beginning of many sure to come retrospectives

There is no way for me to express what this year exactly ‘was’. It was a large mess. A blob of uselessness. An unexpected situation after another unexpected situation – leaving me, leaving my soul, completely depleted, yet, completely craving more. It was something rare -- something almost infinite. It was a new life, and new freedom. There were chances (which are now erased -- run over by subway cars, sandwiched into steel, and forgotten, fully) and odd bouts of luck. It was a --

I just remembered the first day. My dreadful, dreadful first day, semi-recorded in a legal pad I purchased. (Along with a pack of Marlboro Red Cigarettes -- a soft pack -- both my first soft pack and my first pack of cigarettes purchased by myself.)

Thus far I've met no one. My form is relatively comfortable and I'm pretty pleased. I've been out and about running errands (this legal pad, cigarettes, Play it as it Lays) -- it's hard to imagine how I can be TIHS content without one of the more important aspects of college life.
I chose the non-bunk bed and feel calm. I didn't really think I'd feel this okay. I do hope I make at least one semi-friend later.
I'm going to read/relax for a lil.
I hope to write again later.

It's later. For all accounts and purposes today was a success. I'm not sure if I'd say that tomorrow, or even in 5 minutes ... but as of now: success. I had a better than expected time. (Which does not really say much)

Best time: dinner with John from Iowa.
Worst time: going to that insipid, dumb ice cream social and leaving after less than one minute.
Most annoying: smoking with those fucking idiots. Nicole. Austin. Fuck them.

I want Alex very badly. But I also want sleep. As such I'll participate in a little bit of both.

...

The emotions -- literally a flood of them -- that that entry triggers up cannot be captured fully. It was a hot day -- and I wanted to try -- all summer had been spent DREADING, FULLY, TOTALLY, COMPLETELY, DREADING that day. (August 22nd) -- And then, somehow, it arrived. And I was living on 13th Street -- a gorgeous block that is now, somehow, tainted (as is this entire city). I smoke many cigarettes -- alone and with random others. I had awful chit-chat. And then I left that place. I had listened to the entire Tha Carter III in some ... attempt?... at happiness. (In retrospect, and right now I recognize my love of Lil Wayne and all music as this: insincere attempts at normalcy. Music holds no truth for me.) There was, of course, the terrible job of unpacking -- and the terrors that had yet to come with my Asian roommates.
And then there was Marlton -- my heart truly does become weak at that word. The AMOUNT OF PAIN, EMOTIONAL, OVER-DRAMATIC -- that took place in this room! WEEPING MYSELF TO SLEEP. Feeling sick -- emotionally, and physically (both for varying reasons!) ... And Union Square, with Stidrill -- a friend that somehow, existed here -- a comfort brought from home. (Though less accessible than the comforts I had brought from home -- tainted now by the visions I have of them here, in this odd location..) And Alex -- the confusion of that transplanted into the jungle here.

(The dinner with the boy from Iowa proved to be absolutely useless -- no friendly 'hello's or exchanges afterward.) ...

I guess, really, this year was like any other -- friends gained, lost; phases of paralysis and bouts of certainty and drive; poetry and prose; all these contradictions and synonyms.
... and yet what do I have?

Why does this year feel different from every other?
Why is it that as this year closes I have a feeling that I am finally being released from one prison (this block, these avenues, this city) into another? (one of suburbia, THAT blcok, those streets, that town!) -- Is it all meant to be so uncomfortable? SO confusing?

My emotions tell me this:
collapse onto the floor, cry a little, bang your head
And then, at the very same time, I simply want to subdue this fretting with marijuana.

I am trapped and cracked.

I am ebbing towards ‘life’ and away from what is now just vivid memories of the people and town in which I lived. (Distinct memories -- seen as photographs now -- ice cream on the face, grass glowing, Forrest School t-shirt, and trees beside playgrounds.)

I fully regret everything.

(Where’d the new found excitement I had go? -- Probably was the weather -- Perhaps I’ll just leave Friday…)

How can I possibly retrieve some sort of power?
Regain some mental stability? (Where'd it all GO in the first place? & as I reflect on the past years of my life -- from middle school, through high school, till now I wonder if I've ever really had any.)
Is there still potential somewhere inside of me?

Part of me, a large part of me, yearns to exit out... sail away -- turn into a boat, and hope that the sun sets soon, and drift, casually (a toy boat stuck in the faux-ponds of Central Park) towards something finite (as finite as the horizon?)

... I do not want to see people any more. I do not want to hear people any more. I do not want very much any more.

I want to have reserves and power...

