Ramblings

Pointless Rambling #1

It’s time for another cigarette. It’s time for another pointless rambling. I was thinking of that friend I never had back in high school. The one who moved out of her parents’ house right after graduation. She got furniture for Christmas. When we were ten she was obsessed with the idea of sex, and I couldn’t understand why.

What is it that is so glamorous about alcohol? My cousin turned me on to it when I was very young, and I realize now, that the relationship I have with alcohol is similar to that which I have with my cousin. I don’t want it to be shameful, but it is. I must hide what the true nature of these relationships have been at varies times from others, particularly my family. Terra and alcohol are both appealing to me. They release me from my inhibitions. They make me loud, arrogant and shallow. They intrigue me in a way that I cannot identify. In fact, they are both so appealing to me that it is almost appalling, or at least annoying. I guess we have all proved to be a bad mix, but I will love them both always. I will love Russ, who I never knew. I will hold onto my own phantom memories in hopes that someday my dreary death dream world will come true. I don’t say that to sound suicidal. The other side intrigues me. Knowledge without words, an unspoken understanding between spirits…Everything inside of me believes in it, but I’m afraid I’m not very good at identifying it, or practicing it.

I’ve seen my soulmate in my dreams. I held onto him, as we were standing in the backyard. I can still feel the moment living inside of me, and I know that when I meet him, I will know that it is he. The very essence of him is within me now, as mine is in him, and we will meet in some peculiar way and I will hold him, and shelter him, and know that we are one in the same.

Have I gone too far in saying that? Perhaps I am a stupid little girl who will always be chasing pipe dreams that don’t exist, when I could be marrying a lawyer, or a computer programmer who adores the very earth beneath my feet. This is the choice I must live with, and if the fantasy does not come true, at least I will have kept it alive in my head. I will have been true to my heart, and that, in itself will make it worthwhile, because I will know who I am.

Ah yes, know who I am. Finding myself, and all of that shit. Feeling the night drag itself into the morning, talking to people without faces, without souls, as they trudge through the darkness in their typical mechanical ways. I must escape this, but it has entered me now, and I am too lethargic to think, or care, and I find myself once again wanting to crawl back into my bottle and fall asleep with my own delirious absurdity, but I will not. Not tonight.

I will push myself past my own desire to quit and call it a night. I will write again, I will feel alive again, and somehow, I must gain new experiences. I must gain a new perspective on everything, perhaps even put a positive twist on things, but I fear I cannot do that without becoming some revolting “wheels on the bus” poet. I shudder to think. Sometimes people ask me where I see myself in ten years. What an idiotic question. Sometimes I don’t know where I see myself in five minutes, and I believe that is the way it should be, living life for each moment, not really watching the clock or thinking about what trials and tribulations must be faced in the morning. I will deface them all rather than facing them. I will stick out my tongue at responsibility and laugh at myself for doing such a thing. (And perhaps, in ten years, I will pity myself for doing such a thing.)

Okay, just for the hell of it, we may as well paint some scenarios of Heidi in ten years. I used to be addicted to painting scenarios. Or perhaps I was just addicted to the word “scenerio”. I think once, I was even addicted to paint, but I’m not really sure. Ten years-

Scenario One

I am an overworked, underpaid English teacher, my husband, the business man, has left me for another woman and I have three children to raise on my own, who can’t understand why Daddy doesn’t come home anymore. Sickening? Yes, but luckily, I don’t think that will happen to me seeing as the day I fall for a business man will be the same day I sit in the bathtub and pull out all of my teeth one by one.

Scenario Two:

I am a famous musician. My music has a style of it’s own, and my lyrics come straight from my heart, forcing people to relate to it. Unfortunately, the people who relate to it are the same people who listen to Kenny G. and Belinda Carlisle. Disgusted at my own fame, and lacking new creative ideas, I retire from my musical career and spend my earnings on Chex Mix and Dr. Pepper. I then meet a teenage boy named Robbie who will come and live with me. I make him do odd jobs around the house, such as painting, and moving boxes, while I sit and the kitchen table and offer him coffee, just so I have someone to tell my sob story to.

