Crushing Krisis

Comic Books, Drag Race, & Life in New Zealand

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I’ve been holding on to this awful fear in the pit of my stomach for over a year now — that anytime the phone rings it’s going to be bad news about my grandmother. Maybe it’s why i hate the phone so much, how i always avoiding answering its ring and why i made sure to leave my cell phone safely ensconced within my old office building for the last two weeks … why i wasn’t surprised to finally pick it up only to hear a sequence a messages from my mother, each serving as a cold comfort as none quite claimed the worst.

I was caught, though, last night, live and on the line to my mother as she once again laid on this guilt, as if i know how to set aside my entire life and somehow make this all easier for her, or how to make my grandmom happier and not in so much pain, or how to do anything. The truth is that i don’t know, i can’t do anything, and every time my mother reminds me of how truly bad things are i see my grandmother and i convince myself that everything is okay.

I have finally been convinced now, though, that it is not okay. Sitting in the middle of the floor idly strumming my guitar and it all at once hit me that even though i made Elise promise to drive me over there tomorrow when her class is over that i missed out. I missed out on bringing Elise to meet her like i said i would, and on having her come to my college graduation, or even have her see me become successful or hold my children in some distant future. I realized all of that, and that maybe i have resisted dealing with it emotionally for all this time because i was hoping that somehow if i pushed it to the back of my mind and just kept working i would somehow make everything that she’s always dreamed for me come true.

What followed was a mess of tears and words and suddenly, two hours later, i’ve lost a box of tissues but gained a song so stupidly simple that i can’t help but keep crying as i have it on repeat because it encapsulates so very perfectly just how crushed this is leaving my life, and how much i just want to be able to have my college diploma and my successful life ready to bring with me tomorrow when i sit next to her bed, because i can’t think of anything else to give her (because she doesn’t really like songs all that much).

But, on the bright side, i’m a third of the way done my next Trio.

https://crushingkrisis.com/2003/10/106550775490805569/

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A few nights ago i had a peculiar dream, of Ross and i in Texas, me improbably crashing on Alison’s floor, though she seemed somewhat perplexed that she was suddenly responsible to house anyone who has linked to her for over a year, and Ross and i missing our plane back to Philadelphia, and me losing him in the endless depths of an airport bar.

Lately i feel fertile; full of potential. Two songs have come now, in the last week, appearing at odd hours like a radio stations that suddenly tune themselves in as you are driving across state lines, one at work just after lunch, the other at 4am on Saturday night. They sound as though they came from different channels — in fact, the one sounds like it came from two or three different channels all by itself. You’ll hear soon enough; Season Four of CK’s one-of-a-kind feature Trio debuts next week.

I have five days of corporate life ahead of me before this internship, my last, is over. I have become so used to its daily routine, so much more daily and routine than any other that came before, that it seems impossible that i won’t have to keep tying my tie by eight a.m. so that i can make it onto my bus, or swing my chair around with a nudge of my knee when i arrive at my desk in the morning.

Yesterday i welcomed Kate and Lindsay back to the contiguous United States with glee, saying that it had seemed like they had been gone on their paradise vacation forever, and as i said it i knew that it was true. The sensation was just like being young … how everything seemed at once brand new and as if it could last forever. Wonderful bubbling laughter, awful nauseous sickness, and ever just simple sleep.

I think i am broken, my growth impossibly stunted, because i seem to have never outgrown that feeling, and so i remained convinced that i would live forever in that dream airport, in this state of fertility, or at this desk for the rest of my life and i think that maybe some little piece of me will be left behind at each of those places, imagined, perceived, or actual, until i arrive at where i’m really meant to be.

https://crushingkrisis.com/2003/09/106365163105071240/

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my hair : my website’s layout :: my handwriting : my singing

That was the final post of my first day of blogging. Over three years ago i said that i would elaborate on it, but in the absence of any elaboration the post became a kind of private in-joke, a punchline with no setup.

