When I woke up, I wasn’t sure if I was dreaming or awake. My dreams were a lot like memories, and I know this sounds like Inception, but nothing was cool or upside down, and Joseph Gordon Levitt was definitely not there.
I dreamt I was in an elevator. And correct me if I’m wrong, but I think when you enter an elevator in your head, you start penetrating deeper levels of consciousness. I went through an elevator of high school and college. It was strange. I don’t want to know what’s there. Even in just a dream, I don’t want to visit the deeper levels of my brain.
We build walls of sanity up for a reason, you know? With medicine, therapy, and just with general, rational advice. It’s unsettling when irrational thoughts seep through the cracks. I don’t want them.
But they just come through anyway. Then it’s like…one day, I just turn around and all of these nutty thoughts are in my head and I don’t know how they got there. For instance, last night I was watching The Family Man with my Dad last night. An innocent movie with Nicholas Cage on ABC Family. Except for it isn’t an innocent movie- it’s a piece of shit movie that makes white men look like they’re the center of the universe.
These nutty thoughts kept popping up during the movie like: you better not age. You better take who will have you. You better not expect too much from these men. Lower your expectations. Improve yourself. Make yourself better, but lower your standards.
It’s sick, nasty logic that makes me feel bad. And I don’t believe it all the time, but sometimes sick, nasty thoughts will creep up on you and jump you in your sleep. Some people refer to these sick, nasty, untrue things as “demons”, but I don’t know if they’re as clear cut as that.
For me it’s just a fog: a fog of confusion that casts over me. There’s no face or body to the thoughts. They’re just these thoughts that can consume me, and sink into my skin.
It does feel a little bit like being possessed. Like yesterday, I was standing in Starbucks, waiting for my mom’s coffee, and I just started gazing at these two women. These two woman with dyed blond hair holding cell phones in their hands. And I just started thinking and thinking and wondering what the rest of their lives were like. I wondered who they used to be- were they like me? And I was doing what people generally call “spacing out”. And you know what I fucking hate about that?
When you’re staring into space, someone usually waves their hand in front of your face. Why are you doing that? I’m clearly in the middle of an all-consuming thought, and probably because I’m bored with the actual situation at hand. So let me float away into “space”, which is not space at all. It’s my head- it’s not space. Why call it “day-dreaming”? Since it’s not. I’m processing everything around me, and I’m just choosing to do it alone.
I’ll tell you this, if I’m ever a teacher, I’ll never call a student a “day-dreamer”. ‘Cause I know they’re not dreaming- they’re thinking. I’ll call them a day-thinker. And just because they’re not thinking about what I’m saying, doesn’t mean what they’re thinking about isn’t important. I’d really like to ask them one time: what are you thinking about? Clearly, things you’d like to know the answer to.
Are dreams really so insignificant? No. But of course, we can’t drive ourselves about it. But maybe people should pay a little more attention to their dreams, and to their thoughts. Because I don’t like it when dreams and thoughts just sneak up on me.
After Midsummer’s Night’s dream, I went to a meeting. It was in a small room full of chairs and they were serving tea and cookies. I sat next to a boy named Dale. He looked very young but he said he was 22. Dale had red hair and freckles and wore a NIRVANA shirt. He also had a tattoo that said “WEE DALE” on his arm. Dale was extremely friendly, but not in an invasive or inappropriate way. I had been used to comments about American politics and such, but Dale was not concerned with that:
“What do you Americans call cookies if you call biscuits cookies?” Dale asked.
Initially, I had to ask Dale to repeat himself several times because his Scottish accent was so thick. He told me about his friends and how they all drank this new drink that was a combination of an energy drink and alcohol. After the meeting, Dale offered to walk me out. When he got up, I noticed that Dale wore a leg brace. I walked downstairs with Dale and told him that I would just get a cab but it was raining and difficult to get one. I pulled out a Lucky Strike and Dale got out his lighter right away like a gentleman. Dale insisted to walk me all the way home because he said that he had a feeling I didn’t know where I was going. I didn’t really. We walked, just me and Dale. It was dark out and Edinburgh was loud and busy. The cobble stone streets were still wet with rain. Edinburgh has the most beautiful alleyways I’ve ever seen. Yes, they’re scary looking, but also beautiful.
Dale walked me right to my door. We hugged and he kissed me on the cheek, but he didn’t try and get anything else out of it. He didn’t ask for a number, an e-mail, or for me to kiss him back. Wee Dale and his leg brace. He honestly just wanted to see that I got home okay.
My first summer of sleep away camp was at Frost Valley in Claryville, NY. I was eleven years old and I went with my best friend, Olivia. We met two other girls our age, Kaela and Carolyn, and became a dynamic foursome. Kaela is still my best friend. The four of us were average 11 year olds: still learning how to shave our legs, wearing clothes from Old Navy, and looking up to the 14 year old girls like they were Gods.
