03.20.01 12:25 a.m. -Irvine Welsh (with "es" added by Xen)
"Choose life. Choose a job. Choose a career. Choose a family. Choose a big fucking television. Choose washing machines, cars, compact disc players and electrical tin openers. Choose good health, low cholesterol, and dental insurance. Choose fixed interest mortgage repayments. Choose a starter home. Choose friends. Choose leisurewear and matching luggage. Choose a three-piece suit on hire purchase in a range of fucking fabrics. Choose sitting on that couch watching mind-numbing, spirit-crushing game shows, stuffing fucking junk food into your mouth. Choose DIY and wondering who the fuck you are on a Sunday morning. Choose rotting away at the end of it all, pishing your last in a miserable home, nothing more than an embarrassment to the selfish, fucked up brats that you spawned to replace yourself.
Choose your future.
But why would I want to do a thing like that? I chose not to choose life. I chose something else. And the reasons? There are no reasons. Who needs reasons when you've got heroin(es)."
03.20.01 12:25 a.m. -Irvine Welsh (with "es" added by Xen)
-Irvine Welsh (with "es" added by Xen)
I am apprehensive, as I feel like Love's shill. Both a very generalized Love and a very, laser-precise Love.
All day, for several days, I have been victim to a very gnawing uneasiness. Yes, it was increasing attachment to Mistress Katherine of the Coy Kitten Brigade. It is a bloody terrible sensation, as I do not delude myself in this matter. I do not for a moment believe that I have a chance to be her romantic partner again, though I did for a night.
I really would prefer to have this love out of my system. Go back to the misty, barely-there-but-constant love for her, not this ocean tide of passionfearlustattachmentfondnessjealousybeautyuglinessetcetcetc. This is hideous and I am frankly done with lamenting over her. I wish that were actually true, yet I know very well it is not. I wish she were home so that I could comfort in being her friend. Yet she is not so I cannot.
I want this over, I do not want to love her as I do because it is obviously not requited, else you wouldn't be reading this entry.
So there is the laser beam, irradiating (Shh! my lovzer beam irradiates!) my core into a frenzied heat before making it explode (yet again). However, I mentioned General Love of the Emotional Army (be all that you can be: maudlin and schizophrenic). I feel like my Jungian deity-force has lent me out to Venus, as Cupid was taking a much needed rest. So I ache for love, to be loved.
However (don't you love how there is always a however? That is true love), just because some new force has its claws in me, doesn't mean I am about to go all doe-eyed anytime soon. If not for my own sense of standards and models, I have wielded the immense power of my misguided adoration of Miss Katherine to keep myself holy (bet Love didn't guess I'd have a weapon! Foolish Love, when will you learn you arm those you afflict?). They must measure up, be capable of the task of distracting me from the consuming concept of Kate. It is a daunting task, few have made an honest attempt. (Praise Fate for being somewhat nice to me. Fate needs a new name so you don't think I am actually fatalistic. Far from it!)
One very nearly succeeded. She knows who she is (and if you don't, you should frankly be ashamed at your lack of cognitive functioning). But she gave me up, and much as I get the feeling still that she wants me to desire her still, I cannot allow it. It is too late to play red rover with her. No games at all.
I try to distract myself, but it is not easy. Wait, allow me to rephrase, I try to distract myself with comely members of the fairer sex. Not in an objectifying way, of course. That is not my way at all. It is easy to distract my generally, I can stare at a leaf for twenty minutes and be distinctly enthralled. However, unless I am looking at females as I do leaves (beautiful, stimulating, natural art), I tend to let/force my touchstone of standards get in the way.
(Okay, I admit it, I am bloody scared of Kate and how much this is undoubtedly going to hurt. Let me pretend I have some semblance of control.)
Brief, stunning interaction, this is currently my drug of choice.
Today, I was in the library as is my wont on days that begin and end, especially as I am paid to be there. But I digress. I spied a lass with the longest blonde hair I have ever laid eyes on. Put mine to utter shame! For the ease of this narrative, we will dub her Rapunzel (on a side note, I worry that a year from now, I will start giving new people old pseudonyms and you will become very confused).
Rapunzel was tiptoeing around the library, and opened a door with leads to several locked rooms. I could tell she was very curious, but in a compelling way. I could nearly dub in Zen, though I couldn't justify why. I walked in as she was leaning to see what was below the floor. She gave me a sideways glance and backed out. Before she did she said wryly, "Where are you going?" I raised an eyebrow and my key on the coil green key chain, explaining, "I have a key."
Granted the interaction seems small, as it will since it was a scene to be lived or at least witnessed to derive any sense from it. We gave each other a long two-second look, sharing a nonverbal joke and I popped into the room to put my dinner in the refrigerator. When I exited, she was nowhere to be found (yes, I did search). Perhaps she was a ghost.
On Sunday, I saw a production of "Fiddler on the Roof." I enjoy it thoroughly, less for the costumes (and certainly not for the Cubist backdrop which made little contextual sense, though I hear the department was for want on money), that for the enthusiasm the actors (in their badly glued, very false beards) played their parts. I was zenning (no, it isn't really a verb, but it is to me) through the whole play and though it was very beautiful that I was there to behold it all. I still had enough cynicism to giggle quietly about the beards though...
On Friday, prior to the Kate situation, I attended a meeting briefly for the pagan organization I run. A girl who was smitten (I assumed she was over me as I kindly rebuffed her on several occasions) with me was there as well. I thought she was nice and was glad to have an extra person there. However, when I returned home, perfectly ebullient over the evening I had shared with Kate, several people in attendance informed me that they believed I was in fact smitten with said girl. I informed them that this was clearly not the case. After probing a little deeper, it seems that they believed said girl insinuated this was so. Erm.
So now I am very disappointed if this is true, as I am not a fan of rumors of any sort floating around about me. I am currently giving this girl the benefit of the doubt, unless I can some substantiating evidence. I reiterate, erm.
Spring is coming, I can smell it. It wafted in with my mother a few days ago, clinging to her like/in spite of the perfume she was wearing. The whole world will soon be mud-luscious and puddle-wonderful.
reading: Trainspotting Irvine Welsh
listening: Trainspotting #2 soundtrack
wanting: To live the fairy tale.
interesting thought: Someone reading this know thinks they know something they didn't five minutes ago. Maybe I think that as well. Thomm Quackenbush is an author and teacher in the Hudson Valley. Double Dragon publishes four novels in his Night's Dream series (We Shadows, Danse Macabre, and Artificial Gods, and Flies to Wanton Boys). He has sold jewelry in Victorian England, confused children as a mad scientist, filed away more books than anyone has ever read, and tried to inspire the learning disabled and gifted. He is capable of crossing one eye, raising one eyebrow, and once accidentally groped a ghost. When not writing, he can be found biking, hiking the Adirondacks, grazing on snacks at art openings, and keeping a straight face when listening to people tell him they are in touch with 164 species of interstellar beings. He likes when you comment.