I hadn't known Clark even went to this college; nevertheless, there I was in the cafeteria and there he was, looking all-elbows gawky and terribly awkward, stretching to find a place to sit. There was a moment of mutual recognition that passed swiftly into acceptance and we peeled away from the crowds and out of the cafeteria. "I know a place where there are chairs," he said, proud of knowing something I didn't, "nobody knows about this place," and he lead the way to a quiet corner of the third floor of the college where all the chairs go to die. There, students go to study, but mostly sleep, and we kept our voices low and spoke mostly of nothing-much, work stuff, school stuff. When we ran out of things to talk about (we have nothing in common save for workplace), we fell into staring at a snoring someone-or-other across the room.
"I'm going to see if there's a way onto the roof from here," I announced eventually.
"Okay, sure," Clark said, and in his sarcasm was a challenge, so I nodded and beelined to the stairwell, up one flight, up another flight, past a metal door that should have been closed, "What are you doing?" from Clark, "Going to the roof," a door that should have been locked was open instead and there we were, on the roof, and the wind laughed proudly (the wind hates closed doors) and the sun stared down uneasily, sure that we weren't supposed to be there, "Holy shit, we're on the roof," said Clark.
"Yeah."
"We actually went to the roof."
"Mm-hmm." I hadn't previously explored that area, hadn't previously known there was access to that area, although of course there's access to every roof if you know where to look, so I dropped my bag into the door and padded away, leaving him there to decide whether or not to follow. It was only a moment's wait and then Clark thumped along after me, which I hadn't actually expected. A pleasant surprise, that.
"Susie."
"Yiss."
"We're seriously not supposed to be here."
"Nonsense. If we were not supposed to be here they would have locked the door, don't you know anything." On top of a college, on top of the world, it really is only a matter of perception, "sweet, c'mon," and we dodged between the air vents and climbed a ladder, found our way to another roof and a higher ledge and Clark asked, "Do you do this kind of thing a lot?"
I shook my head and answered, "Not since last semester, look, Roya's office, say hello to Roya, she's not there right now."
We sat on the tarred roof for awhile with our backs against a vent, then wandered our way back, stopping from time to time to make comments meant to indicate to ourselves how much more awesome we were than the people who chose not to be on roofs that day...
...because it is a choice, you see...
and when we parted ways, Clark grinned without meeting my eyes and said, "Well, I guess I have a story now."
and all I could think was, holyshitImadehimastory. But I figured the sorts of people who take you up on your very first illegal roofstomp aren't the sorts of people who get all squealy about that sort of thing so I grinned, feeling cool, and said back, "Always walk like you know where you're going, man."
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
Thursday, September 29, 2011
To Be A Woman
There's a status that's been making the rounds on Facebook lately; at least, I have to assume it's been making the rounds, as it's shown up in virtually every female's status message lately. I try never to actually keep track of what is making the rounds on Facebook. In fact, when something shows up more than once, my eyes tend to automatically glaze over and skip ahead.
However, this one caught my attention.
"
"If I walk around in five inch heels I will kill myself and probably a significant number of innocent bystanders. And if I try cooking and cleaning and talking on the phone, the lasagna will have dishwashing fluid in it, the dishes will be washed with ricotta and the person on the phone will think I am DEAD because of all the SCREAMING, followed by sudden silence. I never have to wake up after crying all night and pretend everything is fine, because I don't cry all night. Nobody cries all night. They'd die of dehydration first. Furthermore, when my nail polish is wet, I am not helpless; have you ever gotten nail polish in your eyes? It hurts. Like hell. So honestly, I question the validity of this entire status."
And I do. Let's take it sentence by sentence. A woman, according to this status, can be broken down into the following categories:
Okay, so giving birth is cool. Mind you, it's something that, to judge by some of my classmates, any drunk sixteen-year-old girl with three IQ points to rub together can do, so I'm not as impressed as perhaps I could be.
