Hey, You're Playing With My Delirium

I haven't written in a while, which is funny, because I thought college was going to be the place where I finally began writing. Since, you know, that's my major and all. But no, ever since I got here, I've been like a dried-up well. The words don't come to me anymore. I have a fiction class, where I'm assigned writing, where I'm graded on the material I produce.

And I find myself, for the first time ever, with nothing to say. The little tidbits I produce are stilted and forced and dry and even I, their author, can't bear to read them without getting bored. What happened to the bright-eyed poet whose high school English teacher thought she had so much potential- real, genuine potential?

I don't tell people what she said about me. It was the best compliment I have ever received in my entire life, it is the best compliment I will ever receive in my entire life, but I can't tell anybody that because I'll sound like I'm full of myself. And maybe I am. I try not to be, I try. I have never been a person with a great deal of confidence or a high self-esteem. I have been chastised for my low sense of self-worth. So finally, it felt good, to be proud, to have a superlative attached to my name. It felt good to walk around with that knowledge sitting on my shoulders. So maybe that's why I feel so inadequate now. Maybe I got too big of a head. Maybe I let the compliment get to me.

Is God taking this away from me? I feel that He has taken so much. He has put me through so much. I don't want to pity myself, but. I have been humbled over and over again and yet, still, there is more pride in me, and God wants to tear away the foundation of it that I have built my life on. Everything I love, I want, I am good at, is stripped away. I have struggled with health problems, anxiety, issues of lust and sexuality. My relationships and my personal well-being have all been rocked to the core. And now, my mind. Is he going to take that from me too?

I find myself tired.

I don't want to write. I don't want to try. I find that I am constantly going, going, running, running, and I am tired. I need time to myself, time to rest and recharge and revitalize. I need to be alone, to write, and to think, and to pray. But I have no sense of priority. I give give give and run run run and talk talk talk till I am sick to death of the sound of my own voice. I no longer live in my head, I live in the world. I remember watching a television show where they talked about this woman, who was a writer, and how people thought she was weird because she was always in her own head and it made her a hard person to have a relationship with, and at the time I thought, I'm not like that, I never want to be like that. But I am like that. I don't think it's possible to be a writer and not be like that. People demand my attention and I give it to them and in that giving, I sacrifice my art. I am giving of myself to people instead of writing, which sounds healthy, maybe it is, but it is destroying my craft and I feel useless and annoyed.

I just want to write again. I need to be dark and alone and full of want again, in order to write again.

But I am distracted. Distractions abound and I cannot escape them.

I am at the doctors, at the bank, at the gym. I am cleaning, I am at the boys' dorm, I am doing laundry, I am listening to my roommate, I am skyping, I am texting, I am doing my homework, I am sitting in class, I am eating a meal, I am getting coffee, playing ping pong, keeping up correspondence, I am talking to my counselor, I am everywhere and nowhere at the same time.

Even now, I am being begged, being watched and pulled to come away, come away from yourself and be with me.

It is nice to be wanted but I want myself back. I don't want to be distracted anymore. I don't want to be pulled apart at the limbs.

And most of all, I don't want to spend all my days staring at you, thinking about you, and yet never, not once, even speaking to you.

Freshman Woes

Sitting here on the bed in my new home. My "home" is a college dormitory and it has been my home for two days. Two mornings. Two nights. I am fairly certain I am the only one in her dorm room right now and I don't know why that is the case, nor do I like that it is the case, but it is. I am sitting in my dorm room, entirely alone.

My mother keeps texting me panickedly, reminding me how "special" I am and verifying to make sure that I haven't committed suicide yet.

I spent the greater part of three hours in uncrontrollable, though muffled, tears.

You see for some reason, even though I come from a public high school in Massachusetts, where I have always, without fail, had a best friend, it seems that I no longer possess the social skills required to make friends. No- although everyone else around me seems to have settled into it quite nicely, I am unable to make a single friend worth mentioning.

It has been the most miserable weekend of my life. (Even further humiliating because I'm being such a baby about it. Who have I become? A girl who cries! Because she has no friends! I don't even want to look at myself in the mirror right now...)

Am I socially awkward? I don't think so. There are plenty of socially awkward people here, and they've all seemed to make friends. They run around in socially awkward groups. There are cliques of socially awkward people; the socially awkward people are the ones leaving me out right now. I, who spent the day in my room, under a heap of tissues, wondering if I would ever escape this terrible mess that is currently my life.

