Matryoshka69’s Weblog

   Something made this morning beautiful. Maybe it was the dense, warm fog drawing me outside Garth’s kitchen where my friends were still sleeping; my day began with the soft relief I felt when I stepped outside into the twilight-gray dawn and felt the gently humid breeze on my face. My day never actually ended, there was more of a two-hour nap to break apart Friday night and Saturday morning. The days have been blurring together these past few weeks (I only noticed it was over the past few weeks because I looked at my calendar and realized “a couple of days ago” happened at the end of last month). I was surprised at how easily I woke up. The last thing I remember before I conked out at four was mumbling “I only had one drink…just a bit…” as I tried not to throw up, and the feeling of horror and stupidity that punched me in the gut when Garth whispered that I had, in fact, drank over half a bottle of wine in about twenty minutes. Plus a hit of weed. For a night that ended with such a heavy emotional berating, the morning was very gentle.

    Garth shook me awake at exactly six like I half-tearfully begged him to do, and passed me my cold shirt and bra before I climbed in front of the window right below the loft bed. I don’t remember if we had conversation, just looking up at his sleep-bloated face from the floor, and then drunkenly climbing back up to plop my head down on his chest. God, I love him. I grabbed Kita’s leg to wake her up, although I was afraid to poke B.M awake as well. It was the third night in a row I saw him when I woke up, but this time I felt a bit wierd at how intimate it is to see someone zombie-wake in midmorning piled under a comforter. I managed to brush my teeth and call a car, and we were off to the subway. During the day, there is an assumption that everyone else on the subway has somewhere reasonable to go. But we were in a different crowd this time, a crowd of early-Saturday baristas and busboys and maybe even a few partyers who overdid it at Union Square. Kita got off first to get ready for work while I stayed on. My eyes dried out from staring at nothing in a stupor so deep that I realized I was intently listening to the blood rushing through my ears. A hobo in a wheelchair asked for change and I gave him a dollar and change, although I felt fearfully disgusted to make any contact with his hand. He was polite, and I wondered how this man with sunken eyes and no shoes had such a pleasingly deep voice and humble tone in his speech. He was just a guy who needed to buy food, but he gave off a stench of rotting flesh that stayed solid and sedentary in the car long after he moved to the next one. This was a person who really needed that cash, and everyone knew it, dolefully casting glances at his one bare foot. The skin behind the toes was in the process of completely peeling off, leaving a wet patch of white like a thin tissue on his black skin. People who pretend to need change don’t smell like that, and they don’t eye pennies like a saving grace dropping into their palm.

   I suddenly felt suffocated, so I got off thirty blocks from my apartment and got a warm, sweet-smelling bran muffin and a cup of cold milk to keep my head from spinning. I was alone on an empty avenue on a dim New York morning, watching the few morning travelers make their way under the blooming cherry blossom trees (they’re so short-lived, but make cold April so bearable). There were signs of life everywhere, and I felt grateful to be up with a sleepy spring day ahead of me. How could I not feel well-being in every inch of my body?  I am living with someone I can call my friend in Manhattan. It’s not going to last, and I love that too. I feel my friendships getting stronger every day- I’m settling into a family that will last me through years of experiences and midninight adventures through thunderstorms in search of liquor. I feel strong and beatiful even though my eyes are puffy and my skin is dry. I’m in love. I’m in LOVE. I’M IN FUCKING LOVE with someone who loves and trusts me back in the most fluid way. I get to wake up from a two-hour night to my apartment and treat myself to a fresh crusty muffin, and chew slowly to feel the grainy softness calming my stomach. I am so, so, so grateful.

 We pretended to be reckless that night, wanting to feel emotions as enormous and sweeping as tides crashing over us and sweeping us along our way. So there we were, trodding along over the Williamsburg bridge with a bottle of Francis Ford Coppola Estate’s finest wine sloshing over our hands at the same rate that we managed to drink it. Our mouths were as red from the wine as they were from kissing. Actually, “kissing” doesn’t quite fit here- it makes me think of nervous teenagers trying to connect with each other through a mess of frustrated sexual desire clashing against learned constraint. We knew exactly what we were doing, and our lips glided over each other in an act of lovemaking much more intimate than sex. The whole night was a careful balance of fun, abandon and the most careful handling of each other’s emotions. My head was spinning so fast that I could almost keep up with the movement of the city lights downstairs, cars indistinguishable from boats and streetlights and people. The water was perfectly patterned with blacks, blues, and the reflection of a thousand more man-made lights burning just as bright as the stars can. The bridge seemed to shake with me. The only still thing was the soft white face in front of me. I’d never been more in love with life.

