| Five things no one knows about me:
1) I could watch Kathy Griffin all.day.
2) I fear mail addressed to me.
3) If it were socially acceptable to do porn, I would.
4) I would prefer a man with no testicles.
5) I've slept with make-up on once in my entire lifetime. Last week. I could barely sleep. | comments: 3 comments or Leave a comment   |
| Let me preface by saying that I am not going to censor myself. It’s weird having to say that before my own Livejournal entry, but I guess I’m half saying it for my own sake. I have a tendency to censor myself to appear less threatening or offensive… not that I am particularly offensive… depending on whom you ask… okay, I’ll stop prefacing.
I saw “Jesus is Magic” a few days ago… with a theater full of white people. I think I was the only colored person there—oh wait! I think I did catch a glimpse of a black guy as the crowd filed out.
I liked the movie. The white people loved the movie. But half the time I didn’t know whether to be offended or not. I am about 90% sure that Sarah Silverman is not racist. As good as "90 percent" sounds, that is on the low end of my comfort level. Being a colored person who spends the majority of time around white folks, I have a hard time admitting that I got a potentially racist vibe from the beloved Ms. Silverman. You see, people in my situation are often afraid of appearing oversensitive. Hell, it’s also hard to admit it because you don’t want to think that someone you like—as well as a theater full of people—somehow dislike or disregard you and your people.
Well, let me say this in Sarah’s—and my—defense: not all racist jokes are bad. Yeah, you heard me. I’d say there are two kinds of racist jokes: ones that make fun of a group of people and one that makes fun of the racist statements themselves. I think most minority-folk are very attuned to these differences.
You see, to the untrained ear, I have made racially or ethnically insensitive comments. If you ask me though, “Do you make racist jokes,” I would say no. I don’t make fun of certain races or certain people; I make fun of racists. I repeat some (only some) of the things they say to make fun of them, not their victims. It’s subtle, but it is a huge difference.
I will give Sarah Silverman the benefit of the doubt and assume that she is doing the same. The critics seem to think she is. However, there were moments when I thought that she was saying certain things just for the thrill, just to get the audience to say, “I can’t believe she said that!” I think that reaction is very akin to, “I can’t believe she said what I’ve thought and was afraid to say! You go girl!” The 10% suspicion that Ms. Sarah has racist tendencies came from the parts where it seemed that she just aired some of her personal, racist laundry in order to shock and awe.
But what about the people in the audience? Did they understand the message behind her wicked humor or were they just laughing at the blacks, Chinese, Mexicans, or Jews?? If I had known the answer to that question I probably would have felt a helluva lot more comfortable in that theater.
Here’s an example: the (Caucasian) woman next to me loved every moment of the film. Towards the end Ms. Silverman makes a crude joke about Mexicans. The woman next to me said something very damning: “After Starbucks, let’s lynch a nigger.” No, no, just kidding. She said, “[plaintive little girl voice] Awww, that’s so mean! [3 second pause] I love it!!” Obviously she understood that, at the most basic level, the comment was offensive. She focused on this offensiveness and expressed her obligatory disapproval. Apparently she was oblivious to the idea that Ms. Sarah was making fun of the ridiculousness of the racist statement, not the Mexican People. She viewed the remark as an insult to Mexicans and she loved it. She was definitely in the "I can't believe she said that" group. I wouldn’t be surprised, though, if watching a woman on a giant screen making racial slurs was the most exciting thing she had done all month.
Like this woman, did the audience not get it? Did they simply laugh at Ms. Silverman’s jokes because she made offensive comments about minorities? Did they feel the thrill of having their secret feelings validated by a famous comedienne? Despite their false demonstrations of being enlightened, I couldn’t help but get the impression that most of these people just liked watching a woman be, what they thought was, a racist. | | comments: Leave a comment |
| "Where do I belong?" A question for the Ages. Throughout my 23 years as a mixed person who "acts white," I have heard other mixed folks and oreos ask that question--and I have not understood it. I always thought, "Well, you belong where you feel very, uh, belonging." It seemed so simple. In my naivete I didn't think that race and/or ethnicity needed to be a factor. In a perfect world it doesn't!