I don't know how everyone else managed to make friends so quickly or moreso why I somehow didn't. My sister is a sophomore here, she loves it and has wonderful friends.

I just want to make friends myself.

I want Christian friends, for once in my life. Sweet, funny girls who are firmly rooted in their faith and have high standards for themselves and those close to them. I unfortunately am not skilled at making friends with people who I've never talked to before. I'm not exactly shy, but I'm not open. It takes me a while to feel comfortable with somebody, comfortable enough to be myself. And after today, I don't think I blame these people for not wanting to be my friend. I wouldn't really want to be friends with me either.

I start to question whether I am really this dull? How did I never notice it before? There have been times in my life where I have been convinced that I am charming, funny, totally unique and who wouldn't want to be my friend?

This is not one of those times.

I truly don't remember how I made friends before this.

I truly wonder if I will ever have friends again?

Listening

Son of Sam- Elliott Smith

Did you know that Elliot Smith is dead? He is. I did not know this until a few weeks ago when I happened upon Jon Foreman's blog or something and he wrote about going to an Elliott Smith concert where the power went out and Elliott came on stage with candles and played acoustic till the power came on and then he finished the night with a bang and a light show and it was beautiful. And then Jon Foreman talked about hearing of Elliott's death and the profound impact it had on him.

To be honest, I read that blog post and I thought, huh, the name Elliott Smith sounds awful familiar, and I checked my iTunes and there it was, a hidden gem of a song, Elliott Smith's "Son of Sam". I've always loved that song. It is the only song by Elliott Smith I have ever heard but it's one of the most lovely.

Elliott was depressed. He died at the age of 34, and, considering that at the time he was working on his 6th studio album and was world-renowned with a dedicated fan following, I'd say he did pretty well for himself. Success-wise anyway.

But when he died, who was there? His girlfriend? Who else? Anyone? Was he glad? Or surprised. You know like in action films when a character gets stabbed, they fall back almost instantly and die with an expression of shock still frozen on their faces.

I wonder why. Why people who make things so beautiful are always so sad. I hope that isn't a non-negotiable. Like how art and angst go hand in hand, you can't have one without the other. I hope you can be happy and still create things that will speak to people's souls.

It feels odd to be listening to Elliott Smith now, to hear his voice so close to me singing lyrics so, potent, and know that he is no longer alive. That this piece of him I hear is just a fragment left behind, something he couldn't even take with him. That the thing that made these sounds that croon me to sleep at night- that body is decomposing in the dirt somewhere.

Summer Playlist!

Thought I'd post up my summer playlist, simply because I'm bored and it's a nice distraction from school packing. This isn't an official playlist or anything, nor is it a complete one (that would be way too long!) But basically, here's a sampling of some of the lovely artists whose musical creations have been making their way to the coveted status of "repeat" on my iPod all summer.

Summer Playlist!

1. L-L-Love: Blondfire

2. Can't Get You Out of My Mind: Kylie Minogue

3. I'm a Mess: Mumurs

4. Helena Beat: Foster the People

5. My Delirium: Ladyhawke

6. Two Left Feet: Anya Marina

7. Midnight City: M83

8. I Won't Be Left: Tegan & Sara

9. Amazing Glow: Pernice Brothers

10. It's Alright Baby: Komeda

11. Angst in My Pants: Sparks

12. Take Me to the Riot: Stars

13. Kool Thing: Sonic Youth

14. Pumped Up Kicks: Foster the People

15. Sunrise: Yeasayer

16. We Are Stars: The Pierces

17. Love Burns: Black Rebel Motorcycle Club

18. Lights: Ellie Goulding

19. Get Away: Yuck

20. One Week of Danger: The Virgins

21. Reflecting Light: Sam Phillips

22. Here, Here And Here: Meg & Dia

23. This Is Our Sound: Ladytron

24. Whether You Fall: Tracy Bonham

25. Blood Like Lemonade: Morcheeba

26. Where I Stood: Missy Higgins

27. On the Verge: Le Tigre

28. What is Love: Haddaway

29. Glory Box: Portishead

30. Walking on the Sun: Smash Mouth

31. Changing: The Airborne Toxic Event

32. Praise You: Fatboy Slim

33. Relax, Take It Easy: Mika

34. Blinding: Florence + the Machine

35. Mockingbirds: Grant Lee Buffalo

**Honorable Mentions- Pelican Rapids: Holly Miranda; Drifting Away: Tal & Acacia**

Wherein I Successfully Bake a Batch of Cookies...

