“When we read a story, we inhabit it. The covers of the book are like a roof and four walls. What is to happen next will take place within the four walls of the story. And this is possible because the story’s voice makes everything its own.”—
“Everybody has a secret world inside of them. All of the people of the world, I mean everybody. No matter how dull and boring they are on the outside, inside them they’ve all got unimaginable, magnificent, wonderful, stupid, amazing worlds. Not just one world. Hundreds of them. Thousands maybe.”—Neil Gaiman (via kellyesque)
I’ve been considering this for some time now, and it only seems to recur and become more possible with every passing month of my life. Part of me, formerly a small part and now a much greater part, believes that I will never be able to have a functional romantic relationship. I wasn’t sure what the defining factor of my inability was until recently. I considered that it could be formerly failed relationships, pride, independence, dependence, selfishness, neediness, and a whole host of other possibilities.
I think the actual downfall is an imbalance of trust. I will always either trust the person too much or too little. They will either work really hard to gain my trust and I will always be skeptical of their intentions, waiting for them to leave me and never really trusting them. Or I will suppress my skepticism and allow myself to trust them, inevitably pushing them away because they are no longer working for my affection. I hate that this is the my current relationship philosophy, but it is what it is. This is all based on experience so I can’t even say that I’m being pessimistic without warrant.
I don’t even know if pessimistic is the right way to phrase it. Realistic is probably more accurate. The crux of the issue is that I’m so good at being single that I don’t make efforts to change my trust issues. If I were desperate to have someone to be with, I would change the qualities that hinder my relationship abilities. I don’t care enough about being in a relationship and I like being single enough that if I don’t feel like trusting people then I don’t. And if I trust someone too much and they let me down, they just get added to the ongoing list of failed potential and I write it off as their loss because they were never able to understand me and thus they lost out. How self-absorbed of me. Eh, oh well.
Okay I think I’m done rambling. This started off having a purpose and has deteriorated into yet another “I’m great at being single” anthem.
“Don’t you dare tell me nothing matters. Everything matters. Every fucking drop of rain, every ray of sunlight, every wisp of cloud matters. And they matter because I can see them and if I can see them, then they can see me and I know that there’s an entire world that cares out there, hiding behind a world that doesn’t, afraid to show who it really is and with or without you, I will drag that world out of the dirt and the blood and the muck until we live in it. Until we all live in it.”—
We need to start acting like every fucking thing matters. Quit disregarding seemingly minuscule events. Quit reading too far into seemingly minuscule events. Life is not about completing an agenda, it is about living with gusto, zeal, and unconditional love.
Okay, I can’t help it. I have to blog about the character sitting at the table next to me at Starbucks right now. Description: white, male, mid-40s, maybe older, goatee, shit load of tattoos, some of which are in other languages, many of which are animals, barbell in one ear, three lower ear piercings, one inner ear piercing, light-washed jeans, leather watch, royal blue utility shirt that probably hasn’t been washed in a few weeks and has patches of the Indiana State Flag on it, backwards Ed Hardy-style hat, Rob Bell glasses, and thick-banded rings on all but two fingers. It’s hard to not be fascinated by this guy.
He’s sitting across from an attractive mid to late-20s brunette who was just discussing a paper that she is writing about Civilization from the time of Mesopotamia to the Roman Empire. I don’t know how that is condensed into one paper, but that’s beside the point. She’s a college student who is somehow associated with this dude.
She seems interested in his conversation, but he is desperate for her conversation. Any time there is silence he brings up a new topic, which is what has been the most intriguing thus far. In the past ten minutes I have heard him talk about living in San Francisco, sleeping on some guy’s couch for two years, having two kids, getting new tattoos, his favorite shapes of stars, the unnecessary nature of homework, the many beautiful traits of the girl sitting across from him, buying a new house, the ethic of lying, and some guy named Michael who aced a test and melted down afterward.
He just stood up, put on a faux-leather jacket, revealed his matching Ed Hardy shirt, and left in a burnt orange Sunfire. My interest in this person dissipated about two minutes after he left Starbucks, but for a while there I was utterly entranced.