Simultaneous cooking, cleaning and talking on the phone is equally cool. In fact, I think that should be elevated to an Olympic sport. I have since conducted experiments to see if I could do it, and it wasn't pretty. Does doing laundry count as cleaning house? Because if it does, I can at least say I can cook and clean at the same time. Talking on the phone while cooking is, for me, a terrible idea; the last time I tried it there really was screaming going on, and then I abruptly hung up on the Meerkat (do you remember that non-conversation, Meeks?)
Having your period is not something to be proud of, nor should it be listed as a point of pride for all womankind. It's biology. Interesting biology, I'll admit, but it's stupid to take pride in an inconvenience. I'm not going to reward a dog for biting my leg, I'm certainly not going to give my uterus cookies and assure it that it's a good girl when all it's doing is causing me pain.
WEARING FIVE-INCH HEELS IS STUPID. IT IS STUPID. IT IS STUPID, DO YOU NEED ME TO SAY IT AGAIN, IT IS STUPID. I've met women who can pull it off, hell, probably I'm a woman who could pull it off, but all you want to do when you're done pulling it off is PULL THEM OFF. And then pull off your feet. And then NEVER WALK AGAIN. All for the sake of a fashion industry that is actively out to make all women think they want to be Barbie.
Crying all night, if you put aside the physical impossibility of it, is a sign of a serious emotional problem. That's my first problem with that bit. My second problem is the implication that it takes a real and proper woman to not only have whatever severe psychological problem that would lead to crying all night, but also to COVER IT UP. Because female emotional problems are what, not worth getting into? Not worth talking about? Not worth working through or even acknowledging? They are, in fact, only worth suppressing and pretending everything is fine? That's something to be proud of? Fuck that.
And finally, we come to the icing on the cake. Let's quote this directly, this one is worth quoting directly:
"
However, this one caught my attention.
"
"If I walk around in five inch heels I will kill myself and probably a significant number of innocent bystanders. And if I try cooking and cleaning and talking on the phone, the lasagna will have dishwashing fluid in it, the dishes will be washed with ricotta and the person on the phone will think I am DEAD because of all the SCREAMING, followed by sudden silence. I never have to wake up after crying all night and pretend everything is fine, because I don't cry all night. Nobody cries all night. They'd die of dehydration first. Furthermore, when my nail polish is wet, I am not helpless; have you ever gotten nail polish in your eyes? It hurts. Like hell. So honestly, I question the validity of this entire status."
And I do. Let's take it sentence by sentence. A woman, according to this status, can be broken down into the following categories:
- Giving birth
- Running a household with some measure of competence
- Having her period
- Wearing fashionable shoes at the expense of personal comfort
- Having emotional breakdowns that last all night
- Wearing nail polish.
Okay, so giving birth is cool. Mind you, it's something that, to judge by some of my classmates, any drunk sixteen-year-old girl with three IQ points to rub together can do, so I'm not as impressed as perhaps I could be.
Simultaneous cooking, cleaning and talking on the phone is equally cool. In fact, I think that should be elevated to an Olympic sport. I have since conducted experiments to see if I could do it, and it wasn't pretty. Does doing laundry count as cleaning house? Because if it does, I can at least say I can cook and clean at the same time. Talking on the phone while cooking is, for me, a terrible idea; the last time I tried it there really was screaming going on, and then I abruptly hung up on the Meerkat (do you remember that non-conversation, Meeks?)
Having your period is not something to be proud of, nor should it be listed as a point of pride for all womankind. It's biology. Interesting biology, I'll admit, but it's stupid to take pride in an inconvenience. I'm not going to reward a dog for biting my leg, I'm certainly not going to give my uterus cookies and assure it that it's a good girl when all it's doing is causing me pain.
WEARING FIVE-INCH HEELS IS STUPID. IT IS STUPID. IT IS STUPID, DO YOU NEED ME TO SAY IT AGAIN, IT IS STUPID. I've met women who can pull it off, hell, probably I'm a woman who could pull it off, but all you want to do when you're done pulling it off is PULL THEM OFF. And then pull off your feet. And then NEVER WALK AGAIN. All for the sake of a fashion industry that is actively out to make all women think they want to be Barbie.