The world has been depressing me lately- if you know me well, you know that this is why I risk becoming an ignoramus by avoiding watching the news. So anyway, tonight, I thought I'd give you all some good news. Or at the very least, some happily uneventful news.

Last night I baked a batch of cookies. "Last night" makes it sound like I did it, you know, around maybe 6 or 7... the normal, early hours of the evening which are often utilized by the good, decent folks of the world for making cookies.

This however was not the case for me.

No- the craving for chocolate chip cookies began (as it always does) around 11:20 PM. And when the craving for cookies arises it must be satisfied. Every person who is halfway decent knows this. So, be it 11:20 at night or 7:15 in the morning...cookies must be had.

However, for people in possession of a palate as delicate and refined as mine, a cookie craving is a tough thing to quell. I am not what you would term a "cookie lover". My desire for cookies manifests itself rarely but powerfully. And when it does manifest, the craving is not just for any old cookies. One of those little blue package of oreos will not suffice; nor will a day old tub from Stop & Shop.

No, these cookies have to be fresh. Made from scratch with nothing other than Tollhouse chocolate chips. And most importantly of all, they must be in the oven for the exact right amount of time: long enough so that they develop some shape and lose all their potential to poison the consumer with Salmonella- but short enough so that they are not crunchy or brown, but still slightly raw creating a melt-in-your-mouth sensation when you bite into them.

It's a delicate, refined science.

Which means I am the only who can be trusted to create this delicacy.

But there is a tragic side to my tale of cookie love. (I know, I promised a happy story- stick with me.)

Generally, the desire for cookies arises during a time when my hunger is at its peak. This means that when I bake them I am ravenous. And the cookie dough is so luscious and tempting- all pale- brown like it is, glistening with little turds of chocolate...

The long and the short of it is that I inevitably consume copious amounts of raw cookie dough.

You can see why this is disturbing. Not only I am eating entirely RAW cookie dough (bacteria!!) but I am satisfying my hunger with the only option available to me. The cookie dough.

This impedes the entire goal of the process- to get delicious, tailor-made to my specifications, fresh-from-the-oven chocolate chip cookies. Because when I eat the cookie dough, I am both reducing the amount of cookies I will eventually get AND I am satiating my hunger. By the time my delicious fresh cookies are actually done and out of the oven, I am far too stuffed with the cookie dough to enjoy them.

Truly a devastating tale.

Your little hearts will be warmed, however, to hear that last night's baking adventure did not have the sad ending it normally does.

Yes, dear readers, take heart, for last night- last night I exercised my little-used self-control in order to save the cookie experience.

I. Resisted. The Cookie Dough.

Well, I mostly resisted. I had to eat a little, you know, the bits that got stuck on the metal beaters. I mean that's practically a rule. A rule of good dish-care. You have to lick the dough off the beaters. Can't let that stuff go through the dishwasher. You might as well just throw your dishwasher in the ocean and then stuff it inside a volcano for all the use you'd get out of it after letting cookie dough-covered BEATERS go through it...

Anyway. Beater cookie-dough consumption having been moderate and completely justified, I was still satisfactorily hungry by the time my delectable, under-baked morsels came out of the oven. At which time I proceeded to eat four, with a glass of milk.

It was a happy night.

And that, my friends, is what all news stories should be like!

Dream Storage

Stop me if I start getting nauseating...

I have two sets of dreams, and due to this fact alone, you can consider me very accomplished. For some people- many people- never have a dream at all, or if they do, it's only a half dream. You know, one of those dreams that was really more just a happy thought or a pleasant supposition, but lacked any of the true passion, the obsession, that must accompany a dream. In fact some people throw the term about with disturbing casualty; i.e. "It has always been my dream to re-paint this kitchen," or "I dream of one day living in a world where we all live in chocolate houses and take chocolate baths and daily chocolate consumption is mandated by the government." You see, neither of these so-called "dreams" fit into the category of true dreams. The first, because it is far too insignificant to be considered a real, tried and true, heart-wrenching, mind-consuming dream. The second because it's just ridiculous and impossible.

