Let The Sun Shine

I feel animated and alert and kind of thrilled.

I just watched the latest Hulu episode of The Simpsons and while it wasn't necessarily LOL-inducing, it made me feel somehow excited about life again. I mean, it wasn't just the episode or anything. All day today I've been kind of teetering on the edge of a delirium.

The episode, in any case, before I so rudely interrupted myself, was about micro-financing and Facebook and different ways that people interact with money. Lately I am consumed with thinking about money, like most people in this country, and I think I am tired of pretending that making money doesn't matter to me. It suddenly matters to me a great deal and that is scary/exciting to observe. Maybe because I've never stood so realistically close to actually making it. My new job is providing a wealth of information and opportunity, and I intend to capitalize on it. My jellyfish-like state of mind feels good. Jellyfish don't have minds, I don't think, but they themselves are Zen incarnate. They just go with the flow. They don't worry about the consequences of their movements. Their place in the ocean doesn't matter to them. They are simply designed to survive as long as they can. I mean, they can always get eaten or wash up on the shore, where they can sting random beach goers, causing their friends to helpfully urinate on them... but that's beside the point. They are pretty and floaty and unabashedly unique, and my brain is becoming more and more like a jellyfish each day.

Ramble, ramble, ramble.

I am going to chisel out the truth from life. That is my mission.

Truth can only exist where there is love, though. The truth can only hurt if people don't really love one another. And I mean all people. Really. Love.

I just want to be clear so that last night's post doesn't come off too venomous. It was obviously a whimper of defeat, but also a defiant cry. To myself, more than anything. My experience is real, and I am still capable of being the me I was before any of this happened - the comedy, the heartbreak, everything. Writing has been my way of life since I can remember. No, that's not true. I never really had the desire to write for fun back in "Zee Mahzer Land". It was the English language that seduced me. That's when everything began to take on a narrative form. For me, to write is to exist. No matter how seemingly nonsensical, no matter how base or crass - it helps us shape the great human story, forever preserved in time. I am always puzzled by the depths of the human psyche, and the greatly varying degrees to which people are willing to explore them.

Things people always tend to have major hang-ups about:

1) sex

2) relationships

Any other thing a person claims is at the root of his/her existence is a decoy.

Look, even Mark Zuckerberg was motivated by nothing but being scorned by a girl/trying to win back the girl.

I've also found it immensely fascinating reading Clark's new book because while from his music tastes it can easily be gathered that he IS a pensive soul, his book reveals a level of depravity I didn't expect from this quiet brooding creature. He DOES have mischievous eyes.

What I guess I am trying to say is that for an artist, there is nothing more valuable than her/his particular unique way of processing reality. How that reality gets deconstructed and presented will greatly vary from person to person, but each artist will feel just as attached to her/his reality as the other artists to theirs. It's not really a conscious choice. It's just something that permeates deeply into your brain, and becomes a constant voice and companion.

"You exist, you exist, you exist."

"Now this is happening, and now this, and now this..."

"What does it mean? Does it mean anything? Surely it means something."

This is a long elaborate excuse for narcissism.

BEAU-TI-FUL.

I had a point somewhere...

Oh yeah. I'm gonna figure things out. Bit by bit.

In the meantime, this thing keeps growing....That seriously blows my mind.

Fiddling My Mental Banjo

Okay. Let's try not to be melodramatic about this. So I haven't written in a while. What's the big deal? No one cares about what I say anyway. No one gives a shit. Out of some sort of pride, or fear, I've stopped myself from being indulgent. I've given up on letting my passion consume me. I've tried my best to be temperate and steady and patient, but what I've really found myself being is BORED!

I've spent most of the evening tonight looking over some old notebooks. It's funny, Randolph told me today that's what I should do, but he was referring to old joke notebooks. He had no idea how far back my obsession goes. What I'm reading is pages and pages of anecdotes, journals, lists, and most of all, poems. Long poems, short poems. I used to think in word rhythms and rhymes. Gosh, I was so young! My whole stupid life is contained in those pages. I'm tempted to share some of it here.