Crying all night, if you put aside the physical impossibility of it, is a sign of a serious emotional problem. That's my first problem with that bit. My second problem is the implication that it takes a real and proper woman to not only have whatever severe psychological problem that would lead to crying all night, but also to COVER IT UP. Because female emotional problems are what, not worth getting into? Not worth talking about? Not worth working through or even acknowledging? They are, in fact, only worth suppressing and pretending everything is fine? That's something to be proud of? Fuck that.
And finally, we come to the icing on the cake. Let's quote this directly, this one is worth quoting directly:
"
Monday, September 19, 2011
Monday, August 29, 2011
All Updates All The Time
...you'd have 'em, if stuff didn't keep on happening.
Life's been complicated of late. If it's not birthdays, it's dark revelations about my past, if it's not dark revelations about my past, it's video game obsession, and if it's not any of those things, it's the fact that I'm grumpy (or high on pain medications) because of my stupid broken foot.
Promise, guys, there will be something of interest someday.
Friday, August 12, 2011
September, the second installation of the twelve-part By Any Other Name, will be up as soon as I can get the internet to behave with something vaguely resembling reliability. In theory, I'm going to be able to do a month a week; this is, of course, entirely dependent upon both the internet and inspiration working with some level of regularity.
Oh, and if my various other-life responsibilities allow it. DARN YOU, DENTIST, PARENTS, UNFULFILLED SOCIAL OBLIGATIONS, WORK, BIRTHDAY AND LIFE. DARN YOU TO THE PLACE WHERE THERE ARE NO SOCKS.
ETA: Last night, I was listening to a coworker ramble on about how much he hated institutionalized education. After a half hour, I ran out of noncommittal grunts and got tired of cycling through the five vague noises of interest, so I looked up from my book and snapped, "Bullshit. You are full of shit."
Much to my shock, the world did not end and he did not kill me; instead, we had an interesting conversation-sum-argument and ended up coming to some form of common ground.
So apparently there's nothing wrong with disagreeing with people when you believe them to be wrong.
This realization has sent me 'round the twist, I don't mind admitting it.
Oh, and if my various other-life responsibilities allow it. DARN YOU, DENTIST, PARENTS, UNFULFILLED SOCIAL OBLIGATIONS, WORK, BIRTHDAY AND LIFE. DARN YOU TO THE PLACE WHERE THERE ARE NO SOCKS.
ETA: Last night, I was listening to a coworker ramble on about how much he hated institutionalized education. After a half hour, I ran out of noncommittal grunts and got tired of cycling through the five vague noises of interest, so I looked up from my book and snapped, "Bullshit. You are full of shit."
Much to my shock, the world did not end and he did not kill me; instead, we had an interesting conversation-sum-argument and ended up coming to some form of common ground.
So apparently there's nothing wrong with disagreeing with people when you believe them to be wrong.
This realization has sent me 'round the twist, I don't mind admitting it.
Sunday, August 7, 2011
By Any Other Name
August
The heat is a thing alive, wrapping around shoulders and tangling through legs, thick and rattling with the calls of cicadas. Somewhere nearby, someone is having a party, and the music thuds and whines, a discordance occasionally pealing with laughter that sounds just a little too desperate to be real. Streetlights buzz uncomfortably and send orange light wandering through the branches of trees.
Two figures have taken to the streets tonight, perhaps seeking wandersome relief from their peers shouting at the party, perhaps slipping out from one of the other houses whose windows flicker blue with television. Or perhaps they have come from nowhere at all. One swings a bottle, occasionally hands it to the other when some unspoken communication indicates that it is wanted.
They walk like they know where they are going, although one occasionally slows to examine a thing that catches her interest: a leaf, a plastic bag, a flower or lawn gnome, a newspaper abandoned in the gutter. They do not speak, and the comfort in the silence indicates that this is a matter of choice, rather than a thing born of awkwardness or dislike. They have spent enough time in one another's company that they do not need to fill the silence with useless noise. Their shadows circle them uncertainly as they pass beneath the streetlights.
