apricot milk

. . . like apples of gold in pictures of silver — memory, etc.

Month: January, 2013

this is not a rant.

you most likely wouldn’t know it. sometimes, i do get angry. i do, really. angry at little things that wouldn’t or shouldn’t matter to other people. like angry at a dream i had last night about unclogging a toilet, and the stuff just kept bubbling up. that was the entirety of it. like my inability to express my anger in written words. or just feelings. words don’t do well enough. they are never enough, and that makes me angry. i get angry at noise. at the presence of others around me. at the fact that my family expects and knows me to be a-sweet-little-thing. at myself, when i change according to the people i am around. to suit them in the moment, instead of suiting my voice. but i don’t know what my true voice is. but i do, and it’s so quiet, no one will listen. people don’t like to listen up. so i have to speak up, force myself out of some made-up shell while wearing a funny mask and i don’t like that. it hurts my body in a way–saps my bones dry. and so i get angry about needing space. like it is wrong and i should feel guilty. but that is when i am me and i can’t help it. i’m selfish and sometimes i even wish everyone could do as i say and as i want; i wish this world conformed to my desires because i am needy, without knowing what exactly i need. there is anger, too, at time passing. yet i keep the broken clock on the wall because the second-hand soothes me. i keep reading about the world and how many many things show the opposite of a place where people help others and humanity is some kind of woven plane that listens, and gives their body a chance to be still. i keep my hands in my lap and my head down, keep the door closed. but in the closeness, don’t your shoulders feel less tight, and your lungs easier?

if i don’t get over you,
i’ll always be twenty-two.

well.

i’ve always known i write like my friends or other works i’ve been reading. it’s hard to find your own voice while everyone else is talking so loudly. that’s really no excuse of course, but still.

being a writer is interesting that way. and certain influences being the thing of the times. just look at c.s. lewis and tolkien. no, they are certainly not the same, but they drew ideas from each other. connections, yep. they’re important and they can really stretch you and how you create your own pieces. it’s easy to feel guilty about that too, when you kinda get into a groove of imitation. finding that balance between other voices and your own can potentially be the hardest thing a writer does, i imagine.

i’m glad i haven’t dated anyone so accusatory (yet), but know that it may happen sometime. this is a very well written post about how people have a hard time understanding the privacy of sexual life and their own entitlement.

The Ellipses Project

By Kathleen

dsb

I am not your “pet peeve.”

It’s ten minutes into a conversation and he says it: “It’s a pet peeve of mine…I feel like a lot of girls who say it, aren’t.”

He’s referring to the fact that I chose “bisexual” from the little drop-down menu. (A term that, as it is, feels like I’m trying to wrestle into a shirt but it’s too tight at the neck, and I can’t tell the arm- from the head-holes.)

Okay, I’ll read between the lines here.

You think we’re doing it for show, for “attention,” to look ~sexually available~, to turn you on. There’s an undertone of something I don’t want to touch, something that says get out now, girl–a guy who professes interest in sex on a first date takes issue with the idea (based on gross false assumption) of an actively sexual lady.

Dear straight boys:…

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black coffee brown sugar with chocolate

it’s cold januaury days like these that remind me of the carpeting in our college campus apartment. walking in from the clear night sky, getting my glasses all fogged up.

today i had my last volunteer shift at the public library in my hometown. before saying goodbye (but not forever), my favorite librarian insisted on hugging me. i always avoid saying i won’t be back, but for some places i can never tell. as of now, i can’t say i know the future about my college campus, either.

one of those nights, my friend k came over to see my roommate ina and i. we were so tired, our muscles tense from hunching over in this academic world. it was cold and dark except the soft lamplight, and ina was kind enough to give a back massage while we sipped down cups of water. they laughed hysterically when they realized how sensitive my spine was. all through the years somehow my ticklish nature had been hidden. no one had really touched me, platonically even, and i craved that closeness of sisterlike friendship. during my classes i would see girls soothing each other’s shoulders, gently twisting each other’s hair and become jealous. this had nothing to do with sexual desire of course, but the loneliness.

it’s just good. to think about the ways we make connections and why we say goodbye to those places. places in time, i’m talking about. because really, all i want is to go back sometimes because i know now–the things taken for granted. that’s just the pattern, i’ve noticed.

i know myself. i know i get too easily infatuated. i feel too much too quickly. maybe, aside from simply being human, it comes from some kind of inferiority complex. low self-esteem. where even if i know i’m only interested in someone physically for now, it gets too important or heavy if i don’t keep my imagination in check. so it’s only fair that i do, so things don’t end up like last time with someone else.

to describe it: the feeling seems like an endless loop or track–it’s fed by the body, by emotions, expectation. and stories. and if i’m not careful, that little wheel going inside me will swell up and everything will become lesser in comparison. but you have to love yourself enough to realize when it is happening. to peel parts of yourself back to understand why.

