November 30, 2000
*cough* It was pointed out
*cough* It was pointed out to me that I gave the wrong address for my amazon.com wish list. Oops. How come nobody else noticed, jeez! Aren't you curious to see what I lust after? (No, besides Hugh Jackman. Amazon doesn't have him in stock. I checked.) Thanks, Jan -- I'd've linked, but I don't have your URL!
November 29, 2000
So as I sit here
So as I sit here singing at the top of my lungs ("Keys to the Kingdom" by the Nields, for the curious), I get sad, because I made a realization. Starting next week, I won't be able to just start belting out songs at all hours as loud as I want. No singing my head off in the shower either. Wah. Guess I go back to singing in the car, then.
I stumbled across Om Mani
I stumbled across Om Mani Padme Hum sometime last week, and have been reading it with much giggling. Jen's hysterical.
November 28, 2000
Yes, to answer the eternal
Yes, to answer the eternal journaller's holiday-time question, I do have an amazon.com wish list. No, that's not a hint. (Unless you're someone who was already gonna get me a present, like family. THEN it's a hint. ;)) Y'all can just go look and see what a freak I really am...
It's official. I am officially
It's official. I am officially enrolled (as a junior, even!) at Eastern Michigan University. I have a student ID with a crappy picture and everything. This semester I am taking American Government and Reading of Literature: Fiction. I even have a declared major. Fear me. Language, Literature and Writing. It's sort of a smorgasbord of the whole English department. My minor will be either Music (if I'm already close to fulfilling it) or Philosophy. Wow.
Heh. Laura asked me earlier, "A student ID, a book out this spring -- girl, what are you going to do next?" ;)
I answered, "Move in with my parents!"
November 27, 2000
Moving Stress -- Again
Ugh. So here's where I confess to being majorly stressed out, right? I am. Exceedingly so.
Every time I move I say that I'm not going to leave things until the last minute, but every move I do exactly that. I can do this, I'm just going to making up for lots of weekends where I didn't get much done over the past month. As usual.
Last night was kinda rough. I spent a huge portion of the day with my nose stuck in a book instead of packing. (I know, I know. Don't email me and tell me what a goomba I am. I know already.) I had good intentions, really. Then I realized that the book was due back at the library when I moved, and I really wanted to finish it. (The book was A Prayer for Owen Meany by John Irving, by the way.) I finished it, but then I had that off-kilter feeling you get from reading too long, particularly on a winter day when it gets dark early. I found the book itself to be disquieting -- yes, it was good, but I don't think I liked it much.
I felt disconnected and sort of floaty. That's a bad sign for me. I also hadn't eaten all day -- another bad sign. Back when I used to do theatre, after a show closed, I'd often have a case of post-show letdown for a day or two. You know, where your excitement levels stay up for an extended period of time, then all of a sudden, it's over? Sad as it is, I had the same feelings after seeing Rent, and I wasn't even IN the show. So, yeah. I was way way down yesterday. Heavy depression clouds hanging over my head.
I ended up, naturally, talking to Brand about it quite a bit. We talked about me moving, and how stressed I was. I said, "You know, I haven't really been happy here." It was a startling recognition to make. "No, you really haven't," he admitted. That surprised me. I wanted so much to be back in the Ann Arbor area, and when I got there, it wasn't what I wanted at all. The apartment was too small. The area was too rough. Deep down, I never quite felt safe there, not as safe as I'd felt in the trailer. I mean, it's not like my current apartment is in the ghetto or anything, it's just not quite as nice as the neighborhood I lived in before. That fear expressed itself in a lot of the nightmares I kept having.
When I moved out from the the apartment I'd shared with Hollingsworth last October, I was ready to live by myself. It was time. And I think that time was good for me in a lot of ways. But now I'm ready to live with other people again, I think. (I hope, she says in a little interior voice. I'd better be, said voice continues.)
It's gonna be a looooong week. I already know that. You know the drill. Moving. Hectic. Things might be quiet around here. Things are going to get better. I know they will.
And the Understatement of the
And the Understatement of the Year Award goes to...
On Journals-L, an online journal email list, on how people chose their domain names: "I have a smallish obsession with selkies. I think I scare a lot of my friends."
