I posted something about impatience before, and now I'm going to write about it.

Impatience is probably one of my worst vices. It has prevented me from starting (let alone finishing) many creative endeavors that I'm sure would have immensely improved my life and satisfied me artistically had I pursued them.
My problem is that I get all these amazing ideas for projects but become worn down by all the work and time they would involve. I also have a lack of motivation in the planning department. I get to thinking that if I can't finish something in a four-hour span, I'll lose interest and stop because a final product doesn't materialize in front of my face soon enough.
That's what I'm trying to overcome with my rap song. It's something of a personal victory for me since I talked about it for so long, and now I've actually written three verses and a chorus and made the first version of the beat. I NEVER engage in projects that involve this much work and planning and thought. Pretty excellent. Hopefully I will reap the benefits of being a rap star in Ames eventually... haha, that was a joke. I had so much fun writing and making the beats that I could certainly do a few more, especially if I manage to convince some friends to join in. I credit my friend Valerie with inspiring me to actually start the production, since she has awesome rap music herself.
In any case I'm glad this has happened. This summer I've certainly gotten better at sucking it up and just DOING what it takes to get something done. I always had some sort of mental block before that prevented me from getting things done. That's where my procrastination habit stems from. It's inconvenient.

I've been hanging out with old and new friends lately, and it's a nice mix. It's refreshing to have a dose of the real world for once instead of the same old bullshit that's always happening in the same group of people that's always around. Today at the cafe an old friend walked by and we actually ended up sitting for a few hours, catching up and talking about random philosophical things.

lines in the sand become lines on your face, lines which climb
they stab into your stomach and take up residence next to your heart
it's painful you want to move your hand pull them out make it stop
but they've already become part of you
bend in half watch them bend with you
fold yourself up try to hide away the lines stay straight poke out can't let them go.
you can't let them go. so you watch droplets appear on the ends on your ends they harden like honey sap
still taste so sweet so sweet
two lines in the dust behind you
still taste so sweet

------------------------------------------

small fist softly will pull at the lump in my throat
dislodge it let the wet words fly
sopping with salty bewilderment
and some sharp like glass shards or razors
but most most will drip sweet sorrow
there is some revelatory curtain that must be pulled back, we know
bright yellow lenses will descend tomorrow tomorrow
we'll witness the slow liquid light exhale
onto panes floor wall all tomorrow
but in this moment we are alone suspended
a failed dimension we exist inside
we only wait for the moment we are ejected
our serene cube, truth will dissolve and into the melee
unbelieving masked disguised violet we will fall

THIS IS THAT NEW SHIT.
Well, it's coming in the mailll...

I'm sad everyone's leaving. But also I like summer. It is a time of reflexion, solitude, silence, and intensity. It is a lost disconnected time. It's a time to reglue the roots in, you know? It has always been that way for me, everyone leaves and I am left to myself and my stunted weakened faltering connections with others, so I have no choice but to become stronger.
And of course self reinvention, but this time it's building on what it was before, and me and Rox are going to FREAK AMES THE FUCK OUT. According to plan :|

I've really been looking forward to it. Also I want to fuck Feadz's voice.

Grades so far:
Jl MC 201: A
Jl MC 341: B

///FAIS RENTRER LES EUROS PARCE QU'ILS SONT PAS SI CHOUETTES COMME NOUS///

There is an AMAZING article in the newest issue of Ms. Magazine that I found heartbreaking and inspiring at the same time. It's about how up to 70% of college girls view their bodies as sex objects to be consumed by the male gaze. They live in a state of "double consciousness... a sense of always looking at one's self through the eyes of others."

"Women who self-objectify are desperate for outside validation of their appearance and present their bodies in ways that draw attention." Studies show that girls who "chronically monitor their physical appearance" are more prone to depression and low self-esteem and have less faith in their own capabilities, and general feelings of disgust and shame about their bodies. In the long-term, self-objectifiers have lower gpa's than non-objectifiers.

"Girls are taught to view their bodies as 'projects' that need work before they can attract others, whereas boys are likely to learn to view their bodies as tools to use to master the environment."

Then it moves on to talk about sex, and much of what it said curiously echoes a previous journal entry of mine.
"Nudity can cause great anxiety among self-objectifiers, who then become preoccupied with how their bodies look in sexual positions. As constant critics of their bodies, they can't focus on their own sexual pleasure."

"Many young women now engage in sex acts with men that priotitize the man's pleasure, with little or no expectation of reciprocity," says anti-sexist male activist and author Jackson Katz.

Then, about the fact that many women seem proud to wear t-shirts that say things like "Fuck Foreplay" (implying.. what? that men don't enjoy foreplay? let's get down to penetration?):
"The notion of objectification as empowering is illogical, since objects are acted upon, rather than taking action themselves. The real power in such arrangements lies with boys and men, who come to feel entitled to consume women as objects-- first in media, then in real life."

"Perhaps the most striking outcome of self-objectification is the difficulty women have in imagining identities and sexualities truly our own."


______________________________________
I love this magazine. Its staff is not afraid to say the truth. I put these quotes here because this article is largely about me, and actually illustrates much of my own struggle against myself. I have objectified myself since I was fourteen and have often spoke of feeling like I have a block between my true self and the way I act, my fear of being original, and my fear of being viewed as unattractive and therefore worthless. It's a handicap and it is an uphill struggle. That's why lately I have been making an effort to just have fun and focus on that instead of how I look to others, which so far has been slow progress but progress nonetheless. At least I'm over the sex part of it, thank goodness.
It's funny though how I have to make a conscious effort to just treat myself as someone who has internal value around other people. I am NOT my appearance.