The smaller one hurries to catch up to the larger, reclaims her bottle, breaks the quiet that follows them, in spite of the sounds still emerging from the party at their backs. "I wish I could remember my name."
The other pauses, eventually replies, sounding slightly irritated. "What do you need a name for?"
"I don't know. Just feel like I should have one, sometimes."
This seems silly to the larger one. They both have survived this long without names; they are who they are, whether they are named or not. "Should is a strange thing."
"I suppose." They walk onwards. "Everything else has a name."
"We are not everything else." Now the silence between them grows a twinge of disagreement, which colors the air. "What would you have your name be?" asks the larger, when the air becomes too thick.
"Oh, I don't know that. It's just..." It is a hard thing to try to explain. "The wind whispers. It wonders who I am. And I know who I am, but I can't tell the wind, can I?"
"You can't tell the wind anything. It doesn't listen. It just whispers, then passes to whisper to another." Another pause. "Having a name would not change the wind."
There is no way to explain that she knows that having a name would not change the wind. Nothing could change the wind, which goes where it pleases, does what it likes, and never bows to anyone. But having a name would, perhaps, change the way the wind was heard, make the whispers mean something different. "I had a name," she says finally, because to say anything else seems impossible.
"You lost your name." The bottle changes hands again, one woman to the other.
The statement makes the smaller feel defensive, as though she did something wrong, as though this existence is somehow her fault. "So did you."
"I do not think about it," says the larger, truthfully. Her name, having been lost, is no longer a thing worthy of consideration. But she looks at her companion, and her bearing has changed, and it seems that more needs be said. "You are more than a name."
"Everything is," the smaller agrees, but that wasn't her point, not even slightly. "But everything has a name, regardless."
A passing breeze takes an interest in the two figures who walk as though they know where they are going, perhaps because they don't. The wind likes contradictions, so it pauses a moment to play in their hair and make the branches of the trees dance and hiss. What it whispers in each ear, they will never speak of, not now that each knows what the other thinks.
Underscored by the shouts of revelers, the silence stretches, and it is less comfortable than it was before.
"It's going to rain," says one to the other, as the bottle makes its way back to her possession.
"It's going to storm," the other replies.
And they walk on.
The heat is a thing alive, wrapping around shoulders and tangling through legs, thick and rattling with the calls of cicadas. Somewhere nearby, someone is having a party, and the music thuds and whines, a discordance occasionally pealing with laughter that sounds just a little too desperate to be real. Streetlights buzz uncomfortably and send orange light wandering through the branches of trees.
Two figures have taken to the streets tonight, perhaps seeking wandersome relief from their peers shouting at the party, perhaps slipping out from one of the other houses whose windows flicker blue with television. Or perhaps they have come from nowhere at all. One swings a bottle, occasionally hands it to the other when some unspoken communication indicates that it is wanted.
They walk like they know where they are going, although one occasionally slows to examine a thing that catches her interest: a leaf, a plastic bag, a flower or lawn gnome, a newspaper abandoned in the gutter. They do not speak, and the comfort in the silence indicates that this is a matter of choice, rather than a thing born of awkwardness or dislike. They have spent enough time in one another's company that they do not need to fill the silence with useless noise. Their shadows circle them uncertainly as they pass beneath the streetlights.
The smaller one hurries to catch up to the larger, reclaims her bottle, breaks the quiet that follows them, in spite of the sounds still emerging from the party at their backs. "I wish I could remember my name."
The other pauses, eventually replies, sounding slightly irritated. "What do you need a name for?"
"I don't know. Just feel like I should have one, sometimes."
This seems silly to the larger one. They both have survived this long without names; they are who they are, whether they are named or not. "Should is a strange thing."
"I suppose." They walk onwards. "Everything else has a name."
"We are not everything else." Now the silence between them grows a twinge of disagreement, which colors the air. "What would you have your name be?" asks the larger, when the air becomes too thick.
"Oh, I don't know that. It's just..." It is a hard thing to try to explain. "The wind whispers. It wonders who I am. And I know who I am, but I can't tell the wind, can I?"