Go check out DP9's upcoming
November 25, 2000
So. Finally, after having bought my ticket months ago, I got to go see Rent today. Some folks might remember I got hooked on the music about six months ago or so (yeah, I'm late jumping on this particular bandwagon). When I heard it was coming back to Detroit, I knew I was going to get there, come hell or high water. So when tickets went on sale, I bought one. So how was it?
In a word: amazing. When I bought my ticket, ages and ages ago, I was really excited because I thought I had a great seat. Main floor, fifth row. When I got to the theatre -- hang on. Let me digress a moment about the theatre. The Detroit Opera House is in Detroit's theatre district, which has been undergoing a bit of a renaissance over the past ten or so years. The DOH itself, like several of the big theatres downtown, is an old, old theatre that has only recently been renovated and reopened. It is, to put it mildly, baroque. It's so amazingly ornate inside, it's almost dizzying to see. The area of town itself is fairly decent, as long as you don't wander out of the theatre district. This is why I went to a matinee performance. Yes, I went by myself.
Anyway, end of digression. I get to my seat, and I end up feeling more than a touch disappointed. While I am in the fifth row, I'm all the way over on the very farthest right-hand aisle of the theatre. The way the stage set is made up, I could only see about three-quarters of the stage. To further aggravate me, there were four rows of portable seats that had been placed where the orchestra would normally be, and over half of them were empty. The orchestra (really more a rock band) for Rent is onstage with the performers, allowing the orchestra pit to be used for some additional (and VERY CLOSE) seating.
I had resigned myself to my rather substandard view, when about ten minutes before the show started, an usher (who I'd noticed moving up the aisle talking to the patrons) stopped at my seat and said, "Since your view is obstructed, would you like to move to the red velvet seats in the orchestra?" Well that was a no-brainer. I sort of blinked and grinned and said, "Really?" She said yes, then showed me up front -- where I sat in the fourth row, dead center stage. I was ten feet from the stage. No more than that. I had, without a doubt, one of the best seats in the house. All because I got stuck with a kinda crappy seat. I was ecstatic.
I found out from chatting with the usher that those same seats, the first two rows, at least, are reserved, and the tickets only go on sale two hours before the performance. She said the people sitting in them had camped out overnight to get one of the 36 seats available. "It's sort of a reward for the people who are huge fans of the show," she explained. I thought that was kinda cool. The other two rows, including the one I was sitting in, were reserved for the people who ended up, like me, with a blocked view of the stage.
Then the show started. If you're completely cut off from anything theatrical, you probably don't know the story, there's a better synopsis on the official site than I could come up with. The show is more than the story, though. Even just listening to the music as much as I did didn't give me the full effect. Every time I see a live show, I always get reminded how much I love live performances. I don't see enough of them. The energy was unbelievable, especially since I was surrounded by die-hard fans. We clapped, we yelled, we screamed. It was a combination Broadway musical and rock concert.
The show is truly a theatre geek's dream. The set and staging are so sparse, all of your attention gets focused on the actors. The opening of the second act, "Seasons of Love", consists of the actors simply lined up across the front of the stage singing the song. I was so close, I was making eye contact with them as they sang. That was amazing. It's worth mentioning that two-thirds of the main characters are HIV-positive, and during the second act, one of them, Angel, dies. I cried. No, I bawled . I sat there in the dark hearing sniffles all around me and knew I wasn't the only one. At his funeral, the entire cast reprises "Seasons of Love", with the same staging as the first time -- exactly the same. The space in the line where Angel stood at the beginning of the act is left empty. That one bit of staging, so very simple and subtle, said so much to me about what exactly AIDS means, and made me cry all over again.
All in all, it was everything I'd hoped it would be and more. Sure, there were a few glitches here and there. Phones didn't ring when they were supposed to once or twice, someone flubbed a line or lyrics once or twice, snow didn't quite fall when it was supposed to. It was never anything noticeable unless you knew the show. And the flubs, combined with how close I was to the actors, made it that much more real. These were live people in front of me. Watching these people sing and dance and act in front of me was so powerful. I'm not able to find the words.