Hear, hear.

So. Beautiful.
I can't relate to the lyrics at the moment, but it's such a gorgeous song.

My mind's distracted and diffused
My thoughts are many miles away
They lie with you when you're asleep
And kiss you when you start your day

And a song that I was writing is left undone
I don't know why I spend my time
Writing songs I can't believe
With words that tear and strain to rhyme

And so you see I have come to doubt
All that I once held as true
I stand alone, without beliefs
The only truth I know is you

And as I watch the drops of rain
Weave their weary paths and die
I know that I am like the rain
There but for the grace of you go I

Simon & Garfunkel
Kathy's Song

I like the fact that the automated ads on the lyrics websites I visit say things like, "Find Great Deals on Simon and Garfunkel Stuff!"
I don't really think I would...


I feel like an open wound scraped raw and scraped again, a dozen times, and just now it's dawning on me not to put on a bandage but to retreat from the friction and let it heal naturally. Give it some air. I'll have a lovely raised shining scar, but I'll have the knowledge of the experience as well.
I can stop letting the fear cloud my vision and just wander free like I did last night, alone, in the still air lighthearted from wine with the Raconteurs in my ears. I realized again that I am content alone. I am strong. I know myself, and I know I don't need to settle for a jagged cycle of pain and satisfaction and fear and half-moon emotions just to feel a connection to something or someone; I can enjoy life without it. I can be real.
I will not transfer the need to another like some sort of parasite. That has only ever led to more pain. On the contrary, I will overcome it.

Little baby doll, she doesn't know what to say to y'all
the patience is short and of course the pride is way too tall
break it all smash the past like it was made of glass
ain't no other way to make it last

Atmosphere

There is going to be an article on impatience in this space, as soon as I write it.

I have concluded that during much of the first two weeks or so of every month I am scatterbrained, confused, emotional and depressed. It must be hormones.
The days do vary of course, and I think that's because the 28-day cycle isn't a month, so it's really just the two weeks or so leading up to the restoration of hormone levels. Every month it gets a little bit earlier, but just by looking at the dates of my journal entries you can tell when it's happening.
Knowing that it's a cycle makes it a lot easier to understand and cope with, even embrace. It was really hard when I thought I was just crazy then better then crazy then better, but knowing it's going to stop in a few days is comforting. This time I was pretty aware of that and was able to avoid a lot of drama (well not really, but I feel like it needed to happen) and just wait for it to be over.
I do like the depression in a way, though. It forces me to be intraspective and examine myself and my past, my motives, my assumptions about myself and others, anything. It's what helps me learn about life. Granted I'm not productive really during any of it, and it's quite stressful having to deal with homework and everything in the worst moments, but it's an interesting state of mind to be in.
In any case, as of today I am emerging from said state and am fine. I am dedicating myself this week to schoolwork, and by some stroke of miracle work only scheduled me for one day. I have to write an 18-page term paper which I have yet to do any research for by Friday.
I wonder how this sort of depression is related to clinical chronic depression, if it is at all. It's not manic/depressive either, because I haven't been manic in a while, even though I'm taking lower doses of my meds than I should be. Hmmm.

Dude. Simon and Garfunkel. I am in the mood for hippie music and I am ready for SUMMER NIGHTS.

Sometimes the relativity of everything really freaks me out.
I mean, everything I know and believe and am sure about is probably just going to end up in a trash pile in my head labeled "doesn't function in society." I'm probably going to end up like my parents. They're happy living the way they do but I wouldn't be and I couldn't even try to pretend. I'll probably end up like them anyway.
Don't worry, I don't really believe that.

But seriously. It's so easy to be happy in life. When something gets you down you find a perspective that turns it, whatever it is, into something positive, or reproaches your view on it. The hard part is the simple admission of the fact that this can be done in absolutely any situation. I do this to myself all the time. Maybe that's why I find it hard to value anyone's opinion, including mine, and I just cling to anything that appears to make concrete sense, but then I realize it's another one of those fleeting moments and I go back to understanding that nothing is absolute. There's always a fucking flipside. It's hard to find anything permanent to cling to when that little notion is present.

I'm kind of freaking out right now in a really passive way. All I want to do is run, and I just did, but the gym closed and it wasn't enough and then I went and bought sixty-four dollars worth of fruit, lean meats, nuts and seeds and now I'm supposed to be doing situps but I am writing this. I'm writing this and thinking about the Atmosphere lyrics I heard for six hours in my car today at work. SAVED THE DAY.

I just want someone to lick my clit and make me forget about all this nonsense. After all, orgasms do cause the brain to release endorphins.

As mentioned in my facebook today, I think it would be a really good idea to get a hearing aid-- like, tomorrow-- so that my music could sound louder. As it is my speakers suck and the bass is overpowering so my neighbors stomp on the walls if I play it at any audible volume, and the headphones on my ipod REALLY suck, so that would help even more. Plus I won't have to buy one when I go deaf because I spent all my non-deaf years thoroughly appreciating life's prettiest noise.

The more time that passes, the more sure I become that
it's
all
in
my
head.

I've been debating on whether or not to post this here because I don't know how it will be received, but to hell with it, I like it. I wrote it on the airplane home, quite randomly and quite unexpectedly.

