Unusual Combinations

Move On

2010-04-07T11:08:00.000-07:00

All I want at this point is to move on, to forget about it, to let it be over. All of you whom I've now told of it, you all tell me that I need to tell more, to talk more, to stay and look longer. I don't need to look, I was there. I know what happened. Do you all need to know too? Is that it?

Therapy is all theory, really. On a provable, scientific level, we actually know very little about what actual helps a person who either gets broken or somehow just *is* broken. So what, so I sit in a room with a highly-paid stranger who has a battery of theories behind her thick glasses, I talk about it? Because the fact of her knowing about it somehow going to help? She can frame me in terms of Freud, or Skinner, or Rogers; none of it will change the bare facts of what happened, or the fact that it is over. None of it will change the fact that I will still die someday, just like everyone else, and my life will either be just as meaningful or meaningless, depending on which philosophy wins out in the end. It happened. The moment is passed. Sometimes I remember it, sometimes I don't. Can't that be enough?

Why do I need to "work through" it, when I already lived through it?

ii-V-I

2010-02-07T19:21:00.001-08:00

Resolution: we will spend time together over the weekend, over my 23rd birthday, and then I will end it, in person, on a good note. The talking about it was very, very good today and I feel good about our friendship. our friendship will be in tact at least; at this point, even my misguided, idiotic, much-too-free-with-her-love heart will be basically in tact. This is good.

Bob Dylan Day

2010-02-07T12:45:00.000-08:00

Bob Dylan day. Walking around in linen pants and a victoria secret bra because I never got around to putting a shirt on day. Day after the day after I got slept with 18's Boring Marketing Roommate day. Day after getting back from Chicago day. Feeling worse about it day. Feeling better about it day. Deciding that this needs to be talked about day.

You where 18 and what else did I expect? day. I care about you much more than I should day. I'll never compare to her day.

I'll give you shelter from the storm day.

Come in, she said, I'll give you shelter from the storm.

I'm 22 and have classes to pass and need to focus on homework day. I'm too old for this stupid drama day. I live by myself and will dress how I want day. You've got a lot of nerve day. I want you so bad day. Listening to that song new song of NS's millions of times over again day. I want to make your life better and not worse day. It shouldn't be this big a deal day. How does it feel? day. How does it feel?

It feels like this is worse than I thought it would be day. It feels better than it did earlier today day. I should brush my hair day. You asked me to take naked pictures of myself drunk and maybe I'll do it today day. I don't want you to go through this day. I don't want to go through this day. I don't want to give you up day.

Something has to be done today day.

Bob Dylan always helps day.

2010-01-07T21:42:00.000-08:00

but then what kind of scale
compares the weight of two beauties
the gravity of duties
or the ground speed of joy?
tell me what kind of gauge
can quantify elation?
what kind of equation
could i possibly employ?
-- Ani DiFranco

The new year finds me, seven days since its alcoholic beginning, what will be my 23rd year, once again at a loss. I've been reading the existentialists over the last few days like mad, like they have some kind of answer for me. If they don't, the inappropriately-too-young-for-me bandmate I kissed (let kiss me?) on Christmas eve, he certainly doesn't, 18-year-old philosopher that he is.

And the last thing I need is another complication. NS said that he thinks I'm in a much healthier place now than I was a year ago, and some of that is the distance I finally have from X, and some of that is experiencing a healthy relationship with Y. Maybe I just need to stick to the simple.

What am I becoming right now? Existentialist? Adulteress? Alcoholic? Possibly all of these things, possibly all related. This is all suggestive of the fact that 18 is too young for me, is probably not good for me in more ways than I can innumerate, even though I can innumerate far too many for being so close to the situation. NS would never approve, and NS is always right. Always. So far, NS has always forgiven me for my wildly self-destructive behaviors, but what right do I have to expect that to continue?

All this, and the truth that a part of me that has never been happy before was happy with Y. All this, and the truth that a part of me that could never leave X behind let go and turned away after kissing 18. All this, and being still, still, still irrevocably divided against myself. It's the only way I've been able to define myself for years, as a dichotomy. I remember realizing it when I was maybe twelve years old, maybe less, whenever adulthood set in with the words "Your turn to watch mom, she's suicidal today."

