At That Particular Time
Today, for the first time since I began taking steps away from you, I felt a quiet sorrow for what we once were. "It was never meant to be," as a canister romantic comedy would say, but I will never forget that I would not be here now if it weren't for the decision we made 6 years ago today. Thank you for being with me when I needed you.
you knew you needed more time time spent alone with no distraction
you felt you needed to fly solo and high to define what you wanted
at that particular time love encouraged me to leave
at that particular moment I knew staying with you meant deserting me
that particular month was harder than you'd believe but I still left
at that particular time
Moving on Up
The weather here in Phoenix is finally in an official upswing, with the forecast promising that for the next week and a ½ the temperature should climb up to 80 degrees or more. I am so ready for the warm weather to get here; I'm tired of wearing coats and worrying about how my long legs make my jeans to look like high-waters when I wear sneakers. It's this time of year that makes me feel as though I'm on a vacation every day, as ever since 2002 Phoenix was the place that I went to get away from rural Virginia until I finally left for good in 2006. The only time I find myself missing Virginia is in the winter, since it actually gets pretty cold here despite what the over-exaggerating natives will say. I remember Matt telling me that it would be 70 degrees on Christmas, but for the two that I've spent here it's been a bitter 40-50 degrees each time. When I first moved to Phoenix and mentioned that I recently moved here from Virginia, it was inevitable that I would be asked the question: "Have you been here for a summer yet?" Yes, I have actually - the dry heat is nice - but have you been to the south for a summer? Because if you haven't, pack some flippers, cause with that much humidity you'll get where you're going faster if you swim through the air instead of walk on the ground.
But as much as I'm loving the weather right now, I have a feeling that in 9 days I'm going to be cursing how friggin hot it is outside. On April 26th, my boyfriend and I are going to be moving into a new house. He has already reserved a UHAUL truck and (thankfully) hired some moving help with the hopes that almost everything we own will be in the new house by the 27th - so, going by his master plan, almost everything needs to be packed and ready to move by the 25th (which is the day we should be getting the keys.)
I'm going to start doing the necessary packing on Saturday, but thankfully I don't have that much stuff lying around the house. I had known from the beginning of our relationship that he was looking to buy a house so I had kept the majority of my things in the same boxes that I used last November to move out of my old apartment. He, on the other hand, has been living in the house we currently rent for 2 years and has shit everywhere, so I'm guessing that most of my time will be spent packing his stuff. I just hope we can be "on the ball" about it and get the majority of it done this weekend rather than scrambling on Wednesday and Thursday to get everything ready. In a perfect world I'd like to move over some of the small stuff on Friday, things like clothes and DvDs and other non-necessary items, so that we can take full advantage of the hired help and more the big shit on Saturday.
I can't say I'm that excited about the idea of moving again. For someone who lived in the same house from 18 months until 23 years old, it's a little surreal to think that I've changed my address 4 times since 2006. It makes me feel a bit like a nomad, which is the complete opposite of my nature - I am eternally opposed to change and always prefer the dependable and uneventful alternatives. I like the idea that the plan is to own this house for a few years before we try to sell it.
Although I have not officially asked "permission" to do so, the one thing I am looking forward to is the opportunity to do some decorating around the new house. Part of me feels old as fuck to be excited about that, as if hitting my mid-twenties has somehow caused me to suffer from some sort of Martha Stewart syndrome, but I've always wanted to live in a nicely decorated home. I tried to do some decorating in my old apartment with Matt but it was an endlessly infuriating experience; he didn't like anything I showed him and then couldn't give me a clear idea of what he did like. I loved going to IKEA and getting cool ideas for what to put in our apartment, but ultimately we would end up being "that" couple who was having an argument in the bowels of the store about how ugly the lamp this is, or how unnecessary those cabinets are. I'll admit that I'm a little bit worried of having the same arguments over the things I'd like to put in the new house, but who I'm with now is different - he might just let me do what I want as long as it's not freakishly stupid, especially if I use my own money to do it. And though do I tend to have freakishly stupid décor tastes I'm sure I can find some compromise along the way that satisfies me and allows him to bring over friends without telling them "my girlfriend picked out this lamp while she was high on crack."
