Unselective Memories, Ineffective Sentences

Waiting under the twinkling Christmas lights, fingers touching the frayed, cotton souvenir scarf dangling on my neck, I am reminded of the library in my old school. My safe haven, my special space of solitude for those many times when I arrived too late for classes.

I am reminded of that small group of close friends, all of whom were strange and patient enough to stand by the mute who never spoke a word during the course of their friendship. I am reminded of a series of illustrated books on famous figures of the world, one of which taught me how Isadora Duncan was choked by her own scarf which got entangled around a car wheel.

I was reminded of her when my perhaps overly long scarf got inexplicably stuck on some lady’s backpack zipper as she exited the elevator this morning. I was reminded of her when I took off my scarf as I was about to cross a crowded street. I am reminded of her now as I cautiously hold the ends of my scarf, amused that a trivial thing I read about more than a decade ago, long before I came to fear mortality, would come to haunt me on this day.

Walking Wounded

Quite simply, a person who is never content in an adult relationship is one who never has his or her emotional needs sufficiently met as a child. This does not mean that one’s childhood has to have been experienced as something out of the tabloids. There does not have to have been gross negligence or abuse for a child to become an emotionally needy adult. Constant negativity and criticism are enough to destroy a child’s self esteem. Emotionally needy people are in a continuous search for someone who will satisfy the needs that were never met by one or both parents. There is nothing wrong with admitting being emotionally needy.
allexperts.com

Playground Love

I guess most girls had their own particular collection of childhood crushes when they were young. You know, the ones they want to marry when they grow up for absolutely ridiculous reasons like being so cute and dreamy or something.

For as long as I remember, I’ve never bought into the heroic Disney prince charming type, now personified in modern times by Edward Cullen. I’ve always been drawn to messed up rock star types, which, rationally speaking, isn’t that wise a choice since they generally tend to be drug-addled, self-destructive, probably stink like an ashtray and don’t take regular baths.

Oh, and they cheat on you with groupies and various sorts of horny beautiful people. Pricks they are, albeit damn sexy ones. Even if you can stand all that heartache, you’ll still have to fend off the dealers to make sure you both don’t go broke and fucked up and end up living in a dump or OD-ing in a bathtub at 27.

Now doesn’t that make squealing “My hero!” or singing, I don’t know, “Someday My Prince Will Come”,  while braiding your long golden locks seem like a much more preferable choice?

Docteur Jekyll et Monsieur Hyde

I wonder, do alter egos exist or are they just scapegoats, ways to shift the blame for the acts, thoughts and urges we’re too ashamed to admit for?

Anyway, suddenly I remembered this amusingly crude 90s film my brother and I found way back, called ‘Dr. Jekyll and Ms. Hyde’. Closest thing to porn I knew back then, aside from my mother’s free-subscription copies of Cosmopolitan I hid under my clothes.

Quote of the Day

“The family, that dear octopus from whose tentacles
we never quite escape, nor in our innermost
hearts never quite wish to.”

– Dodie Smith, English novelist and playwright.
It’s true because no matter how batshit crazy they drive us, family is still family
and as they say, family sticks together. Or at least tries to. Or pretends to.

Growing Pains

I guess even if I said I won the Pulitzer someday, they would respond by asking why I got home so late the night before, or why I didn’t answer their calls on my crappy excuse of a cellphone.

Oh, sure they would be proud and express it vividly.
For like, a day, perhaps.
Or three hours.

Or, ah what the hell.

I still love my family dearly, and I can say it in a completely honest, non-ironic way. Good thing there exists the fascinating paradox in which to love does not mean to always like or approve of. Very convenient.

And That’s Why Birds Do It, Bees Do It, Even Educated Fleas Do It

Did we ever hear tales of the birds and the bees as a child? Or did our parents consider religion class and giggly naive teenage chitchats to be adequate sex education lessons?

I believe I learned about, as Alex in A Clockwork Orange puts it, “the old in-out, in-out” from a combination of factors. Reading sneakily through Cosmopolitan subscriptions my mother got for free when I was in elementary school, staring at a couple of copulating dogs a cousin hilariously deemed as “porno”, excessive reading, giggly naive teenage chitchats, movies, biology classes, hormones and the ensuing “insting hewani”, sex ed class in junior high, in which I eagerly asked my counseling teacher, “What’s an orgasm?” Charming.

All those and a whole lot of other things, but one thing for sure is that my parents never discussed any of the matter directly. Good thing I turned out fine, yes a bit filthy, but fine. So has many, though not all, of the people I know.

So do we really need sex ed? And in what form?

Recollection

Thoughts of certain natures have been coming by and biding little hellos in my mind. Naturally, considering the current situation with all the constantly evolving real life scripts of drama or comedy, depending on how you look at it.

The reason I haven’t offed myself in the past, all these years,
is because I fear there are too many precious things to come.
And that things will always get better in the end.
Or at least they appear to get better.
Or at least I can hope so.

Oh, and perhaps even more because I’m afraid of knives and broken bones and asphyxiation and pain in general. What a wuss, I know.

But then to actually do it is to be really cowardly, and really fucking stupid. Everyone can be strong enough for anything, to a certain extent, if they want to be. I know it because I’ve seen it.

Life is a Guilt Trip

Because you’re always a slut or a bad friend or an ungrateful child or a fucking devil woman or anything they say you are or you know they secretly or not so secretly think you are and sometimes you believe it, sometimes because you know you are and sometimes because it’s easier that way.

Lesson Learned, Wish Me Luck

For the last few days I’ve been thinking, among many other things, about my childhood and the feelings I had back then. Surely I can only remember them in retrospect now, probably subjectified by my current views and realizations. As I said in the previous post, one of the major feelings I had was alienation. That and the resulting need to escape, even only in my mind. I guess that’s partly why I’ve always felt a certain attachment, a special interest for anything that bore the theme of alienation and escapism.

In junior high school I was especially obsessed with two bands, The Beatles and Nirvana. Now, Nirvana had a lot of songs dealing with those particular themes but I personally think ‘Dumb’ is their ‘Strawberry Fields Forever’, their definitive alienation song. Which, of course, could be interpreted differently or be about drugs or something. But not to me.

I’m not like them, but I can pretend
The sun is gone, but I have a light
The day is done, but I’m having fun
I think I’m dumb, maybe just happy

Anyway, my ‘sensible’ self has officially taken most of the control, after letting my impulsive batshit self run amok for the past week. Which is both good news and bad news. Good news because it’s the perfect timing, this week being midtest week. Bad news because, well, sensible me is no fun.

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