Retro Geek

Or, not so much so.  Reason, version 4. Same infuriating satisfaction of ready-made electronic looping bad-ass-ness.  A largely productive day, although my knee is still aching, and I protest, utterly, this growing old thing my body seems to be doing without my permission.  I do not approve.  I think I'm a lousy friend.  Both of you can join the choir, now, except neither of you seems to be talking to me.  I seem to be a good friend, despite fundamentally selfish tendencies, when solo, but this whole 'successful relationship' thing is rather rewriting the terms of my friendships.  And seems to involve long, frosty silences.  Or maybe it's just not about me.  Nah. That can't be it.  Where was I?  Frosty silences.  Unreturned phone calls (well, really only one of you; the other I owe, seriously long overdue, a call. Trust me, the guilt is enormous.) didn't used to be the tenor of my life.  Timbre. A lovely word, and perhaps better communicating what life seems to be.  Recalling Thanksgivings past, so many of them without family, hell, without Thanksgiving itself, occasional refugee, friends, dinners, Brits and expats, Westchester, Brooklyn.  And now, this? Local blood relatives.  If I'd known it would come to this, etc.  "They'll be making a formal offer this weekend, but what, I'm going to turn it down?"  "Yeah go on.  Turn it down. Just to say you did."  (cue LONG pause whilst re-reading emails to and fro, from early/mid-February, 2006.) Not even two years ago, and I can barely fucking remember much more than throwing my head back on the ski slopes (don't ask) just before the largest East Coast blizzard in a century (I was playing the odds) and saying "I fucking did it" over and over and over and over again.  Selective memory blanking, a charm and a liability.  Thinking back to Westchester Xgiving, a mere two years ago.  And I barely remember the details (well, that's not true. I remember the table cloth, the paper turkey centerpiece, the boyfriend-then-fiance-now-husband-of-the-sister.  Did we spend the night or train back? And where do the double thanksgivings, in Brooklyn, fit in?  And what ever happened to having to work for the (evil, old, Dead) man the day after Thanksgiving?  And why do my friends treat me well at all, given what a twat I'm capable of being? Eh. Fuck the boat.  Thoughtful, but not hobbled by self-doubt, nor particularly intoxicated.  Early to bed...weak in the eyes, etc.

hang my head

A Decemberists's's's's's's (silly proper noun plural rules) song, three easy chords (D A G, for those of you following along at home), but a difficult (for me, at least, as a rank beginner) strumming pattern, and all the more difficult to finger the chords, strum, and sing at the same time.  Not really my really my suit in keyboard playing, either, happy to block out the chord's base with my left and do any heavy lifting with my right, and still rhythmically challenged, as it were, when adding a vocal line on top.  My inner metronome, clearly, leaves much to be desired (although there is a certain pleasure in typing this and realizing the fingers of my left hand are essentially numb, as the callouses have largely faded from non-playing until the last few days - the resuming of which probably coincides with the resumption of placing words here), not to mention either/or/and playing and singing.  But something's got me thinking, and it ain't just the ache in my left knee as it protests this whole "running" thing of late (did I mention I refuse to look like my father? absolutely and utterly, and I'm actually willing to sweat to prevent it. I am a stubborn bitch when necessary, and this, apparently, was my cue.)  It ain't just the work, or whatever transition it is I seem to be struggling with.  Err, well, it is probably that last, though if I could place the to and the fro of the equation, it would make this all rather less, well, you know, wordy.  Ah, those three blogger tags below - scooters, vacation, fall.  Scooters? Who was smoking what when they decided that was an ideal exemplum gratis?  "Oh! I see - my post is about scooters! And those cute little Vespas we rode in Majorca on vacation last fall!  So I should tag this post 'scooters, vacation, fall'!"  What about "e.g., Hooters, liposuction, hell"?  Not a bad shorthand tag for Los Angeles, actually.  I miss England, I miss NY, I'm annoyed as fuck that he-who-stole-my-affect is coming to give a talk here the week after next, and terrified about how much work I have to do over the next few weeks. And, ultimately, I'm just a bit fucking moody.  Although Berkeley friend who claims she still loves me coulda shoulda woulda might've called, but didn't. And as it's all about me, well, no points, hon', for that. Although all of my friends seem to think that "Tuesday" passed.  Although the friend with whom that was invented seems to think it was "wednesday", not tuesday, but as all my journals from that period never arrived any place (or, didn't do so from my perspective) there's no way of verifying that claim one way or the other.  Dunno.  I want to put on my Sex in the City voice and ask if my approaches to relationships and friendships are somehow mutually exclusive, but, well, that would be cheap.  A few more sips of wine, some Nadezhda....Hope Against Hope, she writes....unto the very grave.