"You can't tell the wind anything. It doesn't listen. It just whispers, then passes to whisper to another." Another pause. "Having a name would not change the wind."
There is no way to explain that she knows that having a name would not change the wind. Nothing could change the wind, which goes where it pleases, does what it likes, and never bows to anyone. But having a name would, perhaps, change the way the wind was heard, make the whispers mean something different. "I had a name," she says finally, because to say anything else seems impossible.
"You lost your name." The bottle changes hands again, one woman to the other.
The statement makes the smaller feel defensive, as though she did something wrong, as though this existence is somehow her fault. "So did you."
"I do not think about it," says the larger, truthfully. Her name, having been lost, is no longer a thing worthy of consideration. But she looks at her companion, and her bearing has changed, and it seems that more needs be said. "You are more than a name."
"Everything is," the smaller agrees, but that wasn't her point, not even slightly. "But everything has a name, regardless."
A passing breeze takes an interest in the two figures who walk as though they know where they are going, perhaps because they don't. The wind likes contradictions, so it pauses a moment to play in their hair and make the branches of the trees dance and hiss. What it whispers in each ear, they will never speak of, not now that each knows what the other thinks.
Underscored by the shouts of revelers, the silence stretches, and it is less comfortable than it was before.
"It's going to rain," says one to the other, as the bottle makes its way back to her possession.
"It's going to storm," the other replies.
And they walk on.
Thursday, August 4, 2011
Time flows ever-onwards, and questions of worth...of self, of others...continue to surge up to be eventually soothed.
An angry someone-or-other is currently demanding I make some sort of amends to him for dropping him on Facebook. He seems to be of the opinion that dropping someone you haven't talked to in over two years is somehow a horrible offense, and is using the moment's curiosity that caused him to realize that he could no longer view my page as reason to subtly press the claim that he cares much more than I do about other people.
He certainly cares more than I do about this given situation, but as to the more extreme accusation...I'm not sure.
---
This Didn't Happen
"Hey."
"Hey."
"What do you want?"
"Uhh....why do I have to want something? Maybe I just called."
"You must want something, you're talking to me. People don't generally do that without ulterior motive."
---
It has been a long-standing complaint of mine that the only time my phone rings, the only time my chatwindow bleeps, it is because someone, somewhere, wants something. The truth of this statement is, first and foremost, dubious. Furthermore...it is only recently that I have begun taking into consideration the thought that when you call someone just to find out how they're doing, it's because you want something, too. Everyone wants something from everyone else. It's just, sometimes the thing they want is surcease from loneliness, something to assure them that they are not alone in a world that frankly gets more terrifying by the day.
This is a thing I do sometimes. The world is large and frightening and I am but a person, a sometimes sad, sometimes lonely, sometimes depressed, sometimes bored individual. So I pick up the phone, so I sign online.
Which means that when I call people, when I chat them, it's because I want something, too. The reason I cut the gentleman in question instead of sending him a message was because I didn't care enough about his company to seek it out. He did not fulfill any given need, so I cut him out and didn't give the matter much more thought. Truth be told, he was one of approximately thirty or so people I also dropped on that particular day.
Does this make me cold? Does this make me apathetic? Or does it make me human, susceptible to human failings? Should this even be considered a failing? I know I'm neurotic. I know I'm paranoid. I know that sometimes I am these things with good reason, and sometimes I'm these things because habit too long established is a hard thing to put aside. Cold, though, stonehearted, apathetic, these are things that I am having trouble equating with my personal mode of life. I have been treated with apathy too many times to be able to allow the possibility that I am capable of being apathetic to settle comfortably into my heart.
Of course, Facebook doesn't matter, and the ruffled feathers of someone who in all honesty does not care about anything outside of his ability to stir mud wherever he can find it doesn't matter, but as that was the scenario that put the thought into my head, it's only fair to mention it.
I begin to suspect that I, who have accused people of not caring throughout the course of my entire life, have finally realized the advantages of apathy. I don't like it, mind you. It does not at all sit comfortably with me, which is why I'm even writing this entry. I don't think I will ever be able to just...walk away, get called on it, and not have some version of this cycle of introspection rev itself into being.