Not like my dreams.

Not only are my dreams passionate, they are also significant and feasible. (I don't say feasible to be a snob, just to explain that they aren't totally ludicrous, you know, like a chocolate world. They are actually possibilities, whether likely or not.)

Anyway, I've got these two sets of dreams, real dreams like I said. They each even keep physical residence in my bedroom, if you can believe it. One set of dreams resides in a box- a beautiful box. Just the right size, about the size of a shoe box. It's embroidered with rose-colored flowers and tied up with sage-green ribbon and I must say, in all it's floral elegance and loveliness, it makes a very fitting abode for the first set of dreams.

The second set of dreams has a very different home. You would find the second set of dreams shoved in a manila folder, amidst a hodgepodge of various other things- paintings I did as a child, a torn-out page of a coloring-book-Cowboy and a stack of miscellaneous poetry and essays. Don't let this reckless treatment make you think the second set of dreams is any less dear to me than the first. Somehow, it just makes sense, for the dreams to be packed away in such different ways.

But you know what the truth is? I don't want all these dreams. Maybe you thought I was lucky, maybe you envied me at first. Maybe you're sitting around at home, just wishing you had so much as one dream to follow and then here comes little old me, with what sometimes feels like a thousand different dreams, too many, so many that they're suffocating me!

So here's the deal.

You can have my dreams. Take them for yourself. For I have a very nagging fear that when you've got as many different dreams as me, rather than go out and grab any of them, it's far more likely that you'll just fail them all.

The Gravity of Life (A Letter)

Dear Blogosphere,

To be honest, Life has been taking some serious swings at me lately and I have been having trouble remaining standing.

It's hard to write about it without getting too explicit, and details are a thing I'm going to have to avoid using.

The gist is that I'm at that crossroads again. You know, the lovely metaphorical Fork in the Road of Life. Oh my friends, it is such a long, winding road and it's getting dark outside now, night is falling and I just can't see my way. I know both stretches have their ups and downs, their trials and tribulations as well as their joys and rewards. They both contain rocky stretches, mountains to climb, forests to fend through and rivers to wade, as well as meadows to lie in, sunsets to watch and fields to frolic through...

Are you feeling nauseous yet? (I am.)

I guess I thought I had chosen a path. I was pretty sure this time. This time I wasn't backing down. This time I wasn't changing my mind.

But life had other plans in store for me. Or maybe it was God who did.

Basically there's nothing like feeling completely physically weakened and incapable to make you question everything. There's nothing like feeling suddenly overwhelmed by the gravity of life and death, by the inescapable tragedy and horror that befalls us, the living, every single day.

Suddenly, life became so frightening, so bleak and desolate. It's happened to me once or twice before, the fear, the emptiness, the feeling like I don't want to do anything or go anywhere ever again, I just want to lie in my bed, because what's the point. The feeling that nothing matters. It's terrible. I think it's something like depression.

The good thing about this, whatever it is, is that it rarely lasts more than a week or two. I'm not constantly plagued by it, to the point where I need to be medicated, not yet or anything. But when it does happen, nothing matters. People don't matter. I stop communicating. I stop wanting to do anything at all. I don't want to get out of bed. I don't feel that I have any reason. There is nothing so bad as this. I wouldn't wish it on anyone.

Here I am again though, feeling relatively ok, although still a hint of medical stuff going on, but hopefully it will all be okay.

But I didn't come out of this episode unscathed folks. It taught me something, it ingrained something into my brain.

Life sucks. Life has no guarantees. Life, whether you make it to the age of ten or the age of seventy-five, is terribly, terribly brief. And you could get to live it out to the full with a family who loves you, friends who stick by your side. Or you could lose it as a young teenager, in a car accident that began and ended in the blink of eye. Just like your life.

But no matter what happens, your life is going to end. You are going to have to face the end, the unavoidable truth of death.

We are all going to die and well, that's scary. What that says to me, what all the pain and fear and uncertainty of life says to me, is that there has to be something more. Specifically, it tells me that there has to be a God, and there has to be a purpose. Otherwise, what would be the point of any of it?

No, there has to be more. There has to be hope. There has to be Someone who cares, Someone who looks out for us and makes it all worth living.

That answer is easy for me to find. I've believed in God as long as I can remember. And I know He is truth.

But that doesn't mean it's not complicated.