During the second week, we had a co-ed dance. Dinner ended early that night, and they had to clear us all out of the dining hall so they could get it ready for the dance. I could hardly eat my peanut butter and jelly sandwich, because I was so anxious about what the dance would be like. Some of us had “dates” that we found in the dining hall, but really it was going to be a free for all. The sun wasn’t even down yet, but they herded us back to our cabins to get ready for the dance. It started at 7.
The four of us ran upstairs to start getting ready. We pulled out all of our clothes from our tiny drawers under the bed. We didn’t have hair straighteners or anything, but we had a little mascara (the pink Maybelline tube with the green cap) and some lip gloss (probably LipSmackers). Between the four of us, we had a decent array of shorts, but for high-heels and tube tops, we had to borrow from the older girls. I remember washing my face vigorously with Clearasil. I had a few pimples, but mostly my face would just get shiny. I was pretty nervous. I hadn’t even gone to barmitzvah yet, so this would be one of my first co-ed “dances”. Real dances. We had one at school before, but no one really danced. This was different, because we wouldn’t know most of the kids there.
We had some accessories from Claire’s: head bandannas, friendship necklaces, toe-rings, Olivia had hoop earrings, but I didn’t have my ears pierced yet. We also had one last cool trick up our sleeve: mini glowsticks. I had never even seen a glowstick before, much less a little two-inch one. We got them at the camp store, because the older girls were getting them. They said you could put it in your mouth, and it would make your mouth glow. So we did it. We cracked the mini glowsticks and put them in our mouths- I had green.
Walking over to the dance, I was still so nervous. I played with the glowstick in my mouth. We could hear the music blasting from the dance hall: S Club 7, Ricky Martin, Sugar Ray, Smashmouth. We got into to the dining hall and there were tons of kids and their counselors there. We were sticking around our group, but wanted to ditch the younger girls once we got there, and make sure they didn’t follow us around the whole night.
I didn’t feel my glowstick was glowing enough, so I bit it, reasoning that when you break it, it glows more, so maybe I didn’t break it all the way. I held the glowstick between my back teeth and then felt a startling crack. Bitter glow-liquid filled my mouth and I wanted to spit, but I didn’t wanna gross anyone out.
“Oh my god, oh my god, Kaela. It broke! It broke. The glowstick broke in the mouth.” I said as I covered my mouth and caught the dropping, green spit.
Kaela ran with me to the bathroom and I spit out most of the green liquid in the sink, but my tongue was still covered in it and glowing. We ran to go tell our counselors. The head counselor, Lisa, laughed, but she said I definitely had to go to the nurse. She took me. I licked my hand all the way to the nurse to try and get the taste out. I didn’t want to go back to the dance after that. The nurse gave me some water and told me to brush my tongue with my toothbrush…and not to bite glow sticks anymore.
I saw that on this wooden plaque thing at a craft store. And goddam, it’s true. The older we get, the more we sugar-blast our past. The way people act today, the way people try to stay teenagers forever, it makes me wonder if anyone actually remembers being a teenager.
For starters, my “teenage dream” sounds nothing like Katy Perry’s:
”You think I’m pretty without any make up on
You think I’m funny, when I tell the punchline wrong
I know you get me, so I let my walls come down.”
I realize she’s saying that this guy makes her feel like she’s living a teenage dream, but my teenage dream was that I was gonna take off my clothes and you weren’t going to like me anymore. I would have never entertained the idea of telling a joke wrong to a guy I liked. That sounds like my teenage nightmare.
You see, the problem is, that I don’t think we get to be the “good kind” of teenager until we’re older. What we think we miss about being a teenager is being carefree, hot and free of responsibility. But I wasn’t carefree then, and I did feel like I had responsibilities. I had a million and one make believe responsibilities: stay skinny, be pretty, be cool, be funny, have lots of friends, get good grades, have guys like me all the time, wear the right thing, say the right thing, buy the right shampoo…blahblahblah. Now, granted, these responsibilities are nowhere near as significant as: raise a child, pay rent, make a marriage work. But at least everyone acknowledges “adult” responsibilities as being difficult to deal with. At least they’re real responsibilities with actual rewards when you live up to them.
Of course we only remember the good parts, and we’re scared of dying, we’re scared of being alone, we’re scared, scared, scared of being homeless, jobless and generally just scared of being unhappy. But why? Why do we work so hard to convince ourselves that the best part of life is already over? If high school or college, was or is, the “best time of your life”, then your life sucks. I’m sorry.
