It's a good thing "eating healthy" wasn't one of my resolutions, 'cause I think I've eaten more refined carbohydrates in the past three days than I did during all of 2007, except for when K-Lilly got that coffee cake that one time and then went back to Nevada, leaving me alone with the coffee cake.
Sooo ... I'm OCD about completing self-imposed blog writing projects but June's kinda making my head hurt. The YIR's intent is to review the year, but it's like when people ask me what my Dad "does" -- they're intending to initiate a nice convo about the Business School, but they're gonna get a convo about death. Right now, my intent's to review the year of fun and feelings, but we're gonna get what's essentially a convo about death. On a scale of 1-10, much of June is just too loaded for right now. At the time, I wrote as if what was happening wasn't happening, and I don't wanna just do that again, 'cause that'd be retarded. As Angela Chase so wisely noted in the classic television program My So-Called Life, "And I mean, this whole thing with yearbook, like everyone's in this big hurry to make this book, to supposedly remember what happened? Because if you made a book of what really happened, it'd be a really upsetting book."
But -- this is the thing about time: it just keeps going, therefore increasing our distance from the past, like we're in a boat sailing away from a seagull on the horizon on a nice greeting card. Before you know it, I'll ask: "June? Where are you?" and then a bluebird will land on my windowsill, warble some Frou Frou and inspire me to smile, giggle like a schoolgirl and post June.
Sooo obvs ... I thought I'd just skip ahead to July, but July makes Firefox crash on my computer. I think it's got something to do with the cruise video. Clearly I could read each post one by one, but I'm already in need of an Excedrin/Vicodin from debating June, so July! July! will happen when it happens. As Jordan Catalano once said on the classic television program My So-Called Life: "So my feeling is ... whatever happens, happens."
This is pretty interesting so far, I'm sure. You might think: is there a point to this, or is she just stalling while she tries to think of something to write about?
Wellll, I was surfing the 'net, drinking my Coca-Cola, thinking wouldn't it be WILD if I just started posting random shit. Like every day something new & random: a video of Haviland dancing with a dolphin, Limericks to Ilene Chaiken, a movie review, a postcard with my real secret on it, an interview with Lozo, a recipe for coffee cake, a recipe for disaster, a side order of life, an adorable photo of a cat with a caption related to mixing meat and milk (which you can't do if you're Jewish, because of G-d) ... and so on. It'd be like a Philip Glass concert, but on a blog. Then I thought I'm probs not smart enough to pull that off, like Philip Glass is waaayyyy smarter than me.
Then I remembered: this is what I created segments for, like the Carousel of Progress! (other "segments," mostly abandoned, include Great Mysteries of Life, What I Learned from The TV, Deli-Guy Blogging and The Best of Not NYC) Whee! Previous installments of "Carousel of Progress" have included a look at advancements in transportation (Fan of: Lexus(es), Not a Fan of: Airplanes), bottle cappery (Fan of: screw caps on wine bottles, Not a fan: the new Poland Spring cap), the internets (not a fan: myspace, fan: bartleby), small hand-held electronics (fan: i-pod, not a fan: cell phones), etc.
w/: Things I'm happy to do with.
w/o: Things I could do without.
'Cause early alcohol consumption isn't about preference or taste -- it's about "what can we get our hands on?" So I didn't really drink much in high school or early college 'cause Sunny-D & Rum didn't really appeal to me, nor did stale Dr.Pepper & Triple Sec. At 19, the corner store accepted my fake ID but didn't sell liquor, so we drank A LOT of Mad Dog 20/20 and Mike's Hard Lemonade and 40s of Mickey's Ice -- all of these things are gross. Now I just drink vodka-tonics and wine, 'cause now I'm a grown up and I can do whatever I want. AND to this day: I cannot handle gin or any lemon-lime flavored beverages, it makes me barf, hands-down totes.
Here's the only updates I'm interested in: Any activities whatsoever performed by people I've dated/made out with in any capacity which includes "casually" (read: not much conversation) and "seriously" (basically married). Yeah. EVERYTHING. I don't even mind knowing if you're the number one L Word trivia master 'cause that's good information for me to twist around in my demented mind and think: Without me, you're so bored that you just took an L Word trivia quiz for ten hours, you're probs miserable in your sweatpants eating ice cream right now, crying and thinking about me. Just like I am also crying and thinking about me in my sweatpants. Other things I'd like to know: if my friends become friends with each other, if you've just received your auto-gear, if you've joined the Automatic Winners or added "My Books" because that's my favorite app, obvs. Everything else I am not interested in.
Work Less, Play More:
People really are working all the time now, and you're always expected to be on top of your shit -- work is bleeding into life and we accept this -- and somewhere along the line it became acceptable to use your Blackberry in social situations, like all the time. I do it too, but you started it.
The trick, as I've mentioned before, is to establish yourself as an unavailable person. For example, I haven't looked at my Blackberry or my email since about 1 P.M. But really the only person who calls me is the outsourced Indian girl who's in charge of harassing T-Mobile customers about overdue bills. And Natalie.