You see, most of my life I have considered myself color-less. I am Black and Mexican (among other things), but I never felt Black and Mexican... not that you can feel it on your skin or anything. I didn't see other people's race and I didn't think they could see mine. This mindset was supported by my environment. At home we didn't discuss race. Maybe we were in denial, but I always thought the discussion was unnecessary. ("We're all from the same race: The Human Race" remember?) I went to a somewhat-diverse, but mainly white school, where I didn't have any issues fitting in because of race. I just hung out with the people I wanted to hang out with.
But now things are changing. I went to the Garden of Eden and ate an apple from the forbidden tree. My eyes were opened. Rather than discovering I'm naked, I have discovered I am Colored. I recently realized that, while I feel color-less, everyone else sees my race(s). (And when people see a Black/Mexican girl, they tend to see negative stereotypes.) I guess, essentially, I thought I was white. Okay, I didn't consciously think I was white. I thought I was racially neutral. But in this society, racially neutral and white are often considered the same thing. (You know, white is "American." Non-white is "ethnic.")
Because I've become so aware (and paranoid) of how other people see me, I have started to wonder where I fit in--in their eyes. While I don't consciously pick people to hang out with or date based on skin color, I am (often rightfully) concerned that they are using race to pick me. I don't wonder to myself, "What group will I choose?" I wonder, "What group will choose me??" Hence the question: where do I belong? Or, more accurately: where will I be placed?
I'm sure I sound very passive. I am presenting myself like a person who just sits around and waits to be chosen. I make choices, too, but it's a two-way street; I can choose someone, but they also have the power to choose or not choose me.
Unfortunately, whether someone will or will not associate themselves with me will often be decided by the color of my skin, not the content of my character. So where will that put me? In the Mexican camp, the Black camp, or the Native American camp? For fun, let's throw in the content of my character. I guess I'd be considered an Oreo... or some sort of multi-flavor cookie with cream filling. In other words, the content of my character would make me eligible for the White camp. That's very confusing. It makes me want to throw up my hands and holler
All together now... WHERE DO I BELONG??
< /SLEEP DEPRIVED RANT> | | comments: Leave a comment |
| Yes, I've been very quiet. Vewy, vewy kwiet.
Personally, I have been making all sorts of strides when it comes to this race mumbo-jumbo. I have learned a lot about myself. I think about it all the time. I read about it. I talk about it.
But I don't write about it. Writing is a special kind of personal excavation that takes you deeper into yourself than any other route. As educational as it is, it is scary as hell. Thinking or talking about yourself unearths your deep feelings. But while they are unearthed, they also remain fleeting, transient, ethereal. It's so much easier to ignore your feelings when they are in that "physical" state. But writing forces you to physically look at them. The words on the page or the screen solidifies the thoughts. You can't "unring that bell" even if you press delete.
I do enjoy writing about my thoughts. It's just... so hard! In all honesty, I have been avoiding writing about this stuff because it's just so damn difficult.
I guess the key is baby steps. | | comments: Leave a comment |
| When I decided to change "formats" I thought I would need to change everything, particularly my journal summary. It says:
"My experiences are nothing exotic. They are quite common, even ordinary, but sometimes you need to see that someone else is going through the same thing in order to eliminate your feelings of isolation."
Sure, not everyone has the "mixed" experience, but there are so many of us mixedfolks that one can't call it uncommon.
And even if you're not mixed, you're still a person on Earth who has to deal with our societies and the funky ways they function.
Even if you think you're above it all (which I did, at one point), sorry dude, you're not. Race is not just the problem of the "coloreds" or people in hostile communities.
So, I'm not going to change the summary at all!
(P.S. Don't get me wrong, I don't think that race is the end-all, be-all. There are other things happening on this here Earth as well, but it is something that can't be ignored.) | | comments: Leave a comment |
| I feel like throughout my life I have seen images of mixed people and none of them were very... pretty. I don't think society presents us in a way that makes us look like funlovin' folks you want to kick back with. We're always presented as sad and lost. As a little kid I didn't point to the weeping mixed girl on tv and say, I wanna be like THAT! It's like that old drug psa, "Nobody says I wanna be a junky when I grow up."
