delay

mole-blogged, maartens, 7:10pm

so there are two couples i always see in maartens, sitting at the corner of the bar. they meet here every night, it seems, and tell stories about their neighbors, lawnmowers, and the other things that homeowners that drink nightly complain about. the women smoke cigarettes--one of them drinks only champagne. they laugh such that the entire bar laughs with them.

the point of this? i want to someday have someone that will come here with me and do this.

someday.

until then, i laugh with them.

///

real-blogged, home, 1:41am

my interweb is down. i just got back from mellow mushroom with eric. we talked about trusting people, web design, girls that fucked us over, fourteen piece ska bands, and why we both use Canons. i finally got to apologize to him, and it felt good. also, i was drinking, so that had a lot to do with it. i need to get my interweb back. blogging must be done!!!

pbr for the course

there may or may not be a colony of wasps building a nest in the gap between the inner and outer glass of my bedroom window. the uncertainty comes from the fact that i am too scared to open the blinds. let's look at this as metaphor, perhaps. i know what is happening in the world around me, but if i don't look, i can pretend i am not sure.

my daily routine of writing in here before i fall asleep has come to a halt, somehow. it's not because i have less to say--i think it has more to do with how i have less that i want to say to the world. the fusion of public and private that i strived to maintain here doesn't really work all of the time, especially when you are paranoid, like i am. also, the wasps limit my sleep, what with the incessant buzzing; EDIT--the buzzing in the wall that is possibly being caused by the colony of wasps. sigh, might better.

i've been spending time with majkin again, which has been perfect. it feels like that strange pause in our friendship never happened. we find places to sit outside on uncomfortable iron chairs and drink. we talk about lawn sports and criteria lists, and how living situations are never as great as we hope. i hope to regain BFFFF status.

the countdown begins--one week until i am... older. i'm thinking about getting a few kegs of PBR for the house, or having people meet at maartens. in any event, it will be called 'michael's birthday PBRty.' sigh. so clever.

i found these drawings of proposed soviet buildings from the late twenties and early thirties, and i want to show them to brynn. i need to get on that. she's the only person i know who might actually appreciate that.

so, i am going to take my not blogging freqently, garlic smelling, disappointed in the abilities of other people to return phone calls self out to get some coffee, some food, and a drink. my weekend starts now, and will never end, well, until sunday.

she's a jellyfish.

so. night out with majkin was extraordinary. we had bistro adventures, talked about pests in our homes, went to starbucks and the lucky, and skipped like school girls down university avenue.

talked to rae and sloane on phone, two of my favorite people. on phone with rae, i talked about my birthday resolution, to accept that there is nothing wrong with never finding the one. she asked me why i felt that this would never happen, and i told her this, that i had found the one, and that she wasn't interested. there is no episode of sex and the city to explain this.

i am writing a screenplay, based on text messages and the last 5 months of my life. it is semi-autobiographical--the same outcomes, but done more poetically.

i can't wait for summer, and i am dreading it. the roots of my life here will be leaving, and i will be staying, uprooted. i need a plan. i am fortunate, though, to have an unexpected brother/long lost cousin here.

also, i am giving up, and succumbing to sleep.

disclaimer

i wrote a new poem, and i am kind of upset by it. a month or so ago, i thought that i had a muse; rather, it seems that i have found some sort of unholy poetic succubus. poems about arnold stop being about arnold, but become about her, and i don't want them to, but they do. my own words betray me. his words become hers, the lines that i wake up thinking after i dream of him coming home are replaced into her lips.

but at least i am writing.

i have this constant fear that someday a friend will describe me as a 'former poet.' i would rather write poems about her that upset me than not be able to write anymore, again. in the end, we are our art.

hipster fidelity

so, i can't sleep, and i am doing what i usually do during periods of insomnia... thinking.

what does it all mean? katherine wanted to be with kevin, and not me. allison wanted to be with erik, and not me. stefanie--bless her heart, i can say nothing bad about her, but for the sake of listing major exes and almost-exes, she's here. brynn wanted to be with trevor, and not me. sloane wanted to be with dave, and not me. mollie wanted to be with jordan, and not me. sarah wanted to be with eric and alone and with brandon, and not me.

i am frequently told how nice i am, how this and that i am. everyone thinks this is a good thing. lady macbeth thought her husband had been spoiled by the milk of human goodness. i think i had a soy version of that milk, and i have been spoiled to niceness, and by niceness.

so, i am going to take arnold's advice. from now on, i will be mean to girls, and perhaps they will like me more. i will yell into telephones that i do not play games. i will check out other girls, including her friends, and my roommate's girlfriend. i will talk about 'pulling mad bitches when i move to cali.' i mean, these things work for arnold, and beds of poison ivy and such. we all need a little more of don solomon in the world.

***

free meal at bistro, just for knowing how to cut and paste? i am king.

why do i continue to care? maybe that's all i can do.

death & taxes has been replaced by taxes, then death.

this morning...
in the movie of my life, it would have gone more like this.

S: so... you bought me coffee, brought me breakfast, drove me to class... why are you doing this? i thought i broke your heart.
M: don't worry... it's still breaking.

also, today i paid for the deaths of three innocent iraqi children. great.

i have six new archival pens.

for my sister, providence. i hope that she is ready for four years of the same ani song being on every mix cd.

one more thing... does he wear the backwards baseball cap in bed? does he turn it around? is there a certain etiquette for this? are you really who you say you are?

moleblogged quote--
carly: i remember everything until...
michael: remembering is overrated.