one if by land

or, two colleagues who don't seem to give a fuck.  Am I wrong, then, to be panicked, and nigh on obsessed with their judgments of me, if they themselves don't give a fuck.  One who has been negligent in getting student papers back since May.  May of LAST FUCKING YEAR.  The other, a notorious non-driver who, as they say, cadged a lift of me this evening (I was hoping for gossip.  It doesn't count as being used if you volunteer), who decided, vis-a-vis the search committee for which we are both members, that he would defer judgment to still another colleague.  Wait, really? Can I discharge my sense of responsibility and accountability, and also say "fuck it, I'm busy"?  I'd love to, bitch, so just say the word.  I'd also love never to give student papers back with comments, but just look them sternly in the eye and say, "B-, beyotch.".  Perhaps just an odd fantasy of mine.  A friend re-reading Les Liaisons dangerueses, and paying the most charming of compliments, that I remind her of Valmont. In all his fucked up glory, emphatic and vulnerable.  An ego boost, in the midst of an ego-examining moment.  Another friend, nigh on 33, no job, living at home, no idea of past or future, but very nicely dressed and sporting a nice handbag.  There but for the grace of god, on the one hand.  Get your fucking act together and choose something, anything, to do, to be, on the other.  I'm a sympathetic soul. Or perhaps a conflict-avoiding chicken shit, non-sympathetic highly judgmental soul. Take your pick.  Boy done good; girl done better; take it from here, Billy.  I don't think I deserve it any more, but at least, at Lizst, I've fucking worked for it.

hmmmph

As I continue to re-read old TPT entries, and I've only made it from April '05 to October '04, and as I continue to drink this all-too-cheerful white wine (courtesy herself, who's more partial to the white than the red, which is hardly a character flaw, if occasionally less than ideal but certainly not inconvenient), and DAMN I'm good when I'm bitter. Sharp. Self-involved, self-obsessed, sure, but observant, witty, verbally acute.  I should be so lucky. Oh, wait.  My small fan-base might enjoy it, and, perversely, I might as well, but the whole predicated on misery aspect is rather a large turn off.  "So, does married life begin with a hangover?", I texted my newly married Irish drinking buddy (who is, perhaps, close to single-handedly responsible for keeping tpt dead by keeping me drunk from April '05 to, oh, mid-December '05).  "Not at all.  With a vigorous ride, actually," he replied.  Bless.  

analytical

Fuckin' 'ell it's been a long time since I've done this.  Also, I'd like to add for the record that I loathe blogger's wysywig interface. Give my monospace fonts, any day.  I assume at this point I truly am writing for myself, and those few of you out there who use RSS readers rather than actually clicking refresh.

So, I and I have the stage, the Cranes being gothically dismal in the background, the white wine a bit chilly and bright for my taste, but certainly serving the purpose of modestly numbing, well, anything.  Although my excessive drinking habit has been such that numbing takes more work than it used to, alas and fricking alack.  

Did I ever do this without agonizing self-awareness? Without an arch meta-voice? Probably not.  A bit of a quasi crisis over the last few weeks, lack of productivity, lack of goals, lack of ambitions, lack of progress.  All, it must be said, greatly eased in a life of not-aloneness, but pointed enough to rear their heads through the otherwise pleasant surface of my life. It's amazing what I can find to beat myself up with - not reading poetry, wasting my time reading poetry rather than X; reading children's books for spiritual solace, being morally and spiritually corrupt and lamenting the loss of innocence since the last time I read a book; not getting writing done, questioning my ability to write or think at all.  A familiar tale, all in all, though it is harder to generate my narrative of isolate "pity me" drama when, on the whole, and certainly in comparison to some of the TPT archives I browsed through this evening, shit's going pretty well.  Did I mention the crisis? There's a crisis.  Or, a speed bump, at least. Definitely a speed bump.  A critical, crucial, absolutely insanely important speed bump.  I think that's what that was.  Fucking Rainman in my own life.  I may try and re-get in the habit of this. If a life unexamined isn't worth living, and a life hyper-over-examined became unbearable, might there be some middle ground?  Not my strong suit, admittedly, although 10 weeks of not smoking (except perhaps 5 cigarettes), and having commenced running (!) a few times a week. Mostly because I've put on a bit of weight and have the profoundest of fear, looking at myself in a mirror, that I'm going to become (physically) my father.  I'll do anything, including the indignity of dressing up in silly exercise clothes and panting and sweating my way down the sidewalk in the morning, not to become my father.  Anyhow, same bat channel, etc.