Last Place in the Lone Woman Race
The progress I've made on my 2008 New Years resolution so far can be summed up in two words: "epic fail." I wish that were different, but I'd be wasting my time to keep making promises about how "I'll try harder", and "this time I'll really put forth an effort" - it's been what it's been, and most of the time, it was nothing at all. It's hard to believe that it's already April 1st, 4 months since I attempted to start my journaling crusade, but I'm glad to be the hell out of March and coming into the warming weather. Considering how this project has been going it's actually pretty ironic that I choose to finally make a post on April Fool's day I just wish I felt more like the prankster than the fool. With each day that passes I don't know why I make something as simple as writing more elusive than it needs to be.
If I ever do want to get back to writing on a regular basis (which, IMO, would be kind of awesome), I should probably start off with being a little more honest: my intention for journaling again isn't because I want to document my life, restore my peace of mind, indulge my hibernating creativity, or any of the other earthy excuses people have for further polluting the internet with egotistical steams of consciousness. In fact I'm not sure if I was ever in that state of mind, and if I were, it was likely brief and the odds are good that I was high as a kite in Michelle's dorm room. Despite my true motivations, I still reaped the benefits as though it were for the sake of my creative flow; the older I get the more I appreciate having these archives to look back on that I otherwise wouldn't have if I had only a pen and a for-my-eyes-only paper journal to do the job. I doubt my entries would have had near the detail and enthusiasm if I knew that I was the only one who would read it.
When I was 17 and 18, a large part of me felt like I was a pioneer of the internet onslaught - I was helping push the world wide envelope of internet publication, however small of a contribution it was, and somewhere along the way I got to find out who I was and figure who I wanted to be. In short, it was this period of my life that I saw myself as A Pretty Big Deal, shamelessly self absorbed, and reasonably difficult to deal with if I was ever some other emotion than "calm." It was this period of my life that I became comfortable with not having many friends, and of those that I did have, I adapted the habit of keeping them at a distance that made whatever role they played in my life optional. I never would have admitted this at the time, and even now it's not something I'm proud of, but my writing enabled me to become my own best friend in a very unhealthy way. It gave me a way to glorify myself and sadly it was probably the most content I have ever been with who I am. If I take a step back and really compare what was pushing me back then to what is tugging at me now, it's essentially the same man behind the curtain it was just so much easier to pay no attention to all the ugliness when I was younger.
It was after the Summer of 2002, during the years that followed where I spent my days with only a computer to keep me company, that I misplaced whoever it was that I knew myself to be as a teenager. Well, "misplaced" is probably a poor choice of words: aborted is more fitting, as I was struggling to become a better person at the time and somehow I was able to not only gain the perspective to see what needed to be different but also the courage to change it. It's only at moments like this that I miss that person, that girl who wore red boots every day and lived for Alanis Morrissette, and it makes me wonder if I did the right thing to her.
So, to finally get to the point: I want to continue to use this space as a tool to prove that I'm smart and more interesting and that somewhere, deep down, there a tiny bit left of that Pretty Big Deal. However, this time I'm not trying to prove this to myself I want this so that the important people in my life can see that this side of me exists. It's something I feel I need to accomplish but I also need to find a way to do it differently; I want it to be something I can do casually, without it consuming me and changing my perspective, but it seems as though I can't find the passion for it without the self absorbed agenda. Where once this was so easy it is now a constant source of worry and struggle; can I no longer even bullshit how interesting I am? Does it really take that much time out of my day to sit and write down what I think? Does it matter if he can read what I write as I'm typing when he's the one I want the most to read it after it's published?
I sit here, again and again, struggling and straining to put the simplest ideas into words. So much effort and so far there is nothing to show for it. I wonder what is wrong with me when I already know the problem(s), and I wonder why I waste my time when I already know why I do. Then I kick my own ass for the shortcomings I've long sense accepted and persist to keep trying even though I know the odds are good that I'll fail. In short, I'm torturing myself and I know I'll continue to do so until I get it right. I just don't think that I ever will be able to again.
A Window Through Myspace
For years I would try to find the people I used to know by doing a google search of their names and crossing my fingers. Despite the almighty power of my love Google it was never able to find anyone I was looking for. I never stopped trying, still doing search after search, but over time I did it less and less because it was frustrating to always come up with nothing. I thought that as time went on it would only be a matter of time before people developed online identities and it didn't make sense that I still wasn't finding anyone after 4 years of looking.
As it turns out I was just living under a rather large rock, because people have been branching out in the internet. I was just looking in the wrong places and refusing to look in the obvious ones; like Myspace.
