| Let's hear it for New York. |
[13 Nov 2009|12:46am] |
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Oh, god.. How do such sounds come out of such a silent woman? And another lies next to me, sliding in out and of sleep and she does not hear. But are we women, really? For when do we become women from girls and how do you quantify? Woman seems like such a myth and girls are what I know, but at some point we become what we are meant to be. Is it when we bear children? Is there a specific age? How do I refer to these bodies lying all around me who have so much life and are dying uncontrollably?
My teacher tells me to read Molly's soliloquy because people do not think in complete sentences, but I do. I do. I think in periods and quotations and semi-colons and syntax. I think in things I have said and have yet to say. If I could, I would be speaking constantly because every thought is a statement waiting, like a toad crouches below the surface of a murky pond to spring forth and devour the unexpecting fly. I think in terms of what makes us human, how we communicate and not simply how we feel because, oh, don't all these emotions become tiresome after so many years and all the hours? If there is ever a thing that these written words cannot convey it is the music that pervades my thoughts; this running soundtrack that darts in and out of my mind's traffic can never be displayed on any forum. If I have lost everything else in life then that symphony is and always will be entirely my own.
And so I drink to meld my constant commentary into reality, but don't we all? We yearn for the chance to say what we have we have really wanted to and we will deal with the consequences when dawn breaks. They are never so bad, really--all those consequences. For if we had not opened ourselves up on that table, would not the disease have spread within us?
I grow old, I grow old. I shall wear the bottom of my trousers rolled.
Goodnight, though never goodbye.
Alethea.
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| Get out of my head, Hughes. |
[21 Oct 2009|04:57pm] |
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There are three sentiments which make up this abysmal day on the lonely upper east.
1. Bliss. Sun-soaked, sugar-coated bliss with a cyanide tablet baked right into the center. And because I still hunger for that bliss I am a
2. stupid stupid STUPID girl. I can almost get past the lies and think that I can ride this on for a while, but then he calls and I realize that
3.
I CAN'T FUCKING DO THIS.
And FUCK you for acting like everything is okay! Get out of my life and stay there! I don't want to talk to you, I don't want to think about you, I don't want to be anything to you. As bad of a job as I am doing, I want to rebuild my life in peace without you sending me memories of the life I used to have and the person I used to be. Do you know what it does to me to hear your voice or to even see your name? Do you even remember what happened or does the medication do a good job of blocking that out?
I hate you I hate you I hate you I hate you.
JUST LEAVE ME ALONE.
This is all far too hard already.
Al.
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| Some things I'll never know. |
[13 Oct 2009|11:13pm] |
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I can't say too much here anymore. Not since the last time. This connection is not secure.
I'm not sure how to express the thoughts that boil like a kettle inside of me. Those who were so close are now so desperately far and the distance is only filled once in a Blue Moon.. or four or five. There are things that I think about when I'm alone in bed that no one has ever heard, or likely ever will hear. There is a disproportionate amount of phone calls and messages sent as compared to received. Has it always been this way? Will it always be?
I have slimmed down, but the present midnight snack-attack is a relapse. I need to focus, which is incredibly hard when all these objects keep piling up around me: dishes, clothes, bags, boxes, papers, books, trials, and tribulations. They never tell you how much the victim gets punished in the end.
So, I have these objects. And I have these thoughts. And I don't have internet so my guilty Netflix pleasure is out. There is too much to bear when it gets so quiet. Would somebody please turn the ambient noise back on? This silence burns, as do the days and months.
When does it end?
[Never]
Day in, day out; still picking the petals off of daisies.
Alethea.
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| These days, it just won't stop pouring. |
[30 Jul 2009|08:55am] |
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July 30th means that it's twenty-nine days until school begins and I did nothing this summer. I didn't see all those people I meant to see. I didn't play in the park or stroll along the boardwalk. We still don't have a couch or a new comforter. I just worked and worked and worked. Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit. I stayed in bed and watched movies and shows and mindlessly snaked and every other week I had a drink or two.