(picture from APOLITEWINTER )
I've always been (to a fault) totally at peace with my vices -- and with yours, you know. I don't judge. Life is hard, I say. Here is something. Have fun. Have a drink. Go tanning. Smoke 'til your lungs turn to ash and crumble. Try to laugh. Everything is fleeting. Lose yourself. Let Go. There is Beauty in the Breakdown.
My Year in Review: a rollercoaster. Non-stop action, all-consuming denial, disarming reaction ... and sometimes vices were all I had because vices and habits are something, they are just something. They are something or something else. Maybe my blog is a vice.
Last year -- for two weeks of Depressing June and for much of September, October and November -- I indulged my psyche ... indulged the crash, the aftermath ... in a way I haven't done in years and years (though it used to be standard, daily, when I was an adolescent). I liked the silence & La Triviata and the sharp erect curve of my hipbones in my palms as I lost my appetite for all things concretely nourishing. Depression is like that -- it's a friend, it's full and satisfying and terribly entirely enough and I think that's the best part, is how self-sufficient & fearless it is. It's satisfied to only relate to substances or things or private action, it doesn't need anybody. Sometimes you can find someone else to destruct with you, and sometimes that makes it better, or at least more fun, less lonely. It doesn't have to be lonely, but it can be. It's a snap: your brain is here, in the world, and then something happens and your brain snaps again and you're Darkness.
I've had many Dark Ages, but never have I had a Dark Age that I spoke about as immediately as I did last year ... but there's something to be said for time before hashing it all out again in "Year in Review" format. There's insight, I think, in sailing a distance from the act, for not just seeing the light but like, chilling in it, nesting in it for a bit.
When June happened, I was "blessed" to be phone-less, since it'd just been stolen, along with other things, and I had no desire to replace it or anything. So when she wasn't here, I was alone and still and getting through to me was so complicated. I felt fifteen again, skinny & wry & elizabeth wurtzeled out to the max. I read Kathy Acker. I drank. I starved. I smoked cigarettes. I listened to my house phone ring. I would've walked into traffic if it hadn't required leaving my room. I lay on the bed. I pondered the colour of my walls, I stopped breathing, when I stood up all the blood would rush to my head and for a moment I'd pray to faint. I felt gutted, violent & quiet & small, I felt an emptiness so thick it broke into pieces, it had shapes: emptiness like spades, cleaving to my gut and simultaneously poised for attack.
And by the end of June I was the opposite of that. I was all action, all drunken and oblivious and during the daytime just productive -- at the writer's table with Carly and our index cards and new music and our teevee show and meeting new! people! and the summer, the hot hot summer, and then the cruise running on the docks with Heather and dancing at night with strangers who didn't feel like strangers and an august of revisions and refinements and job searching and working and sitting and freaking out and not sleeping, really, hardly, ever at all, and then there was September and I crashed back to that elemental state and then I started to crawl out of it in late November just in time for winter and it's respectful hibernation and now, I'm here, I've crawled out, ta-da! I'm ready! Watch me go! I've got a Blackberry! Contact me! Whenever! Hoo-ha! Processing Fees! The past six months! Just! Happened! I don't know what happened. I wouldn't've guessed that October would feel so much like June, but I'm glad to know that before I really wrote/"reviewed" either of those months.
I'm glad, for one thing, that there were times I said nothing, or that I waited 'til the very end of August to even address June, let alone talk about it.
So. A break from this look at the year. To see how the past plays out in this bright present. A break from my self-imposed decision to Review the Year. And talk about myself. To myself. Memeememememememe. blablabalabla. ( I sound like I actually think what I'm saying is important. That's a mask, it's totes not, you should read The New York Times.)
Because now it is 2008 and I can't say that there's any vice or habit I feel I oughta break right now, there's nothing I need to get rid of or add (nothing wrecking me more than memory) and so I guess, ultimately, my New Year's Resolution is less rollercoaster, more coast. Less false starting, more follow-through. I think: this is possible. This is already happening and this is everything/something. Things change, people change ... and circumstance, ultimately, hasn't prevented every person I know from becoming an even cooler person than they were last year. So.much.hope.
And then maybe, just maybe, in a year or two or ten, I'll get to that imaginary future I've been banking on all this time while I forgive myself of smaller sins. This place: where everything is stable enough, good enough, real enough, fulfilling enough -- that I can afford to let go of cancer-causing agents or devote myself to the physical evolution of various neglected muscle groups. Because when I think about the word "future," I think about rides in Tommorowland -- spaceships like seashells, people like machines with teeth like microchips -- I don't think about memememe getting old and still and satisfied and stable. But maybe I will. And then -- in this stable future I'm spinning and progressing towards, because that's how time works -- I will breathe.
we must pass
through solitude and
difficulty, isolation and silence
to find that enchanted place where
we can dance our clumsy dance and sing our
sorrowful song. But in that dance, and in
that song, the most ancient rites of conscience fulfill themselves
in the awareness of