When Derek Jeter is interviewed they ask him, "How hard was it to be mixed?" "What was wrong with your childhood?" "What horrible things happened to you growing up?"
No wonder parents caution their children when they enter into interracial relationships. They always exclaim, "The Children! My God, think of the Children!" No one wants their kids to have lepers-er-biracial children. If you're bombarded with these sad images of the Tragic Mixed Children, of course you're going to try to prevent another one from being born.
The negative images desensitized me. I wasn't constantly sad and cursing my heritage growing up. Sure, there were difficult moments, but I was very lucky. Since I wasn't the Sad Mixed Girl, I thought, "Hey! I don't have any problems." Obviously, that isn't true.
Now I am having a problem with being mixed! But it's not the usual Tragic Mixed Story about the girl who doesn't know if she's black or white, or which community she fits in with... or at least not on the surface. I'm having a love issue.
It's not where do I belong, but with whom do I belong?
You see, I am half black, half Mexican, but raised in a primarily white setting. It's kinda messy. To speak in very stereotypical and ignorant terms: I am a latina-looking girl who acts white with a gentle sprinkling of black tendencies. I speak "white," I like "white" music, I do "white" things. Hell, my plans for tomorrow is to go to Starbucks and the opera. Because I'm a white person on the inside I can relate to my "fellow" whites very easily. I can often relate to my "fellow" blacks. I'm just plain clueless with the latinos. I never see any!
So who will I date? Love? Marry? "With whomever you love!" you might say. But it's a little more complicated than that.
Oh no... I sound like the Sad Mixed Girl. | | comments: 1 comment or Leave a comment |
| My first experience was in first grade. There was a big box of dolls that I was dying to play with. One day I finally got my hands on them. I was going to play "house," I guess because the dolls looked so real to me. There were white dolls and black dolls; men, women, children.
I remember having this moment where I thought, "I could just play with the white dolls and make a white family," because that's what I did with my white Barbies at home. Then I got a better idea. I decided to make a family that looked more like mine. So I took a black "daddy" and put it with a white "mommy." I had a hard time deciding what the kids would be--there weren't any mochachino dolls lol. For some reason, that day I was determined to be true to "reality," true to myself. I think with much chagrin I just chose some white kids to play me and my sisters.
So I'm having a good old time, when this psycho kid grabs the dolls out of my hand and SCREAMS at me: YOU CAN'T DO THAT! THE WHITE DOLLS GO WITH THE WHITE DOLLS!
I was stunned. Not only was he physically violent with me, he was emotionally violent. I was kinda left traumatized because it was the first time that I was confronted with racist assertions--in my freaking face (you could feel the saliva). I think I always knew there were racist people somewhere, somewhere out there, but not in my accepting, liberal "bubble."
I think, for some reason, the first thing I felt was embarrassment. It was done so publicly. Everone in the room was looking at us. Luckily, the little bastard got in trouble. I was so relieved that I wasn't the only one who felt that I had been wronged.
But I also felt embarrassed because I was exposed. I felt like my mask was stripped away and everyone knew that "that little girl" was mixed. It didn't occur to me that they knew it already; I guess on some level it felt like a secret. Playing with the dolls in that manner was a very private thing, like writing in a journal. When that Demon Child held it up for all to see, I felt a sense of dread. | | comments: 6 comments or Leave a comment |
| In the spirit of modern radio, I am randomly changing the goals of this journal. It's not that I've ceased to have love issues. No, they're still going strong, and I'm sure I'll discuss them from time to time because they are relevent to the new format. I have decided to shift focus to another part of my life, another aspect that requires attention:
Race (ooh, scary)
Ugh, yes, I know. It's a messy subject. I'd like to avoid it. Heck, I've been dancing around it for the last 23 years. But I was born into a situation that prevents me from ignoring it.
You see, I'm mixed. Biracial. Whatever you want to call it.
