I resisted.
I resisted for a whole week.
Awful temptation of living back in your parents' house: going through boxes containing mementos from past "love" affairs.
I can't believe nine months of Murtagh got him a whole frigging box.
I can't believe what an asshole he was.
I can't believe what an asshole I forgot he sometimes wasn't.
Friday, July 17, 2009
Mike
This is a wildly personal entry but I'm writing it partly because it's something I've thought about today and partly in tribute to its subject, who is the only person I know capable of deeper and more unabashed levels of narcissism than I am.
I met Mike when I was fourteen. I don't generally remember first impressions but this one is vivid. He was standing at the sound booth (running sound for Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat) and reading a newspaper while singing to himself. We became friends about a year later during the production of Pajama Game. I can't tell whether or not my ability to break my life into milestones by musical productions is charming or heartbreaking.
Mike was the first person I loved. I use that word very deliberately. Encountering Mike was the first time in my life that I understood the pull of recognizing a person for his real self, understanding their flaws (and my god, was he flawed) and feeling yourself drawn to embrace and support and celebrate the entirety of a Him. Which is all very romantic and mature, but the three year affair also contained significant doses of backstage fights, drunken revelations, love letters in lockers and one of the two occasions in my life where I've yelled at someone to whom I am not related.
But Mike was also one of my best friends. And the same things that drew me to him in that respect, are also what rooted me in carrying that flame for as long as I did. And they were reasonable things. He is argumentative and impractically passionate and a devil's advocate with a restless soul and varied interests. He is charming and self-aware and demanding - literally - of attention while also willing to give it unabashedly. As I explained to him today, I've realized that every time I've felt love since then - in every minor and major stirring - there are echoes of Mike.
It ended with Mike going away to Cambridge - and my god, did I cry on the way back from buying him his first pair of grownup sneakers - and the eventual petering out of feelings due to distance. Maybe not petering out. Numbing? Sort of. A year after I started Wellesley, I remembering sitting behind Mike in Sara's car on our way back to Massachusetts and thinking "Do I marry Mike? Is that what my whole life is working back toward? That seems...to make sense."
Spoiler - I don't. My god, what an awful idea that would be.
I met Mike when I was fourteen. I don't generally remember first impressions but this one is vivid. He was standing at the sound booth (running sound for Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat) and reading a newspaper while singing to himself. We became friends about a year later during the production of Pajama Game. I can't tell whether or not my ability to break my life into milestones by musical productions is charming or heartbreaking.
Mike was the first person I loved. I use that word very deliberately. Encountering Mike was the first time in my life that I understood the pull of recognizing a person for his real self, understanding their flaws (and my god, was he flawed) and feeling yourself drawn to embrace and support and celebrate the entirety of a Him. Which is all very romantic and mature, but the three year affair also contained significant doses of backstage fights, drunken revelations, love letters in lockers and one of the two occasions in my life where I've yelled at someone to whom I am not related.
But Mike was also one of my best friends. And the same things that drew me to him in that respect, are also what rooted me in carrying that flame for as long as I did. And they were reasonable things. He is argumentative and impractically passionate and a devil's advocate with a restless soul and varied interests. He is charming and self-aware and demanding - literally - of attention while also willing to give it unabashedly. As I explained to him today, I've realized that every time I've felt love since then - in every minor and major stirring - there are echoes of Mike.
It ended with Mike going away to Cambridge - and my god, did I cry on the way back from buying him his first pair of grownup sneakers - and the eventual petering out of feelings due to distance. Maybe not petering out. Numbing? Sort of. A year after I started Wellesley, I remembering sitting behind Mike in Sara's car on our way back to Massachusetts and thinking "Do I marry Mike? Is that what my whole life is working back toward? That seems...to make sense."
Spoiler - I don't. My god, what an awful idea that would be.
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
I have this thing about books. I have to finish them. Even if I hate them. I trap myself in books. I love books, but in the last year I've managed to end up in a few situations where I was deliberately turning reading into work.
I don't know where that obsession comes from. It definitely is an obsession, since the idea of not finishing a book gives me the same sense as believing I have left the garage door open or a curling iron plugged in.
And yet, in the last six months, I've deliberately not finished at least four books. Here goes -
The Life and Opinions Tristram Shandy, Gentleman by Laurence Sterne
Why I started reading the book:
I only started reading it so I could see the movie. Which is ridiculous. More often than not, I would actually much rather see the movie first and then read the book. Crazy, I know. But I find that movies don't actually influence my experience that deeply. And I have a hard time remembering plot (seriously) if more than a week goes by after I've read a book (seriously) so I spend most of the movie going "Wait. Do I remember what happens?"
