I need to not quash/squelch/quell the thoughts that are in my head. That I have. That I think. That I own. That exist, that creep. I am pretty sure they just do said things because my mind has a penchant for extremes and attempts at self-freaking out, but here it is. If Shalom Auslander can write in his world-renown published satirical orthodox yeshiva hating memoir about the initial thoughts of fear and terror for his unborn recently- concieved child, then I can write about thoughts along a similar (non heroin- infested, I might add uselessly) vein that I have tried not to entertain as of late.
When I held the babies, a thought came: I can poke out one of their tiny little, unfocused, of androgynous color, eyes. I can toss/drop/throw/huck them onto the floor. It's like when I drive over that curvy overpass on route 4: a slight turn of my wrists, or a negligence in turning at the right moment to remain on course, and drastic things with irreversible consequences, pregnant with grief, ensue. And it's all in my hands. Along with the great undifferentiated potential personalities, tribulations, and proud moments of these children lies the power in me to deter that, to fuck with it in a really really twisted and subtle way, or I could take the demonic route that would lead to as much havoc as me refusing to go to college and moving to a forest; and practice my javelin toss. Of course I need to write this in a veiled manner, even after setting off on a quest to be super lucid, because it's my fallback, and my default when I know that this is not FYEO. Sucks.
So the neuroses are there, ripe for the diagnosing. where are the willing, eager young world- changers?
Tuesday, 23 June 2009
Wednesday, 17 June 2009
Funny you should ask.
So it's been a month since last blag. I guess that's indicative of summer. I am proud of my cooking that I just did, so I will note it here:
I made angel hair in a pot, alongside a pan in which I fried pieces of eggplant, broccoli, and string beans in butter, oil, and garlic. I added tomato sauce to the pot of veggies and then some pizza cheese, and mixed it with the angel hair. Now I'm eating it. It is such a pleasure to eat real food... It just makes so much more SENSE than what I did last night after a weary night of frisbee in astoria; stop at cvs and buy a pack of peanut butter cheese crackers and an instant teriyaki noodle bowl of soup to microwave with one of those tiny packets of "vegetables" which are really just thin flaky pieces of cardboard in orange and green and marroon. Next up will be eggplant parm; it just has to be. The strange thing is, it took me so many days/weeks to muster up the something to cook. It's like I feel it will be a big endeavor, whereas it's not more than 20 minutes, and now I'm set for food at least till tomorrow night. Is it gross to eat a pound of pasta and veggies in a day? I hope knotz. [chomp chomp]
Ok, I ate 2 bowlfuls and cleaned up. Good going E! I even wiped up the stovetop. The food is packed away in the fridge and the utensils and dishes are washed. And my shoulders hurt. And I will need to go to work in half an hour. On that front, here's what I've been up to these days:
Babysittin'
- lying around, trying to impart wisdom and common sense on a tot, perfecting my playground protocol/ettiquette skills in this damned city, cabbing myself and the little one EVERYWHERE, and generally getting looked at differently by everyone since I have a small clueless vulnerable child in tow. For example:
On the subway, first of all, the kid loves it. I'm not sure if it's because it is SO much bigger and greater than him, and he might feel about it the way I feel about the ocean. It continues regardless of him and all the other people present, but at the same time, all of those people make it what it is. I mean I look at his face, and it's that same enamored obsessed face when he sees an elevator, a shiny glinty "OPEN" sign, or whatever elsemight tickle the quirkish fancy.
Also, heh. I want to write about some stuff right now that I am so hesitant to divulge even here on the internets because I'd venture to say there is a 30% chance that somehow the people I will be emulsifying and blending with my words will stumble accross this very blag and then I'll have to dig myself out delicately from this self-imposed cheezit-crumbs barrell.
Ok, so 3 babiesfor the price of...well, 3. But for the timing of one gestation period! That's right, I am an aunt to triplets. I never thought I'd be typing that sporting this surreptitiously smug smirk but hey, that's the Truman life. They are somewhat real to me but will be even more real after this sunday night when I perform my first selfless and painstaking "night shift" of feeding, burping, daiper changing, cooing, wooing, pooing, and cashewing, and whatever else is involved with people who weigh 4.5 pounds each. It's all me. Well, it won't be. But I had a strange dream. And then it was July, July, July, and it seemed SO strange!