-----------

The Midwestern women didn’t question the nagging cold feeling in the back of their minds which threatened to overwhelm them from time to time, which they quieted with salon highlights, designer shoes and reality TV shows, subconsciously aware of the fact that even acknowledging the dead blackness in the depths of their being would be unpleasant, irreversible, and counterproductive to the tightly wrapped-and-ribboned package that was their lives. It might displease their husbands if the perpetually smiling wives realized that the context in which they were living didn’t allow them to love themselves, not really, and the husbands’ displeasure was to be avoided at all costs. The wives didn’t want to realize that the happiness was all on the surface. They couldn’t stop smiling.

They might discover passions that would make their entire lives up to that point completely insignificant. No, no, no, everything was going too smoothly to start that; never mind that that sort of autonomous revolution might jolt them out of this nightmarish cookie-cutter existence, this happy obedience, once and for all. They stopped themselves before thinking too far.

She thought about the women on the West coast, the ones she’d grown up around. Mostly they were fantasies nowadays, fictitious characters created from fragments of childhood memories and the images of ideal feminine beauty she’d seen on TV in high school, images she had foolishly believed to be attainable.

The women in her childhood, from what she could pick out of the scattered freeze-frames of the early 90’s which danced in her mind, were professional, neurotic, and sexy—fresh new thirtysomethings recently back in the real world after surviving the substance-soaked 80’s. Always half-sarcastic, mildly bitter, trying fiercely to laugh off perverted morals and a loss of faith in mankind with a hard face, hiding the real shame and disgust within, sedating it with another screwdriver, please.

They were professionals, they were anorexic, they were forever sipping Diet Cokes through straws and feathering their hair. They attended step class three times weekly wearing bright clingy leotards and white Reeboks and sweatbands. They had two-year-old daughters whom they dressed in jumpsuits patterned with watermelons. They were her parents’ friends and colleagues, relocated to Los Angeles (land of Freedom) from Michigan and Tennessee and Seattle. This was the Land where Anything was Possible, and they were going to achieve the American Dream and would decidedly be happy, finally, when they made their first hundred thousand, lost those ten pounds, bought that Lexus. They swallowed the immense heavy dissatisfaction that spread like molasses through their chests, repeating to themselves: as soon as, as soon as…

She rarely saw any of them anymore. The smart ones had quit their nine-to-fives years ago to pursue a more sensible path, usually something modest, always something they’d had a passion for but had previously felt too embarrassed to consider carrying out. Big Dreams were what people had in Los Angeles, not bike shops.

But the women now, the ones who were her age who had all grown up in the city or the suburbs, the twenty-something offspring of the L.A. migrants, were a hugely different breed. They were lost, just as their parents had been upon realizing money wasn’t happiness, but these women didn’t know they were lost because they had never known stability.

Born into a whirlwind of cultures clashing, a tired war on drugs, budding generational bewilderment, violent backyard wrestling versus their parents’ traditional waspy values, high schools full of nasty delicious rumors about underage sex and elusive drugs and rich cheerleader sluts who for some reason everyone seemed to love; Mexican immigrants so hard-working they practically slept in the fields just to be able to feed their children, yet who were somehow judged and condemned by the rest of society for not having had the opportunity to learn English.

Bombarded with magazines and TV commercials all featuring thin, blonde, tanned, toned, smiling women advocating an endless train of products designed to "fix" the flaws the media told them they had while their parents and teachers assured them they were beautiful just as they were, and the boys their age scoffed or ignored them if they didn’t present themselves as sexual objects, something to perfect, a sort of commodified mannequin.

These women grew up ignorant of poverty, unaware that anything but a sprawling web of affluent big-city suburbs comprised the God-Motherfucking-Blessed United States of America. The twisted friendships they wrought with one another as MTV-crazed middle and high-school girls were pitifully shallow and overtly competitive. Each girl felt imprisoned and forlorn inside her own head, sensing something was deeply wrong with the way people interacted with each other, but that notion was shortly buried by the Race. Each girl eventually forgot that she was hiding her thoughts and feelings and passions and self-esteem away, painting over them with comparisons to other girls, to magazines, to the airbrushed chiseled starved masterpieces they saw on display in magazines like contorted porcelain dolls. In alcohol ads, in Prada ads, in how-to articles for girls with Bad Skin and Thunder Thighs. Soon they defined themselves by their appearances.

Their obsession with conforming to what the various media judged attractive— acceptable—desirable—soon became the most central facet of their lives. Some sort of invisible goal had been established in their minds, the goal of Happiness, of Contentment, a goal that would be reached as soon as they looked like the girls in the magazines. They stopped eating, or worse; they started throwing up food in their parents’ bathrooms after dinner. They obsessed over the latest fashions and grew jealous toward the spoiled girls whose parents bought them whatever they wanted. Fuck school, what does school matter? They competed with one another to see who ate least, who got attention from boys, who had the best hair. For them, that was joy, being That Girl. The friends competed silently. Silently, they hated one another, a smoldering hatred that rose from the knowledge that there would always be bonier, prettier, more perfect girls than themselves. It frustrated them, it confused them, and after high school none of them knew where to go, still desperately seeking a way to become Happy, unsure if it was really possible, their faith still rooted in the Race.

The blanket of self-loathing constantly present in their ungrounded souls could be numbed or deadened for certain lengths of time.

