Impossibility

I'm in love in a way that will never fit into words. This feeling is just too huge. The sky has been breaking for almost a year now. I can't believe we've been together only ten months... I can't believe it's been ten whole months. Too much is perfection.

I love my life.

There's such a big difference between the statements "I hate life" and "I hate my life."

I try to limit myself to the former.

The latter is what passes today under that derogatory term, "emo."

I really fucking hate life.

The boring food and health post

For the three-hundredth time in my life, I can't tell whether I'm crazy or not.

Gluten sensitivity! My obsession of the moment.

It's really ideal for crazy people like me, because it's not well defined at the moment and I've come across lists of associated symptoms that feel like a grab-bag for me. I think, "Headaches? Dizziness? Mouth sores? Depression? etc. IT'S THE ROOT OF MY PROBLEMS, CLEARLY.

I never even considered it before a couple months ago. The headaches I always explained with any of the following reasons: I'm dehydrated from all the grain; I haven't had enough protein; I ate too much food. Now I'm realizing that I haven't had a food-related headache from eating too much beans and rice, ever. Never a headache from eating too much tofu. So gluten? Could be!

But I'm crazy, because I can't tell cause from effect. I'm wondering if I like the idea of being gluten intolerant because I can pin all my problems on one thing and imagine it away. I bet a hundred bucks I could get rid of a headache by not believing in it; I could say, "but I haven't had any pasta today, so I shouldn't have a headache," and it would go away. It's all in what you believe.

I could believe that my major depressive episodes of the past few years have coincided with high gluten intake because the gluten caused the depression.

Or I could believe that my major depressive episodes of the past few years have coincided with high gluten intake because, in my depression, I turned to comfort food.

They are comfort foods: bread, cookies; I bake when I'm sad, eat pasta when I'm missing home. Which leads me to another possibility about this situation: I could be attracted to the idea of being gluten intolerant because it's yet another way for me to give up foods that I love.

And don't I just love the denial? Aren't I addicted to the self-pity that comes with not being able to have what I want?

So what should be a simple medical issue has blossomed into a question of whether a medical issue even exists outside the mind, and at what point it is deemed to do so.

Whether it's in my mind or my body, I have rarely felt so good and healthy as I have in the past month, eating a predominantly gluten-free diet. I think I'm going to stick with it.

Hopkins, Bacon, Havok

"My own heart let me more have pity on; let
Me live to my sad self hereafter kind,
Charitable; not live this tormented mind
With this tormented mind tormenting yet.
I cast for comfort I can no more get
By groping round my comfortless, than blind
Eyes in their dark can day or thirst can find
Thirst's all-in-all in all a world of wet.

Soul, self; come, poor Jackself, I do advise
You, jaded, let be; call off thoughts awhile
Elsewhere; leave comfort root-room; let joy size
At God knows when to God knows what; whose smile
's not wrung, see you; unforeseen times rather - as skies
Betweenpie mountains - lights a lovely mile."
-G. M. Hopkins

[Let it be noted that I adore Hopkins' disregard for linguistic limitation; why shouldn't "comfortless" be a noun, just as "dark" is? why not make up the word "betweenpie"? (And best, though not present, why not "selve" by forging new words?]



Listened to Sing the Sorrow twice tonight (this morning.) Haven't had such a good cry in such a long time. I looked like this:



I don't feel right unless I look like that.

But anyways. The line to revive me this time was, "Anathema I will remain, forever will remain. From below, in my seclusion, look up to the sky and see paper wings and watch them burn."

Taken out of context, they mean, to me, that I need to stay below, in my seclusion. That I am only me because I am below, in my seclusion, that I am only me when I am below, in my seclusion.

I need to write the art of my seclusion. I need to write alone.

There's just something about non-exposure that is, impossibly, paradoxically, more beautiful than the exposed. There's something achingly perfect about G. M. Hopkins writing to himself and his God only, isolating in sorrow, and making art of that sorrow, by that sorrow, and for that sorrow. There is something beautiful in that longing for happiness, forever unfulfilled, forever unpublished, forever unknown.

Tonight, (this morning,) I have remembered my nineteenth-century soul. Thank the gods of poetry; I am alive and selving.

sick of sick

Things I've been hating for the past nineteen hours:
music
sexual desire
myself
everyone (inCLUDing davey, jade, and even gerard manley hopkins)
every fucking thing
hypocrisy (see: myself)
memory
life
death
blogs

It's very uncomfortable.

Hello again, Misanthropy.

scattered thoughts

Am I really going to spend a year in Massachusetts?

I'm not even sure how this happened, but suddenly I have this path laid out in front of me that everyone is encouraging me to take. It feels like fate.

But I can't help feeling like fate is waiting for me here. Like all the magical things happen in the Bay Area. Like if I stray from home again, I may not come back.

When it comes down to it, I am terrified that when I get back, 924 Gilman will be gone. It's a silly, only semi-rational thought, but it bothers me so much. I feel like I'll somehow miss out on all the shows I should have been to, just like I missed out on Davey Havok playing with Ceremony while I was in England. It's stupid, this fear. It's the fear of a little girl waiting for magic to happen, for some perfect dream job to come place itself in my lap.

The job in my lap right now is a near-perfect dream job. I was just complaining about how all my friends are going to be on the East Coast this year, and now is my opportunity to go and be on the same coast as them.

I don't even know what's going to be the deciding factor for me. I hate that I can't be an adult and decide for myself, "This is what I am going to do." Instead I sit around waiting until someone kicks me in the ass in the direction they think I should go in.

And I hate that my father is so open-minded about sexualities, but not about gender. I hate that it's only because he doesn't know any better, and I hate that I'm too lazy or afraid to teach him. Sometimes when he talks with me about how I'm a woman, it brings me to the edge of tears because I feel so utterly frustrated and wrong. And yet I know that if I explained to him that I'm not a woman, nor a man, he would reasonably inform me that no matter what, the world will perceive and label me as a woman. I hate that he's probably right.

I'd rather live in a dream world.