Luckily I was raised in a setting that was pretty "tolerant" of my unique experience. I didn't have a lot of the issues that other biracial kids deal with. I grew up relieved that I wasn't the Tragic Mixed Girl. I wasn't wringing my hands, crying up to the Heavens, asking God why oh why was I doomed to this fate.
But lately I've discovered that I wasn't as untouched by the problems as I thought. Don't get me wrong, I don't think being mixed is a bad thing. Please don't think that I'm putting multi-racial relationships/people down. But there are problems that can sneak into the best of situations because we live in a society that, well, has issues.
So sit back and enjoy. This won't hurt a bit... Okay, that's not entirely true. I will try not to make it hurt, but it won't be a blowjob either. | | comments: Leave a comment |
| I guess I should tie some loose ends and let you know what has happened since my last "love" post.
I split from my boyfriend. It had to be done. Not because I didn't love him or that we didn't get along. That's far from the case. I had to go mainly because I couldn't be in a relationship. I wasn't equipped to do it. It sounds like such a cliche, but the reasons are very concrete. I couldn't cheat on him, mentally or physically.
The last 2 guys I liked while we were still together (the first being the one who "launched" the journal and the other who helped me move on) made me realize that I can't disrespect the Love of My Life anymore. And boy, did I. I kissed Forbidden Man #1 and made out with Forbidden Man #2.
I hate to sound like a child, but I couldn't help it. I kept hooking up with people (no sex, mind you) as if I had no control. Something inside of me would take over. It was like an inner-rebellion. My will, my insides needed to do something, so they went for it, regardless of what my mind and my conscience said. And since I didn't have control, I had to do whatever it took to stop the cheating. That meant becoming a free agent. I couldn't take the Best Person on Earth down the toilet with me.
Anyway, nothing more happened with FM#1. Like I said, that is OVAH. I do miss him though, as a friend. Maybe I'll check in with him sometime.
Things fizzled with FM#2. We met in a work setting and there was an instant attraction. I'd still like to boff him if I get the chance. But, alas, I left that place and I live in a different city.
Now I'm single and... miserable. I was expecting a sexual Disneyland, and I could have one potentially, but I realized that I wasn't mentally built for casual sex. So what do I do now? Do I look for another tru wuv, decent dating partner, or casual hookups? I just don't know. And all these new realizations about the role of race in my romantic life isn't making things easier. Oy! | | comments: Leave a comment |
| I'm back baby!!
... Okay, no one is reading this because I basically abandoned this journal. My bad. I was busy, really busy, I swear!
I'm back and I have news:
I am SO OVER him. I mean, really. Seriously. I was kinda-sorta-almost over him before, but this is the real thing. I tell you, the last time I saw him, all I could think was, "ewwww." Pages and pages of dark thoughts, crying spell after crying spell, all gone. They vaporized.
Do you want to know my secret?
It's the most effective thing I could do. It obliterated all of the worries that created this livejournal.
I like someone else.
... Not very impressive, is it? It's kind of sad, actually. But you know what? It works. It fucking works like a fucking charm. In fact, I have been reading previous writings about that dude, and frankly, I'm embarrassed. I can't believe I cared so much... for him. Him? Eww, yuck.
I think I'm regressing. I used to love people for years upon years. I didn't move on to a new love each week like the other girls. Now I just love them for a relatively short time. I'm a little concerned about that... but oh well. I have loved my boyfriend for years. Yeah, that's right, I still have a boyfriend despite the soap opera that takes place in my mind from day to day.
I am dismayed, though, that after completing World War I, I just stumbled right on to the shores of Normandy. Smart move, huh.
More on the impending drama later. Bye! | | comments: Leave a comment |
| Please forgive me for leaving this journal untouched for so long! I haven't forgotten about it, I swear.
I have been crazy-busy with this internship--plus, I don't have internet access at home.
But PLEASE feel free to write to me. Have questions? Want to vent? Please do so here. I will be notified if someone posts, so I will definitely come to respond.
Besides, I think it would be more fun if we got to hear from the "audience" a little, don't ya think? | | comments: Leave a comment |
| Why have I morphed into Ado Annie??