I miss it. I wondered, during intermission, if my life might have gone that way. That if I'd pressed and worked and stayed with it, if I might not have ended up in a touring company somewhere, doing some show. I wanted to, once upon a time. When I was high school, that's what I wanted more than anything else. Too many voices talked me out of it. "You're too fat." "It's too hard." "You'll never make a living at it." "It's too uncertain." "You need something to fall back on." Nobody, but nobody , ever said, "You're not talented enough."
A part of my heart will always be on a stage somewhere, despite years away from it and years of insecurity and doubt and a now-growing stage-fright. I think that's why I always want to go see shows like this, to visit that little bit of my heart I lost so long ago. For that three hours in the darkness, I'm complete.
"Seasons of Love", lyrics and music by Jonathan Larson
Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes
Five hundred twenty-five thousand moments so dear
Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes
How do you measure -- measure a year?
In daylights -- In sunsets
In midnights -- In cups of coffee
In inches -- In miles
In laughter -- In strife
In -- Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes
How do you measure a year in the life?
How about love?
How about love?
How about love?
Measure in love
Seasons of love
Seasons of love
Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes
Five hundred twenty-five thousand
Journeys to plan
Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes
How do you measure the life
Of a woman or a man?
In truths that she learned
Or in times that he cried
In bridges he burned
Or the way that she died
It's time now - to sing out
Tho' the story never ends
Remember a year in the life of friends
Remember the love
Remember the love
Remember the love
Measure in love
Measure, measure your life in love
Seasons of love ...
Seasons of love
I have sound again. Yay!
I have sound again. Yay! What am I listening to? Rent, of course.
A few assorted notes about the show that didn't make the journal entry:
- The guy who played Roger (Christian Mena) was gorgeous. The fact that he's pretty much the "romantic" lead didn't hurt. Tortured musician types. Yummy.
- I think the guy who played Mark (Matt Caplan) lost a filling during "What You Own". Yeah, I was that close. Something flew out of his mouth while he was singing and he sang the rest of the show holding his mouth oddly. If that's the case, what a trouper! :)
- Never correct yourself onstage, especially if you're singing. So what if everybody there knows it's "Scarsdale" and not "Scardale".
- Mimi (Saycon Sengbloh) was a little ball of sexual energy. Just about every time she came onstage, she got catcalls from men and women alike. Of course, considering that two of the three couples in the show are same-sex couples, this shouldn't be surprising coming from the audience. Her costumes might have had something to do with it too.
- Considering the above fact, and considering how raunchy the show was in places, I'm really amazed at how many rich old suburbanites I saw. I sort of wonder how many of them left at intermission.
- When I came out of the theatre, I saw the die-hards lining up for the good seats for tonight's show. There weren't many of them. Then I saw a sign that said those tickets were only $20. If I'd had $20 in my pocket, I would have settled myself right down in that line and seen it a second time. No question about it.
November 23, 2000
Oh yeah, Happy Thanksgiving! I
Oh yeah, Happy Thanksgiving! I had a good one with my family. I may be writing about it later.
So, I pulled up a
So, I pulled up a search on Napster (bite me, Lars) for "Who Let the Dogs Out", as I'm like the only person in the universe who hasn't heard it yet. It came up as no matches found. Then I realized I'd done a search on "Who Let the Gods Out". Thought-provoking and philosophical, am I not? Who let the gods out, indeed.
November 22, 2000
Tired of election nonsense yet?
Tired of election nonsense yet? Sure, but go read this. It'll make you feel better.
A Florida elections commissioner was heard on CNN saying that manual recounts are more reliable because "they help to resolve the hanging chad problem." The hanging chad problem. I can just picture some election worker walking up to a blond-haired surfer dude and saying, "Hey, Chad, how's it hanging?" Chad, of course, replies, "Not too good, dude." Thus we have a hanging Chad problem.You should see what he had to say about pregnant chads.
November 21, 2000
I am so mad about
I am so mad about this. I'm sorry. If hate groups are legally protected in posting their spew on the net, then an internet journaler CAN NOT and SHOULD NOT be censored because some whiny-assed woman doesn't like what's said about her on the site.
"Congratulations! I am pleased to
"Congratulations! I am pleased to inform you that you have been admitted to Eastern Michigan University as a transfer student for the Winter 2001 semester."