Honestly, i forgot what i had meant to say. For three years the post has stared at me expectantly from the top of that first archive page, as if to say, “Haven’t you figured out yet?” Today i finally did.

This morning i watched a co-worker addressing an envelope, and i caught myself thinking his handwriting was unbearably sloppy. Not because it was illegible, or irregular, but because he did not use any straight lines. The side of his N bowed inwards; the cross of his J was like a wry grin.

In that moment i was reminded of the post, and i suddenly understood — both the post and how i can spend four hours of recording the vocals of just one song, never quite satisfied. It’s not that anything about his writing and my singing is incomprehensible, or incorrect. No. It’s the unintentional lack of precision. I dislike my singing because i scoop vowels and slur consonants without consciously meaning to — i just sing the way that i would speak. It’s not wrong, but it’s not on purpose either. It’s exactly the reason i cringed at my coworker’s version of “NJ” on the envelope – he didn’t have any straighter lines to offer it.

I used to covet good handwriting — perfect, font-like handwriting. I strove for perfection, writing my letters correctly, perfectly vertical, perfectly rounded. After a few years the perfection came with relative ease, so i allowed myself to slowly slip away from it. I began creating my own font, stylizing my fs and as, not because i was sloppy, or lazy, but because i was personalizing. Making it my own. Whereas, i cannot yet force my voice to be perfectly rounded or piercingly straight, so i cannot afford to blur its edges.

From there, it’s easy to complete the analogy that has been plaguing me for so long. My hair is something i used to be so apathetic to that i just let it grow, hanging down my neck in a nondescript tail or surrounding my face in a bushy halo. I was specifically against styling it an any way — it seemed to be besides the point. However, in college i started paying more attention. Now, though i tend to wait a few weeks too long to get a new haircut, i always look in the mirror before i walk out the door. My page’s layout is the perfectly analogous to this — it’s something i used to treat as transparent, but that i now detail carefully, if not often. It has a function: it is part of my appearance — the impression that i give off.

In short, at the time i hadn’t yet exercised control over my hair and my handwriting, and had just got the inkling that i would have the same issues with my layout and my voice. And, three years later, i feel as though i have mastered the former and am just now beginning to consciously control the latter.

Wow, i just freed up a few brain circuits that have been locked up for the majority of my collegiate career. I ought to do a crossword.

https://crushingkrisis.com/2003/09/106259765349467294/

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We spoke about it intermittently, about how after next June my life splits into a dizzying kaleidoscope of shape and color, with each alternate option representing it’s own crystallized shard of possibility. There are very few common themes between them, save for music, which i refuse to give up after it took me this long to acquire it.

Turning off of Wall Street, Rabi said, “Well, at least yours aren’t entirely fantastical,” which struck me as ironic, because the image of me – emancipated from family and school … having a real life – is fantastical in and of itself. She was apparently comparing my options to her favorite from this Spring, which was to be a rag picker in 17th century France.

“At least yours,” she remarked, “do not require time travel.”

Implicitly they do, though, because i can never make a decision without a chance for a second guess. The second chance is always best, but we choose the first, so we’re fucked. I sang the line so convincingly the next morning, walking down a Brooklyn street strumming my guitar, that she giggled amidst the little old ladies and all the men with their yamacas. I laughed to, and the next line was lost on me for a moment, And we assume the worst and hope the best, but it always turns out in the end, but i think if i could keep it in mind this would all be a lot easier.

The Waverly was too perfect to end the day, Rabi and Hillary and i singing “Frank Mills” under our breaths the whole way there, then sipping too-sweet sangria and watching me eat my incongruous bacon veggieburger. I turned to Rabi with a mischeivous glance at some point before 2am, grinning. “So, we’re finally having our drink.”