Scenario Three:

I am a cocaine addict. I live in an efficiecy somewhere in New York City. I have found my true love, a dealer named Jimmy who looks like Sean Penn and has a violent temper. In a shoot out, Jimmy is killed, and in my time of grief I realize my own addiction must be arrested, leading me to become a recovering coke addict. I go to high schools all over the country spreading my story, but inside of me I know that I am not happy, because Jimmy was my soul mate, and I shall never find another.

Scenario Four:

I am still here in my parents’ house. My mom has died of heart failure, leaving my father and I alone in the house. My cat weighs 30lbs, and I do nothing but write and watch taped episodes of Pinky and the Brain.

Scenario Five:

I am living in Australia. Exploring the wild to the fullest, I start my own animal hospital and come in contact with the most dangerous and exotic animals ever known to man. My work becomes so popular that groups of volunteers fly in every week, and I am given my own show on Animal Planet.

Scenario Six:

I am married to a successful lawyer, he loves me dearly, and provides for me financially, but I find that my feelings for him are not the same as when we married, and I can no longer return his love. Lonely, and guilt ridden, I begin to have an affair with a musician who lives down the hall from us. Soon, I become pregnant, and the baby brings a new sense of purpose into my life, though my husband will never know that he is not really the father, and the musician will kill himself to escape his own pathetic loneliness. Still, I will carry the secret with me to my grave.

Pointless Rambling #2

I should be going to bed soon. I fear tomorrows. I fear how I may feel or not feel, because lately, I have been a blank canvas and I can’t afford any paint. To go from screwed up to healthy takes a hell of a lot of work, but going from healthy to screwed up can be done in a split second. I don’t belong in recovery, but I don’t belong in monotonous stupidity either. I belong wherever I am at the time. I belong here and now, though I don’t feel that way at all. I feel misplaced. And I feel heart broken, for no apparent reason. I feel like something beyond recognition, to the point that people don’t even bother trying to figure out what I am. Why is anyone anything? The comfort of labels, perhaps. The comfort of saying, I am this. There! There is a name for it, therefore, I am not a freak.

Go home!