But, I guess (right now any way) I'm nothing but empty.

I am on the bottom bunk.

As Justin slowly moves out, I've started my grand take over of the room. I am now resting on the bottom bunk. My jackets are now where his were. And shoes are in a drawer. Overall, I'd say I'm pretty content with this. I'm very excited for when he clears off his desk!!

... Anyway, it is a Monday morning at 10:15. I, as I said before, am on the bottom bunk. I want to go running but know that I would not be able to (ehhh...) get through the walk it takes to get up to 14th street. YMCA tomorrow between class and class at 8?

This is pointless. I shouldn't even pretend that this is worthy of a read.

Alright.
So.
I got up at 6:45 to wake Layne up at 7.
I did it.
Then I showered.
And now it's 7:57 and I just want other people to be awake and useful.
AWAKE
AND
USEFUL.

Mess of an Entry

I need to edit my Ethical Will for my Death and Mourning class, and send it in by 10 am.

The paper I've written is about 3.1 pages -- and it needs to be 3-4 ... does 3.1 count as 3? Or is it simply too weak?

I wasn't exactly sure how to write about my values/ethics/what has lead me and helped me as a person. So, really, I have no clue if I'll be chosen to read again ... clearly, worse things have happened than not reading in class. All I want it is to impress people constantly and impress upon them how much better I iz than them. (Gawd! Egotistic Adam!)

But really!

It's not to be rude.

It's just to remind them.

I stole Pete's coat -- it's green-ish with green-ish fur. I really love it... makes me look tiny.

The problem I'm having with editing this paper is this: Justin is here.

I have a much harder time working when people are in the same room with me ... I guess the necessary footnote to that is: unless I'm incredibly absorbed in what I'm writing.

That having been said, I've noticed this: In my writing I critique whatever I'm critiquing + my style of writing + what I deem to be wrong with my point + I punch holes through my own arguments.

It's as if I've decided it's better for meeeee to respond to people's responses in my essay. Which is, of course, not a very good idea. It creates confusion and adds unnecessary parenthetical phrases etc.

Look... I'm going to try my damndest to fix that mess of an Ethical Will and then go running.

Sick

I'd like to recap this week in some way. But, really, it's just a blur of sickliness, travel, and anxiousness.

I did not plan on coming home this weekend -- and it seems that Fair Lawn didn't plan on having me. Instead of going out like I normally do, or basking in the quiet -- I've gone out and then been forced to endure the quiet back here.

And there were tinges of ... longing for NYC and the people and the noise and the fucked up-ness. But after seeing that video I just saw of friends ... Nope. None. All love lost.

I dread tomorrow because it means I'm back there and I'm back with those people and doing those same things we always do. (Which I don't mind, per se.)

Ugh.

Can't wait to talk to Meghan.

Not so sick no more!

Going to be over-productive!




PS ILU GWEN STEFANI

Writing this will not help me feel like I did anything today

I know that I've done absolutely nothing today -- and not in the fun way. Not the fun way where I can brag about it and say "hahaha! yeah yesterday I did noooooothing!" It's more depressing than that. It's like this: I woke up, knew Justin wasn't here, got a drink from Starbucks, bought cigarettes and water from Duane Reed, came here, felt sick, cleaned the room, did nothing, did more nothing -- I've only left the room to smoke cigarettes and give a miniature tour of the building.

It's not good.

Today is not good.

I keep planning on reading -- getting up and reading, but for some reason I am stuck at the computer not doing work. That's all. That's all there is right now.

Okay.

Constant Memory; Each Memory Made Different By the Act of Remembering

I wish that I had a blog or journal that I kept as efficiently last year, so that I might be able to find out what I was thinking this very moment a year ago.

Because, I know that I was not, by any means, thinking what I am thinking now -- or feeling what I am feeling now.

Well, actually, I posted this in my Livejournal (on this very day):

My my my! What silly, useless anger I always express on this silly lil' journal o' live.

'naive is a compliment' Hah!

I don't blame you readers (reader? anybody?) for not commenting/thinking twice about my insanity.

Maybe I'm just bipolar. Or, at least, gots some bad chemicals.


Tired family on A Haunting:
Mother? Grandmother?
Karissa is scared of the ghost
it's not of her grandfather.
And so they beat on against the current,
borne back ceaselessly
into the past.


I remember writing that -- I remember sitting up here, on my computer, while A Haunting was on -- I remember inserting the picture (I spared you the picture) of a fuzzy drive in Teaneck (or there about) to the asian supermarket with Meryl.

