see, the thing is,

i have this bad habit of not speaking a word about how i feel until it's about to devour me alive from the inside out. which results in exhausted, terrified, late-night posts of the sort that preceded this. which then further results in feeling like a total jackass.

which is always fun.

it is, however, something i'm working on. learning to reach out, i think is going to be one of the more important lessons i learn this year. or that i'll be trying to learn.

spare girl.

ah, dear sweet, sweet irony. a night when all i want to do is sleep because remaining awake is just too disappointing, and all i can do is stare at the ceiling.

i've been in this predicament a lot lately. i'm desperate to sleep because, to be perfectly honest, being awake holds less and less appeal for me right now. i don't know if it's winter or circumstance, but Things Are Not Working.

i can say with a certain amount of authority that it is most certainly Not You, it's absolutely and plainly Me. enough of a pattern has emerged in my life to make it abundantly clear to me that whatever it is that is that has touched my life with dust can no longer be blamed on outside forces.

it has to be me.

there is something in me that is inherently poisoning my life. there is some fundamental facet to my being that has marked me as a bother, as unnecessary, as undesirable, as disposable; disposable to my family; disposable to my lovers; disposable, even, to my friends. and if not disposable, then destructive to myself.

there is something about me that must explain why i am going nowhere, why i repeat the same stories over and over.

as i've analogized previously, i sometimes feel as though i'm an sporty, yet temperamental car--covetable at first sight, tolerable for a few test drives, until you start to notice the idiosyncracies--the crookedness of the gearbox; the fact that something in the glove box rattles, just a little bit; the way the leather squeaks a certain way when you sit. and so you stable it in the garage, mortified by your folly and hoping you don't ever actually have to deal with it again. only in my case, the stable can usually be replaced by palpable and unexplained silence. (with the occasional christine-style paroxysm, where i run around causing damage to those who would dare to try and give me what i want).

having been more or less accustomed my whole life to being alone in one form or another, i'm coming to terms with the nagging suspicion i've long had that i am probably going to remain so in the long run. i am trying to accept that i am just clearly an extremely bad bet. and i guess...well, no. i'm not okay with it, even remotely. but as i've said, i suspect that that's how it is. so i'm working on becoming okay with that. because this pesky hope thing that i'm nursing, that something might actually change or work out, has ultimately done nothing but make me cry. (a dashed hope, as i'm sure you know, being among the most painful of injuries out there).

at the end of the day, i just wish i understood what it is about me that is so horribly wrong. because there has to be something. all the evidence points to it.

something to ruminate upon as i try to drift off to sleep once again. maybe if i'm lucky, i'll actually get there before sunup. maybe if i'm lucky, i won't wake up.

woken.

i woke myself screaming this morning.

this is never a good sign.

defying description.

to my extreme surprise, the word "dainty" was recently used (without irony) to describe me. this not long after i'd managed to spill not just my coffee but my bourbon all over myself and then very nearly take a header on the stairs.

dainty.

crikey.

it's not a word i would ever, ever use to describe myself. "solid," yes. "sturdy," yes (there is a reason i was always on the bottom of the pyramid when i was a cheerleader). "dainty," however? no, not so much. "dainty" is for pixieish blondes, with small wrists and translucent skin. "dainty" is for girls who know how to be girls (and yes, i think my girl qualifications are up for review--judging from the state of my hair, it's going to take some serious footwork to keep my membership card)--it is not for clumsy oxen such as myself.

i spent years wanting to be dainty. perhaps it's because i've always been so large--so tall, so heavy, so strong; i've always felt just a little too...big to be girly. it certainly didn't help that my nemesis in high school was the absolute epitome of "dainty"--blonde, blue-eyed, wasp-waisted and angelic. in short, everything i wanted to be, from a physical standpoint. the ultimate girly girl. whereas I was, and continued to be for many a year, largely waistless, dark (and unfortunate) haired, hulking, stomping and blessed with eyebrows that would make groucho marx proud. i was not even remotely girly. i barely scraped my way to "feminine." oh, how i longed to look like my nemesis! how i wished for her power!

(i had power of my own, of course--the power that many a woman has used as armor: wit, intelligence, kindness. but it paled in comparison to the obvious power of the feminine wile; paled in comparison to dainty. )

mercifully, i grew up. i have less regard for dainty now; mainly because as i got older, i learned to appreciate the strength afforded me by my solidity. i liked being able to engage in physical activity that a slighter specimen than myself might not be pleased to handle; i liked having a physical presence; i liked (and continue to like, actually) knowing that by sheer dint of my size, i could hold my own in a fight if i had to. i like that sara ramirez, who is about as undainty as it gets, is so smoking hot that i can't handle it at all. i learned that dainty does not automatically equate to girly, or feminine, or attractive, or beautiful. and that undainty doesn't automatically disqualify you from having those attributes. dainty does not a woman make.