Central Park was all about acting, or lying, or maybe how i always thought i’d be a good actor just by lying, but really that it’s more about telling the truth. I’m not sure that i’m good enough at either anymore. The impromptu jazz band that greeted us on Park West seemed to be playing an improvisational version of “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas,” sloppy but with a sort of irrepresible joy hidden underneath. They were definitely telling the truth

I wondered out loud at the lack of buskers as she bounced down the stairs to another muggy MTA platform, but we found them as soon as we came up nearer to the Village — like South Street with all manner of sundry cute little shops amended to its edges in a snowflake cutout of hip. I ogled ties, aprons, and chess pieces, but the wood shop was my favorite, with its weathered dark wood (oak?) piano just inside the stoop for $750 dollars.

Slipping my fingers beneath the lid to tickle the keys, i was surprised at the tuneful noise that emerged from the antique. “I could buy that.” I turned back to Rabi. “That’s an amount of money that i could spend on a piano.”

It was then that i found a new tiny pearl of resolve. That, barring circumstances that involving a passport or a raft, a piano would be chief amongst my post-graduation plans. A sort of anchor to my future, a small point on which i can focus while the bigger ones are too blurred to make out.

Although i was sure before, now i am convinced that i could never live in New York, no matter how cute their hardwood floor and yellow walls are. Last night Elise earnestly reminded me of the yearly Baldwin Piano sale in the theatre. Maybe i should take a look? But, no, i laughed, because you pick up one thing and the next comes right to you, no matter if you took the first or second chance.

That is why it always turns out in the end.

https://crushingkrisis.com/2003/08/106209443946636570/

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I like to think of myself as the ultimate indicator of whether any particular cultural trend has reached zeitgeist levels of proliferation, but in what we collectively refer to as reality i can think of at least two more trust-worthy sources to defer to. One are daily newspapers like the Philadelphia Inquirer and the second is the Oxford English Dictionary.

Not coincidentally, within the last few weeks both have indicated that BLOG is a word that has been inexorably wedged into our collective language, through the above linked article and the (somewhat shocking) inclusion of the term in the next version of the OED.

My response is, of course, “I told you so.” After all, i have been doing it for three years now, to the day.

While the OE inclusion is surprising, the Inquirer article left a bigger impact on me — if only because it neglected to mention this site.

I have a sneaking suspicion that Crushing Krisis could be the longest running Philadelphia blog (now that Rabi is conveniently out of the way in new york); I have to slog through all of the links here and here to make absolutely sure.

The concept is staggering; it doesn’t mean that i set a trend, but at least that i tapped into it first and have (so far) held onto it the longest. Through this passive act of ignorance i suddenly realized both how important this has become to me, what it really is, and how often i do not come through for it.

Long gone are those days, though, when i represented all that is common and exciting about blogging. I am not an active linker, and i do not engage in many of the trends and memes that are so often definitive of the blogging community. I am more interesting in reporting, either on my daily life, or on the people and communications i observe, and in singing and playing both my own songs and others’ through Trio and Blogathon.

Whether or not i’m putting in my best effort on a daily basis, new people continue to happen onto this page for the first time, some of them familiar and some entirely strange. All of my roommates (current and former) read it regularly, as do most of my close friends. Some of my professors have been known to stop by. This weekend, Rabi and I had just sat down to a refreshing Bubble Tea when my cell phone was rung by my god-brother, who i haven’t seen or spoken to in almost four years, but who had found this through Google. He told me that “Hide Your Love Away” was his favorite song so far, and said we should hang out sometime soon.

That’s what i love — how this has been woven together with my “real life;” not so much that you cannot see the seams, but well enough that it never quite unravels. I love that people i haven’t talked to, people i have forgotten, people i have never met can see a sketch or snapshot of my life at any given moment. Sometimes writing for it can seem boring, or tedious, or invasive, but if i were to stop, to actually give up for a single minute in the days or weeks that separate my posts, then suddenly this mirror of my identity would just turn into a photograph, taken from far away.

There have been times i have loved this more than i do now, and times that i have disliked it less, but i don’t think i have ever felt so comfortable about it. Thank you for reading. Thank you for listening. Thank you for caring. And, starting today, thank you for talking back in the comments section

Happy Birthday to this.

https://crushingkrisis.com/2003/08/happy-birthday-to-this-3/