Moral of the story: if a college student on a macbook is staring at you in a coffeeshop, she may be blogging about you. Run.
“You will fall away from me in just a while, won’t you, and I’ll be whole again, and I will go on and feel for someone else, the way everybody does.”—Paullina Simons, The Bronze Horseman (via bethsarah-maree)
From the screenplay of this awesome 17 year old British kid:
It’s funny. Your muscles have a certain memory about them. That’s why we can tie our shoes or play piano without looking. But then you spend a long enough time with someone and your bodies memorize each other, you know? The warmth of your back, the pace of your heart beat. Your tickly eyelashes and the way your fingers would curl in sequence when I use to play with your palm
i will kill the spiders. i will share my fries with you when you’ve finished all yours and are still hungry. i won’t ever pop my collar. i will never be rude to your tummy- when i hear it growl and gurgle, i promise to bend down and reply respectfully. i will eat the mushrooms when we order the supreme pizza. i will kiss the papercuts. and the door-slammed finger. and the counter-bumped hip. i’ll try my hardest not to get annoyed when you whisper questions and comments during movies. i will be the big spoon. i will let you win at wrestling. sometimes. other times i will not. i will go faster. harder. i will pull when you want. and tease you when you don’t. i will send you random texts and leave you silly gifts. not always. not on schedule. just whenever i want to. whenever i think you need one. or seven. i will check your tire pressure. and remind you to take your car in. i will hold your hand. i will love you. i will love you. i will love you.
“We are all alone, born alone, die alone, and — in spite of True Romance magazines — we shall all someday look back on our lives and see that, in spite of our company, we were alone the whole way. I do not say lonely — at least, not all the time — but essentially, and finally, alone. This is what makes your self-respect so important, and I don’t see how you can respect yourself if you must look in the hearts and minds of others for your happiness.”—Hunter S. Thompson (via whiteysplace)
I picked my not-quite-2-year-old niece, Marilyn, up from the babysitter’s today. When I arrived at the house the sitter opened the door and said “who’s here to get you?!” and Marilyn responded with “Mimi!!”
I put her in her car seat. She grabbed a purple block sitting in the cup holder. “Purple” she said. “What shape is it?” I asked. ”Square. Purple Square.”
I asked her if we should go to Starbucks, she nodded. I then asked her where we were going. She said “Starbucks…mmm coffee.”
I had the radio on, then Ke$ha started singing about P.Diddy and having Jesus around her neck, so the music was turned off. I asked Marilyn if she wanted to sing. She nodded. We started singing “This little light of mine”…nope…I started singing “This little light of mine.” No more singing.
Silence. “I love you, Marilyn.” “I love you, Mimi, I love you.” Smile. “I love you, Marilyn.” “I love you, Mimi.” And so on, for about six rounds.
We got to Starbucks and waited in line. She saw a bird outside and said “Duck!” I asked “What does the duck say?” Her: “Quack Quack Quack.” Me: “Goose?” Her: “Hawnk.” Me: “Kitty Cat?” Her: “Meeeeow.” Me: “Cow?” Her: “Mooooooow.” Me: “Pig?” Her: “Girl!” Me: Puzzled look.
The girls behind us were giggling. Apparently it isn’t kosher to bring toddlers into Starbucks. No, that’s okay. Apparently it isn’t kosher to let toddlers drink your frappuccino. Marilyn still squealed “Thank you!” at the barista.
I gave her sips of my frappuccino when she said “Drink” and continued to appease her. Sitting in the car I heard “I like coffee.” from the back seat.
She’s my favorite and always will be. Sorry, future nieces/nephews. Marilyn wins.
This is a poem written by Sir Thomas Wyatt, a contemporary of Anne Boleyn, who pursued her for a long time before resigning from the chase. He acknowledged that she belonged to Henry VIII and that the efforts he was making were futile. This poem was written in the midst of his surrender. The depth of this poem is fascinating and each time I read it I focus on a new section. I hope you appreciate it, too.