Some girls slept with anyone who would, feeding off of the validation the sex gave them. Because wasn’t that why they all wanted to be That Girl in the first place? To get That Guy? To get any guy? Wasn’t that the point of it all, to Be Attractive? But two words were always left out, the point was to be attractive to men. For men. As if the men decided their worth.

Some girls became addicts. They slowly committed suicide, three or four at a time, always a small cluster and always together, because that way at least they knew they belonged. They were Accepted, they were a Group, they were Enough. Their lives became a hectic mishmash of deals and cash and pills and needles, and they couldn’t think any longer about the loathing, the antagonism, the fact that they repulsed themselves, because they were living fast, from one high to the next.

Some girls escaped.

Some fled to places where life was simpler. A bleak existence.

Some entered institutions and eventually left labeled Recovered.

Some found solace in literature and quickly became wise, and it was excruciating.

Mostly, people called this emergence of women from their hellish adolescence Growing Up, although many of them hadn’t the slightest idea what that meant, and none of them felt adult at all. Instead they felt duped, cheated of precious time, sour toward the same magazines they’d worshiped, and far past due for a game of intellectual catch-up with their male counterparts.

They didn’t blame the men, no, they knew the men no longer had anything to do with the sick game that society played with young girls. They blinked with dazed eyes at the reality that had only just become apparent to them. They ached for the girls who remained a part of it.

If you hate the media, you must become the media.

Oh boy hormones Suck. I'm in one of those moods where Everything is just weird and I think I'm overanalyzing.
Think so. Any little change in my surrounding and my mind is off again figuring out Why How Whatnow WHAT'S GOING ON.
This is funny. My hands are small, wrinkled and white. My wrists are polygons. My hair is trying to escape my scalp, it doesn't like being stuck there with its siblings all the time. Wants out, the ends raise up like hands for nickels. I try to tie it up and still it protests. Oh hair. I had to brush it earlier because it wouldn't let go of itself, and now it's so anxious to escape... decide already!

Spent the evening trying to talk sense into senselessness. Didn't work I don't think. I got angry, then ate some turkey pastrami.
We Are A Prozac Nation, a Nation ready to Kill Itself because of Some Boy. Or Girl, If You're Emo.

Man I hate social conditioning. It Sucks.

I Love how those done-up kidz on their offdays look so incredibly down. Because they're not done-up. It's hard to look extra dressed up if you're always dressed up. Hippies always clean up nicely. So do carrots. For hippies, it's hard to look unkempt.

My body is pulsing. My head is moving with my heart. My head is full of clouds and roses and white trails of milk or tears. My skull is confining the contents of my head.

Deserts know more than we do. Deserts have seen it all.

Did you ever notice that the more a person knows, the more like a desert she looks?

My brandy was clinging to the glass like sugar that's been melted and cooled, but with a few unsmoothed grains left. It was clinging to the glass and slowly submitting to gravity in droplet form, from the rim, onto my jeans. Second by Second onto The Rules of Attraction.
Avoiding touch touch touch I am nobody's. I am nobody's. I am mine.

I want to sit in a crowded room and hug myself, not touch anyone, just to know for sure that I Am Mine. That I know I'm Mine, and my arms don't defy my mind and sneak past to snake out and touch somebody else, soft hair, a cute smile, so eager to give me to someone, to connect, to create sparks and a .closed circuit. that soon burns because the electricity there wants .out.
So I cut those wires, it's done, they're gone and so is he, and so is any hope of electricity for a long time. A Long. Time.
It's colder, but it's manageable, and I have my friends. I am Mine.

When I tell someone that I enjoy techno music, they generally look at me like maybe I'm covered in some sort of radioactive substance caused by excessive pounding bass and too much ecstasy.
I have a feeling it's because "techno" evokes in most people mental images of warehouse raves full of plastic rainbow jewelry and giddy, treble-heavy choruses set to a beat too fast to dance to.
I then proceed to explain that this stereotype is precisely what keeps people from discovering the allure of electronic music. If they listened to an actually artful "techno" song without the conditioned disgust, they might hear it for what it is: a harmonious orgy of deep bass and melody and clean subdivisions offset by whatever embellishments the artist sees fit to include. Perhaps they could appreciate the fact that most modern electronica spans several genres, and marvel at the talent of artists who can make the likes of Metallica danceable (see Justice's remix of Master of Puppets) or set femme-rap to heavy electronic beats (see Uffie- Hot Chick, and turn up the bass).
Seriously. You think hip-hop's fun to dance to, throw away your inhibitions and try this stuff.
To many people, "I like all music" may sound like a foreign statement, one that someone might make who hasn't been around long enough to develop convictions of what's good and bad in the music world. That's not the case.
Really, I have consciously eradicated the part of my mind's framework that would cause me to judge music in order to more fully experience what artists (because that's what musicians are) envisioned while writing their music. It's often very mind-expanding.
When I meet people, the first thing I usually bring up to get an idea of someone's character is music: what kinds they like, how knowledgeable they are about different artists or genres, whether or not music is a big part of their life, whether they view music as just entertainment or as an experience. The majority of people I talk to are fairly open-minded, but there are always those who prefer only, say, country and rap, or only metal.
I'm not exactly sure what's going on in these people's heads, but I think it might be that when they hear music they're listening for one type of sound, and if they don't hear it, they don't like it. That's that. They emanate this attitude that says, "It sucks, and if you do happen to like it, something's wrong with you." They've got an idea of what music "should" be, one mood, and they can't seem to transcend the barrier in their mind to become available to other sounds. At this point, I usually find someone else to talk to as I am obviously setting myself up for some serious insults, because I like John Mayer, Cradle of Filth, Snoop Dogg and Regina Spektor all at the same time.
Music has an ability to transform people's moods and ways of thinking that is, in my opinion, mostly untapped. My friends and I routinely set the mood for the night through the music we play. Sometimes I'll put on some Chromeo for the new electro-80's feel, sometimes I'll put on Hendrix or Floyd for the old school experimental intensity, and there's always room for some Wu Tang if we're all feeling a little badass. Through their music, we've all experienced the different worlds in which those artists live and strive to let others experience: there's nothing like laying on the floor of my living room on a Monday night for a heavily sedative dose of Sigur Rós.
There are some arguable limits to this open-mindedness, however. For example, material written for hit radio by a corporately paid songwriter and performed by an overpublicized pop icon fails to spark any sort of interest in me— in fact, it baffles and discourages me that such music is so widely embraced by the masses. Other music is so offensive to me that I refuse to listen to it on ethical grounds. Unfortunately, most of the popular club hits fall into this category. Being a woman, I cannot bring myself to condone music which repeatedly treats my gender as sexual objects, which places men and money on some sort of pedestal and forces women to compete against one another for their attention and material assets. No, thank you.
And some singers' voices are so unpleasant to my ears that I don't even bother trying. How did Jordan Pundik (New Found Glory) ever become famous?
I challenge anyone who enjoys music in the least to open up to a new genre, a new artist, whatever's playing at the Design Café while you wait for your sandwich. Reject your stereotypes and appreciate what they're communicating to you— those artists pour their souls into perfecting the message their music sends.

