for a while. I couldn’t tell you how long.
Curfew comes and I wearily, unwillingly extract myself, but I look at his eyes and he seems to be saying “je sais, je sais” so I take it as I see it and leave.

Two days later in the Chapel underneath the winter palace he says “I don’t feel the same way, I’m sorry,”
and there is utter silence for a few minutes as my mind searches for the words that I had thought I had, forgets them, slips them around, and eventually makes do with an “that’s okay, I understand,” suprisingly without a cracked voice or something else that would give away how I have my heart deeply embedded somewhere around my stomach and sinking quickly.
He proceeds to outline all the reasons and I want to shut him up, say “you don’t need to prove your feelings, I don’t care,” but I sit and wait until he’s finished before I take a breath (it shudders–there–) and try to explain the long and ridiculous battle I’d had with this foe called requited love, and he listens silently until I’m done.
Now I’m sniffling. He says “you can talk to me about whatever you want, I’m sorry–”
I wish he would stop apologising, we’ve got that sorted already and I wouldn’t mind if he’d just get the fuck away from me.

He doesn’t.
We go up to get food and I wipe my eyes on my sleeves and paste on a smile, hoping no one will notice the crack in my façade.

Then a week later I met The Poet and talked for three hours and I realized that the world hadn’t quite ended but just taken a breather.

That’s all I’ve got for now.
Later? Maybe.

taper jean girl

2 Aug

Well, for the record, this is post #400, which is a bigger number than I’d imagined. I write a lot!
Also, it is terrifying being home without the “dwarves,” I catch myself starting to cry when I see something that sort of reminds me of them. I’m unpacking. I keep seeing little pieces of memories and I keep feeling like I’m missing something I need to live.
Two people’ve written me back (Ofelia and Giselle, bless their hearts), and the rest of the louts are presumably catching up with their droogs or sleeping. I have nothing to catch up on, since nothing really happens on island. I phoned Lil this morning, she hasn’t phoned back so I’m guessing she’s dead or something.

EVEN THAT MAKES ME TEARY, the “she’s dead,” because every time Billy went to the washroom I’d tell him “Don’t drown,” and he’d say something to the effect of “I’ll try not to,” and shut the door.
So many stories! I am making a list of jokes we shared, that will be the next post.
I need to listen to some Death Cab or something sad to get all these tears out.

Will write.

patterns your parents designed

1 Aug

One out of four flights done, thank the ever-loving lord.
I miss everyone already. I saw a Hugo Boss store in Charles De Gaulle and thought of Guillame: I kept falling asleep on the plane when I didn’t really want to and remembered this morning, last night-
I just actually got a double espresso (terrible idea: British coffee is just as bad as their food), and it is overwhelmingly weird to be talking to strangers in English. I have been out of an English-speaking country for more than a month.
Wow, no wonder I’m suddenly feeling the weirdness of not using someone else’s language. Also I keep trying to keep away from old men because they kept on trying to pick me up in France but part of me knows they won’t here because I am not some foriegn chick, I speak the language.
This morning, by the way, was really heartbreaking. Really heartbreaking. I was under the impression that I’d be leaving at 6, and so I wan’t quite perfectly packed (and I just realized that I left my toiletries behind. And my bathrobe! Damn it!) and had to superpack whilst sobbing, which is not easy, I tell you what. Anyway, I practically begged Julian to let me say goodbye to the dwarves (yes, this is what I call Guillame and Graydon and Giselle, at least in my head) and ran down to the second floor. I practically bowled Giselle over, squished all the breath out of her and said something to the effect of “Imma miss you SO MUUUUCH!”
I let go of her and ran down the hall to Greydon and Guillame’s room, smashed open the door and encased Graydon (sitting on the top bunk, so it worked!) in a huge sobbing hug, burying my face in his neck. “Bye,” I sobbed, disengaged for a second to plant a kiss on his cheek, then re-gaged and started crying again into his neck. He was getting a little teary himself, and hugged back.
We disengaged and I asked “Where’s Guillame?!”
“In the shower.”
So instead of barging in at that second, I caught sight of Wil down the hall and ran down to give him a letter and a hug (since I am pretty sure I will never see him again), which was far more awkward than I thought it’d be, but it was more like we were strangers than two people who had some tribulations and had pushed past them to become kind of friends. It was strange, but at that point I didn’t care. Stuck a note on Nick’s door (not sure if he got it) and fairly flew over to the showers. Slammed the door open and yelled “BILLY, I’M LEAVING, I MISS YOU ALREADY,” and then skittered down the stairs.
Kyna was at the bottom, I encased her in a hug, still kind of sobbing, and we promised to keep in touch. Hugged Mary Liza. Hugged Sofia. Hugged Gracie. Hugged Nick, who had come down the staircase behind me and who I clung to like a life raft and had to convince myself (very quickly, I might add) to let go else make a scene. I didn’t. I said a final goodbye and walked out into the early morning light and the waiting taxi and back to my ordinary life.
Not that trying to get your bag checked and tickets made is ordinary, at least not when you’re kind of explaining in both French and English, don’t know the flight numbers, only the record locator, and you have gotten about one hour of sleep that night. Fun stuff. I’ve managed to restrain myself from crying, though every time I see something that reminds me of my dwarves and my weed brownie and my Oscar Wilde non-fabulous look-alike, a little stake pierces through my heart and I feel that peculiar stinging feeling behind my eyes that heralds a subsequent shedding of tears.

I want to tell everyone here: “MY NAME IS BLARE AND I JUST SPENT A MONTH IN PARIS, I MAY HAVE MET THE COOLEST PEOPLE IN THE WORLD AND I MISS THEM SO MUCH.”

It is weird hearing everyone speaking english. I can understand them! I feel like I’m trespassing on others’ conversations: going to have to get used to that, I think. It’s pretty amazing being able to understand people again.

I want to go back, but at the same time I want to go home. It’s a bad circle of emotion to be caught in: I pretty honestly feel a little ill figuring out how exactly I feel about what has happened, what is going to happen.

Also I need to not get angry anymore, because this time I actually hurt someone: I am not sure if I hurt them physically or mentally, but I did, and now I am wondering which one and if I can try to ameliorate it or if I should leave it alone.

live through winter

12 Jul

It is raining today, and thundering, and generally making a meteorogical nuisance of itself. Yay?
Also: last night, had a quiet and kind of melancholy talk with aforementioned kind-of-boyfriend, in which he recanted and, very eloquently, to be sure, stated that he wasn’t sure what really happened, he just kind of went with the moment. And once he had time to rationalize all the dopamine that had rushed through his brain, he realized it was a bad idea to fall in love with someone you’ve only known for six -now seven- days. I didn’t cry, because I’d figured that it was far too good to be true, and thusly I hope he doesn’t think he hurt me. Sure, I am somewhat disappointed, but in more of a “Dang!” way than “My life is overrrrr!”. There is still friendship, yes, and for now it may be a little awkward, but in a few days we’ll be back to normal, one warm spark-filled night residing in the back of our memories, never to be replicated again.
Which, quite honestly, is quite okay.