Get the ref? you should.
Iran: kind of exciting. I wish I was there. Or it was here. Token mention of sadness for the casualties and injuries, but my original hunch remains: I want in on the passion.
So what kind of sense am I trying to teach the little dude? First of all, I call him dude. Maybe a little bit too much. The entire thing is an exercise in my own patience, for sure. I need to tell him everything, and between 5 and 10 times before it gets done. And not just tellling, but prompting, physically and modelling. For everything. Like, "give me your foot" so I can put on your shoe. But hey, some people can't move their own feet, so this is a prodigious thing and should not be catted on.
Man, I need to wrap this up as I should put on presentable clothes and maybe brush my teeth? And then go be one of the other people here with a purpose. I can't wait for certain things. Such as hockey later. I don''t know, its been much too long since I've made it to a weekday scrimmage.
I made angel hair in a pot, alongside a pan in which I fried pieces of eggplant, broccoli, and string beans in butter, oil, and garlic. I added tomato sauce to the pot of veggies and then some pizza cheese, and mixed it with the angel hair. Now I'm eating it. It is such a pleasure to eat real food... It just makes so much more SENSE than what I did last night after a weary night of frisbee in astoria; stop at cvs and buy a pack of peanut butter cheese crackers and an instant teriyaki noodle bowl of soup to microwave with one of those tiny packets of "vegetables" which are really just thin flaky pieces of cardboard in orange and green and marroon. Next up will be eggplant parm; it just has to be. The strange thing is, it took me so many days/weeks to muster up the something to cook. It's like I feel it will be a big endeavor, whereas it's not more than 20 minutes, and now I'm set for food at least till tomorrow night. Is it gross to eat a pound of pasta and veggies in a day? I hope knotz. [chomp chomp]
Ok, I ate 2 bowlfuls and cleaned up. Good going E! I even wiped up the stovetop. The food is packed away in the fridge and the utensils and dishes are washed. And my shoulders hurt. And I will need to go to work in half an hour. On that front, here's what I've been up to these days:
Babysittin'
- lying around, trying to impart wisdom and common sense on a tot, perfecting my playground protocol/ettiquette skills in this damned city, cabbing myself and the little one EVERYWHERE, and generally getting looked at differently by everyone since I have a small clueless vulnerable child in tow. For example:
On the subway, first of all, the kid loves it. I'm not sure if it's because it is SO much bigger and greater than him, and he might feel about it the way I feel about the ocean. It continues regardless of him and all the other people present, but at the same time, all of those people make it what it is. I mean I look at his face, and it's that same enamored obsessed face when he sees an elevator, a shiny glinty "OPEN" sign, or whatever elsemight tickle the quirkish fancy.
Also, heh. I want to write about some stuff right now that I am so hesitant to divulge even here on the internets because I'd venture to say there is a 30% chance that somehow the people I will be emulsifying and blending with my words will stumble accross this very blag and then I'll have to dig myself out delicately from this self-imposed cheezit-crumbs barrell.
Ok, so 3 babiesfor the price of...well, 3. But for the timing of one gestation period! That's right, I am an aunt to triplets. I never thought I'd be typing that sporting this surreptitiously smug smirk but hey, that's the Truman life. They are somewhat real to me but will be even more real after this sunday night when I perform my first selfless and painstaking "night shift" of feeding, burping, daiper changing, cooing, wooing, pooing, and cashewing, and whatever else is involved with people who weigh 4.5 pounds each. It's all me. Well, it won't be. But I had a strange dream. And then it was July, July, July, and it seemed SO strange!
Get the ref? you should.
Iran: kind of exciting. I wish I was there. Or it was here. Token mention of sadness for the casualties and injuries, but my original hunch remains: I want in on the passion.
So what kind of sense am I trying to teach the little dude? First of all, I call him dude. Maybe a little bit too much. The entire thing is an exercise in my own patience, for sure. I need to tell him everything, and between 5 and 10 times before it gets done. And not just tellling, but prompting, physically and modelling. For everything. Like, "give me your foot" so I can put on your shoe. But hey, some people can't move their own feet, so this is a prodigious thing and should not be catted on.