HOkay.

I've decided that since this breakup has been a big stressful deal and things like this always leave me kind of sputtering in life's dust, I need to make a decision. Most people are socially anxious at least some of the time, and most people are slightly neurotic— they just don't dwell on it. They shove it aside and get on with their lives and do what they need to do, and it becomes a mere shadow of a once mind-paralyzing fear.
It's already been resolved in my mind that I'm doing that. I can't just regress into the social state I lived in when I was sick and miserable. I am too awesome to be playing a victim or a poor sad girl or even a bold unstoppable one, because I am actually a little of both and a lot of unique. So FUCK DAT.

Haha... once again, exercise has cleared my mind.

So, check this out. It's the first poem I ever wrote. I wrote it right before I turned 13. I remember sitting in my bed that night with the light from the side table lamp reflecting on my notebook. I was such a smart kid. I should have listened to my own advice. Instead I spent the next four years throwing up everything I ate, being depressed, losing all respect for myself, and damaging my relationships with my family and friends. Whew.

the magazines; the models
are so misleading, so subtly cheating
they glow as perfection does
striving for resemblence, never succeeding
hungry for attention, for recognition
to be the queen everyone loves
why try? it won't happen
something you're born with
something money can't fix;
clothing can't determine
confidence, steadily growing
feeding from my own
till I am left empty as a tin can
questions resounding on the inside
slowly receding as the answers dawn
you weren't meant to be that way
to be power lusting: a faux persona.
you are a dreamer; deep thinker,
ponder every thought, every word
every emotion
losing your head in the confusion
staring at them
quietly amused, wonder, knowing
knowing they aren't for real
the worlds they utter aren't real
all said to strenghten, to construct
building the wall in their mind
while your own crumbles
and from the rubble shines a light

The craziest ideas are popping into my head right now!

"...part journalism and part personal memoir admixed with powers of wild invention and wilder rhetoric."
-Tom Wolfe on Hunter S. Thompson's writing style

Was inspired today in media writing and reporting class by a discussion about Hemingway, Hunter S. Thompson and Jack Kerouac. I haven't read works by any of them but I know their biographies, which are absolutely amazing.
Their stories, which all involve taking reporting or novel-writing to the next level by participating in whatever they are reporting on and becoming an essential part of the story, ties in with what I need to do with my life: have adventures. I need to do crazy things with myself like move to random places, meet people-- then write about it. This has been previously mentioned in my other journal. The discussion gave me hope that one day I'll be able to do that, just write stories heavily based on my own experiences, because fuck knows I'm certainly not creative enough to come up with scenarios on my own.

This is also (at least in my mind) related to a discussion I had with D.nizz earlier today about subcultures and authenticity and trends. I was talking about my anxiety toward new people or people who I admire from afar for being indie/hipster or artsy or who appear to be "unique"--what a paradox! That somehow I am compelled to impress them or change the way I am to render myself more likeable to them.
Dude, fuck that. A lot of those people are just more sheep in disguise who use their appearance and its label as a safety net. I have posted a note about this phenomenon on my facebook notes. Life should be about becoming COMPLETELY authentic. Life should not be about trying to conform and doing the latest cool thing because that's what everyone else is doing. That is just another stupid attempt to fit in, even if it does look like some rebellious edgy subculture. Have you people looked around? EVERYONE has jewelry on their faces. EVERYONE has skinny jeans. EVERYONE has tattoos. EVERYONE listens to emo indie rock. It's certainly a step up from conservative Christianity, but there still exists your share of posers and people who are just tagging along to feel like they belong. There's still that atmosphere of competition: Who can be the HIPPEST hipster?
What I should be doing is laughing at them, and at me. Because I admit, I'm guilty, I am attracted to those goddamn trendy kidz. Gotta realize though, that I should be loved for being my own amazing person instead of worrying about how unlike other people I am. This is pretty much the stem of many of my social insecurities: assuming that people are more sophisticated and ...wise than I am even though my personal social experiences tell me the opposite. Yep, that was meant to sound conceited.
Now is the time to walk the walk...