Ado Annie: I never think of no one unlessin he's with me.
Will Parker: Then I'll never leave your side! | | comments: Leave a comment |
| Here's a trick I use to get my mind off of something. This only works when you REALLY WANT to get over it. It's also a method for "self improvement." (Hey, self improvement is always good.)
Pick a habit that you want to break, for example, biting your nails.
Tell yourself--and really believe it--that if you bite your nails again, you will keep the feelings or the thoughts alive.
It's okay if you bite your nails again, but you will have to accept the consequence that you are still "under the influence" of whatever it is you are trying to get rid of.
The desire to stop biting your nails will keep you from letting your thoughts continue, and the desire to get rid of the thoughts will help you stop biting your nails.
Eventually, your determination will help you get over both of your "vices." You will kill two birds with one stone.
... I hope that made some sense! | | comments: Leave a comment |
| How the heck did I develop a mid-life crisis at the tender age of 22?
Here's an email I wrote to a friend...
i told you i saw e., right? i'm all bothered--i didn't want to say "hot and bothered," but that wouldn't be entirely inaccurate. i'm just, i dunno, disturbed.
the last few weeks i've managed to not think about him constantly, but seeing him brought all the hurt back. (i think what was also kinda hurtful is that he seems to be over me--lol, as if i had any clue what he was ever thinking anyway; i don't know shit.) seeing him also brought back all my old bad habits--but that's just it, they're habits. i don't think i actually want him, i think i'm just on autopilot.
... but i feel like he's my last chance at something. hot sex? adventure? feeling desirable? i dunno. i feel like once i let go of him, i'm trapped in safe monogamy. ok, besides the fact that that's a terrible thing for r., i'm scared of not having the excitement i had with e. i'm afraid of being an "old maid" or something. does this make any sense? and i can't help but think, "uh oh, once i lose e., i'll have to start all over again with someone else, someone i'll never find." basically my mind is blatantly ignoring what i have with r. and is yearning for something e.-like again... and that sucks.
ugh, just when i thought i had made a ton of progress, i've been slapped with a setback. i have to go back to campus this friday and i'm not going to lie, i really want to see him. i guess my mind doesn't, but my... loins do, as corny as that is. i actually have to return something to him, so it would be hard not to see him.
i just really want him and don't want him at the same time. i'm being torn in 2 completely different directions, emotionally. | | comments: 4 comments or Leave a comment |
| It would be a pretty boring entry if I said I was doing well. I'm not perfect, but I'm fine. I dreamt about him last night--I think because I have to pass through his 'hood every day to go to work. But... I'll go into that later. I thought I'd post something I wrote during the "dark times" instead, lol
...random question, do you think "LOL" will ever enter legit literature? I don't know how I'd survive in writing without LOL'ing once in awhile. How else would you express that?
Anyway...
I had a beautiful dream. And it didn’t come true. That is sooo… disappointing. Talk about an understatement! It grew and became a part of me, and now that it’s dead. It’s like I am mourning its loss as if a part of me died or someone very close to me. It’s like my child was stillborn. It’s like waking up from a beautiful dream and your life is just as dreary as it was before, nothing has changed. It’s like that tragic song “Hung up on a dream.” The singer has had the Perfect Dream, but he doesn’t realize it was a dream until he woke up. And now his life is forever incomplete. Let’s hope I don’t lose my life to a fantasy that will never come true, like he did. But he was my boy. In his eyes was everything I needed.
It’s jarring to know that it was a lie, a farce, a disguise. Apparently nothing was there. I was duped by something so super-human that it could (temporarily) change my life. It’s quite amazing when you think about it. I think I have met the best actor on earth. He was so good that the color of his eyes could convince me of all sorts of wild things.
But what is so sad about “it” (whatever it was) not being there? If a book isn’t where you thought it was, even though you thought you saw it there, would you throw yourself off a bridge? What is it about what I thought was there not being there so devastating? I guess it hurts a little when you yearn to hear a song, but it doesn’t play. I guess a song could be a part of you, and when it’s not there you feel a part of yourself missing. But the “it” not being there is not a passive pain, it feels like a direct betrayal. On one hand, missing the book is disappointing, but it’s very different than a smack on the face. I guess I was “smacked.” I didn’t accidentally get disappointed, I was actively betrayed.