i haven’t written anything in a while. damn, it feels pretty good. at the moment i’m not even trying to battle my peanut butter addiction. it’s so salty and sweet, and it’s the most amazing thing in the world mixed with tangy berry jam. or better yet, with chocolate. reese’s cups are one of god’s many gifts to man, much like babies and air conditioning. what a fickle dude god is. there’s always a trade-off: you eat too many reese’s, you get fat. babies might turn into bad people. and air conditioning ruins the environment. it’s like saying “here, have this delicious buttery treat, but it might send you into anaphylactic shock. you choose :)”  it’s so hard to turn down the gooey, rich crunchy goodness. and we’re taught fear of punishment is stronger than the promise of reward. what bullshit. i can’t resist air conditioning on a hot day no matter what chemicals i’m breathing in.

 i’ve actually been eating yogurt this whole time, with some peanut butter mixed in. i’m nearing the bottom and i’m starting to get annoyed. i really don’t want it to end. cravings are supposed to be sated, but the more peanut butter i eat, the more i want it. i swear, my taste buds must be like mini-clotirises. i’m really enjoying myself right now. in a completely different way than i was yesterday, when i was walking across the williamsburg bridge with a bottle of wine. there’s something to be said for spending time alone.

 My alliances have changed. I know this because it happened so slowly, I didn’t feel any changes until they snowballed into an epiphany. My emotions belong to me now, and I am in control of them. I can give them to whoever I want and be confident that they will take care of the people I love and be taken care of by them. I don’t have to be scared of changes anymore, because I can always reign myself into a lockdown if I need to. It’s about time I learned how to do this. Growing up is not easy, and I can feel myself permanently change in new, little ways every day. Today I can see objectively what happened yesterday, and tomorrow today’s events will be clear. Living in the moment without being afraid is the most exciting fucking feeling in the whole world. As far as I know.

  Everything is new to me, and I’m even rediscovering the emotions I thought I felt before. That includes love, sex, touching, feeling, tasting, worrying, being scared, liking  myself for the first time. Everything is more colorful, on a newer lever. It makes me wonder how much of this is because I’m just growing up, and how much of this is caused by the people I surround myself with. Being with them breathes pure oxygen and joy into the most mundane things- it’s the difference between looking at something and really, really seeing it. Do you know what I mean?

 I always want to post song lyrics instead of my own writing. Someone has already said anything I could have been thinking and feeling better than I could, and put it to music, too. Again with the self-deprecation. I’m not good at anything except feeling. I’m real good at feeling things- tiny subtle things in shades of gray and other difficult-to-place shades, and really grand things. But I can’t create anything with them. And what’s the use of being able to perceive great amounts of pleasure and pain if you can’t find a release?

 Every emotion is wonderful ( but i could do without terror). Especially the combinations, like nostalgia. Nostalgia and loneliness are my favorites. I miss people even when they’re present, and it just makes me yearn to touch them even more. Not in a sexual way- just to make sure they’re still there. But it’s all useless. You can’t get anywhere or get any satisfaction out of life by being an expert feeler. You get places by turning it into art, or a passion for a subject that turns into new cutting edge research, or music, or philosophy or writing. I feel helpless. 

 This is a real problem for me. I’m not kidding or being wierd because it’s almost two a.m… I really don’t feel satisfied with anything, because I can’t do anything. Art is art because it is the physical result of the whole of someone’s state of mind at a certain point in time. I consume other people’s art, because if it is well-done enough it feels like my own. But I can’t produce it. Fuckin’ A! Someone get me out of my skin before I burst. Or deflate. Or stay the same and dry myself out with constant anxiety and disappointment in myself. I don’t know which is worse.

 I hate feeling sorry for myself. Is this my fault? It must be, but how can I force creativity? I suppose I just need to keep trying… but when I try it sounds forced. If I don’t try it doesn’t make sense. Maybe I should accept it. But nothing good has ever come of people who have given up on themselves. Maybe I never really tried in the first place.

   Oh sailor, oh sail me, silver mast do impale me… oh windless, oh ruby, remind me, rewind me… oh laughter, oh laughless, just sing this, just mean this… infinity whispered to me, a mumble so dreamy… a soft sound so creamy….

 Girls are so silly. CocoRosie wrote a song about being lovestruck, and it’s so true- it’s midnight and all I want with my life is to be your housewife. Girls are so silly. I should feel stupid for actually yearning with all my heart to do something disempowering  like that, but it’s so frustratingly sweet, so vulnerably open… waiting in the kitchen, waiting for him to get home in the evening. The well-groomed house has been cleaned and scrubbed and heated, the toddler is asleep, and the chimney is blowing cheerily into the cold winter air. From the outside the house looks so quaint against the snow, the windows leaking a little bit of the love and affection cradled in the heart of the girl inside. There is doting puppy love packed into every crack and crevice of the oak floors. She was alone all day, patient for the night to come to be in his arms. The rooms are flooded with the smell of apple pie, or freshly baked cinnamon buns… He walks through the door, and the day is worth it. Everything is ok. It’s all worth it as she smells his scent while helping him take off his coat and his scarf. Words can’t even squeeze their intrusive noses between their tight hug. No, it’s an embrace. They melt because they are each other’s comfort, each other’s hot chocolate on a freezing day. She pads around, doing what she does while he goes to change his clothes, and she can feel his presence moving with him. Pride swells in her chest as she watches her man enjoying the dinner she prepared. He thought of her during the day when he was eating the sandwich she made for him- how she made it big enough for a man, so that he’d have to hold it in both hands and really sink his teeth in. He puts his lips on her cheek and every nerve ending in her body is purring with pleasure at the gentlest brush of his skin. Everything is ok. The bed missed him. He puts his arms around her and they make love gently, quietly, before falling asleep. It’s funny how this is what I see in my head when I think of two painfully devoted people loving each other fully and all-consumingly.