All this, plus drama with the band. Not sure how related it is (no one knows about 18 besides the involved parties).

Rough Journal thoughts from YAG

2010-01-05T18:21:00.000-08:00

Young Adult Retreat this weekend. Semi-helped plan. Lots of ELCA Michigan synod drama. Lots of personal drama. Some sparks of actual faith.

FROM MONDAY

Faith, the Christian life, is not an easy undertaking. My atheist friends smugly speak of Christians as poor idiots who believe in some fantasy to make their lives easier, to make the pain of living more tolerable. This is not what the epistles teach us, let alone what Jesus taught us in the Gospels. Faith equates to trial, to lowliness, to struggle with temptation, self-control, doubt. Love in the Christian sense equates to the relative impossibility of totally putting oneself aside for the other (humanity = ability to self-harm? for what purpose? humanity = ability to deliberately not act in one’s own best interest; humanity = the ability to love).

Hearer and not a doer = imaginary faith = unreality, a vision of reality and not the truth. Discerning the truth requires, what? Actions according to faith, according to James. Does the action precede the faith?

FROM TUESDAY

All sins are equal; not one sin is worse than any other, all are all or nothing. I have—committed adultery? In a sense of commitment of the heart rather than a binding commitment of the church and law, but still, there was sin involved. The scarlet letter, however, should not be sown onto me unless onto everyone, because everyone else has committed sins as well. Everyone in this room, although at first blush mine may seem more horrifying given what I’ve done and whom I’ve hurt.

Is sin the great equalizer? Or is grace the great equalizer? James says Jesus does not show favoritism, and that mercy triumphs over evil. We are equal in our sin, and Christ treats us equally in grace.

What level of responsibility am I willing to take on in “my relationships?” Very, very good question. Was I unwilling to take on the responsibility to P that was necessary to keep a good relationship? I’m not sure I feel willing to take on what it would take to have a kind of open, public, honest relationship with the other one. Would I be able to? Would he be able to? We constantly say things we don’t really mean to each other, because we don’t know what we really mean. We constantly contradict ourselves, because we’re both conflicted. We constantly lie because we don’t know the truth. We talk too much, listen too little. We create confusion out of our confusion instead of looking for clarity. I need clarity. Probably he needs it too but hasn’t yet realized it, or no longer believes in its existence due to reading too much Kant and Sarte. Maybe clarity doesn’t exist, maybe the only way to make existence worthwhile is to pretend.

2009-12-23T21:55:00.000-08:00

Dear X,

I deleted them, finally. Every last letter you ever wrote me, every last letter I ever wrote you. Even the ones you never read. Even the ones I never intended you to read. I did it because I was tired of searching my computer with Google Desktop and nearly always having your letters come up (a 1000+ page document, I believe), because apparently we told each other about nearly everything at least once. I was tired of being reminded of you. I thought that would help. Just like every time I de-friend you on livejournal, I pretend like I’m not going to check your journal every day anyway. I’ll pretend like I won’t google search the lyrics of songs you mention for signs that your thinking at me, searching your internet interface for signs of regret.

All this, even though yesterday I was basically happy the entire time I was with Y. He cuddles me like a child, and I feel like a child with him, or a small kitten. Maybe more like an expensive show kitten that snuck away from a cold, pressurized and unappreciative life to be with a new owner who knows somewhere beneath his ability to deduce it that she is more valuable than he could afford to pay for a companion, even though he knows nothing of her besides his own affection for her. Y cuddles me and feeds me like I’m much more delicate than I am, and in a way take care of parts of me of which he knows nothing. The blind exchange is maybe not ideal, but leaves me stronger and healthier than the days in which I constantly bartered for your nourishing affection.