(but i would be lying if i were to say that the fifteen year old in me isn't absolutely fucking THRILLED to have finally made it to dainty.)

small steps.

i don't trust you. and i'm trying very hard not to like you.

make me trust you.

let me like you.

sailors, beware!

i tend to get my more questionable ideas when i'm running. something about having a half hour to do nothing but get my thoughts in order (or dwell on how absolutely fucking FREEZING it is outside) makes my mind go all ambitious on me.

this is how i decided that this year, i'm marching in the coney island mermaid parade.

see? brilliant! yet questionable.

repetition.

i'm having trouble sleeping again. i find myself awake when the sky is still black, when on a saturday night i'd just be starting to wend my way home. i start with a shudder, not so much re-entering the waking world as landing in it with a thump. it's disconcerting.

it may have something to do with the dreams.

i thought that now, at last, the dreams would end. now that everyone is in a different place. now, i hoped, i wanted, i wished that the dreams would stop, because here in the waking world they are too hard to think about. these dreams, which ought to wake me with a smile, these dreams of being encircled in your arms, laughing and dancing and nearly broken apart with joy...these dreams fill me with a combination of painful longing and dread. these dreams are nothing but trouble.

these dreams are so vivid that i hurt when i wake from them. because i know what it's like to feel so suffused with joy, but i don't think i'll ever know what it's like to hold you like that. nor should i.

i want them to stop.

alright

the days get longer here the longer you're away
i fill them with my fears, and with my thoughts of what you'll say
and i telegraph my dreams to you, though they break down on the line
and i lie through my polished teeth when i say that i'm fine

i am only keeping it together
i am only just getting through the night
i am only getting some perspective
understanding what it is i mean when i say i'm alright

i'm losing focus but i'm living every day
i lose my train of thought but i don't think i've lost my way
though i swear i choke myself sometimes with the things that i won't say
the ocean sweeps my thoughts to shore but gets deeper every day

i am only keeping it together
i am only just getting through the night
i am only getting some perspective
understanding what it is i mean when i say i'm alright

can you show me how to open up my mouth
'cos i am learning how to open up my open my eyes
seeing things that i don't want to see
seeing things i don't want to believe

i am only keeping it together
i am only just getting through the night
i am only getting some perspective
understanding what it is i mean when i say i'm alright.

that girl

i don't think about it much, except always
so i'm trying to stop thinking at all
i turn inside out over things that you say,
over things you never tell me at all

and i shake my head at my own actions
i wish that i could understand
why i'm sitting through this when i know how it ends
why i'm choosing a seat in the palm of your hand

tell me how, because i never thought that i would be that girl
what's happened now, why do you get to be this focus of my world
you wear me out, you spin me round
though i know damn well i'm too good to be your girl

i try to read you like a letter
i know some of what you're feeling so well
what i don't know is why i bother at all
when i just end up going through hell

why i back the corner up with excuses
as i'm driving myself up the wall
i can't figure out what you're doing to me
why i care so much, why i care at all

tell me how, because i never thought that i would be that girl
what's happened now, why do you get to be this focus of my world
you wear me out, you spin me round
though i know damn well i'm too good to be your girl

and i try, and i tried
and you'd think i'd be past all this by now
and i lie, and i lied
i just wish that i would have figured out
that wanting things won't make them come around
that some things are just too lost to be found

tell me how, because i never thought that i would be that girl
what's happened now, why do you get to be this focus of my world
you wear me out, you spin me round
though i know damn well i'm too good to be your girl.

love affair with the printed word.

in lieu of having anything better to do (i mean, once the classes, rehearsals, work and drinking are done), i've decided that 2007 is going to be My Year Of Reading. which, realistically, makes it not all that much different from the years of recent memory; the only difference is that this year i'm going to keep a record of the books that i read (or finish, anyway). that, and i'm going to dip a toe back in the world of non-fiction, which i've left rather neglected since reading the entire works of claude levi-strauss in 1999.

being sick has given me a marvelous head start on this endeavor--two weeks into the year and i've already crossed the finish line on:

jane eyre
mother tongue - bill bryson
sound bites - alex kapranos
freddy and fredericka - mark helprin

and have just begun stiff by mary roach.

on the list of things to conquer/revisit this year (i.e., things that have been lurking on my bookshelf but that i've not quite finished in years past):

a wild sheep chase - haruki murakami
the lost continent - bill bryson
nights at the circus - angela carter
from the beast to the blonde - marina warner
the complete sherlock holmes
the last lion - william manchester (march is biography month!)

some suggestions made to me (also known as "books i have yet to procure"):
idlewild, everfree and edenborn - nick sagan
suite francaise - irene nemirovsky/sandra smith

any suggestions on where to go from there?

graffiti my soul

identity

biscuit and my sister share a theory that i define myself through two things: my relationships and my accomplishments. this notion disturbs me, not least because i am coming around to thinking that it's true. and it alarms me even more that i've managed to ignore it (or feign unawareness) for so long. but then, like so many other things, staring down the barrel of your own shortcomings can be entirely too sobering an experience.

