It is horrbile. Drinking alcohol used to be fun when I was in my twenties. Taking careful sips of some light and fruity drinks, with a colorful palm tree figure to stir ... and then, suddenly feeling the BAM! coming on. Really, all I needed was a sniff. I didn't have to work for it at all.
Now, as I am turning into a thirty-something
being/woman/leprechaun, a new phase has begun. Let's call it the arduous phase.. Yesterday, I tried to get drunk, I gave it my all, but I didn't even feel a slight buzz coming.. there was nothing. All I felt was the desire to feel drunk. I know, I sound like a crazy person, but how should you react if the thing you are working towards doesn't happen? I paid a cab to get drunk. I travelled by train to get drunk. I spent money to get drunk.
I drank to get drunk. I deserve to feel something in return!
Is it, because I have no more brain cells to spare to keep a good buzz going? Is it, because my brain has unlearned how to create that state of tipsiness? Is it, because I am already dead and talking to you from the beyond? Is it god's punishment for not really believing in him? If so, touché! So frigging give me back my buzz and I will slaughter some goats or give you my firstborn..
Because here comes the real scandal: Although I kept drinking and didn't have my climactic buzz yesterday, I am still feeling a medium type hangover today. It's just not fair. My legs cramped all throughout the night, my head is heavy all day, my reaction time is slowed down. Now, my body finally produces all the right symptoms... FOR THE GOD DAMN AFTERMATH! This should only happen if the buzz really occurred!!! Why couldn't my metabolism come up with the suitable response last night? Was it too busy aging? Didn't it find the time in between letting things rot and turning lemons into lemonade? Outrage! Complaint! Refund!
5/25/2011
5/15/2011
Head to Front, Mind to Sun
I need to write, I need to find the words, let them blend in to one organic whole, I need to not think about the right position of thoughts. I need to rediscover my child-like instincts, I want them to overtake my brain, puzzle out the images, and get them right the first time they take shape. I need to write more, think less, see and feel, not judge, have my own mind, watch the other way when it sets sail, along with my eyes and ears. I need to break out of looking backwards, head to front, mind to sun. I need to have my feelings hurt as I experience the drift of the ocean take me away from my beloved, I need to have my skin burnt as the fiery sun marks me as one of her own. I am tan. Not white. I live. I am not dead. Time moves side by side with me, not upfront, and I am not amazed by the puffy clouds dashing by, far beyond deck. They nearly burst. I am as fast as they are and I fly with them and the wind, giving bulky, ever-changing shapes to the sails of my boat. The waves crash against the sides, and the wooden planks creak. My bones remain silent. I am sailing away, to distant shores. I don’t know if I will ever come back. Say goodbye, as long as you still can.
This is what happened when I listened to Helen Stellars IO (This Time Around)
This is what happened when I listened to Helen Stellars IO (This Time Around)
5/14/2011
Drama For Dummies
I better warn you right now, I am no drama queen. I wish I was! When I witness people argue on busses or trains, I sometimes wonder how they do it.
It uses up a lot of energy to be angry. I don't have that kind of stamina.
Sometimes I decide to argue with someone, just as a matter of principle and I really really suck at it.
I am able to debate with people vehemently, I can even be convincing while trying to make a point,
but when it comes to the rhetorics of hostility, there's no resource to draw from.
There's just no "No, but you're more stupid!" reflex button. Damnit.
I tell you, my lack of ambition respective aggression affects every aspect of my life,
and it creates some consequences, for better or for worse.
I mean, as a writer, it's not all that negative to be able to witness and create drama
without being all tangled up in it oneself.
But being good "in life" means to jump in, get involved and be open to a little disharmonic filth from time to time.
To be able to experience every facet of life entails to get angry, throw some stuff around, scream, screech, close doors with attitude,
followed by the obligatory silent treatment, vengeful glances across the kitchen table, snippy comments. A significant exchange of well-aimed hits.
Give me the potatoes.
Go, get them yourself.
You're an ass.
Right back at you.
I don't like getting angry, even though it supposedly keeps you healthy and slender.
What about heart attacks? Don't they happen more frequently when people get aggravated?
Or is there a (health-) difference between being grouchy and borderline choleric?
Nevermind, I don't get it, but I'll try to be more angry from now on.
Get a provocative haircut. Tattoo my face.
Maybe I'll start this very day by spitting on sidewalks, starting arguments for no reason
and being a real pain to the world around me.
Create some drama, make some enemies.
What the heck! Yeah, because you're more stupid!!!
It uses up a lot of energy to be angry. I don't have that kind of stamina.
Sometimes I decide to argue with someone, just as a matter of principle and I really really suck at it.
I am able to debate with people vehemently, I can even be convincing while trying to make a point,
but when it comes to the rhetorics of hostility, there's no resource to draw from.
There's just no "No, but you're more stupid!" reflex button. Damnit.
I tell you, my lack of ambition respective aggression affects every aspect of my life,
and it creates some consequences, for better or for worse.
I mean, as a writer, it's not all that negative to be able to witness and create drama
without being all tangled up in it oneself.
But being good "in life" means to jump in, get involved and be open to a little disharmonic filth from time to time.
To be able to experience every facet of life entails to get angry, throw some stuff around, scream, screech, close doors with attitude,
followed by the obligatory silent treatment, vengeful glances across the kitchen table, snippy comments. A significant exchange of well-aimed hits.
Give me the potatoes.
Go, get them yourself.
You're an ass.
Right back at you.
I don't like getting angry, even though it supposedly keeps you healthy and slender.
What about heart attacks? Don't they happen more frequently when people get aggravated?