I’m sick of the sexualization of young girls. Really frickin’ sick of it. Do you know how messed up this is? How badly it is fucking with everyone’s heads?
My dad married someone 20 years younger than him. Why doesn’t this ever happen as often with older women and younger men? Hmmm?
Well, in my dad’s case: his first wife was sick of him, so he had to go and annoy someone else. No women his own age would put up with his shticks, so he had to go find a naive 30 year old. But guess what? My mom aged! My mom got older and realized what a prick my dad is. Why didn’t my mom go off and find a 30 year old man at 50? Because it’s not done. We have too much integrity. We have too much sense. We understand the concept of lived experience well enough, and we understand that no matter how “mature” someone is for their age, there’s always going to be a huge power imbalance with a big age gap.
I’ve had a few men significantly older than me show an interest in me. They were all really good guys. But, sorry, do you know how much that fucks with my head? Do you realize that I’ll never be able to relate to you as an equal, because you’ve already turned me into some dirty little teen p0rN* fantasy? And I fucking hate you for that. Not because I care now. Now I like it- it feels fun. But I’m not gonna like it, if God willing, if I live to be one of these “older women” you hear so much about. I don’t like spending my twenties avoiding my thirties. I don’t like that you make me want to die rather than age. It’s fucked up, okay? It just is. Seriously. Lolita. Woody Allen. There’s nothing glamorous about being a pedophile. If “age is just a number” then it shouldn’t bother you to date someone your own age or older. The little girls are just a temporary fix. You’ll still be damaged, and they’ll eventually grow up. Unless you find little girls forever.
I’m mad at these people today. Maybe tomorrow I’ll feel differently. But you can bet your ass that I’m not texting a 15 year old boy right now, and the thought of it doesn’t turn me on in the least.
Antoni Jach spoke to our lit theory class at The New School on Monday. He gave a lecture titled: “On the Usefulness of Literary Theory”, and it’s been on my mind for the past few days. Antoni talked a lot about “the Other” and desiring “the Other”. The other can be: a lover, a parent, a teacher- anybody we want something from.
We’ve all had “others”. I mean, duh. Even if we haven’t had a romantic “other”, we have wanted things from people and people have wanted things from us. The relationship between an “Other” and a person who wants the Other is the root of every plot line of literature, film, and life.
So, why is this a problem? People wanting things from others? Why the hell is that always such a source of conflict?
Because we all need something, and we all have something to give, but we can rarely ever give anyone exactly what they need. Except in the case of The Notebook, when do two people ever fully “complete” each other perfectly, and give each other everything they need until death?
Antoni used a picture from a dating website called Badoo on his handout. “Yeah, I met my husband on Badoo.” That sounds terrific. Anyway, the picture was a person like the guy above but the speech bubble said:
“I want to find my missing piece.”
This is Antoni’s 8th concept of literary theory: the missing piece. Alright, so we’re all walking around with this enormous missing piece, and we try and find that piece on dating websites or in churches, or whatever. But what I got out of Antoni’s talk was that everything has a missing piece, and the two missing pieces don’t necessarily make a whole. That’s concept six: “two lacks beget a new harmony.”
We all look around for people to be our “missing pieces”, and all they can do is bring another missing piece to the table. But that’s okay, right? Because being “whole” is a myth. I can’t think of anyone who’s whole. I think a lot of conflicts in literature, and in life could be solved if people stuck by the principle of the sixth concept:
”Two lacks beget a new harmony.”
So, maybe you won’t find somebody who is going to know exactly what to say and when to say it. Maybe you won’t find someone who will be like an extension of yourself, and who will make you feel so complete that you’re sure you’re done searching for anything. But what’s the fun in that? You’re complete- then what? Every body has holes, big gaping holes…Don’t be crude: I mean emotional holes. I think it’s wrong to think of a partner or another person as being your “missing piece”. I think you’ll be destined for misery then. I think it’d be much more fun to sit around with your two pits of emotional lack, and just be two unfinished projects together until you’re actually finished (a.k.a you die). That’s the new harmony, maybe: a harmony that has room for spaces. Pauses can be the most powerful parts of a song.
“Man, can you cook with words!! Not so much with food (yet) but if words were food, and they are for the the brain and heart, you’d be a very young Julia Child.” -Edie to me
While I am delighted by the compliment, I have to correct my trusty mentor, Edie. She is right: I can cook with words. But I can’t “bake” with words.
If narrative writing is “cooking” with words, then poetry and song lyrics are “baking” with words. Baking requires science just as poetry and song lyrics require a rhyme scheme and syllable structure to follow.
This morning, a very talented guitarist played a few chords for me via Skype. He did the worst thing imaginable, which was: he asked me to improvise song lyrics. Sounds fun, doesn’t it? No! Because the song put this very clear image of a hayride in my head. Now I have spent the better half of my day coming up with lyrics for a hayride-themed song.
