So here’s what’s up, unrelated to the many holidays that this is (my Dad’s birthday, Mother’s day, Michelle’s birthday, Brian’s birthday, etc.).
I miss my home. Yesterday Jack said, No, I think I’m gonna stay; I gotta write and call my mom. And I was like, Those are the two things I want to do!
And gosh, I wrote ”home” up there, but I meant to write “mom.” So yeah. Psychological meaning there, I bet.
Liz went home yesterday. I helped her move out ‘cuz I did last year and I know her mom and they’re pretty cool and she took us out to lunch, Lizzy V. included. It was cool.
It was Matt’s birthday. He turned twenty-one. Nothing crazy; he’s got a board meeting presentation tomorrow, for the college. That’s crazy. Iron-Man Three was good. T. Stark had panic attacks which was interesting. I’m excited for that After Earth movie. I like Will Smith. Also, Superman. It should be a cool summer. Also, Say Anything, Eisley, and The Front Bottoms will be in town.
It’s my first summer in New York. I’ll be moving into Brooklyn Heights tomorrow, and then to FiDi at the end of the month, then back to Brooklyn in August. I’ll be working full-time in the Media Lab during the days, writing at night, and then be with friends when I want to.
I made new friends just before the semester closed. Abigail and Jovo. Abigail because she smiles a lot and isn’t an idiot and has a good vibe. Jovo because she’s my new coworker and Abby’s roommate and has a personality that complements mine. It’ll be fun to work with her.
I’ve felt weird lately. I’ve figured out a little more about my insecurities, which means I can find security more easily. but that means I am me more easily, which means I become more singular and unique—which means I am more consciously weird. Plus, making new friends—especially ones that are in a different circle from you—means having a new perspective on who-you-are, or who-I-am. The feeling is: I am normal; everyone else is weird—wait-that-can’t-possibly-be-true. And then I feel weird.
It’s nice. I feel terrible about being new and bad and amateur at things. Luckily Jovo has the virtues that complement my self-criticism and are more forward-thinking, I think. Not like, forward-thinking as in looking ahead (which might be true but irrelevant at the moment)—but as in she very present-minded and ready for the next step. I tend to look back and criticize, but mistakes just exists and criticism doesn’t always matter. S*** just happens. Like, I’m still learning how to use shoot video, I mean. (I had to shoot Commencement, and I’m not good at that—yet.) Sometimes I just think about it and feel bad. It sucks.
It’s probably why I’m writing right now even though I don’t have much to write about.
Lotsa work to do. Time to move on. I’ll learn.
In 1937 the axis alliance full scale war between China and Japan. This is called “full-scale,” since a lot of raping was involved. The Japanese are and were ruthless.
When a girl touches my arm,
Does it mean the same
Thing that I mean
When I touch a girl’s arm?
What if she touches my arm twice?
Cali was living on the streets of Far Rockaway and people where I work were feeding her - amazingly she survived Sandy. Last week when I got in my car she jumped in with me. I took her home and to the vet. She has turned out to be an amazingly friendly and loving cat, who the vet says is about 10 months old.
Unfortunately, she tested positive for FELV. FELV is an incurable and untreatable virus that is ultimately fatal to cats. It often lies dormant for some time but usually cuts life expectancy to about 3-4 years. It is also highly communicable between cats and we already have another cat, so we can not keep Cali. Cali is currently asymptomatic. The vet informs us that as there is no treatment, the course of action would be to euthanize her when symptoms of the disease appear as it progresses rapidly.
If anyone wants to adopt a wonderful cat for a relatively short period of time, it would give her a chance to enjoy the short life she was sentenced to. You would need to have a home with no other cats (FELV is not transmittable to dogs or people), and keep her as an indoor cat only. Unfortunately, our only other alternative is euthanize her, as no shelters will take her. She is a wonderful cat and needs someone with a big heart - in return she will repay you with amazing love and affection.