Like, what in god's name was I going on about?

***Untitled***

Such clever preparation
For a sorry administration -
Now I hurt
From within.

Such impatient levitation
When you spit your adoration -
I cry,
I never win.

Shake me 'till
I'm but a fizzing bottle
Boiling over
Wilting flames

Of disillusion
And confusion
And a million
Ugly names.

Don't agree
When you don't know.
I refuse to play
Sex goddess.

All this self-hate
Is to show
How good I am,
And just how modest.

Only when habitual
Feeding frenzies
Disperse for quiet
Self-absorption,

Will the digital
Life-like image
Give way to natural
Distortion.

*********************

Umm, is it just me or is that pretty neat? I kind of like it. It's moody. It's revealing enough, but vague enough. *sigh* I should be so inspired every day, for god's sakes! WHY, adult life, WHY have you done this to me?

I came close to tears several times today.

It's been only 5 days or so, but it already feels like eternity. I told the person I'd most recently let myself love, and let myself be seen by, and felt understood by, and that I too completely understood, to fuck off and never speak to me. Because he doesn't really love me, I think. He doesn't care for me as a human being at all. I don't really believe that, but it hurts less to think that than to think that he really does care, but in spite of that went off to have a serious committed relationship with an exotic-looking Asian woman with gums that show just a little too much when she smiles, if you ask me. She may have a perfect little button nose, with a stylish little stud through one of the nostrils, but her body is stockier, her bone structure more massive. Her eyes are just a tad crossed and empty. These are subtle details. I'm sure he doesn't notice anything but her beautiful tan skin and big hair. Men equate big hair with sexiness. I have big hair too, but lack the exotic Asian features, which are on every white man's bucket list.

Anyway, I told him to fuck off. I couldn't continue the fake non-friendship that existed in the dark chasms of our awareness. I could never bring myself to say it before, but we'd had an affair. I let him dump me abruptly, for another woman, then proceeded to have an affair with him for what felt like a hellish forever. I blamed him for starting it, sure, but every fiber of my being wanted it. Each text, or phone call, or better yet, voicemail, would be a treasured trophy - a victory! I'd managed to keep his interest for yet another measurable span of time. I'd managed to weaken him this much...

I was the truly weak one, of course.

It's just hard because although I am surrounded by wonderful, interesting, talented people every day, I feel afraid to initiate the process of opening up again. I didn't feel this tender after the dissolution of my marriage. That hurt like hell, but this somehow feels more damaging. Maybe because my husband's disregard for me manifested itself in violent anger, I felt more able to distance myself from him. With my stupid interesting-nosed, secret ex-whateverthefuck, there was never anything but pure bliss when we were together. Time apart was agony, because I spent it thinking of nothing but the next time we could be together again.... But either way, the wanting never really abated, but the circumstances changed. He simply became unavailable.

And it's making emotionally unavailable for someone new. But someone new is what I need most desperately. That's really the only cure for such a state. Some would argue that time heals all wounds, but time is something I don't have right now. My whole world is spinning at a dizzying pace, and I need someone to hold my hand so I don't keel over. But I'm afraid to chase. I need someone to be brave. It would be that much easier for me to give myself again, if I knew that I was being given to as well.

Or I just need a whoooooole lot of money.

That would help me kill the right amount of time alone while I healed, a la Julia Roberts, eating and praying and loving all over the place. They forgot to include sleep in that movie, now that I think about it. "Eat, pray, love, and SLEEP".

I've got to come back to this. The pandora's box has been opened.

So much tired.

Pass out... must....

to kill the child within

I don't know exactly where this romantic notion of "the child within" came from. We idealize youth in really stupid ways, in my opinion. I mean, sure, who hasn't looked at a lithe teenage body and drooled a little? We've all been there! But let's face it, despite their physical beauty, kids do stupid shit. They ask too many questions. They have no personal boundaries. They are curious about sex. They dream of bigger things. They get in trouble. They play pretend. They have imaginary friends. They think that something being boring is enough of a reason not to do it.