CONTINUE



		Pointless Rambling #1 It’s time for another cigarette. It’s time for another pointless rambling. I was thinking of that friend I never had back in high school. The one who moved out of her parents’ house right after graduation. She got furniture for Christmas. When we were ten she was obsessed with the idea of sex, and I couldn’t understand why. What is it that is so glamorous about alcohol? My cousin turned me on to it when I was very young, and I realize now, that the relationship I have with alcohol is similar to that which I have with my cousin. I don’t want it to be shameful, but it is. I must hide what the true nature of these relationships have been at varies times from others, particularly my family. Terra and alcohol are both appealing to me. They release me from my inhibitions. They make me loud, arrogant and shallow. They intrigue me in a way that I cannot identify. In fact, they are both so appealing to me that it is almost appalling, or at least annoying. I guess we have all proved to be a bad mix, but I will love them both always. I will love Russ, who I never knew. I will hold onto my own phantom memories in hopes that someday my dreary death dream world will come true. I don’t say that to sound suicidal. The other side intrigues me. Knowledge without words, an unspoken understanding between spirits…Everything inside of me believes in it, but I’m afraid I’m not very good at identifying it, or practicing it. I’ve seen my soulmate in my dreams. I held onto him, as we were standing in the backyard. I can still feel the moment living inside of me, and I know that when I meet him, I will know that it is he. The very essence of him is within me now, as mine is in him, and we will meet in some peculiar way and I will hold him, and shelter him, and know that we are one in the same. Have I gone too far in saying that? Perhaps I am a stupid little girl who will always be chasing pipe dreams that don’t exist, when I could be marrying a lawyer, or a computer programmer who adores the very earth beneath my feet. This is the choice I must live with, and if the fantasy does not come true, at least I will have kept it alive in my head. I will have been true to my heart, and that, in itself will make it worthwhile, because I will know who I am. Ah yes, know who I am. Finding myself, and all of that shit. Feeling the night drag itself into the morning, talking to people without faces, without souls, as they trudge through the darkness in their typical mechanical ways. I must escape this, but it has entered me now, and I am too lethargic to think, or care, and I find myself once again wanting to crawl back into my bottle and fall asleep with my own delirious absurdity, but I will not. Not tonight. I will push myself past my own desire to quit and call it a night. I will write again, I will feel alive again, and somehow, I must gain new experiences. I must gain a new perspective on everything, perhaps even put a positive twist on things, but I fear I cannot do that without becoming some revolting “wheels on the bus” poet. I shudder to think. Sometimes people ask me where I see myself in ten years. What an idiotic question. Sometimes I don’t know where I see myself in five minutes, and I believe that is the way it should be, living life for each moment, not really watching the clock or thinking about what trials and tribulations must be faced in the morning. I will deface them all rather than facing them. I will stick out my tongue at responsibility and laugh at myself for doing such a thing. (And perhaps, in ten years, I will pity myself for doing such a thing.) Okay, just for the hell of it, we may as well paint some scenarios of Heidi in ten years. I used to be addicted to painting scenarios. Or perhaps I was just addicted to the word “scenerio”. I think once, I was even addicted to paint, but I’m not really sure. Ten years- Scenario One I am an overworked, underpaid English teacher, my husband, the business man, has left me for another woman and I have three children to raise on my own, who can’t understand why Daddy doesn’t come home anymore. Sickening? Yes, but luckily, I don’t think that will happen to me seeing as the day I fall for a business man will be the same day I sit in the bathtub and pull out all of my teeth one by one. Scenario Two: I am a famous musician. My music has a style of it’s own, and my lyrics come straight from my heart, forcing people to relate to it. Unfortunately, the people who relate to it are the same people who listen to Kenny G. and Belinda Carlisle. Disgusted at my own fame, and lacking new creative ideas, I retire from my musical career and spend my earnings on Chex Mix and Dr. Pepper. I then meet a teenage boy named Robbie who will come and live with me. I make him do odd jobs around the house, such as painting, and moving boxes, while I sit and the kitchen table and offer him coffee, just so I have someone to tell my sob story to. Scenario Three: I am a cocaine addict. I live in an efficiecy somewhere in New York City. I have found my true love, a dealer named Jimmy who looks like Sean Penn and has a violent temper. In a shoot out, Jimmy is killed, and in my time of grief I realize my own addiction must be arrested, leading me to become a recovering coke addict. I go to high schools all over the country spreading my story, but inside of me I know that I am not happy, because Jimmy was my soul mate, and I shall never find another. Scenario Four: I am still here in my parents’ house. My mom has died of heart failure, leaving my father and I alone in the house. My cat weighs 30lbs, and I do nothing but write and watch taped episodes of Pinky and the Brain. Scenario Five: I am living in Australia. Exploring the wild to the fullest, I start my own animal hospital and come in contact with the most dangerous and exotic animals ever known to man. My work becomes so popular that groups of volunteers fly in every week, and I am given my own show on Animal Planet. Scenario Six: I am married to a successful lawyer, he loves me dearly, and provides for me financially, but I find that my feelings for him are not the same as when we married, and I can no longer return his love. Lonely, and guilt ridden, I begin to have an affair with a musician who lives down the hall from us. Soon, I become pregnant, and the baby brings a new sense of purpose into my life, though my husband will never know that he is not really the father, and the musician will kill himself to escape his own pathetic loneliness. Still, I will carry the secret with me to my grave.

Pointless Rambling #2 I should be going to bed soon. I fear tomorrows. I fear how I may feel or not feel, because lately, I have been a blank canvas and I can’t afford any paint. To go from screwed up to healthy takes a hell of a lot of work, but going from healthy to screwed up can be done in a split second. I don’t belong in recovery, but I don’t belong in monotonous stupidity either. I belong wherever I am at the time. I belong here and now, though I don’t feel that way at all. I feel misplaced. And I feel heart broken, for no apparent reason. I feel like something beyond recognition, to the point that people don’t even bother trying to figure out what I am. Why is anyone anything? The comfort of labels, perhaps. The comfort of saying, I am this. There! There is a name for it, therefore, I am not a freak.

	Go home!
			CONTINUE