I can feel the weight of school's return already. The constant reading, midterms, papers. Trying to connect with classmates and teachers and make each day even slightly more bearable. Coming home feeling defeated and exhausted every day. Although, I suppose I'm already doing that. I work this job, and it's just waitressing, but every day feels like a battle. Every day is a test of my patience and strength. It's not easy. I come home and I can barely walk. Sometimes I'm so mad I want to blow through my house like a hurricane and destroy everything in my path. Most days I want to forget work, just sleep in, turn my phone off, make a big breakfast, and then hop on a train going anywhere and never come back. I want an apartment for dirt cheap in a town where everyone isn't so fucking loud, where a Corona doesn't cost seven dollars at a bar and I don't have to feel like I'm being judged all the time. I want to buy a little car with a stick shift and race along country roads again--the winds blowing knots in my hair, singing all my favorite songs at the top of my lungs, smoking cigarette after sweet cigarette and writhing in my seat to the beat of the music.
I want to feel what being me was like before because these days I don't feel like much of anything.
I come home and he's here, watching TV. And I love this boy to death, but he lost his job and hasn't gotten another and I bust my ass every day to feed us, to pay our bills, to buy him subway fare. We are broke. I'm tired. It's been over three months and I have sacrificed everything I have this summer so that he can keep his head up and we don't starve. And he's always here. A couple hours alone feels like when I would come home from school and John would be at football practice and James would be at Dylan's and my mother would still be at work and I would turn on my music downstairs really loud and dance like a ballerina on amphetamines through the dining room, living room, kitchen and then back again in circles, singing all the while. I feel like I can accomplish anything when I'm here alone. But I rarely am. And so the house stays a mess because I can't clean when he's here and he's always using my computer so I can't mindlessly browse through Anthropologie or Victoria's Secret online. I just sucked into his mindless routine of watching shows on Netflix instant until the house comes when my eyes just automatically shut.
This is not to say that I hate this boy. It's not that at all. I love seeing his face when I get home, making dinner with him, having play fights. He's the one thing I have to look forward to, even on his bad days. Right now, I'm waiting for him to get up so that I can make breakfast because I've got a hankering for raspberry-blackberry pancakes with scrambled eggs and veggie-sausage patties. And, once he's up I can make the bed.
I wonder what today will bring since it seems that I've stirred up a lot of emotions in me. Perhaps I'll see Care, but I've learned to never count on her. Maybe I'll send Johnny off to the store while I clean the tub and listen to the new Regina Spektor album. I can only hope it doesn't rain. It's been raining in New York and, as they say, "when it rains, it pours." Or, in the case of this week, "when it rains, it monsoons" and I get caught in it on my way to work and show up looking like I just stepped out of the shower when I was supposed to show up showing off my hair that I just had colored and trimmed. No matter. I'll forgive the skies eventually, but will I ever forgive myself for being too stupid to check the weather online and grab my umbrella just in case? Probably not.
I'll be back, I promise.
Alethea.
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| Funny story... |
[29 Mar 2009|02:48pm] |
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I got a wisdom tooth out on Friday and haven't really left the house. So, Johnny comes over after work yesterday and I'm ready to stop stewing in my own sweat and get out. Of course, all Johnny has to wear is his work pants and undershirt. He decides to go to shopping to buy himself a new outfit instead of going all the way back to Long Island to change. This is not the first time he's done this.
So we go to H&M and he buys himself a nice shirt, but hates all of the pants. Then, despite my literal screaming protest, Johnny saunters into Diesel right across the street and drops TWO HUNDRED AND FIFTY DOLLARS on a pair of jeans. "Think of the apartment!" I kept saying, but he "needed" to splurge.
This is where karma begins to kick in. To get the tag off of his jeans, Johnny used his keys like a knife to break through the impossible twine, cutting his finger in the process. Luckily, I happen to always have band-aids. Then we go to FAO Schwartz, which had changed for the worse since I was a child. We bought some candy, but didn't stay long. The whole way there and back, Johnny is talking about his jeans; "Do you think people are checking me out in my new jeans?" "Damn, I look really good." And so on.
We get home, I sit down at the kitchen table and, lo and behold, I notice drops and smears of blood all over the right pant leg of his brand-new $250 Diesel jeans. He must have wiped his cut finger on his leg without thinking. Johnny's voice hikes up a couple of octaves and he seems about ready to cry, so I calmly get him to take his pants off and I spend the next 20 minutes treating every spot (I think there were about 8 or 10 in total) and then throw the pants in the wash. They came out perfectly, not a trace of a stain.