That's what it says, and I keep reading it and grinning. I are a college student again. I have a student ID and everything. I may write more about it later -- my writing this week is been all directed elsewhere, not focusing on me. I'm avoiding a lot. I'm stressed about moving (in a week and a half!) and generally pretty bleah on life, and I don't really want to write about that.
This letter helps though. It helps a lot.
November 20, 2000
We got our first real
We got our first real snow of the season today. I was pissed, because this morning (before it started snowing) I thought about taking my camera to work and didn't, thereby missing some nifty snow pictures. There's really not that much, about an inch or so.
It's weird. I felt very sad at the sight of the snow. It made me too aware of time passing. Why that made me sad, I don't know.
November 18, 2000
I am listening to the
I am listening to the saddest piece of music in the world (Samuel Barber's Adagio for Strings) and writing very sad things as part of a story. The logical question is, "Are you sad, Lisa?" And I'm not, really, except in that "watching a sad movie" sense. I am getting fidgety though.
November 16, 2000
I love Jake. She says
I love Jake. She says things that no human being ever, ever says. Usually she makes it sound good and wise. But sometimes...
Kent says "I don't know. Maybe...maybe she really did want to atone. Maybe she knew that whoever killed her was out there and thought changing might let her survive it."And sometimes she laughs at herself for being a dolt. A lot like her player.
Jake blinks, lifting her head for a moment. "I hadn't thought of that." She smiles slightly. "I guess I'm a romantic at heart -- I'd like to think she wanted to atone."
Kent shrugs. "Could be. Part of me will always be a cynical, suspicious bastard, I guess. It comes with the job. Along with being too trusting. All at once."
Jake nods. "Always too trusting. Me too. Always..." She trails off, as if she were going to say something else and forgot, mid-sentence.
Kent tilts his head. "What is it?" He takes another swig of the flask.
Jake hms? and glances back over. "Oh, nothing. Just... remembering. Thinking it's a testament to the miracle of the resilence of the spirit that either one of us ever trusts at all anymore."
Kent nods, solemnly, and looks back out to sea. "Yeah. A real testament."
Jake wrinkles her nose slightly, a grin threatening to form in spite of herself, "That, um, did sound pretty damn pompous, didn't it."
Kent holds two fingers together, an inch or so apart. "Just a little. Hardly noticable. Really."
I so suck! I missed
I so suck! I missed my two-year journal anniversary! Why didn't y'all bug me about this? It all started November 12, 1998, with the words, "There's something intriguing and tempting and scary about posting really personal thoughts online." There's some bad, embarrassing shit back in those early entries. And if the background color isn't enough to cross your eyes, I dunno what is.
November 15, 2000
I'm alive, I'm alive. I've
I'm alive, I'm alive. I've been writing, and editing. Editing Tribe 8 stuff, and well, I think I'm writing a novel. I actually, um, outlined today. Part of it, at least. I keep thinking that I should get in touch with famous authors who have strong recurring characters and ask them if this sort of obsession is normal -- yes, it's true. I'm writing about selkies again.
November 13, 2000
Hey! I just won my
Hey! I just won my first award! It's the Size Wise Excellence Award.
Watch out, Diarist.Net Awards! ;)
November 12, 2000
I spent a good part
I spent a good part of today reading and re-reading old books I haven't looked at in ages.
"You want to know the only thing my brother ever had to teach me?" His voice was hitching and thick with tears.Damn. You just don't get more epic than that. I want a story like that. That's what I want to create and to write and to play. Go read those books, if you haven't.
"Yes," the gunslinger said. He leaned forward, his eyes intent upon Eddie's eyes.
"He taught me if you kill what you love, you're damned."
"I am damned already," Roland said calmly. "But perhaps even the damned may be saved."
"Are you going to get all of us killed?"
Roland said nothing.
Eddie seized the rags of Roland's shirt. "Are you going to get her killed?"
"We all die in time," the gunslinger said. "It's not just the world that moves on." He looked squarely at Eddie, his faded blue eyes almost the color of slate in this light. "But we will be magnificent." He paused. "There's more than a world to win, Eddie. I would not risk you and her -- I would not have allowed the boy to die -- if that was all there was."
"What are you talking about?"
