:: a.whisper.in.water ::

:: Friday, January 17, 2003 ::

Last Transmission from Potomac
So much of my conversations with others is little more than me talking to myself in the presence of others. I sort of assume it's more or less the same way with other folks, but probably not to this extent. I get all intro/outrospective after talking for a while on aim, especially with the reactive folks. Oh well. Nothing to see here, just making conversation. (Insightfully introspectively, about myself.) Someone is noticing, though, at least.

Any number of things have happened since the last event-post (to distinguinsh from the because-it-amused-me-so post). I went back to Haverford to get all the shit that I left there (to better finish of the semester that followed me home, my dear, thanks to Donna, Scott and my man Israel for that.) I went to Vegas for New Year's (with the folks, so one has to ask if it's a real vacation at all. The answer is yes, but not so much so that it's beyond question.), which was a little crazier than I like it to be with conservative parents around; latinos wearing construction vests slapping pamphlets of hooker-ads so that you'll look and they can hand them to you. Yet another little device of society that hardens us to the street, that teaches us to ignore, or else we'll get stuck with these ads for hookers. I mean, they don't care. They just hand them to everyone. Kids, even. I told my brother how to say "Keep that filthy shit" in spanish, and then I got a new pair of shades, but in reverse order. Okay, so if there's going to be a building dedicated to M&Ms, why didn't I see any goddamn caramels? After that, a so-called fake wedding that left most everyone exhausted without that we've-just-witnessed-something-awesome feeling, and my brother without any water-filtered flavored tobacco. Culinary highlight: the superburger at Rudy's (veggie, of course), which involves an advocado in the best nonsexual way I've yet to experience. Then Santa Barbara, which was probably among the fastest 6 days of my life. I like it out there. A lot. Dangeous, because it puts me far away from people who like me on this coast, and closer to Tyler, who has vowed revenge for the bread. But really quite nice, like another planet, a GOOD planet, where I really do wished I lived, somehow. I'm still chasing that frisbee in memory, the one that was thrown when I started running from the same point. I should have dove, really. Then The Story. I don't know whether to refuse to post it out of laziness, or suffer telling it over and over when I get back to school. Oh well, at least they'll want to hear. My friends, not the government.

I keep overunderestimating how much they'd miss me if I was really pulled. Again, the harsh realities of not going to school anymore. My grades really weren't that bad at all, a decided improvement from last semester. (By fucking 0.3 points!) Still not good enough, you bastards. Oh well. I just hope I don't build a tolerance to Aderol. Lennon's "Living on Borrowed Time" keeps zinging around in my head, which isn't cool. Makes me feel like I'm not getting that to which I'm entitled, which is sort of my wussy way of going about life, like I'm on the defense and in constant need of pleasing the people of whom I approve. "I'm not very good at life..."

Anne's-now-my scarf still smells perfumed after washing, which is good, because that smell is that day, and it wasn't that bad a day at all, from what I remember of it. the downside is that I guess it smells like her grandmother, and I've come to like it, as somewhat-cloying as it is. (Though one part smells like hamburger since I tried to ignite the fuzz like a sock. I think it might only work with cotton.) I've also yet to see anything conduct static electricity this well all winter. It's been a good winter for snow...it's sort-of-snowing right now, in Maryland, but the snow here holds little joy, since there's not much I can do in it, save think about better times and places (like Haverford); the now pales next to then. No more holidays without Jenn, no more extended time with my family. It's cold, but it's what I want, as much worth as I can see in their actions. Maybe I'll listen to "Clocks" again before falling asleep. Odds are I'll finish off "Everything Is Wrong" before drifting off, tired as I am, tired as I am. I do hope Walter's happy with my latest remix, more than a year-matured of FruityLoop proficiency, still devoid of a keyboard (but here I must laugh to myself, and with Keith) and clicking all my notes.

And mom got me a swag overcoat. She's on my side (no place to hide / I've lost my way), as long as I'm on hers. Jenn asserted that it was an apology for not letting me see her. That was some shit right there. Why stay here? I spend most of the day hiding, anyway. Again, it's money. I have this silly little piece of paper mom had me hide that proposes all these solutions to the money issue. Mom told me to hide it. I hate getting caught up in these games, these old-country games. In the meantime, I'm more-or-less explicitly being told I'm not worth the investment. Great. And then, again, the daydreaming, the fantasies of how your friends will react. How much do you mean to them? Do you care that it basically means they'll suffer? Do you want them to, for your sake? I guess what I have now, a bunch of people telling me that I'd BETTER come back, is probably the best alternative all-around, as it means they at least want me to feel cared-about, and that they're under no obligation to do so. I gave it a week of "man, that SUCKS," and then moving on. Reprise: it's no one's fault, college is just life compressed. There are those worse off than I am. At least I still can enjoy my music, poor thing...but I do very much intend on staying despite the cost, rendering all these fantasies of mourning/loss/self-pity completely moot.

The number of albums that radically alter my musical taste are shrinking, but two definitely came in this year: Bjork's "Homogenic" and Boards of Canada's "Music Has the Right to Children," both of which I've gone on about. I guess the unofficial third is Beethoven's Ninth and his sonatas and stuff. San Luis Obispo.

"When you get back, you'll have a travel journal. A nice one."
Oh well, thanks anyways, dad. The paperweight that proclaims "Priorities" is a good enough representation of what you think I lack, and subsequently need. It's nice that you're still trying to be a parent in this heavyhanded clumsy way while still maintaining this pretense of letting me become some sort of individual. And by nice, I mean any number of things that aren't nice.
"You gave me chocolates on YOUR birthday?" Yeah, the last of my teens-by-definition, the beginning of my third year of being 17. Or not, really. I see change coming. It's really already here. The question is how I choose to embrace it.
And I feel fat. I suppose I should, I'm getting to be so.

Today is my last day at home for a long, long time. I'm afraid to step off, as nasty as it can get here, because at least it's safe. Afraid to take that responsibility of my life again into my own hands, since i basically had the billpayer in both parents tell me that I'm fucking it up, and that I can't do it. No faith, they have. And not enough energy in me to pull some sort of I'll-show-them and study my face off. Thrown so badly, despite holding on so hard, burned so deeply, and without any real choice but to return. Life. I'm not very good at it.

But I swear I'm not an unhappy person.


:: Aziz 2:16 AM [+] ::
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