“we share many things.”

my father is shy, just like me. 

although, in small groups he may not seem that way. he’s much more outgoing, willing to impress, or maybe more open to laughter than i am–something like that (think the dad from full house except a little more outdoorsy and loud). but today over waffles and eggs at the diner, he told me if his friends hadn’t dragged him to that college party all those years ago, he never would have met my mother. he never would have pursued anyone. i think of her and how she wrote that it was love at first sight, that she had other boyfriends in the past, but nothing compared to my father. she knew he was the sweetest person she had ever met. 

in a way, with our stories, this behavior makes perfect sense. i said “my new year’s resolution is to try more things that could make me happy / i’m almost 25, i’ve never dated anyone you know that / i’m lonely / i still like him but he has a girlfriend. i screwed up.”

i told him that i had wanted that story for myself–to say of you “we met in college, in class together. we graded each other’s essays. we sat right next to each other.” when he drove me back home, i explained how i heard my chances were officially over two weeks ago. my throat started closing up and i couldn’t handle saying anything else other than “i was so upset. i was so upset.” 

he squeezed my hand and stated, “i just want you to be happy.”

i blinked a few more times. “i know. i know.” 

well–

i went on a date today and it was good. it was strange getting there–the nauseating smells of perfumed teenagers on the train, the cold sharp air, everything had this weird gray haziness. i met him at the bookstore and before i did there were lots of butterflies. it’s weird revealing yourself to someone you’ve never met and really hoping they like you. like, hi, do you think i’m attractive? you’re shorter than i thought you’d be and i like your fluffy hair and eye color(s).

basically, i just felt awkward the whole time. but i guess that’s life for a shy girl who’s only been on two “dates” with a boy she had an unhealthy and prolonged infatuation with. so, i had a taste of reality and i was even telling him “it’s about time.” and we talked about school and work, and looked and laughed over sex guides in the humor section. then we went to a really meh sushi place and played video games at the arcade. i felt like running away, too, and didn’t want to seem rushed. he didn’t invite me back to his place, but i got an awkward side hug out of it although i wanted more. but how do you even ask for things like that?

to top it all off, i missed my train back home while saying goodbye. luckily the next one was just behind, and in this continued weirdness i just enjoyed myself, sitting there believing i could do things without telling anyone where exactly i would be going. and who knows if i’ll ever see this person again–any way, it’ll be alright.

rabbit & dragon

that night was cold.

there was also mud, but it became hardened slightly by the frost. that slippery sludge our school’s lawns are known for. i don’t remember what month or day it was exactly, but i remember the way my breath escaped my lungs as i crossed campus.

we were sitting with our english major friends around the little fire. they were handing out advertisements and signing up students for tutoring services. such familiar warm voices, so open with you, and i was so shy. and i couldn’t make the excuse of newness since i had known you for months by then. but i learned many things about you just by observing that night’s conversations–you were only 20. you spoke french almost fluently, with another girl of course, and i thought of how i only made it through half of my third year before dropping out of french classes my senior year of high school. then i fiddled with the hem of my sweater, rolling the sleeve up and down my arm.

at this point, you seemed to notice me as i smiled a little, and you were making your way around.

“so, what have you been up to lately?”

you knelt in the grass. we talked about the classes we had been taking. you laughed with me, but at some point i must have looked at you too much because i could see your eyes get that dark look. he always flits from person to person i thought. like he wants so much but there’s not enough time.

see, here’s the deal. my college girl self wanted to hold your hand, to walk around the track with you at night discussing literature and strange dreams and art and home. i liked your feet in your sandals. i wanted my scarf on your neck. i wanted someone to drag me out of bed at 5am for hot chocolate because they needed to see my face. because they needed me.

but you didn’t seem to have any need at all, and that might have been the main thing about you that scared me so much. the hiding of it. and for me to tell you the things i wanted, out in the open–how silly.

at some point you left for a phonecall. stood out of reach in front of the library. i waited for what felt like an eternity for you to come back; i watched all our friends arrange window designs at student union. poked the fire. smelled the soft sweetness of the mud. the embers died and i walked over, saying see you tomorrow. maybe sara new what was happening but i didn’t want to think about that. she was silhouetted by the light, hairs all wispy and shining, smiling warmly. i smiled too but i walked back alone. that cold pressing in so heavy.

talks with friends are helpful.

if someone barely says hello,
it might be right to let them go.

i’m still deciding.