Or is there a (health-) difference between being grouchy and borderline choleric?
Nevermind, I don't get it, but I'll try to be more angry from now on.
Get a provocative haircut. Tattoo my face.
Maybe I'll start this very day by spitting on sidewalks, starting arguments for no reason
and being a real pain to the world around me.
Create some drama, make some enemies.
What the heck! Yeah, because you're more stupid!!!
5/05/2011
Me Minus One
Hospital of Horrors..
Hey there world, I'm back - at least I think I am! This last Monday has been filled with anxious hours of waiting in the hospital while wearing one of those flattering gowns... white and green, low-backed... a dream!
On Monday, somewhere around 9 pm the nerve-wracking part was over. I needed to have surgery, a procedure called a Curettage and it meant that everything inside my uterus had to be completely scraped out.
Prior that day, my gynecologist had told me that the fetus was underdeveloped and basically already disconnected from my body, so there was nothing else left to do than to get it out of me as quickly as possible. It was strange to hear this news, especially since I didn't experience any symptoms of an early abort. There was nothing. I felt really good. A total of 11 weeks of being pregnant. Unfortunately, it went downhill from that moment onwards.
Brain, Help!
I always think that in a moment of crisis, I just have to listen to the rational side of my brain (since the other half laments incoherently for the most part anyways) and everything will turn out to be fine. I tried to talk myself into calming down for almost 7 hours, while I was lying there, waiting for the moment the doctors would scrape the fetus out of my body.
I told myself, that this shrimp-like thing wasn't alive to begin with, that it hadn't shown any sign of life except for the first few weeks when it had still grown. But it didn't even approach the stage of a definite heartbeat.
So it is comparable to cancer, I reasoned with myself, a cluster of cells that has to be removed.
And yet, I was terrified at the thought of having it removed. I ask you, do you know any cancer patient who is afraid of getting rid of his tumor? I don't! But for me, it meant the official end of my pregnancy. And I loathed that thought more than I was afraid of the surgery.
Status: Lonely and a Little Sad
It's basically true even now, that the fact that really makes me sad is the circumstance of me not being pregnant anymore. It was the happiest condition you can imagine to be in. I can recommend it to anyone, and I can wholeheartedly say this in spite of the possible risks I experienced firsthand. I want to talk about this openly, since I don't feel I have anything to hide.
I don't want to be a dark figure, disguising the statistics of mishap. And I don't assess this event as some sort of personal failure. I have to say that I despise this societal trend to conceal those sorts of experiences in one's personal curriculum vitae. I don't think that only good news are news-worthy. But unfortunately, there are no Dislike-Buttons, only sad smileys to cope with pain. So, there you go. :(
I feel comfortable to tell everybody that I am sad about my loss. I don't need to hear that it is not my fault. It's some sort of delusion to think that we have anything to say in these biological processes anyway. Except for the odds thrown into the game by me being 31 years old, I can't do anything to affect the outcome.
I know the risks. They remain unchanged for now and worsen with age. Still, I will try it again. And I'm confident it will work out some day.
Hey there world, I'm back - at least I think I am! This last Monday has been filled with anxious hours of waiting in the hospital while wearing one of those flattering gowns... white and green, low-backed... a dream!
On Monday, somewhere around 9 pm the nerve-wracking part was over. I needed to have surgery, a procedure called a Curettage and it meant that everything inside my uterus had to be completely scraped out.
Prior that day, my gynecologist had told me that the fetus was underdeveloped and basically already disconnected from my body, so there was nothing else left to do than to get it out of me as quickly as possible. It was strange to hear this news, especially since I didn't experience any symptoms of an early abort. There was nothing. I felt really good. A total of 11 weeks of being pregnant. Unfortunately, it went downhill from that moment onwards.
Brain, Help!
I always think that in a moment of crisis, I just have to listen to the rational side of my brain (since the other half laments incoherently for the most part anyways) and everything will turn out to be fine. I tried to talk myself into calming down for almost 7 hours, while I was lying there, waiting for the moment the doctors would scrape the fetus out of my body.
I told myself, that this shrimp-like thing wasn't alive to begin with, that it hadn't shown any sign of life except for the first few weeks when it had still grown. But it didn't even approach the stage of a definite heartbeat.
So it is comparable to cancer, I reasoned with myself, a cluster of cells that has to be removed.
And yet, I was terrified at the thought of having it removed. I ask you, do you know any cancer patient who is afraid of getting rid of his tumor? I don't! But for me, it meant the official end of my pregnancy. And I loathed that thought more than I was afraid of the surgery.
Status: Lonely and a Little Sad
It's basically true even now, that the fact that really makes me sad is the circumstance of me not being pregnant anymore. It was the happiest condition you can imagine to be in. I can recommend it to anyone, and I can wholeheartedly say this in spite of the possible risks I experienced firsthand. I want to talk about this openly, since I don't feel I have anything to hide.
I don't want to be a dark figure, disguising the statistics of mishap. And I don't assess this event as some sort of personal failure. I have to say that I despise this societal trend to conceal those sorts of experiences in one's personal curriculum vitae. I don't think that only good news are news-worthy. But unfortunately, there are no Dislike-Buttons, only sad smileys to cope with pain. So, there you go. :(
I feel comfortable to tell everybody that I am sad about my loss. I don't need to hear that it is not my fault. It's some sort of delusion to think that we have anything to say in these biological processes anyway. Except for the odds thrown into the game by me being 31 years old, I can't do anything to affect the outcome.
I know the risks. They remain unchanged for now and worsen with age. Still, I will try it again. And I'm confident it will work out some day.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)