Moral of the story: Don't buy $250 jeans when you're supposed to be saving up to furnish an apartment. However, even if you do, your girlfriend just may love you enough to save your ass in the end.
The end.
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| Veganity, shopping sprees, hospitals, and big, BIG love. |
[25 Mar 2009|11:05pm] |
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Everything is different! This past month couldn't have been more ridiculous! Who am I anymore? Where am I?
It all started off with a BIG bang on March 1st (the day Johnny and I decided to go vegan) when I woke up at Care's house, started getting ready for work and fainted/had a seizure. I spent eight hours in a shittiest hospital in Brooklyn for them to tell me nothing. I have seen a neurologist, a cardiologist, I have been back and forth and back and forth to a (less shitty) hospital in Brooklyn for weeks---nothing. It may just be one of those things that will never happen again and I'll never know.
So then there's the veganity. Johnny and I are vegan for March. It's been interesting. There was a good week where my aunt Betty was out of town and he was staying here and we were cooking these wonderful meals and it was beautiful. And then it came time for midterms. My life was drastically reduced to bagels and cereal for a week or two and I'm just now starting to eat more well-rounded meals. It's hard. I felt I needed to do this when my sense of morality collapsed a couple months ago, but it's not easy working full time and going to school full time and trying to squeeze in grocery shopping and nutritious meals. Mostly, I needed to new perspective, which I feel I've accomplished. I want a diet that isn't based on dairy and that's what it was. I wanted to force myself to cook, to try and I did. And when April 1st hits, sure, I'm going to scarf down a big fucking cheese omelet, but I think I'll really start to eat differently and still opt for vegan choices at restaurants and in the grocery aisle and still buy more vegan cookbooks for Johnny and I WHICH brings me to item #3....
Johnny and I got an apartment! We're moving to Bushwick! It's a one bedroom on the first floor of a beautiful two-apartment building. We have a big living room, a humble kitchen, a nice bedroom and a backyard! With patio furniture! Everything is newly painted and renovated and beautiful, beautiful, beautiful. I love this apartment and I love Johnny. We're ten minutes from Caroline and Heather, we're five minutes from Laure and the gang. The month from hell is ending up in serenity and I'm the happiest little girl in Manhattan.
Oh. And the shopping. Spring sales have been too much for me to resist and I've found myself online a little too much. I got two Threadless tees, seven pairs of Victoria's Secret undies, a pair of short-short high-waisted denim shorts, a pair of black knee high boots, and a sweater stone (I'm a sucker for The Vermont Country Store). All of this came today.
In addition to this, my sweet Johnny who has heard me swoon over the mid-high, white Doc Martens that I've wanted since I was FIFTEEN went ahead and bought me the $120 suckers INCLUDING an extra $30 for next-day delivery because he couldn't wait for me to get them and wear them with that big shit-eating grin on my face that I surely will. These also came today. It was like Christmas. Everything fit perfectly and I am in heaven.
Johnny is my favorite and I can't wait to squeeze him every night and make breakfast for him in the morning. I'm coming to get furniture and other various things from Ithaca on the 8th (we're taking a U-Haul back like real people!).
On a duller note, I have to get a wisdom tooth out on Friday. UPSIDE: painkillers and three days off.
Well, now that I've finished off a pint of chocolate sorbet, I think it's about that time to go to bed and dream sweet dreams about the wonderful life I've finally managed to make for myself.
Big love,
Alethea.
p.s. Did I mention that I got an A+ on my Literary Theory midterm (this class that's kind of been ruining my life this semester)? Whammy.
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| Yes, we can. |
[20 Jan 2009|12:03pm] |
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My breasts are a serious D cup. They don't seem any bigger, but extensive recent bra shopping has revealed that my breasts just don't fit into a C anymore. It has also been revealed that Victoria's Secret does not make sexy lingerie in a D. Damn and blast! Perhaps bras are getting smaller. Perhaps I'm getting fatter. Perhaps I'm going crazy.
The bra shopping is for Johnny. It's all for him. Nothing compares to the face makes when I flash a garter or walk up to him in a pair of heels. I love being loved by him, I love being pampered by him, I love being close to him. We're just happy. Plainly and perfectly happy. Okay, maybe not-so-plainly--I did seduce him last night dressed as a secretary with a $160 lace garter slip underneath(shh... it was on sale...). The poor child nearly had a heart attack. He's so meek at times, but one of the most caring people I've ever met. How I wish he'd go back to school; he's very smart and I want the world for him.