"Everything there is," the gunslinger said calmly. "We are going to go, Eddie. We are going to fight. We are going to be hurt. And in the end we will stand."
Now it was Eddie who said nothing. He could think of nothing to say.
Roland gently grasped Eddie's arm. "Even the damned love," he said.
November 11, 2000
I want to make it
I want to make it through this wedding without crying. That's all I ask. I sing near the end of it, and if I blubber during the wedding, I'm not going to be able to sing. And I'm trying not to get too nervous. When I get nervous, I can't breathe well. It happened last night at the rehearsal. Ugh. Shaky, quavery voice.
November 10, 2000
How many Florida voters does
How many Florida voters does it take to change a lightbulb?
Four. No wait, six. Um. Two?Of course, I liked Phil's answer: "About 19,000, but they can't decide whether to turn hard to the left or to the right." Hee.
November 08, 2000
I know some folks are
I know some folks are sick to death of election stuff already, but I'm fascinated. CNN has become my new best friend. While the result is up in the air, I'm mostly amused by the snippets of history and trivia, although this verified exchange just cracks me up. From the second call Gore made to Bush last night, retracting his original concession:
"Let me make sure I understand," protested Bush, his victory speech in hand. "You're calling me back to retract your concession?"I mean... ouch. Nice to see that our presidential candidates can be as catty as the rest of us at times. Really.
"You don't have to get snippy about this," Gore protested.
"Let me explain something," Gore continued. "Your younger brother is not the ultimate authority on this."
Jeb Bush had reportedly assured the Texas governor in the wee hours of Wednesday morning that Florida was a done deal.
Red, White, Blue, Black and All the Rest
If nothing else, it was an impressive show of democracy (which may mean nothing, depending on how Florida goes, but that's another rant for another page). I left work a little after six last night to vote. I had plenty of time, of course, so I wasn't worried. By the time I got to the church where I was supposed to vote, it was about six-thirty. The parking lot was full to overflowing -- and it was a huge parking lot. 'Okay,' I thought, 'there's going to be a long wait.' So I grabbed my book and went on in. Picture this: a church basement, made over into a gymnasium of sorts, perhaps fifty or sixty feet square. The mass of people inside seemed to have no discernable order at all. I spent several moments trying to figure out where I was supposed to go.
Once some kind soul pointed out where the end of the line was, the mass of people resolved itself into a line that coiled serpent-like around the basement -- twice. People lined up around the outside wall of the building, and then when it went around once, they continued the line just to the inside, and it wrapped around again. I was glad I had my book, cause I knew then I was going to be there for a long time.
I read in line for about forty-five minutes, almost making it around the inner circle. Behind me, I heard two women, about my age, talking about local apartment complexes. One of them commented that she'd heard that mine was horrible. I glanced back and smiled and said, "Oh, it's really not that bad, I live there." I assumed they'd come to the polls together. They both looked like students. Don't ask me what a student looks like, but after six years in Ann Arbor, I can say there's definitely a look. I just can't describe it. One of them was petite, Asian, the other was taller than me and very robust, with slightly tanned skin and hair somewhere between dishwater blonde and brown.
Now I know, very often when you butt into a strangers' conversation, you get a weird look. It didn't happen this time. Bored, with little else to do (other than read, of course) we fell into a conversation, mostly to do with the odd zoning in our immediate region -- as we all lived within a few blocks of each other. Things like the vagaries of township and school district borders held our attention for perhaps twenty minutes or so. Then, naturally, conversation turned to griping about how very long the line we were standing in was.
Then a fourth joined our conversation, a well-dressed black man. My vibe from him was "not a student". We had a grand old time, the four of us, laughing and talking. We teased each other like old friends, and giggled when the election officials gave us sign in forms to fill out ahead of time. "To give us something to do," she said, although she had no pens we could use. We joked that they were trying to keep us from being rowdy. By this time, it was nearly quarter to eight, and we had nearly a whole lap to go.