But there was a time, perhaps two years ago, that I would have begged this person to take me back, be my friend, answered his angry email with something doormattish and pathetic. Anything to prevent his dislike from hitting home, anything to avoid having someone out there with a less-than-stellar opinion of me. But there are a lot of people with a less-than-stellar opinion of me anyway, so why should I have to put up with someone I don't like?
Ah. And there's the rub.
Probably someday I will be able to go through this process without spending a half-hour writing up a blog entry to detail my own feelings in the matter. Probably there will come a day when I'll just laugh about it, or at least shrug it off.
Then again, maybe it's the lack of shrugging that not only makes me who I am, but makes me worth caring about. Is that ironic? Or is it just appropos?
An angry someone-or-other is currently demanding I make some sort of amends to him for dropping him on Facebook. He seems to be of the opinion that dropping someone you haven't talked to in over two years is somehow a horrible offense, and is using the moment's curiosity that caused him to realize that he could no longer view my page as reason to subtly press the claim that he cares much more than I do about other people.
He certainly cares more than I do about this given situation, but as to the more extreme accusation...I'm not sure.
---
This Didn't Happen
"Hey."
"Hey."
"What do you want?"
"Uhh....why do I have to want something? Maybe I just called."
"You must want something, you're talking to me. People don't generally do that without ulterior motive."
---
It has been a long-standing complaint of mine that the only time my phone rings, the only time my chatwindow bleeps, it is because someone, somewhere, wants something. The truth of this statement is, first and foremost, dubious. Furthermore...it is only recently that I have begun taking into consideration the thought that when you call someone just to find out how they're doing, it's because you want something, too. Everyone wants something from everyone else. It's just, sometimes the thing they want is surcease from loneliness, something to assure them that they are not alone in a world that frankly gets more terrifying by the day.
This is a thing I do sometimes. The world is large and frightening and I am but a person, a sometimes sad, sometimes lonely, sometimes depressed, sometimes bored individual. So I pick up the phone, so I sign online.
Which means that when I call people, when I chat them, it's because I want something, too. The reason I cut the gentleman in question instead of sending him a message was because I didn't care enough about his company to seek it out. He did not fulfill any given need, so I cut him out and didn't give the matter much more thought. Truth be told, he was one of approximately thirty or so people I also dropped on that particular day.
Does this make me cold? Does this make me apathetic? Or does it make me human, susceptible to human failings? Should this even be considered a failing? I know I'm neurotic. I know I'm paranoid. I know that sometimes I am these things with good reason, and sometimes I'm these things because habit too long established is a hard thing to put aside. Cold, though, stonehearted, apathetic, these are things that I am having trouble equating with my personal mode of life. I have been treated with apathy too many times to be able to allow the possibility that I am capable of being apathetic to settle comfortably into my heart.
Of course, Facebook doesn't matter, and the ruffled feathers of someone who in all honesty does not care about anything outside of his ability to stir mud wherever he can find it doesn't matter, but as that was the scenario that put the thought into my head, it's only fair to mention it.
I begin to suspect that I, who have accused people of not caring throughout the course of my entire life, have finally realized the advantages of apathy. I don't like it, mind you. It does not at all sit comfortably with me, which is why I'm even writing this entry. I don't think I will ever be able to just...walk away, get called on it, and not have some version of this cycle of introspection rev itself into being.
But there was a time, perhaps two years ago, that I would have begged this person to take me back, be my friend, answered his angry email with something doormattish and pathetic. Anything to prevent his dislike from hitting home, anything to avoid having someone out there with a less-than-stellar opinion of me. But there are a lot of people with a less-than-stellar opinion of me anyway, so why should I have to put up with someone I don't like?
Ah. And there's the rub.
Probably someday I will be able to go through this process without spending a half-hour writing up a blog entry to detail my own feelings in the matter. Probably there will come a day when I'll just laugh about it, or at least shrug it off.
Then again, maybe it's the lack of shrugging that not only makes me who I am, but makes me worth caring about. Is that ironic? Or is it just appropos?
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