This morning as I lay alone in bed listening to the couple in the apartment above me having sex, I realized that the ultimate symbol for the ubiquitous underlying male dominance of females is the fact that women my age rarely orgasm while fucking, and they don't expect to.
When did this happen?
I went through my high school years and my first year of college thinking I couldn't physically orgasm because I never had before, although I'd had plenty of sex. The joys of masturbation later cured me of those thoughts, thank goodness.
Some of the coolest girls I know have told me they never have orgasmed during sex, even with their boyfriends; they're either too worried or not horny enough or just don't have enough time. I think it's kind of a myth, that women can actually orgasm during sex, especially for younger girls. Their goal is to get the guy off and if they happen to have a little fun too, then great!
Why are they cheating themselves out of an orgasm? To make a man think it's okay to just ignore whether or not she comes? To allow a man to essentially take advantage of her body without even making it worthwhile? Wouldn't a woman who has sex without orgasming just feel fucked afterwards? From this side of the fence it certainly seems so. I know I would.
After last year I realized the truth, which is that most men just want to get off and are either too scared to ask a woman or don't care whether or not she comes. Even if they're great guys: smart, good-looking, funny.
And I think most women ignore the fact that they don't come because the act of sex itself feels good, of course, but more than that: it's great validation for their value to men and their attractiveness— not to mention a nice symbolic way to be put in their places as subservient if they don't even orgasm. Oops.
For a woman who doesn't need the male validation to feel attractive, it is incredibly difficult (especially in Iowa) to encounter attractive men who actually have respect for a woman's pleasure AND her opinions. I find that most men in Iowa are just scared of me because I'm pretty outspoken and I know what I want. Plus I'm tall. And I will not settle.
Yay for celibacy!

I wanna be a pin-up girl, but Troy says he doesn't want people seeing me in lingerie. Cos that's what I want to wear. Pretty selfish of him; it's not like I'm giving the photographer a handjob off-camera or anything.

Been pretty god damned scatterbrained and confused lately. Paranoid too— the other night I was terrified and kept seeing things out of the corner of my eye. Friday night I got all gussied up in red jeans and a Floyd shirt, went to a party at Troy's, and promptly fell asleep. Felt too tired and awkward to talk to anyone, and the fact that no one I knew arrived until after 1:30 didn't help. Went home shaking uncontrollably from the cold around 4.
The confusion about what I want (or don't want) and what to say or not say is driving me crazy. I'm tempted to change my plans; I keep thinking about how much I want to move away, how much I crave new experiences and new ways of thinking. The only constant I have is the way I treat myself physically, the fact I'm doing good in school... outward stuff. My music. My art. I have yet to write an actual article this semester... need to talk to the guys at the Progressive.
I'm having trouble holding conversations with people, keep double- and triple-thinking over everything I might say and it freaks me out. I'm freaked out by people. Don't want to come off badly.

Now that we're a little bit into the semester, I'm thinking I could actually reach my goal of being a translator and a journalist. I can write; I can translate. I like doing both. I'm good at both, especially editing— my journalism professor told me himself. I like editing too, it gives me that position of authority. Translating is all about finding the perfect word or phrase that communicates precisely the idea of the original Spanish version, and since I like English words so much, it's very fun for me. Fun and satisfying.

It's shower time, I had a mad work-out tonight with Roxy. I'm so glad I've recruited my friends to come to the gym with me. Sweet potato in the oven.

fro·zen
—adjective
2. congealed by cold; turned into ice.
3. covered with ice, as a stream.
4. frigid; very cold.
5. injured or killed by frost or cold

waste·land
—noun
1. land that is desolate, barren, or ravaged.
2. a place, era, or aspect of life considered as lacking in spiritual, aesthetic, or other humanizing qualities; a vacuum

That pretty accurately describes Ames at the moment.
Yesterday peaked at 40 degrees (warmest in January so far) and the snow started to melt, leaving puddles on the sidewalks. Today the puddles are frozen so Ames is basically covered in ice. Ugh. The wind is terrible.

This morning at the psychiatrist's office I found out I have a lot of symptoms of borderline personality disorder.

( Read on... )

Makes a lot of sense, considering. I'd looked it up before (after reading Girl, Interrupted) and I guess I got the wrong impression of what it is. I really just want to stop being crazy.

Mindfulness.

As one more closely observes inner reality, one finds that happiness is not exclusively a quality brought about by a change in outer circumstances, but rather by realizing happiness often starts with loosening and releasing attachment to thoughts, pre-dispositions, and "scripts"; thereby releasing "automatic" reactions toward pleasant and unpleasant situations or feelings.


This is crazy, I stumbled upon it after randomly reading Sue Monk Kidd's description of it.