“And just one simple thought brings the magic back to me,” sings Deborah Harry. It is just like that. One thought, one flash brings it all back to me, like a torrent. I guess my body hasn’t gotten the memo yet that the fantasy and all those accompanying feelings are never going to come. Well, I guess they did come, in a little taste. But the dream will never be realized. And even if he did choose me (it hurts to write "even if"), the Fantasy probably wouldn’t have come true anyway. That’s what I have to remember. I haven’t lost the fantasy because I wouldn’t have gotten it either way. Sure I would have experienced a great deal of pleasure, but the hole in my soul would not have been patched up. It didn’t happen with R., why would it happen now? | | comments: Leave a comment |
| She's alive! Alive!
Yes I'm still around and kicking, but I'm sooo busy. I'm being a bad girl and writing this at work, which is the only place I have internet access now. Boohoo... but the job is FABULOUS. Man, the things I have seen and done today, well, it just blows my mind.
Which reminds me: if you want to get your mind off of something, get yourself a j.o.b.
This job has done wonders for my mental state--well, at least when it comes to love. All the drama has been shoved to the back corner of my mind. It has greatly accelerated my "healing."
But I don't recommend taking up an activity where you don't have to deal with other people or the work is monotonous. In that case you will be worse off. When your mind is idle you will be more likely to obsess and stew.
And if you can help it, do something you care about. If you don't give two shits about what you're doing, your mind can wander. If you care deeply about your job or activity, it will become your focus.
Okay, I'm off the soap box now. I have to go do super cool job stuff ;) | | comments: 1 comment or Leave a comment |
| ... And one more thing.
Look at your friends' crushes. Sure, some of them might be attractive, but a lot of them are idiots. You are probably wondering why the hell he/she cares about this loser. They are not worth all the energy he/she devotes to them.
Now think about how your friends view your obsession.
Maybe they know something you don't. | | comments: 6 comments or Leave a comment |
| I just wanted to say that I will be offline for a few days. I'm kind of moving. Wow, I'm being so vague, but you kind of have to be when you're writing a mysterious, anonymous blog! ... Mwahahahaaahaaa
Oh, and I also wanted to leave you all with this rambling. Hey, it's my livejournal dang it!
When is too much too much? Or too little is too little? A friend cautioned me about my writing, saying that "it's okay to mourn, but you shouldn't fuck the corpse." I answered, "there's a thin line between fucking the corpse and hardcore denial."
So the question is, am I really helping myself get over my ordeal? I think the reason why my friend's advice has stuck with me is because I think he is (at least partially) right to be concerned about me.
I have explained in my 'personal info' section that there is more to my life than this experience I'm dealing with. Although I only write about heartbreak and all that other fun stuff, it's not because I have nothing else going on in my life. I'm going to start an amazing, dream-come-true job this Monday. As I've mentioned here and there, I am currently in a serious relationship. (Hey! Stop snickering)
But... I'm not going to lie...lol. I'm not going to lie that despite my motives to get everything out in the open, I do find that writing about him and my experiences is, well, emotional masturbation. I've said it before: clinging to "lost love" gives one a deliciously sweet pain. I am experiencing this pain now... and it makes my heart hummmmm with rich pleasure, lol. I'm not going to lie that the majority of my thoughts are focused on him. It could be habit and it could be that my body just does what gives it pleasure. Although I have to say in my defense that the amount of time devoted to him (well, the surrounding circumstances more than him) is decreasing steadily.
I have noticed that I am often reluctant to add an entry to my journal because it does reopen wounds that seem to be closing. Writing takes me back to the past. But isn't that what therapy is all about? Sometimes you have to feel the pain in order to get over it... or so my mother says, hehe.
I do think talking about it is important. I would hate to do the opposite and keep this to myself. I think that would be... what's the word... dishonest. I think we are led to believe that if we don't talk about something, it doesn't exist. We can suppress something into nonexistence.