You see, something happened after weeks and months of brushing this boy aside and denying our involvement--I realized, quite suddenly, that I wanted to be with him. All these thoughts of not wanting to be tied down, not wanting to belong to someone, not wanting to love someone, they just disappeared. I don't want to fuck around, I don't want to get used anymore, I want someone to care about me, to care about who I am and he really, really does. And I know that he would never hurt me, and every time he does something to upset me he apologizes(it's a forgotten practice nowadays, especially among friends). And I'm learning to be more tolerating and he's learning to be more mature and we're experiencing so many new things together and so on like this, we are happy.
Barack Obama is our president today, school starts in six, and I think I'm about to make another one of those big, impulsive decisions that could turn my life around in either direction.
Love,
Alethea.
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[04 Jan 2009|12:52pm] |
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I spent a quiet hour or so unpacking and ambling about the apartment. The gravity of being back in the city had not yet been felt on my shoulders, although I had settled back quite casually into my routine: Monotonous job, subways, cheap beer, chain-smoking, dirty text messages. The apartment looked exactly the same except for the obese pine tree in the living room and the kitchen smelled of fresh flowers; pots and stems and petals everywhere. The white bugs are still below my bedside table, my hair dryer is missing, new york, new york. I steep a cup of black tea as the last of my new socks and nick-knacks are falling back into their drawers. And then I sit down at the head of my bed with my thick cup of tea and that's when it happened, that first sip, a gasp, "Ah! Here! I am home."
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| In my arms she was always... |
[24 Nov 2008|09:16pm] |
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A gasp! There she is! Oh, you've outdone yourself this evening. You really do look incredible. This sky, these colors, the lights, and long, lovely Lexington Avenue stretching out and disappearing into the concrete forest. My childishly close face breathes a cloud onto the windowpane and I draw a heart-shaped viewer for my batting eye. A picture, perhaps, will satiate me. But oh, no; it will never do. It's never good enough. A vibration disturbs my glee. (Not now, love. I'm out of this decade for the moment).
"Hi," I breathe. "Hi. Hi, purple night sky. Hi, wispy-waspy clouds. Hi, bright windows, rooftop gardens and black-painted gates. Hi, dominant dogs, taking your owners for a walk--Teensy-tiny people trickling along down sidewalks and city streets. And everything, everything, everything that makes you beautiful. Hi. Hello. Hola. Bonsoir. Sincerely; yours truly."
Lo.
Lee.
Tah.
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| Blowing my nose. |
[02 Nov 2008|09:07am] |
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I sat on a 6 train subway bench at an especially chilly nine o'clock in the morning, dissolving into Lolita. My body was dehydrated and shivering, my hair was all about me, I was devastatingly without make-up, and subconsciously sniffling. When all of a sudden, a perfectly pitched coo came from the woman next to me. She was older than I, but young in a perfectly purple coat with perfectly blond hair, a clear complexion and the straightest teeth(I daresay straighter than yours, my pet). Her offer, in a matching purple plastic pack, was a Kleenex. I had bagel shop napkins in my purse, but I hadn't even regarded the fact that there was something trying to escape my nose and I had been daintily calling it back for a good ten minutes. And besides, her tissues were big and pillowy. I gladly pulled one from the open pack and threw her an awkward 'thank you' with it's complementary awkward smile. "Sorry," she chimed, "it's the mother in me." She then took out a vial of lotion and worked it into her manicured nails. Without thinking, I too took out my lotion and began to smear it across my knuckles. My fingers next to hers were intolerable; unworthy of any woman, I thought. And there was our train.
I finished my olfactory exile on the bench and watched her step up in front of me. I inspected the back of her, from bright blond head to disappointing black athletic sneakers. God, that coat was perfect. It seemed tailor-made for her body. Everyone in New York has coats that look tailor-made. I stole another innocent glance on the train, which she only rode for one stop. She was so fortunate to look as she did, I thought. She is probably also wealthy, uptight, and prudish. But thank you for the Kleenex.
Alethea.
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