Man, I need to wrap this up as I should put on presentable clothes and maybe brush my teeth? And then go be one of the other people here with a purpose. I can't wait for certain things. Such as hockey later. I don''t know, its been much too long since I've made it to a weekday scrimmage.
Sunday, 17 May 2009
yep
The world is so weird. This is going to be pretty stream of concsiousness, as I am listening to ben folds and just feel this fancy dark chocolate melting rapidly in my mouth as i try to quickly spread the remaining bits over all surfaces of my mouth in a futile yet ever- valiant effort to enhance the sensory experience. I mean, double you tee eff? Im sitting on a comfy twin bed in stuytown with my partialy unpacked stuff surrounding me, including a down blanket i snatched from the carlyle pile of discarded dorm stuff. Im sitting here shirtless, probably with peanut butter on my chin and perhaps my nose. I had the strangest day. Actually, it was so UNstrange, I think that's what about it got to me. I couldn't deal with the normalcy of it, since I've worked my entire life (since I was 11 and became aware of myself) to create this alternative image of myself, and stray from normalcy that when I actually fight those natural E.-urges, stuff goes awry in my heart and my kidneys, and I end up... drinking? Nope, that didn't pan out. I feel really emotional right now, and I'm not sure why. I think it's because although I feel like my socializing today was totally ftw, (for the win) (i.e. good, way to be Elana, way to socialize with the real adults and still maintain your individuality) but I also know that none of it meant anything and that it never really does/ will.
Fact: Drunk people embody transience. No matter how turned on I might get hanging around the hockey guys, flirting aimlessly and shamelessly back and forth, forth and back, none of it means anything (when does flirting mean something? I should ask Duncan, who concentrated in Meaning. see last post. He owns my respect though.) I mean I'm all about fucking the notion of a boundary and doing whatever, but since I think too / so much about it, I inevitably and undeniably impose meaning and importance to all of the actions I do, and that are done to me. I can't just let something happen, in the split second before, during, and after every tiny decision I make, everywhere I look, everything I say, every facial expression I put out, I consider so mouch. I consider what other people would think: all of the people in my life that I have ever known, and all of the people I might know in the future, myself in different mindsets, etc. Should I/did I do this was it good or bad or stupid, I dont need to spell out the defining characteristics of hyper self-awareness here.
There was a mini mini scrimmage. With some people later on. It was really fun, it was what I needed. I tossed twice for short amounts of time in between the hockey and the socializing, and I needed those also. We lost our game, but that feels like ages ago. I can't do games, I choke, I choke up, and I flub, or I don't perform, and then I feel shitty about it. I get so hyped and worked up inside in my heart that when it's my turn to play I am jittery as a beanbag and can't do much. I was ok today, I blocked some shots with my stick and legs nicely, and held hark marks on D a bit. but none of that is enough. It means something to me in my head, but I need to finish I need to score and get on that paper. Thats why games suck...they promote said mindset and outlook.
What is my point? what am i getting at. maybe i feel successful that i socialized with adults. why dont i feel like an adult? why cant i just do what everyone else does and not freak out about it and overthink it so much? see llook now im not writing in caps this must be emotive. I am worthwhile and I know it, and I want so much to prove it to others, but in unconventional ways, and i think the truth is that most of the world doesnt give. Who has the time or energy or trust, especiallly trust and interest to be receptive to such a strange breed? Why can't I just dumb down and be like everyone else? I'm typing pretty fast here, this rocks. maybe i should get a job as a transcriber, or a transponster, like chandler bing. Phew. Sore shoulders, egging holders, and I have a boy after me. Not really. Now I can't even write about it. Sometimes a part of me just wants to focus all my efforts on facilitating compliments for myself so I can feel that tiny bit of "Yess!" ness when someone gives you a compliment before I start to deconstruct their motives and fabricated/ produce other reasons why they don't mean it, or why if they do mean it, I shouldn't take it with more than a grain of kosher salt.
oh eff em ell, oh woe is me, oh oh.