Ever since I discovered what everyone else in the world knew about but me, I have been sneaking an hour here and there to browse Myspace. I've found a good deal of my HS graduating class, as well as some people from college. It seems so weird - back when we all were in high school, I was probably the only one, or one of the very few, that kept a personal website... and it sort of boggles my mind that with the help from Myspace that there are now so many people that have openly accepted it as something perfectly normal to do. Ironic that one of the few things I once thought made me accomplished and unique from everyone else has now become mass produced and simplified for the masses. And considering that I don't mind saying that while browsing Myspace I felt like I was sucked into a timewarp back to 1998. Browsing around I would think, "I had a page that looked just like that back when I was 15, but back then I also thought wearing neon orange pants with red shoes was awesome." Are people colorblind? I guess history always will repeat itself, and this is the second and likely not the last time I'm left wondering if people really look their Myspace pages when they're done customizing it and think to themselves, "that looks awesome!" I know people aren't really there to comply to web standards and make their Myspace page look elegant, but when I browse around the only thing I notice is how it's the cool thing to see how hideous they can make it look. After nearly 8 years of focusing on design and page elements it becomes a force of habit, I guess.
I'm being a little harsh about Myspace, but I have my reasons: after years of avoiding it the best I could, I finally sold out and have added myself to the ranks. I registered an account sometime back in 2004, in order to view other people's photos, and I did it on the condition that that would be all that I used it for. I didn't want any part of Myspace - I can make my own web page, thank you very much - and I kept that promise for as long as I wanted to, though even now I'm wondering why I apparently wanted to break it. I'm not there to network or make new friends. I'll probably be just as distant as I usually am with everyone online, so I don't even think it'll strengthen my old friendships. I guess I only added myself because of how much I enjoyed looking at everyone else's profiles. It was interesting to know where people were now, to see if they were happy, if they had kids, etc... and I figured maybe someone would be curious about me, or maybe someone wanted to find me like I had wanted to find others. Unlike me, most people would probably do a Myspace search, where I wouldn't of been found before, than a google search. I didn't want that to sound so egotistical... but I guess it is. Myspace seems to be all about being egotistical.
Even though I've only had any pictures and information posted on my Myspace for less than a week, I've already had a few people from HS send me messages and I've sent out a few of my own. We'd reply back and forth a few times, talking about major changes in our lives or just saying how we are. Usually it would go back and forth 1-3 times... then it seems to abruptly stop, with me being the last one that sent a message. Not sure what I'm saying that's killing the conversations; it seems to happen after I say that I was sick for a few years. Not sure what about that is a mood killer, but guess I should try to dance around that from now on.
I found Jenn's Myspace. The Jenn... the last person in the world who I thought would willingly put anything about herself on the internet. And though I never thought she'd do it, whenever I did my google searches, her name was always one I tried to find. I've said so much about what happened between her and I, so many things over such a small period of time, that it seems pointless to talk about all the memories that come to mind when I think of her. I've said things I regret, and though I doubt I'll ever have the courage to ask, it makes it easier on me to assume that she feels the same. Sometimes people leave a particular impression on your life... over time it doesn't matter anymore if it was good or bad; eventually it just becomes something that's there and you live with each day. Whether she meant to or not, she changed my life tremendously... and looking at her Myspace, the proof that I had been looking for for years that she does still exists... it was like I was looking at a ghost. I looked at her pictures, read what she had written on her site... turns out she had spent a few years dealing with illness as well. When I read that, I had the urge to contact her... use that as a middle ground to see if we could both get some closure and some long overdue understanding between us. But I hesitated and I chose not to; even though it's all 6 years past it didn't feel like it was the right time to let her know that I still exist. I have kept all the archives from my college years on this site, and now they have their own category that would make it easy for her to find all the posts that once upset her so. I'm proud of this site and don't want to hide anything anymore - this is me and my life and I won't run away from my right to express it again. Who knows if maybe one day she'll do a search for my name on Myspace and find this site, again... but it will have to be her decision and by her own will to do so. Somehow it doesn't feel like it's my place to take the first step in the space between her and I... who knows, in the end, maybe it's something neither of us should do.
Virginia Tech
This is something I wrote on April 23rd. It's what sparked my interest in journaling again, because for the first time in years I looked to writing (granted, as a last resort) as a way to deal with my feelings about what happened on April 16th at Virginia Tech. For a solid week I could barley function outside of refreshing CNN and getting lost in my own thoughts - I was at a loss of what to do because no matter how much I talked and read about it it would still haunt me all day long. Writing was the only thing that finally freed my mind and allowed me to have some closure, if there ever really can be.