it makes sense, however. of course it makes sense. as i'm sure you've heard me rail, i've long held a belief that i am possibly the most boring person on the face of the planet; a very boring person who's done some less-than-boring things. and as a citizen of the world in the age of entertainment, i'd rather have people think of me as the girl in the band, the girl in the comic book, the girl who's traveled and had some adventures, that vivacious redhead, than the fundamentally kind, determined but dull girl that i know (or fear) myself to be.

this more or less goes against the grain of everything that i want to be and want to believe in--i want to be perfectly okay with myself, for exactly who i am. and i should, i know i should. but...i am a child, i suppose, of the age of disposability. and i'm constantly afraid of being disposed of, of being traded in for a better model. which is why i opt to trumpet and display on my gleaming chrome and shiny chassis instead of the sound engine beneath. because really--who wouldn't rather have the temperamental 68 corvette than the stalwart toyota? and what have we learned from all that television if not how to sell?

which brings us to defining point number two...it goes, of course, hand in hand with the whole achievements business, though it tears into a softer underbelly, one with which my shrink has an absolute field day. suffice it to say, i have three bags full of issues stemming from way back which i've clearly yet to come to terms with. mercifully, these tendencies have not caused me to pursue promiscuity as a lifestyle choice (at least, not since my early twenties), but i would be lying solidly if i were not to say that high on the list of things i desire is someone to enjoy my kisses, to hold at night, to share my bed and my world (though it is patently obvious that i am so far from ready for any of those things; but that's another story). and i would also be lying if i didn't admit to worrying, pathetic as it sounds, that i've used up my chances for that.

this again goes against some extremely fundamental parts of my wiring. i am a fully formed human being, and i do not need a man to complete my life. i know this to be true, i know this for a fact. but that doesn't change the fact that i am occasionally lonesome, and that i do really like all that stupid old shit, like letters and sodas.

there's more to it than that, of course, but i'm sure you already knew that.

i don't really know where i am going with all this, except to say that i suppose this is one of my quasi-resolutions--to get to the bottom of these tendencies of mine, and learn to break myself of them. i need to learn how to be okay, being myself. by myself.

and don't think that doesn't scare the living fuck out of me. just because i joke about becoming a spinster with cats doesn't mean i don't regard it as a very real and terrifying possibility.

however.

being off sick leaves me waaaaay too much time to brood. clearly.

winner!

i'm going to have to say that of the accolades i've thought i might win in this life, "most pus i've seen in a while" was not one of them. however, earn that title i did, to the awe of the ear/nose/throat specialist who performed a little slice and dice on me this afternoon.

things i can say for sure:

1. pus tastes disgusting.
2. i still don't like needles
3. i am incredibly grateful to have health insurance.
4. i am definitely taking the rest of the week off. it's not often that i'll say this, but i think i've earnt it.

two.

well. there's new year's body blow number two. good thing my heart is cold and dead and wizened, otherwise i might be upset.

or more upset.

damn it all.

snurfle.

strep throat is the devil. (well, one of the many guises that the devil wears. see also: Quark Xpress; the MTA; Duane Reade). not that i'm stoic in any sense of the imagination to begin with, but this is just ridiculous--not only am i having trouble talking, but i haven't been able to eat properly in three days. and let me tell you--ice cream for dinner is only fun the first night. trust me. suffice it to say, i've been a snuffly, grumpy mess for the last few days.

send pudding and chicken broth.

love,
an extremely cranky shiv

so this is the new year.

i started this entry with a little list of what i've accomplished in 2006; suffice it to say, populated as it was with such lovely items as: "i got strep throat twice" and "i survived the death of my marriage," it didn't really do much to make me appreciate the majesty of the year.

so instead, i'm going to do what lonesome cowpokes have done for generations: look to the horizon for signs of life and what's to come.

having said that, in 2007, i will:

- play out more than once
- write at least three songs
- take as many classes as i possibly can
- pick a new name for the band (dammit!)
- become a better photographer
- have adventures (suggestions welcome)
- stop overthinking everything
- find a way to define myself in some other way than through my accomplishments
- figure out a way to become less boring
- actually GO somewhere new
- brush up on my french
- take up swordfighting
- not be party to any broken hearts, especially my own.

i know, quite the ambitious list. basically, all i want out of 2007 is for it to suck less than 2006. which is a pretty loose goal, but as you may or may not have gathered, this year came perilously close to sucking me dry.

however.

to wrap it up, let's stop and think about a few good things that came out of 2006:
- fantastic new apartment with fantastic new roommates
- the guillemots' "trains to brazil"
- new job that i actually really like (let's not make that a jinx, shall we?)
- vegas trip
- london trip

above all, 2006 was an education. let's hope 2007 is more of a graduation present.