4am addition--i am turning off the text message feature of my phone ASAP. too scary.

now that everybody's dead...

so.

firstly, i'm drinking again, for those of you who didn't know. say whatever you want, but i know what i am doing.

secondly, with this news item as something coincidental, i think, i've started writing again, poems, real ones, with beautiful lines. i'm writing one that is dually about arnold coming home and about you know who and you know what. it works equally as both right now--the next stanza will decide which way is home.

thirdly, i feel somewhat disconnected from my immediate surroundings. doors close quickly around here. text messages are brief.

finally, i have decided that i have a biological clock, and that time has come for me to do the unthinkable--get married/committed to someone and have a fucking adorable and brilliant child-thing. i see people with kids, and i am jealous.

additionally, i saw a girl in the bar tonight that looked like katherine did, the time she drove to new york to visit me at the end of the summer, when she had cut her hair and was wearing lots of red, when i picked her up at the train station at 1am. it was such a strong burst of memory, like face wash that smells like costa rica.

lay me down in a bed of poison ivy.

mole-blogged, maartens, 1pm.

so a girl i used to hang out with frequently to talk about theory and Ani and cigarettes didn't recognize me last night. any other night this would have bothered me, but last night, i was invincible.
i think that arnold is bulletproof, and by extension, so am i when i am with him. from opposite sides of a long table, we said everything we had to without words. everything was as it should have been. the jager was cold, and went down easy, just like i remembered.
if you'll excuse me, i just got a text message that may make me vomit.

update--the magnetic fields said it best. i don't really love you anymore.

mirah yam tov zeitlin: "if we sleep together will it make us friends forever?"

you listening, boss? i'm sorry. i picked a fight with you because i let my emotions bottle up and ferment and explode. i haven't been able to find the balance between corking up things i don't want, and not letting my cup run over, you know? and yes, i am deliberately using alcohol metaphors.

i get jealous and lonely and feel betrayed easily. i have good reasons to be like this, but it isn't a good thing. every moment of my life keeps coming back to that night i turned twenty, like it is sole pushpin holding up a stack of papers. that one night has touched everything i've done since, and i don't know if this is good or bad.

one more day of work, and then a two-day weekend! and possibly seeing arnold?!!?! and possibly getting the fuck out of this one-horse town for a little while!!

skip--so close. also, i wish i could use words as perfect as yours to describe how proud of you i am.

anonymous poster--who are you? let's find a cause.

can i go by just "m"?

I haven’t spent a morning in starbucks in months, enjoying the isolation of white headphones and the reach of the local text message, typing memories and worries to be archived later onto the semi-permanence of digital type faces, Gutenberg times forty. The quick and too much gust of the air conditioner, the steady pacing of familiar and strange faces, seconds pass. Voices carry from the corner of the room, metered by my steady pace of 75 wpm, a tiny metronome that doesn’t work very well.

In the musicality of my daily life, I find regret and remembered hope.

I am realizing tonight that I don’t really have a cause, something I am dedicated to. I have my passions, but they are more for me than for anyone else. There are mornings when I don’t know what to write here, and as such I can’t figure out what it is that I contribute. Nothing comes of nothing, I am reminded.

My music fights against the sounds pushed into the air by the speakers above me and the harsh growl of the blender downstairs. This is obviously a metaphor for something.

I have started making a list of possible aliases in my moleskine.

i am comforted by the fact that, in a parallel universe, you and i are madly in love.

the fact of the matter is, i can't actually talk about anything that i've done in the last few days. it's all falling into place. i've done the best i can with my assignment, and now, i just have to cross my fingers and pray.

home was anywhere with diesel gas.

he should be my new best friend

an article in today's Times talks about the new revolution of dating and sex, and it doesn't apply to me. apparently, one night stands are dead, but lately, it's all i have. the paper of record? perhaps not.

this, however, does sound familiar... "A relationship isn't the easiest thing to maintain, but swearing off boys isn't a viable option either," the chapter on "Defensive Non-Dating" states. "The result of this epiphany: You refuse to put yourself out there. Instead, you just put out."

i'm not my body, or how i choose to destroy it.

i've decided that charlottesville is a real life version of friendster, where everyone is connected to everyone through an intricate network of you-know-who's, with former baristas serving as hubs. just the other night, i found a maartens waiter that knew j six years ago through a girl that worked at gap. ridiculous. everywhere i go, i see more people i know. a former yww kid came into bodos tonight, with his parents, and i realized that his dad is the guy that used to come into starbucks every day looking for salads, and would get mad when we didn't have them. effing ridiculous.

there's this really long post i want to write about memories of georgian accents, and allison. my weekend trip up north to run an errand for j was cancelled, but i had strange deja-vu-ish premonitions that recalled a trip to new york with allison, and the elevator to a future not followed. that's one of those spots in my life where the bifurcation is obvious, and there is regret and relief, and the knowledge that i don't know if i made the right choice or not.

lately, i'm feeling like i am not in sync with myself. i was a few years behind where i should have been when stef and i met, a few years ahead of myself with mollie, etc. i've never had a grasp on time, but time has grabbed me, and i am pulled away from shore by it's tide.

there is a chance that i may be entirely changing this blog to be about memories and dreams. i can write less and less about my real life. i mean, i traded my soul to someone tonight, and i can't really discuss it at all.

my boss has been trying to catch me up on bodo's gossip. it's ridiculous--why are restaurants always like this? i think i finally fit in, even if it is in some strange liminal spot, as the baby-manager. i'm only a little older than the kids--and they can tell that i am not going to be a bad-cop manager.

day off tomorrow--i am going to recharge and rewind, and see where memories take me.