Fact: Drunk people embody transience. No matter how turned on I might get hanging around the hockey guys, flirting aimlessly and shamelessly back and forth, forth and back, none of it means anything (when does flirting mean something? I should ask Duncan, who concentrated in Meaning. see last post. He owns my respect though.) I mean I'm all about fucking the notion of a boundary and doing whatever, but since I think too / so much about it, I inevitably and undeniably impose meaning and importance to all of the actions I do, and that are done to me. I can't just let something happen, in the split second before, during, and after every tiny decision I make, everywhere I look, everything I say, every facial expression I put out, I consider so mouch. I consider what other people would think: all of the people in my life that I have ever known, and all of the people I might know in the future, myself in different mindsets, etc. Should I/did I do this was it good or bad or stupid, I dont need to spell out the defining characteristics of hyper self-awareness here.
There was a mini mini scrimmage. With some people later on. It was really fun, it was what I needed. I tossed twice for short amounts of time in between the hockey and the socializing, and I needed those also. We lost our game, but that feels like ages ago. I can't do games, I choke, I choke up, and I flub, or I don't perform, and then I feel shitty about it. I get so hyped and worked up inside in my heart that when it's my turn to play I am jittery as a beanbag and can't do much. I was ok today, I blocked some shots with my stick and legs nicely, and held hark marks on D a bit. but none of that is enough. It means something to me in my head, but I need to finish I need to score and get on that paper. Thats why games suck...they promote said mindset and outlook.
What is my point? what am i getting at. maybe i feel successful that i socialized with adults. why dont i feel like an adult? why cant i just do what everyone else does and not freak out about it and overthink it so much? see llook now im not writing in caps this must be emotive. I am worthwhile and I know it, and I want so much to prove it to others, but in unconventional ways, and i think the truth is that most of the world doesnt give. Who has the time or energy or trust, especiallly trust and interest to be receptive to such a strange breed? Why can't I just dumb down and be like everyone else? I'm typing pretty fast here, this rocks. maybe i should get a job as a transcriber, or a transponster, like chandler bing. Phew. Sore shoulders, egging holders, and I have a boy after me. Not really. Now I can't even write about it. Sometimes a part of me just wants to focus all my efforts on facilitating compliments for myself so I can feel that tiny bit of "Yess!" ness when someone gives you a compliment before I start to deconstruct their motives and fabricated/ produce other reasons why they don't mean it, or why if they do mean it, I shouldn't take it with more than a grain of kosher salt.
oh eff em ell, oh woe is me, oh oh.
Thursday, 7 May 2009
birthday
So It will be my 21st birthday, and it's hard to know what, if anything, that means. I should ask my Gallatin pal who just finished his colloquium in "Meaning." Meanwhile, another Gallatin grad of this year is planning to go on a bike trip all around the usa with a friend for the summer... 3 months, bike trip. propane, couch surfing, camping, grime, etc. What's it mean? I should go spend some time in the jungle with the hulu tribe. Oh wait...
I'ts kinda weird to see the way physical maladies evolve. Like pimples. Just saying.
I'ts kinda weird to see the way physical maladies evolve. Like pimples. Just saying.
Thursday, 30 April 2009
Mood Ingredients
I'm really not sure what's going on. But the little switch inside of me that is seldom approached seems to have the most frightening potential. I have a couple of these switches. There's the fear one, and then there's the hypochondriac one. That one does not need to roll in its grave of dormancy when I act the way I normally do; pshaw at any possible disease or injury. But every once in a while... Maybe it's because I read the internet and the modern day black plague has befallen us stinky new yorkers. Who knows. But I did ride two 5 express trains this evening crammed in so hard that both the subway pole AND my hockey stick were covered in eager, haphazardly placed hands, hands who belong to those dimwits rushing around during rush hour, clutching the phallus(took me 3 tries to spell that correctly) of mundanity.
Hockey scrimmage: why did I go? I shouldn't have. thought it would draw me out, but instead, I know too much. Last year it was an exciting free for all, I had no skill but my willingness to hustle, and it was me playing for myself, not know anybody else there, just being constantly humbled by their skills. Now it is different. Now I know who my competition is, who's mean and who's nice, who I can play hard on and who I best keep my distance from. Granted, all of the above are constructs I created over the past 10 months, but what isn't?
TBNYU/morals/ activism: I am a voyeur. I care about some stuff, but feel that brandishing your care for something in a public sphincter is nothing but cringe-worthy. Sorry, but it's in me.