Eventually, it came out that the tall girl was a single mom: "My mom is going to kill me," she kept repeating. "She's watching my baby while I'm here. I told her I'd be right back." Her son was nine months old, she said, but he'd been born at 25 weeks. A micropreemie, who weighed a little over a pound. At the same time, she was working on a degree at Eastern (which is where I'm going). On her own since she was sixteen, she said. She seemed tiredly amused that she'd been on her own for so long, and didn't get pregnant until she was nearly finished with school. "But I love my son," she said, "I wouldn't trade him for anything." No matter how worthless dad turned out to be.
By now, our fourth member had wandered off, visiting familiar faces around the room. As the line moved around the room, the tall girl and I fell easily into personal conversations about ourselves. I realized later that it felt much like what I do here. It turned out that she's from Puerto Rico, and the rather reticent Asian girl was from Miami. Finally when talk turned back to school, we got somewhere with her. She said she was almost done with a Ph.D. in civil engineering at the University of Michigan. And was completely burned out of school. She'd been going nonstop for 22 years, she said. And as far as she was concerned, she wanted nothing more to do with civil engineering. Ever. Talk fell into typical older college student talk: the value of a degree in the workplace, how to balance work and school. The tall girl said, "It's so cool, how we're all the same age but are at such varying places in our lives." And she was right. It was.
Our companion returned. It turned out I was only partly correct in my assessment of him. He, too, was a student, working on a Ph.D. of his own in Educational Leadership. In the meantime, he was a college professor at Eastern and Washtenaw Community. Before long -- well no, that's a lie, it was two hours, but it didn't feel that long -- we reached the table and signed in. I was the first. "Well, it was really nice talking with you all," I said, then smiled and went to vote.
Four people. Male, female, black, white, Hispanic, Asian, student, teacher, single, divorced, married, varying orientations. We were the nation in small. We didn't talk about politics, so I don't know how any of them voted, I never even found out their names. I'd imagine we fell along all party and candidate lines. I left the church with a sense of rightness. This is how it's supposed to be. That feeling had little to do with my vote. Four very different people, united for a couple of hours only by a sense of civic duty. That's what this is all about. That's what made me feel, even for a little bit, glad to be American.
Presidential stuff aside... am I
Presidential stuff aside... am I the only one scared by this? Alabama finally repealed an unenforceable ban on interracial marriages -- with only a 59 percent margin.
In many rural, mostly white counties, the amendment either passed narrowly or was defeated. But in urban centers, such as Jefferson County, it passed overwhelmingly.I think Brand said it best: "Interracial marriage is bad for our Southern culture, huh? Wow. Well, I suppose it may be true -- but then I hear that marrying outside the family is bad for the Southern culture too." And I can say that, I'm mostly Southern. ;)
The only public opposition to lifting the ban came from a coalition of chapters of the Southern Party in Alabama. A leader of the Confederate heritage group, Michael Chappell of Montgomery, filed a lawsuit that unsuccessfully sought to remove Amendment Two from the ballot.
Chappell said the amendment was vaguely worded and was not needed since interracial couples can now marry in Alabama. At the same time, he added, "Interracial marriage is bad for our Southern culture."
November 07, 2000
*cue James Bond theme* This
*cue James Bond theme* This just in from London:
Acting on intelligence reports, police were waiting when the robbers used a large yellow excavator to smash their way into the vault that usually houses a dozen top quality stones — including the 203-carat Millennium Star.Okay, that's really cool, with the bulldozer and the smoke bombs and the powerboat chase and everything, but where in the hell did they think they were going to fence a 203-carat diamond?
Four people were arrested in the vault, two were captured as they tried to escape by powerboat along the nearby Thames and five others were arrested in raids across southeastern England, police said.
November 05, 2000
And from the New York
And from the New York Times (they require registration, but it's a simple thing):
November 04, 2000
Why am I still up?
Why am I still up? Good question. Probably because I ate a ton of Starbuck's Coffee Almond Fudge ice cream earlier. The key word being 'coffee'. It didn't taste caffeinated... The upside of this is that I have some nifty new Tribe 8 related email addresses for various and sundry purposes. Yay Mo!
November 03, 2000
Hey! I wanna therapeutic pig
Hey! I wanna therapeutic pig on my next flight too! Six hours on the flight though, damn. You gotta know a pig doesn't know how to use the little airplane bathrooms.