I say this in the heat of my own little epiphany. I am an emotional infant, and possibly mentally challenged. I am hopelessly old - quarter-life-crisis-ready, beaten and bruised by adult life - but I have never felt more like a child. Instead of enjoying an ice-cream cone or spinning joyously around in circles for no reason at all, however, I feel helpless and lost. I do not enjoy this feeling. Being a child is frightening.

What missing ingredient was there in my development? So many of my peers have it, but I don't. They book appointments, go to work, grocery shop, join gyms, have power lunches, pick out new drapes - and all like they have a clear idea of why they are doing these things. I do stuff as well, sure, but for the life of me I can't figure out what any of it is for.

I dwell on the details.

My thoughts are utterly grandiose.

I want to be a fireman.

No, a police officer!

No, no! President!

I just want some peace.

I want someone to pull a lever and spin my brain like a slot machine, and make me arbitrarily live out the course of my life according to the random pattern of events the aligning wheels would illustrate. Instead of cherries and lemons and apples, the symbols would be more akin to hieroglyphs or Chinese characters. Each one would provide its own chapter to the book of my silly life, a sentence in a Madlib story, a character in an improv scene. I would be a happy robot then.

For if I were a robot, I wouldn't question the feelings my maker endowed me with. If I felt fear or desire, or pleasure, or love, I would accept all that as part of my robot nature. I would do what I do without ever wondering what else there might be. I would love what I love because I was made to love it. There would be no possibility of questioning the source of this love, or its motive. There would be no shame.

But instead of an adult robot, I am a baby primate. Great ape. I am not a suitable house pet. I may want to drive cars and then eat somebody's face. I may look civilized because I know how to use eating utensils and the toilet, but I am still a wild beast.

Oh, if only being shot with a tranquilizer gun didn't hurt...

on blogging about blogging

Please make sure to check out a new blog I added to my favorite blog list. Since I have nothing of any interest to offer you lately, I thought I could at least do you the service of pointing out who really DOES have a point of view on things outside of their own broken emotions. I mean, let's face it. If you're not interested in mental agony and general schizoid behavior, there isn't much to see here. This is why I am hereby releasing you to float through the blogosphere like helium-filled balloons to look over the fascinating lives of others, enjoying their quirky sense of humor and well-readness about current events.

Start here:

http://goodnightmoon.tumblr.com/

Remember, this is one of my best friends, so I get half credit for everything witty and funny she says.

Please stay tuned for more hot blog on blog action.

guilty?

It's the first real snow storm of the season. Everyone was so excited. Everyone but me, that is. I am the sucker that agreed to "dump" at 6 AM at the radio station, and woke up this morning dreading the decision I would have to make. To dump or not to dump? That is the question.

My car is like a sardine can of a death trap. The wheels are balding, one of the headlights went out AGAIN, even though I just replaced it like last week (must be some electrical issue), and the break pads need to be changed soon. This really isn't the ideal vehicle to take me all the way to Fairfax in these precarious conditions. All that is bad enough in its own right, but when I thought about the fact that my reward for the arduous journey I would have to undertake is barely above minimum wage, I decided I couldn't in my right mind do that to myself. There's a dump button in the on-air studio, after all. They don't really NEED me. Maybe they can try to tone it down this morning with the sexual innuendo. These are scary times for everyone. No time for cheap laughs. I could very well be kissing my potential references and recommendations good-bye for this, but my defiant spirit says it's better to live reference-less but intact, than to die referred and mangled.

To punish myself for my pesky survival instincts and to prove to the universe that I am NOT being lazy and looking for a stolen day of sleeping in, I will stay up and watch Woody Allen movies on my Netflix instant viewing. "Mighty Aphrodite" - here I come!

New podcasts are up, by the way. Check them out.

http://www.switchpod.com/p19578.html

life is like a twizzler pull-n-peel

My mind is unraveling. Nothing makes any sense right now. I thought I had made progress - that rationality was my muse.

