…Hey, are you sleeping?

by heytherewildflower

There is a battle in my heart. It is like this, I REALLY DO NOT WANT A JOB AND I DO NOT WANT TO FIND A JOB, but also, this anxious nervous twitch deep in me every time I buy a coffee or eat food…so I DO want to find a job. Before moving here, all I wanted in the world was something to keep me somehow and anyhow occupied. Something and anything. Little did I know, nothing compares to how fucking dumb and useless and STUCK you could feel than if you’re working a 9-5 (or in my case… whenever to whenever infinity) whilst gleaning zero personal satisfaction.

Also, Eric left for Las Vegas two days ago for two weeks and I am testing myself to see how long I can not talk to him. It is a fun little game I like to play for the purpose of nothing. Probably liberal arts college fucked me up real bad. I mean DEFINITELY it fucked me up real bad. I wonder when I’ll start missing him. I don’t miss him yet, but wondering when I’ll start is something that has been in the back of my mind for 24 hours. Every time I don’t see him for a while it goes like this: HA! I DON’T MISS HIM! I DON’T GIVE A SHIT! I AM AWESOME! ….fuck. why is my relationship so passionless? ….SHIT! I DO MISS HIM! IT ISN’T PASSIONLESS! I AM INSANE! …..fuck. I really really miss him. this sucks…. Then I become really fascinated by my own girlish insanity and illogical thought patterns. So fascinated that I think they’re appropriate material for a blog post.

GIRLS ARE CRAZY? ??? I am a girl? MAYBE I AM JUST CRAZY FIRST and a girl second? cus the “GIRLS ARE CRAZY” thing is a sexist construct? BUT I FEEL FUCKING INSANE???? AND I THINK IT IS CUS I AM A GIRL????

Anyway the first battle in my heart is the important, most pressing of the battles–  but coupled with the second one, and some other ones not mentioned in this post, I am feeeeeling (FEEELINGS!!!) super disjointed in my life at the moment. Not that it is a bad thing. It is just a thing. and now this thing exists on the interwebs. (This is a solid reason for why I haven’t posted in a while.)

P.S. despite the disjointedness, I really shouldn’t be complaining much. I have enough money to last me for another month. No job. Wake up at 11. write. color. make myself a salad with left over salmon, goat cheese and super expensive rosemary infused olive oil, gym, write and read at a bar or cafe for a few hours, apply/search for jobs, dinner, gym, wine, drawing.

I have my own mantra derived from the jersey shore one (GWV) (see if you can figure it out)

One Touch in Seven Octaves
Vera Pavlova
Translated from Russian by Steven Seymour

A light touch with a slant
like a first-grader’s handwriting, with a tilt:
you brush away a hair from my cheek
with a motion vaguely tender, stretching
my face slightly upward and to the left,
turning me into a doe-eyed geisha.
With a slant, yet in a straight line:
the shortest and the quickest path.

The trick is in the suffixes, diminutive and endearing:
to diminish first, then to caress,
and by caressing to reduce to naught,
and then to search in panic, where can you be?
Have I dropped you into the gap
between the body and the soul?
And all the while you are right here,
in my arms. So heavy, so enormous!

First, cursory caresses, on the surface,
light, a kind of coloratura: crumbs of
pizzicato in spots which seemingly require
a brusque, tempestuous treatment,
then with a bow across the secret strings,
the ones that were not touched at the beginning,
then across the non-existent strings, or, more exactly,
the ones we have never suspected of existing.

Are my palms rubbing your shoulders,
or are your smooth shoulders rubbing my palms?
making them drier sharper, more perfect?
The more repetitive a caress, the more healing it is.
Water slowly grinds stone; caresses
make the body light, chiseled, compact,
the way it wants to be,
the way it once had been.

Who plays blindman’s buff with those aged twenty,
hide and seek with those aged thirty?
Love does. Ah, the silky pelts,
the simple rules, the witless stakes!
Is it easy at thirty-five to say good-bye to love?
It is, not for the reasons of great shame involved,
but because there is no spot more tender, rosier,
more concealed than a scar.

Within a hand’s reach from the foreskin
is fleshlessness, dense, resonant, boundless.
Touching, because of its nature, takes part
in the mystery of disembodiment.
I am rid of the body, but the shiver stays,
and so do the pain, the joy.
The shiver, the pain, the joy have no fear
that the skin might never reappear.

How tender the sensation of ants racing,
how many shivers in a slow progression!
Some take no less than a full five minutes
to get from one vertebra to the next.
For years a gentle hand has been the trainer
coaxing them to run from one tiny hair
to the next, until the finish line,
until it is madness, until…Hey,
are you sleeping?