Since my Mind decided
To kick my Heart in the ass,
My Body just said “fuck it”
—and stopped fighting viruses.
#sick #heartbreak #tyrannyofreason
This is life sometimes. #sometimes
So this review is written by a favorite of mine, and he really hits the writer hard, which sucks, but he hits the book appropriately hard as well. Key word: appropriately. I mean, as harsh as he is, Smith is right. I feel weird about it.
I’m where I was a month ago but I’ve picked up a couple of new friends and new ideas to think about it—or rather, to stop thinking about because I basically figured it out. Or at least enough of it to move on.
But yeah, where I was a month ago: Sick, with a cough that seemed to come only from biking in the cold and sniffling for 1/12 of my life and being too polite to always spit out the phlegm (except this time I think it’s just lack of rest or stress); Alone, which is at times synonymous with single—not because I require a S.O., but because I am so much so aware that I don’t have an S.O. when I don’t pursue an S.O. or am restrained from doing so; Tired, because I go to school and am a good student, generally.
I refused to do my APTAPIII essay tonight because I get one drop and it’s only going to drop my grade by .18 percent (my roommate is a business major and I adore precision).
It’s difficult to pray when I’m this tired. And it’s difficult to write when I am afraid of who’s reading and I haven’t been praying enough. “Pray without ceasing” is my standard—whatever that means, though I prefer to take it literally.
I think God reveals certain things to me through my feelings. I generally have a very far-off view of God (like we’ve just been “thrown” into the universe, hat-tip to Sartre), but I know that’s not quite accurate. And I realize a lot of the things I feel are perverse. But I’m not an idiot: I think and temper those feelings and sort out the bad and good ones.
So that gives me an excuse to say, Hey, I’m sad; I feel lonely: Therefore, I’m fine with receiving love and will even ask for it—or just take it and lay my head on Liz shoulder and then say leave and walk into Wilkinson’s office and just say, “I’m bored.”
Which is of course Code for something much different. God knows it is unreasonable to be bored. But then she laughs and talks and listens. And then I move on.
And how inappropriate is this, if at all? To ask to be loved, even if odd, selfish, or out of norms, order, or policy? You, readers, will judge me and decide for yourself. And I’m not going to argue with you right now. I care, but I’ve clearly already made my decision—I already did the thing—and now I’m moving on.
The thing I have to be aware of is that I’ve put myself in a selfish posture, and I have to not take too much and take only what I need. I need to learn to start giving back, as soon as I can. I am selfish that I have a self to give; I am selfless so that my self matters to someone other than myself.
Anyways, I’m sick, and I’m already editing this post, but editing is for essays, not blogs. Letters? I’m not sure. Not these days, I imagine. Not this one, at least.
There’s a certain shame that comes with publishing an essay that is proportional to the pride that comes with writing the essay. But here’s a section that published today that I still like:
“As humbling as it is to say that I do not know[…] it should be a humility offers hope, but it should be a sad humility. It isn’t a self-imposed, sought-after humility. It wrecks my heart. And makes me mad. And it scares me—but it shouldn’t slow me down. It should make me want more, not less.”
The fact that [I’m talking about other stuff that people made, and stuff that people think—stuff that you really believe, even live and die for—and explicitly say their names—in even a sort of quasi-dignifying way, because I say “Mr.” to show respect, but am I actually saying respectful things?—and that I published it] is extremely uncomfortable to me. This is why I just write about myself and how awful I am. I feel like I’m judging them, and I don’t know anything about them. Am I judging them, though? I tried so hard not to, and I still feel like I am. I’m sorry about that. But either way, I gotta risk writing something, good or bad. I’m sorry about that too, but maybe it’s a sacrifice. But even if I did that they were wrong about truth and beauty—and I actually for the most part agree—then I can still show charity to them, right? Can I still love them? Is the writing still loving? I’m risking saying yes. I really do care, and this is the only way I know how to care.