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My mind has been whirling for the past couple of weeks and it feels as though the force of is only getting stronger each day. It started with my poor performance at work, it continued with the troubles between Matt and I, and its now at it's peak over what happened at Virginia Tech.
As a testament to how I seem to have grown past doing this, my initial urge (that I struggle with even to write this sentence) is to keep my thoughts and feelings of what happened at Virginia Tech to myself. I did not go to school there - I went to Radford University, some 15-20 miles down the road. During my 1 year spent at RU, I visited VT a handful of times, usually staring out at it from the backseat of Dave's car when he was picking up or dropping off Nadia. Two or three times I actually walked on the grounds and spent some time in Nadia's dorm room. I remember disliking Virginia Tech - the idea of a school that big intimidated me, I didn't like the look of the pseudo New England buildings, and I believe I did feel jealous of those who attend school there or maybe that was just shame of attending Radford University. I only knew two people who went to school at VT - Vince being one of them. I remember the moment he told me he had been accepted to Virginia Tech - I believe it was 1999, he had just picked me up from my house and while we were driving in the dark he broke the silence with saying he had been accepted. There was also Nadia, who I met through my friend Dave since they were dating at the time (2001-2002). I spent a lot of time with her at the beginning of the year, since she had a little trouble getting used to VT and meeting people. I enjoyed her company - one of my clearest memories I still have of her was watching that year's Miss USA contest in my dorm's common room. Of the those two people I knew who went to Virginia Tech, I no longer have contact with either of them. Parts of me wish I could talk to Nadia and Vince right now, but at the same time, I know I'd have nothing to say - I'd be asking them to repeat the same thing they've probably repeated thousands of times by now, and I doubt what I had to say would be of any interest to them.
I don't know where my views fit in on what happened 4/16 other than being yet another voice in the resounding sympathy and shock that everyone, even those who have never even heard of Virginia Tech before Monday, are expressing. I'm one in the crowd of millions, and the only claim I have to justify how I feel is that 5 years ago I was within a couple of yards of the buildings that the shootings occurred in. Parts of me are angry at myself for my self importance - other than a handful of visits, VT never meant that much to me. How can I act as though it does all of a sudden? I know that what I'm going through right now is not even remotely close or relevant to what those who spent justifiable time at VT must be feeling, and the fact that I'm going through anything at all makes me feel as though I'm stealing grief that doesn't belong to me.
My memories of Radford University are a sensitive subject for me - I usually avoid thinking about it if I can, because it just makes me sad - and even though I spent little to no time actually involved with VT, it is still a place I associate with my college years. It was apart of the area, apart of the experience - just like the Blue Ridge Mountains were. Even before 4/16 I could never think of RU without also remembering something about VT. Back when I didn't realize I wouldn't be returning for the 2002-2003 school year, I had planned to go to Virginia Tech after I finished 2 years at Radford. If I had gone down that route, I likely would of still been in the Blacksburg area, maybe even still attending VT, when the shootings took place.
I know what it feels like to have lived in the exact same town and experience the exact same sort of disruption that so many people experienced on 4/16. Roanoke VA is the site of my 9/11, as I was attending Radford University when the twin towers were hit. I still to this day clearly remember walking across the grounds of RU and hearing CNN echo across the grass through all of the dorm room's open windows and doors witnessing everyone around me trying to find a way to deal with the same tragedy in an atmosphere where it should never be. I guess that's the best way to put how I feel about VT - I'm relieving my 9/11 all over again.
I was standing in Qdoba, my favorite place to eat here in AZ, when I looked up at the TV and noticed a news bulletin that had the words "Virginia Tech" and "shooting." There was a feeling of surprise, but not much else - the same lack-luster response I had when I first saw smoke billowing out of the first tower of the World Trade Center, before the second one was hit. I made a few comments of shock to Sheila, my coworker who had come with me to Qdobas, and we went back to the office without another word about it. With the recent shootings at the CNN office building in Atlanta, I assumed it was something "minor" - a typical foolish shooting about some personal drama that just happened to take place on the college campus. It wasn't until after I had gotten back to the office, eaten my lunch, and started working again when I remembered "oh - I should check CNN to see what that was about."
For a week after that I don't think I spent more than 15 minutes without refreshing CNN.com.
Now whenever I start to remember RU and VT, I'll have something else that makes me sad that I can't help but think of.