Why I stopped reading the book:
Samuel Johnnson's review: "Nothing odd will do long." Tedious.
Why I tell myself it's okay:
I'll read it someday, right?
Iris Murdoch: A Life - The Authorized Biography by Peter Conradi
Why I started reading it:
It's possible Iris Murdoch is my favorite writer. I read one of her books - and only one - every year. It's a special thing.
Why I stopped reading it:
I think sometimes biographers forget they are also writing books. And spending 100+ pages addressing the geneology and the god-awful boring family history of an interesting person really isn't fair, no matter how long it took you to come up with that information or how much the subject told you that's what is really important. Congratulations you know how to use archives. Nobody needs to know that shit.
Why I tell myself it's okay:
The book also kept giving away plot points for Murdoch's novels. Also, authorized is, like, the death knell for a biography.
Oh man. I just got sassy.
The Formation of a Persecuting Society: Power and Deviance in Western Europe by R. I. Moore
Why I started:
I basically read this book through excerpts in college. Also, I have kind of a thing for R. I. Moore. That guy just doesn't care what rabbles he rouses.
Why I stopped:
Um, I basically read this book through excerpts in college. Some medieval history books are just better read that way. The garage door stays open.
The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay by Michael Chabon
Why I started:
I liked The Final Solution. And all you people everywhere keep talking about this book.
Why I stopped:
Well. It's complicated. Controversy time - I wasn't loving this book, you guys.
It is very realistically possible that my lack of love for narrative in improv might be born from a lack of love for long narrative in all storytelling. (Note: It also might be possible that by the time that revelation gets read by a certain someone, I will be single again.) Gah. But more importantly, my living situation called for the sudden and dramatic throwing away of much of my material possessions and this book might have accidentally been tossed out in the purge. Accidentally. I swear.
Why I tell myself it's okay:
Because, like, I don't have the book anymore.
I'm also still stuck on the Book of Genesis, Chapter One of some American Government book that I started looking at one night and, like, book one of the Iliad.
This whole entry feels incredibly indulgent. Oh well.
I don't know where that obsession comes from. It definitely is an obsession, since the idea of not finishing a book gives me the same sense as believing I have left the garage door open or a curling iron plugged in.
And yet, in the last six months, I've deliberately not finished at least four books. Here goes -
The Life and Opinions Tristram Shandy, Gentleman by Laurence Sterne
Why I started reading the book:
I only started reading it so I could see the movie. Which is ridiculous. More often than not, I would actually much rather see the movie first and then read the book. Crazy, I know. But I find that movies don't actually influence my experience that deeply. And I have a hard time remembering plot (seriously) if more than a week goes by after I've read a book (seriously) so I spend most of the movie going "Wait. Do I remember what happens?"
Why I stopped reading the book:
Samuel Johnnson's review: "Nothing odd will do long." Tedious.
Why I tell myself it's okay:
I'll read it someday, right?
Iris Murdoch: A Life - The Authorized Biography by Peter Conradi
Why I started reading it:
It's possible Iris Murdoch is my favorite writer. I read one of her books - and only one - every year. It's a special thing.
Why I stopped reading it:
I think sometimes biographers forget they are also writing books. And spending 100+ pages addressing the geneology and the god-awful boring family history of an interesting person really isn't fair, no matter how long it took you to come up with that information or how much the subject told you that's what is really important. Congratulations you know how to use archives. Nobody needs to know that shit.
Why I tell myself it's okay:
The book also kept giving away plot points for Murdoch's novels. Also, authorized is, like, the death knell for a biography.
Oh man. I just got sassy.
The Formation of a Persecuting Society: Power and Deviance in Western Europe by R. I. Moore
Why I started:
I basically read this book through excerpts in college. Also, I have kind of a thing for R. I. Moore. That guy just doesn't care what rabbles he rouses.
Why I stopped:
Um, I basically read this book through excerpts in college. Some medieval history books are just better read that way. The garage door stays open.
The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay by Michael Chabon
Why I started:
I liked The Final Solution. And all you people everywhere keep talking about this book.
Why I stopped:
Well. It's complicated. Controversy time - I wasn't loving this book, you guys.
It is very realistically possible that my lack of love for narrative in improv might be born from a lack of love for long narrative in all storytelling. (Note: It also might be possible that by the time that revelation gets read by a certain someone, I will be single again.) Gah. But more importantly, my living situation called for the sudden and dramatic throwing away of much of my material possessions and this book might have accidentally been tossed out in the purge. Accidentally. I swear.