Sources familiar with the incident told the Philadelphia Daily News in Friday's editions that the hog's owners convinced the airline that the animal was a "therapeutic companion pet," like a guide dog for the blind.Thanks, Liz for pointing this out.
To get over my nearly
To get over my nearly obsessive worries, I checked with Eastern's admissions department. For transfer students, they only require a 2.0 GPA. So, I'm in. Unofficially. Whew!
In other news, our office received an anonymous note from one of our customers. He or she sent it in one of our no postage necessary envelopes. It said, "You Michigan assholes deserve Al Gore." Not a satisfied customer, apparently.
November 02, 2000
So, um, yeah. Here's the
So, um, yeah. Here's the plan, as of last night. I'm moving back home to live with my parents at the end of the month, and then in January starting school at Eastern Michigan University (please god they accept me!). I'll still be working here, just with slightly reduced hours.
I can't believe I'm going to do this. I'm excited and terrified at the same time. And I can't believe I'm moving again...
November 01, 2000
Gingko of Dreaming Among the Jade Clouds recently commited suicide. I wasn't one of her regular readers, but I knew who she was. You can't be into the 'journaling community' and not know her name. I didn't know her, yet why am I so profoundly upset by this?
I suppose part of it is my usual reaction to suicide, about what a sad, horrible waste it is. Yes, I know. I've been suicidal in the past. I've made half-hearted attempts. I have been so horribly and utterly depressed that drawing breath was an almost inconceivable effort. I've wanted to just die to end the pain. In the end, all of my attempts were not so much attempts to end my life as subconscious attempts to draw attention to how much I was hurting. I can only imagine how much hurt there would have to be to carry through on the attempt.
Go to Gingko's site. Look around. She was an artist, a writer. Her site is gorgeous. I remember thinking I'd send her email once when I was first getting started, but I was afraid to, because I felt so intimidated by her and her beautiful site. I wish I had now.
That's really what it comes down to, isn't it? The end. No more words to write. No more pictures to draw or take. No more songs to sing. No more stories to tell.
I'm so afraid of that. Once I thought I knew what comes after this life, and that if I followed the rules, I'd go on happily ever after. Now I don't know. What if this really is it? One time around the merry-go-round and then everybody has to get off. There's so much time I've wasted. So many things I haven't done. I drift from day to day never really thinking about it, moving without much plan or purpose. There always seems to be enough time ahead of me.
But what if there isn't?
What have I done so far? My list of life accomplishments seems so small. I've achieved tiny amounts of success as a writer, tiny amounts of success as a singer. There are so many things I haven't done, that I haven't had a chance to do. Twenty-eight years is not long enough. Ginkgo was twenty-nine.
Whenever I hear that someone I know through the net has died or gotten sick or had some major change in their life, I feel this creeping sense of panic. What if something happens to me? Almost none of my closest friends would know how to get in touch with my family, or vice versa. No one would know any of my passwords to update this site to let y'all know. Or to check my email and answer it. All the phone numbers I know I have in my head.
I almost feel like I should make a living will, only instead of one that says 'do not resuscitate' it would say, 'Call these people, here are their phone numbers. Here are all my relevant passwords, do this if I am unable to.' I suppose it's not a completely bad idea. I have very little in the way of physical property. But I have so much intellectual space on the net, things that are important to me, projects I care about.
There are things I will not finish. I think that's what has really hit me about the news about Gingko. Someday I'll die, and it won't matter that I haven't finished a story or that I was working on a character. Conversations will remain forever unfinished. Relationships will stay unfinished. In stories you try to wrap up most or all of the most important loose ends. Life isn't like that. When it ends, it ends, and whatever loose ends remain are left to unravel or for someone else to knit up.
Logically, I knew this, of course. I think the import of it really hit me for the first time. I'm feeling a little at sea right now.
To Ceit and anyone else reading who was close to Gingko, I'm very sorry. I wish I had sent that email.
New entry up. Once again
New entry up. Once again I find myself strongly affected by the death of someone I hardly knew.
Yay, October's over! I swear,
Yay, October's over! I swear, I'm starting to look at that month with an almost superstitious dread. Which probably makes things worse, I know...
I'm also fishing for ideas. I want to write a story or a journal entry or something. I just gotta find something to bait the hook with.