My secrets are a set of Russian Dolls that i closely guard; the biggest of the dolls, the exterior one, is a secret in name only. She is a secret i willingly share. If you were to lift her away there is a slightly more secret doll underneath that less people have seen, and she is a more decorated secret that is only smaller through having been kept enclosed for so long; she has shrunk down onto herself, almost distilled down. Lifting her away reveals yet another treasured secret, and so on and so forth. Some of those larger dolls are ones that i just idly pass by to get to the smaller ones, and no one has ever learned to recognize them along the way. Some of the smaller ones i don’t even know the look of anymore — just where they fit into the puzzle. And then, somewhere in the middle of the entire mess, there is one secret so distilled unto itself that it is like a single drop of the purest alcohol in the world: enough to knock me off of my feet.
I let Lindsay have one of those inbetween Dolls last night… one that wasn’t so small but that i had totally forgotten the look of. She smiled a tiny smile as i handed it to her, and spread her fingers over the polished secret surface while i sang the song i had written for it, and when i was done she handed it back to me and asked why i kept such a pretty one hidden away, and i think i said that “i don’t even remember what it feels like anymore; i like that i’ve forgotten. i couldn’t feel this every time i play that song… it’s not the most hidden away, but i usually just skip past it and head towards the smaller ones.”
It is put away now, but i remember it’s shiny features and its beaded eyes and the ribbons in its hair… all things i had forgotten. And it’s song is still ringing in my ears, but i’m afraid if i play it again i might shatter everything entirely.
Lindsay and I sat on the couch last night and revealed things to each other. Lindsay was sick and convinced that the cure was sitting down for long periods of time and having some wine (she’s almost Italian, i know), and i was feeling about to be sick and was convinced that the preemptive cure was lots of vanilla ice-cream and lounging in sexy-but-comfortable clothes. I don’t think either of us was correct in our convictions, because this morning we both appear to be sick, but somewhere along the way we both decided that the television was rotting our brains, and so we shared.
Lindsay is a Digital Media major and total artistic genius. She sings, she draws, she designs, she photographs, she writes, she composes. She brought out three different versions of her creativity in physical form for me to see… an allegory, a play, and a picture-book. And, after having sat there watching her share things to me that she treasured so carefully none were crinkled or smudged, the only thing i could think to give back were songs.
I have songs that have never been crinkled or smudged… songs that i have left alone for so long that i stumble over the words and chords. So, i brought down my poetry book and gave Lindsay three songs, two of which i don’t ever really give… one of which no one has ever really heard before in real life (it was Trio-ed, once). And, i told her the story; my songs are pretty 3-minute tonal pictures without a smudge on them, but saying what it stood for turning some silly little song into something more important than i ever could have intended. Who knew that some silly emotion i felt Senior year of highschool could almost bring me to tears three years later? And who knew that such intentionally silly little words would come off so meaningful when prefaced by an explanation that had never seen the light of day before?
I feel like… i don’t know, Third Rock From the Sun? Do you remember at the very beginning of the show when the four of them didn’t understand anything at all? … Taking coats at parties, kissing, slapping, cheerleaders, and breasts? Lately when i go back and look at the archives i just feel like a visitor in the shape of me trying to emulate the behavior i’m supposed to be representing. Is that circular enough for you? The change happened somewhere around when co-op began, because you can tell the difference between the computer being a constant companion and just something to stare at in-between doing things. And then i started doing a few things and talking about them, instead of just talking about not doing anything. And now i do things all the time and have nothing to talk about afterwards.
What’s so interesting about my life, really? Obviously i do things… last night i went to the movies, i can talk about that. I walked to the movie theatre, which is three blocks from my house. In the lobby Laurel was waiting for me (along with her roommate and Jeff (as if i went on a date with Laurel and didn’t mention it (obviously i only mention Laurel because you know who she is at this point))). She asked if i had gotten my haircut and i responded “Not for almost a month.” We saw Monsters INC, which involved a lot of giggling. Afterwards i bought some sushi and talked about X-Men with Erika, who was reading Carrie.
So, there’s two main theories of journaling that i can discern. The one is that obviously my night was pretty freakin’ boring when it comes to reading about it, so i should either talk about something else or learn to do more interesting things. The other is that it doesn’t matter what i’m doing, just so long as i put my own spin on it people will care about reading. I’m not sure which of the two i subscribe to, but my first journaling connection online was the ever-present Gus, who resides wholly in the second school of thought. Gus basically just writes one post a day, each and every single day, and he weaves it all together so that you’re not only interested in what he has to say, but you honestly want to know what he’s doing with himself. Frankly, Gus is one of the only people who employs this technique who i enjoy, the others being Alison and Meg, though they use their narrative voice a little more pervasively.
The way last year had been going for me, i just merrily trolled along with my own script of things to say and would talk about parties and things if and when i went to them because they were typically unusual and exciting. But, at this point, going to a party is like “wow, another party. i wonder who’ll hook up tonight?”, and afterwards i’m always tearing out my hair thinking “how can i tell an interesting story about that lapdance…?” So, now i have a daily existence and i suppose my big question is whether i’m supposed to talk about it, or me, or some other nebulous thing — because back in the day i was talking about my life, but it was a lack of a life, so it was just me talk about me.
Wow, now i’m dizzy. Tell you what… you sit and stare at the screen for an hour thinking about what i’ll write next, and i’ll go get some ice cream. Cool? Cool.
You know, i’ve gotten really far away from posting about the simple nuances of my daily life. For example, my room is an utter mess. By now i think you should’ve figured out that everything in my life is always a mess, so it’s not as though this is a huge surprise. However, for once i’ve managed to contain my mess to my room and areas directly adjacent to it, so i can escape my room and pretend that my life is in any kind of order. But, really, it’s not. It’s a wonder i pay my bills and pass my classes. Hmm… what else about me is boring that i used to talk about… time to hit the archives…
So, this is as out of order as the rest of my life right now, fittingly, because i got all the way out of New Hope and into the umpteen hundred magic cards on my bedroom floor and skipped Saturday. So, that whole thread on masturbation will have to get resolved later. So.
Saturday.
In Autumn, hardly a week goes by without a party, and having been here for three years i’ve noticed that fall quarter falls into a neatly distributed schedule of nighttime affairs. Welcome Back! for returning people, and then Welcome Freshmen! to meet new girls, and then Kegger (part 1)!, and then Halloween, Supertech, Pre-Play, Cast Party, Post-Play, et cetera ad nauseum. Yes, i am a social fucking butterfly, because i wind up at all of them one way or another. But, anyhow, this past Saturday was Supertech and so we appeared at the corresponding party already quite inebriated from hitting the house liquor from last weekend. At some point before or during the inebriation process i was informed that one of the “new girls” seems to have a little thing for men of my type, so not only was i slightly drunk, i was slightly drunk with a mission!
Point being, not only does someone quite apparently have a crush on me, but she’s, like, sorta kinda really hot. And listens to good music. And has this really hot roommate… oh, wait, didn’t i mention that i had previously declared her really hot roommate the only Freshmen worth flirting with? Such is life. But, rest assured, they’re both really hot.
Please also rest assured that i’m not pulling a Selina on you and that i am, in fact, not currently at this girl’s place blogging around the issue. Here i am, blogging in the issue, tracking it all over my easily locatable page for all to see. Blog blog blog.
So, i don’t know, if she found my portrayal of a drunken lout charming i’m apparently just her type. Heaven only knows what that’s supposed to mean. As soon as i figure it out i’ll tell you…