You never saw me as hungry; or else you thought thinness was beauty. In the end I starved by body trying to get your attention, dug my little kitten claws into your feet, whimpered and cried, because I had finally learned that stroking your ego by nuzzling my small body lovingly against your calves could not get your attention. All my best efforts seemed to annoy you, and it was impossible to know if your impatience was with me or yourself when you sacrificed the time to caress the sweet spot between my ears or the warm, soft comfort of my back.

The pricey little kitten knows she’s not where she belongs, but she likes it better here. Here, she is fed regularly, played with regularly; her care-taker rewards her ineffable cuteness with smiles and caresses, protects her from the cold. She knows she is not living up to her potential, not making anyone any money, not being recognized by the proper authorities for what she is. She knows her care-taker has no eye for feline pedigree, that even if someone were to point out to him her clear genetic superiority, the subtle manifestations of her fine blood, he would not see or understand them. All of these qualities are utterly wasted.

She also knows that, where she came from, her owner would not be able to distinguish between a trembling fear and a purring content, a conversational and a distressed meow, a playful nip and a reproachful claw. He would not have kept track of when he last poured her milk, left her alone in the apartment too long, and certainly not leave room for her in the warm bed. He knew why she had cost him what she had to acquire, but he had failed to calculate the temporal price of upkeep, the trivial work of having to remember to feed, groom, entertain and coddle her, the realization of which convinced him that it was probably a bad buy in the end.

Music

2009-11-07T19:29:00.001-08:00

A semi-cliche quotation that I believe is typically credited to Theloneus Monk is that "writing about music is like dancing about architecture." That may be true; I think, however, that the usual, and probably intended, interpretation of that statement underestimates the expressive powers of dance, as well as, implicitly, those of language. I've spent most of my life around musicians, prep-school and conservatory classical musicians, some naive and some deeply disillusioned, old-as-dirt lifelong rocker musicians, pretentious 20-something college musicians hoping to start the next great musical revolution with their rock-jazz-ska fusion this and classical-reggae-metal that. I've spent the last three years studying a relatively unknown field of music therapy, discovering that in many ways it's concerned with articulating or manifesting things we already know about music.

Lots of zealous high-school and college musicians will tell you something like naive or cliche "music is my life." I love music, I'm surrounded by it, most of the best things in my life were brought to me by it, but it in at of itself is not my life. It manifests my life, it articulates my life, it draws the lines of my life more darkly and more clearly. It gives me a mirror and a voice. But music is not my, or anyone else's life--our lives give life to music.

Maybe it's just because of the relative proximity of the primary auditory cortex, your amygdala and other memory centers, but individuals, moments, decades, sometimes whole societies hang their meaning on the branches of song to be shared and preserved. I've read a lot about neuro-anatomy as it relates to the processing of music. I've also used a Tom Petty song to draw out poetry and beautiful, hopeful imagery from a small group of people institutionalized with Schizophrenia, and the act of playing an autoharp to teach a six-year-old with Autism how to draw and say his letters.

I used to be pretty snobbish about music, as a child. I thought only listening to classical music, from Mozart to Schoenberg, made me a superior being to others. I thought that if I became exceptional and re-producing technically correct versions of these written pieces, that I would increase my own value ten-fold. Incorrect, as it turns out. After graduating from a prestigious high school meant for the over-achieving Juilliard-bound, I found myself miserable, lost, humbled. Literally the night after I came home after deciding to drop out of the full-scholarship liberal arts school that made me feel horrible, I found myself in my best friend's living room, literally taking notes while her little brother and *his* best friend, aspiring rockers, told me all of the music I needed to listen to in order to become "rock" educated. The Beatles. The Stones. The Who. The Guess Who. The White Stripes. Oasis. Clapton. Petty. Lennon.

My eventual bandmate offered to teach me guitar, and also started recommending music for me, of a broader range: Nick Drake, Regina Spektor, Sufjan Stevens, Tori Amos, but also Tool, Mars Volta, and Nine Inch Nails. When he drove me to gigs, before I could even drive for myself (music school leaves you with so few life skills), he would put something on, and occasionally stop it to point out, "did you hear that bass line? How he imitates what the drummer is doing there?" or "check out this counter melody here to the vocals, it's great." A few musical loves sprung up from my raids of my mom's CD shelf: Bob Dylan, Ellis Paul, Anúna, Béla Fleck.