Nuh-uh. Not happening.
First of all, you're full of crap if you think you can turn off your feelings like a switch. (It's funny that I believe this and yet I'm so hard on myself because I can't "flip the switch.") Second, it can't feel good to keep it all bottled up. Okay, it might not feel good to keep your wounds wide open, but at least you don't feel the pressure of your thoughts pushing outward, stretching your skin. Third, how can you learn anything from this? I think suppressing all of the other heartbreaks I have experienced prevented me from growing. (Ugh, why do I sound like Oprah again?) But writing things down has organized my thoughts--they're no longer a flurry of reactions--so I can better understand my patterns. I can see what I have done wrong so I can avoid those mistakes the next time. I also better understand the things I do right, so I can appreciate how brilliant I can be :) | | comments: Leave a comment |
| The first time I saw "Lost in Translation" I had just heard that he didn't like me. I don't know what I was expecting or hoping, realistically that is, but I was crushed. I was devastated. The night I heard the news, I cried. I mean, I really cried. It was soap opera, down-on-your-knees, wailing-to-the-gods, mascara-all-over-the-place crying. I was embarrassed that I cared so much, but I thought the best thing to do was let it all out, as ridiculous as it was. Oh, and here's the plot twist: it was my boyfriend's floor that I sobbed on. Luckily he had just left for work, so I had hours to myself to mourn. The next day I decided to watch a movie to give my mind a rest. But right away I knew that this was a film that wouldn't let me escape. At the time I don't think I saw any parallels between myself and the characters. All I knew was that I was a damn fool. I fell for some farce. So I sobbed some more.
Now that I know what I know, things are different. I just watched it again with my little sister. The unconventional relationship between the characters was VERY familiar. They were in some weird territory of a non-relationship-relationship. I felt some sort of allegiance to him even though A) I had no business doing so B) well, look at A. It was pretty bad--for example--I avoided the subject of my boyfriend because I thought it was some form of cheating on HIM. And sometimes I felt that he was cheating on me. Oh, and then there were those pauses. You'd be on the brink of doing something... you know what I'm talkin' about. Those awkward silences when you were tempted to show what you were REALLY feeling.
Basically, I wanted to have my cake and eat it, too.
But the movie also made me realize that sometimes you just have those moments. Once in a while you cross paths with someone and--bam!--you connect. The two of you share a brief moment in time and then the moment passes. You have to enjoy it, but you also have to keep going on your merry way. They're so rare, so precious, so fragile, and they can't end painlessly. I guess we evolved to have these moments with random folks so we'd have variation in the gene pool. Connect, fuck, and beget, lol. But since we also evolved to have all these feelings and crap, we A) interpret the moments as more than they are B) we feel guilt or obligation or whatever to ignore our natural instincts to fully enjoy the moment.
So after watching the last month or two of my life play out on the screen, I wanted to see what my sister's reaction to it was. It was like I had a focus group to analyze my personal drama, to give me feedback. I was expecting her to say that it was a sad ending... because I thought the end of my Moment was sad. The end of the moment in the film made me weep. But before I could ask her what she thought, she volunteered, "It's very moving, isn't it?" Moving. Not sad, not happy of course, but moving. She couldn't have said it better. Of course moving on from the moment was sad, but it wasn't a tragedy. It was a beautiful little present, but I have to give it back.
And eventually I'll be over it, so I can just look back on it with fondness. Isn't life... interesting like that? | | comments: 3 comments or Leave a comment |
| You know what sucks?
When you spend a shitload of time with someone. You develop a plethora of inside jokes and other things that only you two shared. And because you spent so much time with them, you've practically developed a freakin' library of these reminders, these references. So when you're on your own you find hundreds of little things that remind you of them and the things you shared.
Just when I think I can let my mind take a break from thinking about my personal drama... someone mentions The Sopranos and I think about a conversation we had about it... I see a jacket that is similar to his... and it goes on and on.
I guess there is some poetic justice to be found. The next time he sees Christopher and Adriana, I'm sure I will creep into his mind. | | comments: 3 comments or Leave a comment |
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