I’ll always be by your side
Even when you’re down and out
I just wanted to be your housewife
All I wanted was to be your housewife
I’ll iron your clothes
I’ll shine your shoes
I’ll make your bed
And cook your food
I’ll never cheat
I’ll be the best girl you’ll ever meet
And for a diamond ring
I’ll do these kinds of things
I’ll scrub your floor
Never be a bore
I’ll tuck you in
I do not snore
I’d wear your black eyes
Bake you apple pies
I don’t ask why’s
And I’ll try not to cry
I’ll always be by your side
Even when you’re down and out
And it’s nearly midnight
And all I want with my life
Is to be a housewife
‘Cause it’s nearly midnight
And all I want with my life
Is to die a housewife

  What the fuck is bulimia? An illness desperately in need of treatment or a self-induced moment of weakness spent heaving over the toilet? Whose fault is it- Angelina Jolie’s legs or my frivolous desire for my body to mimic hers? 

   It’s listening to the water running for another twenty minutes while snot accumulates below your nose. It’s hoping your roommate is really as asleep as her snoring leads you to believe so you won’t have to answer her stares over breakfast. Or her judgmental disappointment and discomfort around you. Or the disappointment and discomfort you imagine she’s feeling… because that’s what you would feel in her shoes. It’s when you keep trying despite the chafing in your esophagus because when you shift to wipe your face, your legs jiggle a little. It’s always being conscious of how and where your body moves. You never feel solid enough.

  It’s always feeling hungry. And then feeling fat. And never fitting quite well enough into your clothes, because you are so soft around the hips. It’s feeling a rush of relief as your stomach violently turns inside out. It’s having the moisture sucked right out of your cheeks and your forehead stretching red and tight. It’s crouching with your knees on the icy tile floor, wondering when you will get multi-system failure. When your lung will rupture and fill with your last meal. When the cancer cells will begin to form. And not stopping. It’s shame in knowing that you’d rather die than feel disgusting in your skin. It’s deciding if you should take the easy way and blame “the media”, or blame yourself for giving in to what you hate.

Ah, love, let us be true
To one another! for the world, which seems
To lie before us like a land of dreams,
So various, so beautiful, so new,
Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,
Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;
And we are here as on a darkling plain
Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,
Where ignorant armies clash by night.

  gartok and i have this inside joke about “the hippopotapenis”. it’s one of those things you don’t remember the origins of, but you find it extremely funny when it comes up (and really dumb when you think about how it sounds). he wrote a song about it. i wonder if he sings it to other people and expects them to laugh. unlikely. i don’t know if i want him to make that inside joke between us public. he asked me for permission to write a song about me. why the hell not? later on in my life, when i have a smoker’s cough and have changed my name to Carol, i’ll hear it on the radio. he’ll be “a sleazy millionaire” with five catchy hit songs, and he’ll have fished that one out because my name’s almost as interesting as, but not as overdone as “delilah”. then i’ll tap my ten year old on the shoulder and say “yeh, that was me. that girl in da song.” i can see the scene in my head and it is in a garish, sad sepia tone. but we’re really little bumps in each other’s lives.

 anyway, i can’t wait to go to his show tomorrow. it’ll be fun to go out again.

  i spoke with stef today. mind if i call him by an informal moniker? if i don’t have the right to, please stop me. no? ok. for now i’ll just pretend we had a conversation the way we used to. not that i remember much the way we used to converse. isn’t it strange that as soon as we stop communicating with someone directly, as soon as we file them into a place that says “memories”, we begin to forget how they really were? i just remember the general, perfect feeling of being with him. i remember warmth and closeness. but no, i neither expected nor received that feeling from him. well, maybe in little accidental spurts. he’s definitely trying to keep me at bay. 

  i was really put to the test just now. i learned to feel so secure with myself lately. the whole time we were talking, though, i felt like i was trying to prove something. my newfound confidence? some newfound maturity? especially after he told me i am the same person i was. well, that would make anyone below the age of fifty try to prove him otherwise. it is very possible that i only feel like he successfully kept me at a distance and asserted himself as a completely seperate unit because i let him make that impression on me.

  if i think about this anymore, i’ll end up trying too hard. i’m acting like my old self around him, because that’s the only way i know how to interact with him. but there will be no purposeful pushing him away. he can dance around me the way he likes, because if both of us do it we’ll end up scratching each other up. we can’t both mark our territory again in the same space. we’re two seperate people, after all.

  i miss him. i hope he slides out of his shell again.