Thursday, April 23, 2009

the clumsiest shape.

Sigh.

Went to Jimmy's tonight and felt slightly fifth-wheelish then slightly third-wheelish. It was fine combined with a Blue Moon, but otherwise I suppose would feel pretty sad. I discussed things with my roommate, along the lines of: "What is necessary at the outset of a relationship?"

I wrestle continuously with myself over my loneliness bullshit, and the idea that I should just wait until something natural occurs aggressively takes on the notion that maybe my stagnant mental state subconsciously won't allow something that could conceivably work. It is exhausting. Truth versus fiction, but I never know which is which. Intuition versus rationality, how much of each is required in this situation? It began raining and we ran home in the rain. I wore the wrong shoes again. Now I hear thunder outside and rain tapping at the window, taps me softly back into my daily contentment-lull. When do you decide you've had enough of this? What do you do afterward? Nothing seems writeable until it's filed away for a while.

As it is, I float on Okkervil River songs and my Professional Life and its duties. I stopped my internship and now have what feels like far fewer obligations, though that's deceptive. BA proposal is due Monday. But I don't feel stress. Wrap in blankets, down a beer at Jimmy's, rainstorm, mull over, be grateful and relax.

Sunday, April 19, 2009

the way you hate me is better than love.

I have so much to write about! I made a list! It has three things on it!

Two parties this weekend, strange affairs. Friday night's indie film organization party, with chokable smoke billowing through the room and the following conversation overheard by Sarah and me:

Guy: "No, we're not having sex, I'd know if we were having sex."
Girl: "I'm not sure; I think we might be having sex..."

The girl's friend noticed us laughing and made sure to lean toward us and whisper: "They're talking about in the movie."

Tonight was terribly nice. Korean food, coffee outside in the first warmish evening in six months (starless but still), music in my apartment, exodus to Capetown party, one stale g&t, and perhaps an entire hour of animal charades. A fine and decent night. BA ideas & advisor requirements hang in the not-too-distant future, but I'll cross these bridges when I come to them. School angst does not become me. Tomorrow: Hindi essay, pirate essays, A Passage to India, coffee with T.

Neh, I don't have it in my right now to be any more lyrical. It's past 2:30am, and sometimes things feel blunt.

Sunday, April 12, 2009

the lonely.

So much can come out of being alone. You can't know this until you've been alone for a long, long, long time. Long enough to ache and crack and wrap your arms around yourself and barely stop yourself for reaching for someone you know definitively won't fill the void. Long enough for a sudden panic to envelope you when your friend and her whatever are together enclosed in a room, for confused rage and panic to seem the obvious feeling to fill your personless room. It isn't something that tips you into insanity, not when you've still got friends. But it curls around you insidiously, like shrinking walls or a stifled scream. And only if you're so fundamentally lonely can you know this feeling.

Years from now, there will be some point in which I am not lonely, and I will know that I've experienced what it's like to be there, absolutely. It will be a road I know, another proud notch in the belt.

Thursday, April 09, 2009

The Mouse.

We have a mouse. Or do we have mice?

I noticed him the first time nearly two weeks ago, when I spilled some spaghetti on the kitchen floor, looked down mechanically, and saw, amid the sprawled grocery bags, a little brown ball bolt in the other direction.

Mentally, this is how I processed this occurrence:
1. Alive.
2. Brown
3. Bigger than cockroach.
4. Mouse-sized.
5. Mouse.
6. Holy Jesus.

I don't deal well with mice. To me, having an animal larger than an urban invertebrate unwelcome and lurking in your apartment hints toward disturbing health and sanitary issues. When we first moved in to our 1212 apartment, I had a difficult time with the occasional cockroach. Then I became accustomed. I have never seen a cockroach in this apartment, but the mouse is just too big a step up. Becoming familiar with the unwelcome mouse is too close to graduating to rats, and that is something I certainly never want to be comfortable with.

I realize, though, that mice are simply a reality--in urban centers, in apartment buildings, especially in decrepit urban apartment buildings that strain and gasp at the trial of heating your unit and reveal holes and gaps throughout the infrastructure. This place isn't a mouse house because it's gross, in the way of old food and garbage everywhere; it's a mouse house because it retains that old Chicago, worn wooden floor, crumbling interior character. This I tell myself. Especially in light of my recent frenzy of cleaning, my lemonizing the floors and meticulous organization and almost overkill cleaning of the microwave.

And yet. Tonight--nearly two weeks later--the mouse made his second appearance, in a kitchen too clean for his furry little ass. He breezed in from the hallway, saw me, increased his speed, nearly ran in to the bucket with the mop, and went under the table. Sitting at the table, I let out a short but necessary scream, and calmly stood on the chair. I did not panic further. I allowed perhaps 30 seconds of fear. I then dismounted the chair, and calmly left the room. This is an improvement over last week, when, in my rush to leave the kitchen, I tripped over myself in the hall and psychotically crawled into Amulya's room.

I will sweep up every grain of rice. I will spray jets of Fresh Laundry Fields, or whatever, into every corner. I will further lemonize our floors.

I will defeat this mouse.

Tuesday, April 07, 2009

I still exist.

Went swimming tonight, it was nice. Laps and laps and the water weighs you back and you feel tired but you don't sweat. Afterward your whole body is exhausted. In Boulder we got drunk and went to the pool room for the hot tub but all I wanted to do was swim laps. Laps and laps and laps.

I'm not sure if I know how to do this anymore, after having written for the Weekly--gearing things toward an audience, being edited--for several months blogging feels self-indulgent and pointless. Also feels good. Laps and laps and laps.