I was in an Elyse Sewell mood, that day -- one where I was epicurious.

And I emailed Alex telling him about seeing his parents at the library, and what I ate for dinner, and how I wanted to watch Oprah but wasn't able to.

I guess, what's most different now, is this:
I went to NYC. (I thought I was going to Iowa. I was looking forward to going to Iowa.)
I wear skinny jeans/pants. (I thought that I would never fall into that -- and even earlier on in my life I thought I'd dress in Hot Topic-esque clothing, read great books, and go to Amherst.)
I smoke marijuana. (Didn't see that coming.)
My parents know I smoke. (I used to always assume that they knew -- I called it 'the things left unsaid')

My jacket is the same, though.

This is a poorly written jaunt down memory lane -- I guess I'm just trying to remind myself that although these changes seem natural and almost necessary, they're not really what I had in mind -- and I don't particularly like them.

I'm not one of those people who would like to die in their sleep at 89 with grandchildren and walls and drawers filled with my papers and accomplishments. I don't think I ever was -- the future was always some variation of the present. (as it is for most people) -- And instead of ...

I just had a rush of memories. Smoking at Forrest School -- going for runs -- my birthday sophomore year (where we went to Maccaroni Grill and had pictures taken of us, and drew bubbles -- Molly and Caroline were there -- it all seemed so awful at the time, and what I wouldn't give to relive that awful experience.) -- Alex's awful black hair -- the attempts at romance between us -- groping ...

And now what?

And now what always races through my mind but is never given the full attention it deserves.

And I have ___ to look forward to. (?)

Today, instead of going to high school, I went to the doctor, will read about sitting shivah, will take the train to Hoboken, the path to 9th street, get off at 9th street (smoke a menthol cigarette), take the elevator up to my room, and eventually help Christina film for her project.

This does not seem like my life -- this is, in no way, what I want or wanted or need or desire or anything like that...

But it's happening, and it's real -- and because it is real, I have a constant obligation to it -- and because there's nothing worse than not doing your work, I will do it. Because I do my work and I'm glad that I do it.

I hate that memory is so good -- I hate that I can recall the exact feelings I've had, but I'm incapable of executing imagined feelings. (That's why my short stories/writing always fails, unless it is directly related to me.) "What now?" is a good question.

Haha! Last time this year, I didn't know Meryl had anorexia. I didn't know what Alex would jerk off on his webcam many times for me. I didn't know that I'd meet a prostitute with a puppy. Or that I'd drink a .40 with a boy named Jaxin and end up weeping in Meghan's breast. I didn't know about 'nummy numz' (cocaine) or anything like that. Ridalin was fake -- something from an episode of The Simpsons.

Alex didn't know what The Simpsons was -- nor had we seen Sunday in the Park with George.

I probably hadn't even listened to that yet (soon though, I remember listening to it compulsively while watching Canada's Next Top Model over February break -- and eating lunch with Kathleen and Kristian and basking in just how cold and windy it was outside and testing myself to see how, exactly how much I might be able to endure of it all.)

These are the memories that bother me the most -- these memories that can never be reenacted, only blithely in my mind. These dead experiences.
(what a true fragment of a sentence.)

I suppose I'll end this awful entry with this:

(found in a journal entry from January 22rd -- almost a year ago)

Today was a good day – and I remember, back in middle school, when I was all baby-ish and silly and I’d write xanga posts and they’d include every detail of every action of my day. “I had to walk to school today because my dad decided that he had to go to work early. I brushed my teeth and left the house to walk to school. On my way there I got really hot, but it’s okay because I was wearing a T-shirt. But just imagine if I was wearing a long sleeved shirt! I’d have probably died …” (Let’s pretend like any grammatical mistakes are intentional, shall we?)

So, I feel it dieing. And I’m too temperamental. (but what else is new and why should I really care?)

Heath Ledger died today – I feel surprised, but indifferent. – I shouldn’t really feel anything but that, though.

And lastly: when I imagined my high school life I never pictured it like this. This is too public to go into the real, juicy details – but I never imagined Friday nights. I never pictured people like that! I never could have imagined the people I like – and smoking! And the short list of shady things I’ve done! And not being in band?! That’d appear sacrilegious to Middle School Adam.

I’m not saying I don’t like what I’ve become – I’m having a stupid, and strange moment of total acceptance – but I’m just saying… life’s insane. Most foresight is wrong.

And to be honest, I really wish I cared.

How far into the darkness does one go to court the muse?

That title -- moribund and silly -- has stuck with me the past few days. My teacher, Katherine Kurs, in my Death and Mourning class pulled it out after a girl read her 'encounter with death' paper that involved a friend committing suicide.