Just a weird day.
The turbulence of my emotional states during the last week or so has been staggering. I seem to have lost any foothold I had on my deeper emotional stability. Something about the Dance of the Dissident Daughter has confused me, my urges to just be alone, my pending conclusions about my eating problems and exercise and sleep, my hatred and frustration toward my appearance, my slight but nearly constant annoyance with the fact that Troy and I are not on the same level so much anymore because of all this, I don't know. It is fucking me up. I am having a lot of trouble functioning normally. One of the bigger problems that I am seeing here is the lack of consistency in my personality. In my personal convictions, my thoughts about myself, about my relationship, about my life. I am constantly questioning myself and therefore have no time to wonder about others. Instead I'm just scared to talk to them. Here enters my qualms sparked by DDD-- am I a Favored Daughter? Am I living to please and do I long for approval? Do I allow people to walk all over me in order to avoid conflict? Do I screen my own emotions and reactions to avoid expressing how I really feel, therefore avoiding a clash of opinions? There is so much going on in my head; I feel like I have lost myself in these cyclic ramblings. And I am positive much of the above mentioned is true.
Sometimes I feel like talking to people, I feel sociable, and I'm not afraid to joke around at all and treat people like I know them well. I feel confident, I feel like I have something to offer people. Other times, especially with new people, I am terrified of offending someone (when talking to people who seem pretty normal/content/average), or, conversely, coming off as TOO cliché, as a tool, as just another ignorant (or worse, cowardly) girl trying to please everyone around her, a byproduct of society, a black hole radiating fear. That's when I interact with people who I perceive as "cool," confident, unique, and independently thinking. I often assume they will "see" the "truth" about me, that I'm really not worth their time. And that becomes a self-fulfulling prophecy because many times I begin to act the way in which I believe others perceive me, going strictly by my appearance and actions at parties and like, that is. Or else I just don't bother trying to be sociable.
Am I so hung up on my perceptions and judgments about others that I assume they will do the same to me? Who am I to assume that everyone is so judgmental? It is not a vice everyone must conquer.
Another conflict in my life is the fact that while I have all of this happening in my head, I am crying because I relate to books and nothing else. I cannot confide in anyone else because they don't understand it, and once again, I'm afraid of being judged.
In fact, I think that's the biggest problem of all. I'm afraid of being judged.
I dress outlandishly from time to time, but I make sure I still show off my socially acceptable female body. I wear makeup. I hassle myself about my appearance. I talk the talk with those who I know will appreciate it, but I half-ass the walk.
I try to be creative. I try to create. I try to write, sew, etc. I try so hard to express myself, but once again I'm terrified. I think there's actually some sort of barrier between my conscious thinking and my creative mind, because I know it's there, I know the capacity to be artistic is there, but I can't access it. There is a subconscious underlying fear which prevents me from tapping into my imagination. Maybe it's because I'm afraid of what I'll find there: originality, individuality, something unlike anything I have seen or done before. And why am I scared of that? If anything I should be excited about that, that would win me recognition and more status as a person [woman] and an artist, especially among this group of people who for some reason I think require some "proof" of my worth as a person. Besides, I myself would enjoy it. It may augment my self-worth by five hundred percent if only I could express myself the way I know I should. And I should nullify the importance I put on what others think.
Who cares?
Are there other people I know who are going through something like this? Is it because I am a woman that I have this problem at all, that I am so quick to judge and expectant of the same judgment from others? Is that why girls have such a hard time getting along?
Why do I find it so difficult to talk to girls? Am I really on THAT different of a level than they are? Is it impossible for me to have a meaningful conversation with a woman who has not "awoken," in the words of Sue Monk Kidd? Why are my relationships with my girlfriends so stunted and unsatisfying? Is it really that sexual tension of some sort is essential to me in relationships? Do I need that kind of validation to function as a normal, confident person? Do I really not know how to communicate effectively with people, or is it my irrational fear that is hindering my abilities? Or is it just that my ability to have extremely deep and meaningful relationships with a select few people makes normal friendships dull in comparison? Because I feel pretty unsatisfied just "hanging out" with people unless there is deep intelligent conversation involved. Afterwards at least. When they are present I suppose I enjoy myself. I guess I just don't see where they're going. Friendships aren't much of a progression, I guess, not like relationships are at least.
But the truth is, I am not an incredibly social person. Maybe my misgivings about other people and society have made me that way, but in the end it's real. It could have been different, but this is what I have become. And great. But in NO WAY should I let my judgments toward others hinder my own progress socially. I assume I already know all about people and therefore fail to ask questions, to find the truth. When all life is a quest for knowledge, I shut myself off to the biggest source of it that there is (other people) by assuming I already know. What a fucking narcissist I am. Honestly, that's what it comes down to, that deep down I think I've seen it all and done it all and know it all and can read everyone like a book, but that's not true in the least. When writing it down here I feel like the biggest douchebag ever because NO ONE could know that. That's the stupidest, most irrational thing I've ever written, and unfortunately, it's true.

People who are diluted by our pushy society and fear of a god are a waste of life. Society is, honestly, for people without free will. How can you enjoy anything real and uncensored when what the collective culture thinks about it [bad] is screening your own feelings and personality?? Now, I’m not perfect, I go through plenty of doubt and uncertainty and often anxiety regarding what other people think, but usually when I’m feeling alone or hurt. Then I remember that I am not alone. I have no business worrying about that shit. The people who matter are the people who think I am amazing for hating the norm. The people who are vulgar and real and to whom nothing is taboo. They are truly alive. They will become truly wise.