Why I tell myself it's okay:
Because, like, I don't have the book anymore.
I'm also still stuck on the Book of Genesis, Chapter One of some American Government book that I started looking at one night and, like, book one of the Iliad.
This whole entry feels incredibly indulgent. Oh well.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Danger
Today I almost got run over by a Haz-mat emergency truck.
I didn't even realize they had emergency trucks.
Apparently they do, and one zipped passed the intersection of Lafayette and Great Jones as I was coming out of work. I shouldn't say zipped. I should say was moving pretty quickly but I was listening to "My Life" by Billy Joel and that made me feel bold so I ran for it.
Things I had learned about myself in the thirty second period on either end of the near-miss:
If I were stuck on a desert island and I could only listen to one artist and I was assigned that artist and it was Billy Joel, I would be cool with that. You're probably wondering why I was assigned an artist and I didn't pick one. Well, the thing is, see, that I was in the Office of Desert Islands for about forty-five minutes going through their collection when I realized they should just pick for me and I'd be fine with whatever. I usually am.
If I wasn't already going to title my autobiography Sorry...So sorry...Sorry I'm Here (per Robber Baron), I would probably call it Fine with Whatever.
Ow.
Anyway, the other thing I learned as the truck drove past was that I absolutely do not question the status of that emergency. Sometimes a police car or even a firetruck will speed by and you'll think "might not be a big deal." I feel like there are no small hazard material leaks. Right?
Which reminds me of Alex Mack. Which I never really watched growing up, but reference frequently.
What's Larissa Oleynik doing?
I didn't even realize they had emergency trucks.
Apparently they do, and one zipped passed the intersection of Lafayette and Great Jones as I was coming out of work. I shouldn't say zipped. I should say was moving pretty quickly but I was listening to "My Life" by Billy Joel and that made me feel bold so I ran for it.
Things I had learned about myself in the thirty second period on either end of the near-miss:
If I were stuck on a desert island and I could only listen to one artist and I was assigned that artist and it was Billy Joel, I would be cool with that. You're probably wondering why I was assigned an artist and I didn't pick one. Well, the thing is, see, that I was in the Office of Desert Islands for about forty-five minutes going through their collection when I realized they should just pick for me and I'd be fine with whatever. I usually am.
If I wasn't already going to title my autobiography Sorry...So sorry...Sorry I'm Here (per Robber Baron), I would probably call it Fine with Whatever.
Ow.
Anyway, the other thing I learned as the truck drove past was that I absolutely do not question the status of that emergency. Sometimes a police car or even a firetruck will speed by and you'll think "might not be a big deal." I feel like there are no small hazard material leaks. Right?
Which reminds me of Alex Mack. Which I never really watched growing up, but reference frequently.
What's Larissa Oleynik doing?
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
What kills me, is that even when I bring home a wrench from work tomorrow, there's NO WAY I am strong enough to undo the tightening done by the giant Polish man who installed the original showerhead that I have to take down.
That's how tools work, right?
Also, Dru responded in the negative about that wrench request.
He is now ignoring my demands that he marry me.
That's how tools work, right?
Also, Dru responded in the negative about that wrench request.
He is now ignoring my demands that he marry me.
Okay. That last entry was funny and all, but I feel very frustrated and defeated as an adult. I anticipated no necessity of male assistance in this undertaking and expected simple success but instead feel suddenly blindsided by failure.
Also, Dru isn't responding to my gchat requests to come over with a wrench.
Re-introducing Tags.
Also, Dru isn't responding to my gchat requests to come over with a wrench.
Re-introducing Tags.
I have been trying to install a shower-head for the last half-hour. I gave up after trying to use a pair of pliers in place of the adjustable wrench that I don't own.
As I climbed out of the tub, defeated, I remembered that by the time my mother was my age, she was married. In the context of my bathroom dilemmas, that suddenly seemed like a more practical plan than I have ever given her credit for.
Oh my god. I just realized that by the time my mother was my age, she was also my mother.
What am I doing with my life and why doesn't it involve a waterpik?
As I climbed out of the tub, defeated, I remembered that by the time my mother was my age, she was married. In the context of my bathroom dilemmas, that suddenly seemed like a more practical plan than I have ever given her credit for.
Oh my god. I just realized that by the time my mother was my age, she was also my mother.
What am I doing with my life and why doesn't it involve a waterpik?
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