Crushing Krisis

Comic Books, Drag Race, & Life in New Zealand

college

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The first time it goes off is around six in the morning, for no discernible reason. I mean, it obviously goes off because i set it to go off then, but Lindsay is constantly asking me why i set my alarm to ring four hours ahead of time. No reason other than it’s like a two-minute warning for having to wake up and deal with another day.

I was happy to have the warning this morning, since the day seemed especially dreary. I didn’t even need to look out of my tiny back window to know; i could feel the chill sliding in through the cracks and twisting up to raise goose-bumps on my legs. Deciding to sleep through my first two classes was not the most wrenching decision i’ve ever had to make.


The other thing Lindsay can’t seem to understand is why my alarm rings over and over again. I tell her it’s a warning… life ahead in four hours… three hours… until finally it’s just “Time to wake up. Fucking Blastoff.” Apparently, one ring is enough to convey the message to her. Today the blastoff ring was #6, and the reason i got me out of bed was because the sun had decided to accompany it. I was up and navigating the mess of my floor to turn down the alarm before Courtney could start screaming, and i could feel the diffuse runny-egg yellow of a damp sun on my back. The day had made an ugly duckling transformation for me, and i felt as though i was headed for something not entirely dissimilar.


It’s strange to go from kneading a palmful of shampoo past damp curls down to the suffocated scalp beneath to sliding a dime sized drop down the middle of centimeter long strands on the top of my head. It’s the shortest my hair has ever been. Stepping out past my fish-curtain i caught my nude reflection in the mirror, and something seemed different other than my hair. No new pimples, no unexpected muscles. It was something about how the slope of my shoulders changes, the line of my neck becomes smoother. And, something else as well — as if my haircut was emblematic of some greater change that was working its way out from my heart and up through the skin.

I wasn’t sure of what the change might be, but i hoped it would go well with my grey turtleneck and sexy jeans.

It wasn’t until i had gotten halfway to my destination of skipping class that i started feeling the way my reflection looked. Nothing tangible, but my change in carriage had seeped down from my neck and shoulders and out from my gut to pervade my whole being. By the time i got down to the Green Room i definitely felt different, although to everyone in the room it read as something closer to narcissistic conceit. Really, could i help wanting to have attention paid to me? I had Changed and they wanted to talk about midterms. Ridiculous.


Amazing what a $10 haircut, losing three pounds, and being in my scientifically determined sexual prime can do for morale. Whatever. I try not to dissect the positive moments of life too much. I just felt … fuckable. And, not just hot or easy or anything like that, but like someone covetable. Someone other people have strong opinions on. And, well, fuckable sounded like a good adjective at the time, but now that i’m looking at it in writing i can see where that narcissistic angle came in.


So, maybe it wasn’t so different from most other days, really, but usually i’m more of a pity fuck, you know?

Nevermind.

https://crushingkrisis.com/2002/01/9028072/

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I like details. I can be in charge of details, and work with details, and love details. However, tonight i have once again reaffirmed my deep-seated loathing of being a director of many detailed things, which is to say that i cannot keep track of white-balance, aperture, sound level, framing, focus, and the continuity of whether the paper towels should be on the table or on the floor all at once.


So help me god if i lose points for the one shot i have with paper towels on the table i’m dropping out.

https://crushingkrisis.com/2002/01/8926726/

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Having never hosted a party before, i was somehow blissfully unaware of some of the cardinal rules. Sure, they seem obvious, but when said party is really just a handful of friends kicking back with some mixed drinks nothing seems life or death.


For those of you not in the know, cardinal rule numero uno is that the host should not attempt to drink the drunkest party-goer under the table, especially when being “under the table” involves locking oneself in a bathroom for multiple hours while shouting out pleasantries like “How’s the cake?” and “Could someone please check Matt’s pulse.” Apparently, it’s bad behaviour for a host to lie crumpled half-naked on cool tile floor while his roommates and party guests make sure that everything gets put back where it belongs and that everyone gets home okay. Who knew?


For those of you keeping score at home, i now owe a big favour to all of my guests and roommates. Big. Like… do any of you have a line on this world peace thing?

https://crushingkrisis.com/2002/01/8881175/

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So, if yesterday was a kick in the ass i think today must have been a punch in the gut. The funny thing is, nothing bad happened. Nada. Actually, the day was quite nice.


In other news, i just wrote a song without the word “you” in it. Be very afraid. It’s too late to record it though (roommates are sleeping soundly below), so i’m just here. Here. No homework or anything. Well, actually my homework is mostly just staring anxiously at the silvery reinforced crate that the digital video camera for my class is sitting in. I somehow (am an idiot) managed not to purchase a DV tape before picking up the camera, so i can’t shoot any footage. So, basically, I’m just sitting here staring anxiously at the silver Camera Box. It seems to realize that it makes me uncomfortable, and so it shines unobtrusively in the manner of a much more delightful object, but still inspires terror in the depths of my soul.


Which goes along nicely with the punch in the stomach, actually.

https://crushingkrisis.com/2002/01/8737162/

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Sometimes i have trouble warming up for voice lessons… i can’t get my mouth open wide enough to let the sounds that i want to hear come out. Today it was the same old problem of me balking away from my high notes, but Becky slowly coaxed me up to them. She understands how i am… she gives me visualizations and physicalizations because i need to latch on to something before i can do it, and she keeps on talking me through it until that flicker of recognition crosses my face. Then she knows to just let me try it.

She worked me up just like that, on “ah” vowels. Slowly but surely. Form the sound, tongue down, mouth open, space for the notes to escape, feel it come up and over, tug down to go higher… finally, she had me opening my mouth and it finally stopped feeling like screaming and started to feel like singing, and we were going up and up and the notes were coming so clear … not necessarily on-pitch, but they were coming out like rung bells. And, after a while, it seemed like we’re getting pretty high — i didn’t stop because we had got momentum going, but i was mentally trying to tag notes and place them within my range to tell where we were. Finally we got up to one that i couldn’t quite wrap around… edges of my voice were straying away from it, so we slowly worked our way down.

Afterwards, i just had to ask. What was it? I’ve hit an E solidly a few times before, so it was an F, right? Or, if i had to reach, maybe it was F#?

The F might as well have been a C, she said. F# was sung without incident. We ended on G.

After that, the fifteen-beat E at the end of “Promises, Promises” didn’t seem deadly at all. I opened up, and my voice poured out of my throat like a river flowing over its banks to fill the room.


I swallowed the silence.

https://crushingkrisis.com/2002/01/8701368/