How far into the darkness does one go to court the muse?

How can one look at death -- or life -- constantly and not feel the impulse towards ending existence? Towards ceasing.

Each note I've written in that class has a pseudo-profound feel to it. 'denial is not necessarily denial, sometimes people believe.' (Joan Didion's husband's shoes -- he'd need them to walk) -- 'we exist closer with memories (are they counter-productive to acceptance?) than we do with the dead bodies we see' -- 'victims of the dead' (those left behind) 'dealing with the belongings of the dead triggers revisionist history' 'one cannot be angry 'with' a dead person, only angry 'at' -- another time when the tense must change. A likes -> A liked'

'losing mind or losing body?
'who do the wishes of the dead belong to? need they be honored?'
'Dead change status of living.'

The last is a line that we read in a paper (an anthropologist/granddaughter was studying the death of a town in Santa Maria, Spain -- meanwhile her Jewish grandfather was dying in Florida -- which was at odds with her Cuban upbringing) -- she starts to discuss memory (a fascinating topic in and of itself) and quotes Curteau*:

Memory is played by circumstances, just as a piano is played by a musician and music emerges from it when its keys are touched by the hands. Memory is a sense of the other.


I think that is one of the most true things I have ever read... A pleasant memory, tainted by the circumstances surrounding the remembering. (Right now: Alex and myself, after prom, coming into a greyed NYC to sit in Washington Square Park and eat crepes -- his? dulce de leche, chocolate, and some other fruit/vegetable... mine? brie, onion, turkey... -- It is only sad now that I've started to accept/understand the idea of 'outliving your use' and 'growth' -- although I'm still a fervent denier.)

In fact -- the term 'death' is tossed around so often, but with such reverence (when used seriously) that I often forget that it is applicable to life -- rather, to events in life. The death of phases -- the death of loves. They are cessations ... they are just as filled with impact and importance. To have a relationship, effectively, die -- is to have to live with the corpse tied around the back. Each moment is an opportunity for another moment to have happened. The funny looking woman with the really furry boots could have been something -- could have been a significant inside joke or memory -- but is instead trapped inside the singularity of one head. The oppressive inability to tell somebody -- somebody who simply 'cares' -- that "I saw a woman funny looking woman with really furry boots yesterday, while crossing 9th street." -- Something one might tell a dead person, or a dead person who is still alive, or a person to whom you are dead.

I guess that is a tad bit... extreme. A tad bit unnecessary.

Of course, in starting this new venture into Blog-dome, I can't really help but wonder if I should focus on the facts (mundane... the blog acting as a living lover) -- or the thoughts (what has been written here would fall into the category of 'thoughts' or 'pondering' or something alogn those lines)...

Facts: I woke up at 8:30 (Justin got back into the room around 5 am after clubbing all night) -- I got up, got dressed (in the black and white specked sweater I bought at Old Navy on a whim, my tight-ish, dark blue pants -- the teal underwear, the Timberland boots that now have salty and un-tie-able laces) and walked to Starbucks. Today I want to run at the YMCA (because every moment I'm not there, I could be there) but my back feels annoyed with me ... and I'm not sure if it would be worth the walk. I'm not sure if the endorphins would properly come. Or, if I really feel like showering afterwards and the tiredness that accompanies a walk there, a run there, an elliptical, and a walk back.

I also have these concerns: the amount of work I have and the hectic schedule I have next week (kinda) -- whether or not I am returning to New Jersey tonight/whether or not I am going to go to Meryl's dorm tonight (If I'm to go home, I want to be home -- I want to sleep in my bed and think my thoughts without accompaniment) ... I also have the concern about whether or not I should text Alex telling him that I can, in fact, meet him for coffee at Starbucks around 12.

These are the worries that keep me dreading tomorrow -- the A, B, or C of it all. The circumstances surrounding each decision. The endorphins that will or will not come. The heart spasm that may or may not come today. The pure flimsiness of it all.

And so I'll run. And so I'll text Alex (asking for 12:30). And so I'll probably go back home ... and feel guilty/shitty with or without Meryl's dorm.

I am goddamn tired, and I feel like today I'm being attacked by conflicts. (And at the YMCA, on the treadmill, I feel attacked by the women who want to use it and who look at me envying my taut skin.)

But that might be unreal -- that cannot be classified as 'thought' or 'fact'.

(Who knows if I'll post here again?)

*I think it was him -- I remember a 'C' was involved and the name was vaguely French-sounding.