I find once again that the destructive creature in my head is becoming restless. Things are going to well.. time to fuck 'em up.
Honestly, it doesn't matter how things are really going, it's how I perceive that they are. It's my inner happiness it wants. If things are shit but I'm happy my little demon shows me the truth. If things are great and I'm happy it shows me how to turn it all around with some neurotic outburst or depressive episode. I'm sick of it, I'm frustrated, and I don't know why it's there. Why can't I let myself be happy? Why does the metaphor of the creature living in my head seem the most appropriate way to describe what happens to me? I do not consciously decide to make my life miserable. I do not consciously decide to pay attention only to the negatives.
Is that how my addiction is currently manifesting itself? Because they say, and I'm starting to believe, that if you've had an addiction it will never go away, but keep showing up in different forms, in different situations. I'm finding it hard not to despair over this. I do not want to spend my life in the iron grip of something that I did to myself as part of a psychological experiment six years ago. Because that's what happened: I decided to see whether or not I became addicted (or, in my terms, "truly crazy") if I acted a certain way long enough. If I stole food for the fun of it, would I eventually do it without wanting to? If I starved myself to get skinny, would I eventually get stuck in the pattern? Get too skinny? I was curious and fascinated and obviously did not understand how dangerous and permanent it could and would become. It's a sad world. It's a sad race.

So, this is apparently the point in my life where I am proved wrong about everything I thought I knew about myself. And I realize that it's not correct to be a narcissist. And I guess I start over.

I feel another one of those ridiculous changing periods coming on. Periods not of creation but of self discovery through music, books, just input from other sources, before I can spit anything back out.

Funny how life works.
I spent the evening dancing around my living room contemplating what beauty really is, why i worry about anything, thinking about how all the different people live, even just the ones in ames, how we are all living in such incredibly distant worlds.

how could i seriously take the time to calm down and organize my thoughts when i live this life unplanned sloppy just get-up-and-gonoideawhereto

when i have new friends every two days

when i am trying to fight with my instinct to avoid all social contact

when i am trying to figure out why it is that when i am in a good mood i am a different person than when im not

wondering what sleep has to do with all of this

thinking about getting high, or at least smoking a cigarrette, or maybe drinking my fernet

i read a quote.. its always great to start a new beginning, just remember that there are some things worth holding onto

i guess i see why eventually people settle down, but you know, the change is what makes you you, and youll never know what you could have been if you dont

and i rather enjoy change

in the meantime just looking in awe at these people who can turn their suffering into something beautiful, this art, why does it feel like i have so much pent up but so reluctant to leave ? ?
it used to be easier
but i do remember that one time last year, thanksgiving break, it was worse, i cried and ran and wrote a letter to tommy lee

and then the next two weeks were two of the best i've ever had.

i miss troy.
i seriously am.. was.. on an entirely different level with him. he understood me completely. i miss him. i love him. i love what we had. i just am not ready to let go of all the opportunities i have to become who i am. to find the answers to my questions. and if he understood that and was okay with it, it would be perfect. because i want to be with him, i would settle down with him, i would marry him one day. one day.

thinking that this music is like art,, psychedelic beatiful free free free!!!! art in the form of waves of sound. music is the one true miracle.

why is dancing the best feeling in the world? I feel so happy when I dance. I'm glad mike saw that. want to be a hippie.

why worry? why occupy oneself with pollution for the spirit, all that guilt and terrible terrible feelings

so much happier, and probably a better person, as a free spirit, stop WORRYING all the time.

wondering if i'm just regressing into my head, if i'm just living in my dream world again, picturing a life how it could never be and trying for it anyway. what does being oneself really mean if there are always these images in my head? of how i should be, of how i might be, of how i'd like to be, of how i was, of my current opinions of all those personas. how does one separate that from the real thing? what makes up the real thing??

but yes, lead in my stomach, back again. it's so funny how the second (day) it comes i know what it means, that i'm frustrated and pent up and need some release in the form of i dont know, something leaving my body, like sweat or art, or words
it's the closeness i crave more than anything, the warm body next to me, the kisses. the roving hands. the entanglement, sweat on sweat.

i compare my life to the movies.

♥

We all come from the same gene pool,
and our personalities have been shaped primarily by human cultures.
Biological and cultural accidents have made us particular persons.
But as we become more aware of ourselves, we gain the capacity
to recreate ourselves to be singular and irreplaceable persons.
If we use our freedom to redirect our lives toward our own goals,
we can rise above the biological 'purposes' given by nature
and we can transcend the ready-made life-patterns of our culture.

In the long process of re-making ourselves, we begin with
our original personalities as created by our parents and culture.
And the sooner we understand the depth of our social conditioning,
the sooner we can begin to re-shape our lives to our own designs.
Every inch of this struggle toward greater Authenticity must be won
against tremendous social pressures to conform, to be like others,
to adopt the comfortable patterns of life we see around us.

If we consistently pursue our new, invented life-purposes,
after several years of growth, we might completely replace our selves.
From an existential perspective, we are what we pursue;
we can be defined by the projects we undertake.

As we reinvent ourselves by choosing new life-purposes,
we will become one of a kind, singular, irreplaceable,
inimitable, incomparable, unprecedented.
The important differences between us and other people
will not be found in superficial, measurable quantities
(having more hair or slimmer legs)
or in comparable qualities of temperament
(having a better sense of humor, being more warm and tender).
Bodily or temperamental differences do not make us unique.
With respect to our physical and psychological characteristics,
we differ from others only in degree, never in kind.

But we can become intrinsically different from everyone else
by reconstructing ourselves from the core, from our inner depths.
We must design our own blueprints for our lives.
After years of deciding the fundamental directions of our lives,
we become more the creations of our own free choices
than the products of genetic endowment and cultural conditioning.
We become non-reproducible persons with never-repeatable lives.




by james leonard park, in a chapter of a book on authenticity




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stoned= radiohead