I made a pretty bad decision last night. I really fucked up. Maybe it was what I needed though, to finally tip the scales. I'm afraid that it wasn't though, and will remain a bad decision made in vain.
Hockey scrimmage: why did I go? I shouldn't have. thought it would draw me out, but instead, I know too much. Last year it was an exciting free for all, I had no skill but my willingness to hustle, and it was me playing for myself, not know anybody else there, just being constantly humbled by their skills. Now it is different. Now I know who my competition is, who's mean and who's nice, who I can play hard on and who I best keep my distance from. Granted, all of the above are constructs I created over the past 10 months, but what isn't?
TBNYU/morals/ activism: I am a voyeur. I care about some stuff, but feel that brandishing your care for something in a public sphincter is nothing but cringe-worthy. Sorry, but it's in me.
I made a pretty bad decision last night. I really fucked up. Maybe it was what I needed though, to finally tip the scales. I'm afraid that it wasn't though, and will remain a bad decision made in vain.
The Urge To Blag
I've been getting it. Here's what I'm eating for breakfast: trader joes honey bunches of oats with milk, raisins, and peanuts. zesty. I might as well dwell in a house of peanut butter, it seems to line my every surface.
Stuff I care about:
sign language. It is mad rad. I like to fingerspell everything (circa "occupy everything")
bdsm blogs. heh.
conversing with someone via frisbee tossing: It is more intimate than most conversations. All we ever use are words, and I am realy trying to get myself to wholly believe that communication can happen as definitively through physical metaphors as it can through verbal exchange. We think if we see something, it must be there. But if we hear something, it could be a simulation, or far away, or misheard. So to, with frisbee. A story develops as we toss, the nuanced eye contact, the directness and speed of the throws, the playful nature, the candor of plastic exchange, the congratulatory measures coupled with the dutiful apologies for (if in nyc) hitting passersby in the head) and elsewhere-- a bad throw.
I played hockey last night in a small gym in washington heights. This one very nice guy who played disclosed to me and some of the other players that his mom died that morning (yesterday). I couldn't say anything, so I gave him lots of eye contact, and was frank. I have insights into death, although not of a parent, but a parent's parent. I asked him on the subway if he felt that he had sufficiently / appropriately individuated into his own person such that he does not feel like he lost his left side of the body when his mother passed. He said yes; it gave me hope that someday I will be as autonomous as all getout.
Stuff I care about:
sign language. It is mad rad. I like to fingerspell everything (circa "occupy everything")
bdsm blogs. heh.
conversing with someone via frisbee tossing: It is more intimate than most conversations. All we ever use are words, and I am realy trying to get myself to wholly believe that communication can happen as definitively through physical metaphors as it can through verbal exchange. We think if we see something, it must be there. But if we hear something, it could be a simulation, or far away, or misheard. So to, with frisbee. A story develops as we toss, the nuanced eye contact, the directness and speed of the throws, the playful nature, the candor of plastic exchange, the congratulatory measures coupled with the dutiful apologies for (if in nyc) hitting passersby in the head) and elsewhere-- a bad throw.
I played hockey last night in a small gym in washington heights. This one very nice guy who played disclosed to me and some of the other players that his mom died that morning (yesterday). I couldn't say anything, so I gave him lots of eye contact, and was frank. I have insights into death, although not of a parent, but a parent's parent. I asked him on the subway if he felt that he had sufficiently / appropriately individuated into his own person such that he does not feel like he lost his left side of the body when his mother passed. He said yes; it gave me hope that someday I will be as autonomous as all getout.
Monday, 20 April 2009
Ode to the ovum
I raised up my arms atop my head to prepare to dive into a handstand against the inside of the front door. Upon throwing myself down and kicking off my right leg into the air, my foot crashed full speed against a stepstool thingy that has somehow found its way into my apt. I was taken aback, and my arms crumbled, leaving me in a heap on the dusty floor, my cheek against the chilly door. I viewed it immediately as the world closing in on me. I sat cross-legged for some time, head down towards my toes, unwittingly getting the most ghastly whiff of my day-old socks. I remained there, humbled, and then got up and did a proper handstand, taking supreme caution of how far my legs would extend. Woe unto those who cannot be upside down.
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