I can't strike from my memory the very essence of what I felt like last Tuesday: light, free, content yet exhilarated. If we are nothing but masses of energy percolating with different frequencies, then it really seems extra unfair that mundane, physical circumstance is preventing a potentially beautiful and fruitful co-vibration. It will take time for my brain to readjust to this new level of perception. It will take my heart even longer to stop aching at the thought of what could never be. I know I will survive any disappointment. I know I am complete already... But who can resist basking in the glow of unfettered joy when the opportunity throws itself at one's feet? And who can willingly relinquish the right to even remember that joy once it's gone?

Appropriately enough, I've lost my voice. The raspy gasps my throat emits when I attempt to speak match the ugliness of my societally sanctioned self-denial.

To live in peace can mean so many different things. At least I seem to have a clearer idea of what it means to me. I'm not there yet.

Happy new year?

I realize that I am still technically young, but I certainly never expected to still be this underdeveloped, emotionally stunted, almost helpless husk of a human being by this time in my life. In Soviet Union time, I'm not only an adult, but should be raising my second or third child by now... WHILE going to work as an engineer at some office, and cooking dinner at home every night.

You know what I had for dinner today? A strawberry popsicle. Actually, it's an organic frozen juice bar from Trader Joe's, but that doesn't make it any more of a complete meal - just less poisonous.

Anyhow, I only wanted to take a brief inventory of everything I have and am while I have my wits about me. Of course no personal accounting can take place so quickly, nor should it be taken lightly, but I never seem to be able to play by the rules, so let's make light of my baseness, my weak moral character, and fat stack of failures, shall we?

1) My marriage is not what I intended it to be - that is, it's currently over, or at least on long-term hold. I counted on this man to save me, and he certainly gave me a great boost at the beginning, if only through allegorical inspiration, but ultimately, he needed me to save him even more. I think I gave him a good head start too. I pointed him in the right direction, emotionally and mentally. I cannot be the one to guide him through anything right now, though, as I myself am suffering from severe growing pains. Where is my wild-haired, clear-eyed, robe-clad sage?

2) I find myself painfully attracted to people who have absolutely no interest in me. This seems to give my mundane existence excitement. I don't know why I find suffering so exciting. Hi, my name is Mariya and I am a sadomasochist. And I like to drink and smoke, too.

3) I have finally enrolled in an improv class. Appropriately enough, it will be at the DC Improv. Monday nights, starting in March. I believe it will culminate with a showcase performance. This excites me and frightens me greatly.

4) Speaking of painful attraction - I am surprised by the sheer number of people I have been feeling these "vibes" from or towards. Am I just lonely? A sexual deviant? A self-aggrandizing fool?

5) Despite all this emotional turmoil, I still manage to get intellectually inspired from day to day, which is reassuring. Maybe all this falling in and out of love is just part of my experience. I shouldn't try to will it to be different. Maybe it has to be this way.

6) I am poor.

7) Truly disturbed to see tiny signs of aging start to creep up on my face. I miss the passion I felt when I first started this pseudo-vegan lifestyle. Back then "no dairy" meant "no dairy". Now it's "no dairy unless I really really want some and haven't had any in a while". Terrible. That's what I get. If I don't commit to not getting feeble and infirm and wrinkly, I can't very well expect to accomplish anything in that regard. When was the last time I had a proper work-out? Who even knows?! I need to re-read "Jitterbug Perfume" and get inspired again.

8) Windows Vista is not as bad as everyone tries to make it out to be. So far I don't see how it's bad at all. I'm just glad to have a new computer.

9) I keep having very vivid, sensory, emotional dreams.

10) When the clock struck midnight on New Year's Eve, and as Dick Clark was stroke-mouthing the last of his unsettling count-down, I was in the car with my sister. We shared a brief ironical giggle as we made our way to an unlikely Russian party with red caviar and vodka and such delicacies as smoked pickled herring under a bed of shredded beets, potatoes and boiled eggs with mayonnaise. Mouth-watering, I tell you. It's like a salt-fish potato salad slaw.

Good night!