I can't listen to Death Cab for Cutie anymore, not since my first very painful heartbreak. Casualties of that loss also include Bloc Party, Green Day, anything from the Garden State soundtrack. If my current relationship ever ends (although I doubt it will be as heart-rending . . . sadly, I've learned to protect myself), I would lose most of Nick Drake (a tragedy, as he was my band's original namesake). I thought of that, of most of this entry, because as I was looking for study music for this 20-page paper (... senior year, so slow yet so quick...), I realized that there is some music that no heart-breaking man could ever take from me--Loreena McKennit will always be mine from childhood, as well as everything I used to listen to when I wrote my ridiculously long novels. Anything "given" to me by Nathan, any music that my band plays (not that the Original Heartbreak didn't try hard to make that part of his identity with me), most classic rock in general, and yes, Mozart, Shostakovich, Beethoven, J.S. Bach, that classical world I rarely try to share with anyone now. Maybe that's why I've said I would never date one of my fellow classical students--it would be too great a risk.

Oh limbic-temporal interaction, how you protect us. Oh life, how you make music itself.

2009-10-25T19:15:00.000-07:00

Ever and anon I hear a cry out of the dawning of my life
A mother weeping, and I hear her say: oh that you had some brother,

Pretty one, to guard you on the way of your life.

-- Tennyson, Idylls of the King, from the first poem.

I protected myself as a child with the constant imagining of my perfect big brother. Everything that was wrong, everything that was missing, ever hole left by what my parents, in their own brokenness, could not afford to give me--I named it all "brother," amassed the fulfillment of those needs in my imagination into this mythic being that was slightly older, slightly wiser, slightly stronger, and ever-loving, whom I would idolize as perfect though I knew that he could not have been perfect.

I was fifteen when my mother told me she had had a miscarriage before my sister or I were born, that she believed it would have been a boy, and his name would have been Nathaniel.

When I was eighteen I met a young man around three years older than me, perhaps coincidentally named Nathan, who is now my band-mate and friend, and who, last winter when I experienced my first true, life-shattering heartbreak, interrupted his pre-moving errands with his new wife and drove across Michigan just to take me out for a beer and be with me for a night. He also opened his house to me for nearly this whole summer when I was too emotionally broken to face my own family's broken household. He helped me buy a piano, taught me how to play the guitar, and knows me well enough to nearly literally read my mind, can call me out on it when I'm keeping some burden inside, and knew weeks before anything happened or before he had even seen us together that I had discovered an interested in the young man who is now my boyfriend. He told me once, as his mother has told me several times, that he always wanted a little sister. I think we both know--but we've never said it.

The universe is certainly mysterious. I'm not sure whether I struggle more to believe that this could be coincidence, or to believe that some external force, spirit or higher design could be behind it.

> Emily

The More They Stay the Same

2009-10-23T10:11:00.000-07:00

The very last night of my first year as a camp counselor at Michi-Lu-Ca, the year that I met my idols who would someday become my bandmates, when I was eighteen and so afraid of losing everything in the world that mattered, a few of us sat around the Birchwood campfire. Staff campfires all summer had been community jam-fests, mostly featuring original songs by Eric, and as usual he had his guitar with him and was taking requests. The fire was dying, it was late, we had to be up early for closing chapel (chapel? was I even Christian at that point in time?) in the morning. I never asked, but he did close with the song I was hoping for, because it was right.

Isn't is strange, isn't it funny, ooh

Call me deranged, call me insane

Call me delirious, but I find it curious

That as change is stacked on change

We are more or less the same

the same

the same.

I held my breath for a few moments as he repeated the words, broken-record style, ancient chant style, slowly, guitar silent, holding the world still as everything waited for V to resolve to I, for everything to move forward.

Over five years ago. So much has changed. So much has stayed the same. That's a good place to begin.

> Emily