I literally cannot stop trying to build this rhyming story. It’s infuriating! So far, I have the hayride (obviously), and there’s a boy and girl…and it’s October. The girl has just come back from a terrible summer. It’s changed her. The boy doesn’t know her too well, but he wants to coax her out of the house. He wants to get her to come on a hayride with him and he wants to cheer her up. Now I have a document called: “Hay song” and a headache. Maybe I need to learn? Or maybe poetry/song-writing abilities are genetic. What do you think?
You’re born into a world of power relations. Middle school is usually our first major experience with hierarchy. It’s a crash course, and usually it crushes us. If you’re not crushed then, you’ll just have to get crushed later, so you might as well just let your entire sense of self-worth become demolished while you can still lock yourself in your room for days at a time without much consequence.
Many of us will get our self-esteem crushed lots of times over before we realize that any self-esteem that can be crushed, may not be very much esteem at all.
You may be the blondest cheerleader of your “squad”, or “pack”, or whatever, but if you walk into a clique of indie rawkers, then I guarantee you, they will find nothing ironic about you, and you will not be cool. You could be the quirkiest, Zooey Deschanelest girl of the indie crowd, but if you went over to the punks, they would find you devastatingly too capitalist….and you would not be cool.
Ben Folds once said:
“There’s always someone cooler than you”
And I will now say:
”There’s always someone cooler and less cool than you, and actually the person who is ‘cooler’ than you, could also SIMULTANEOUSLY be ‘less cool’ than you in another setting.”
Coolness only exists in little microcosms. Coolness can only exist in little tiny snapshots of life, and unless you live in a snapshot, unless you live in a teeny, tiny bubble, you will never be cool all of time. So fuck it, right? Just fuck it. Why go on this exhausting crusade to be cool, when someone will always have the power to make you feel like a loser in an instant? We all lose at the cool game.
Why do you think: “Oh, really? You think you’re cool?” is such a great intro to an insult??? Because: NO ONE IS ACTUALLY COOL. Coolness is a myth. No one is cool to everyone, which is why: if you do think you are cool, then you are wrong. To someone, at least.
If you insult my outfit, and I have banked on that outfit as being what makes me “cool”, then I’m pretty shit out of luck. You have just destroyed my coolness. If you insult my taste in music, and I’ve considered that to be what makes me “cool”, then you’ve fucked it. But, if I consider myself to be “cool” based on things that you know nothing about, then I’m all set, aren’t I?
I could tell you why I consider myself to be cool, but then you could go right ahead and tell me that the things I think are cool are not actually cool. You might anyway! In which case, I think the best advice is simply to give up thinking of “cool” as a real adjective. Cool is like “unicorn” or “wizard”….it sometimes makes sense as metaphor for something else, but it’s not real on its own. Like: “That guy looks like a unicorn!” But he isn’t one. A person can think something is cool, but another person may just not see it. That’s the thing with metaphors: they don’t make sense to everybody.
So, do you believe me yet? Or, do you still believe in “Coolness”? It’s fine. I mean, we all believed in a Santa for a while, too.
The moon came really close to earth last night, or something. It was a freak occurrence, and the moon has never been that close before. I had no idea, I guess I slept through it. It’s a very strange coincidence, because last night I saw Melancholia, which is about this planet that is expected to pass through the moon and come crashing into earth.
The movie started out very slow. There was a montage of images set to Wagner. It was beautiful, but I was anxious for the dialogue to start. Kirsten Dunst’s character, Justine, was suffering from a debilitating depression. I thought Dunst gave a really swell performance. Justine’s depression, her “melancholia”, was a preemptive response to the planet (also named Melancholia) that was expected to come crashing into earth and end civilization. Justine was the only person who was sure that Melancholia would kill them all, but her sister, Claire, and Claire’s husband, John, were convincing themselves that Melancholia is harmless. John said that Melancholia was just going to pass through the moon and it would be beautiful. Does sadness pass, or can it really kill you? Is it beautiful?
Melancholia, sadness, depression- it’s a feeling of an emptiness inside. Freud says:
“In mourning it is the world which has become poor and empty; in melancholia it is the ego itself.”
Yeah, but what can you say to that? That underneath the “ego”: you are empty. We are empty, we just are. We’re a bag of flesh with an ego inside. I heard this quote in a trailer for a movie that Sarah Silverman is in this summer called Take This Waltz. Her character says:
“There are gaps in life. You just accept it. You don’t go crazy trying to fill them in.”
Melancholia is a gap. It’s always there, but I guess our job is to ignore it most of the time.
