notesinblue: (smoke)
i wrote a cryptic entry in my public journal. saved here, lest i forget, is the translation.

A flash. The sting of a palm across my cheek. Spit in my eye. Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows... Whether 'tis nobler... Nobler... Noble. Nobility. Another royal in my crowded house.
i discovered the princess of cups' slander.

Papers written. Papers mid-progress. Papers looming. All but one pushed out through tired fingers. It can wait until morning. It can always wait until morning. So says the weary to the morning sunrise.
i wrote some, but not all, of my papers, hindered by depression and exhaustion.

Restless night. I tell the mouse in my wall everything. He chitters something about Dickinson and leaves birdseed in my laundry. I don't like Dickinson. Or birdseed. I evict him.
i discover a mouse has built a nest in my dirty laundry. Dickinson is also the poet the princess revers the most, and i dislike. we argued about it during our last lunch together.

Dusty orange juice morning. A paper written in haste. And then flying. Muddy road. Squeaky gate. Twisty pavement. Engine roaring above speakers. Foot flat to the floor. Hands looser than they have been in years. A long held sigh released.
i hurry down the mountain to class and the drive centers me. i realize the anxiety i acquired after my car accident has finally dissipated.

A walk through sunlight. Choices weighed. Invisible smoke rising from the depths of imagination. Nocturnes echoing in my ears. Always Nocturnes. My other name means turning point. And I turn. A flat. E major. F sharp. Always F sharp.
i walk to class and consider what to do about the princess as i listen to Chopin. my 'other name' refers to my old journal name, which translates as turning point in German.

A sunspot. A flare. Scales tip. To take arms against a sea of troubles, and by opposing end them... Take arms... Oppose... End. A decision is made. Swords must be blocked or parried. Everything I have learned, I have learned through either love, literature, or war.
i run into the princess in Eddy Hall. she avoids me and is cold. i get so angry i shake through the rest of my class. i decide i'm not willing to put up with her anymore, even though it means giving up what was once a dear friendship.

A workshop. The first I've ever been apathetic too. The only. An emptiness. A hollowness. A silence. Words withering on the vine. Overripe or too green? So many words written and still a drought. Such a drought. A dustbowl.
i sit through a workshop in CO301a, but don't absorb anything because i'm still so angry. i feel creatively sabotaged because the princess used to be my main support as a writer but she attacked my words when she became angry. also, even though i've been writing tons of papers my own works have been neglected since the semester began.

Substitution brings rain to end the drought. A Romanian from Jersey. Words reborn. Notes taken. Lecture ignored. I only hear the diction, the colloquialisms. You know? See. Look, look, see. I don't know. Whatever, right?
a substitute teacher in logic reminds me of the main character in my second novel. i take notes on his speaking style and get re-energized to work on revisions.

The creak of leather as arms encircle me. So many I'm sorrys. Always I'm sorrys. From both of us. But this time they are not his to give, nor mine. But they are welcome. They are the only ones I will get. I keep them close. I will stop apologizing.
the emperor stops by to cheer me up. he tells me he's sorry about the princess. i decide i need to apologize less, both to him and her.

Another hug, this one so soft I'm surprised by the feel of it beneath my fingers. Laughter. Seriousness. Talk of the past, the present, and even more of the future. All before the soup is even gone.
i have dinner with the king of disks. we commiserate since our situations are so similar. it feels good.

A proposal. Worded in neutral terms. Yet there is something in it. The veiled question. Are you different? Are you bluffing? Do you want to run? Do you want to run with me? And I'm unsure of my answer.
the king asks me if i want to drive to Boston with him. he seems to be testing me somehow, gaging my response carefully.

A return to the past to see a face of the present. The devil on my shoulder. One of the better ones. One of the true. As opposed to so many of the others. All the angels were liars. The devil speaks the truth. And I leave laughing.
i visit the prince of disks at my former workplace. he suggests i do what makes me happy, even if that means driving to Boston with the king when we are both in no state to be in a relationship. i tell him he's a devil on my shoulder. he has been a good friend since my split with the emperor.

More roads, these dark. The turns hidden but well traveled. I drive from memory. Like playing a now forgotten melody. Brandenburg played through wheels and combustion. My fingers itch for strings and keys. I decide to recover the first and acquire the second.
going home i drive fast and by instinct. Brandenburg concerto was the first piece i really nailed on my cello and could play without the sheet music. i decide to pick my cello up from the house and to finally get off my ass and get a piano.

A place to call home. Better, perhaps, than the last. I whisper French to the glowing city lights, even though I don't know a word of it. Except for cest la vie. Such is life. Such is life my childe. Such is life.
i'm more loved in my current home. i watch a show with the queen of disks about Paris homes. it makes me adopt an accent as we talk. i decide i'm finally getting comfortable, both here and with myself again.
notesinblue: (prose)
unsent letters... ever since that strange girl i once knew told me about them, i find myself composing them on occasion. the idea was like a virus. contagious. fortunately i'm not afflicted all that often. so here is a december installment, brought on by a sudden outbreak.


dear prince of wands,
what i didn't write in the letter, but really wanted to, was: do you miss me? are you looking forward to seeing me again? do you think about me from time to time? or should i forget about you as you may have forgotten about me?

dear king of disks,
why are we having lunch tomorrow? yeah, we're friends, but why are we really getting together? i've known you for nine years and we've never gone out to lunch. so tell me - what should i expect? what do you expect?

dear emperor,
i missed you today. it hurt, very deeply, and came out of the blue. but that's not the remarkable part. the remarkable part is that in missing you today i realized that i hadn't yesterday. either i'm finally healing thanks to your charming behavior, or i'm getting really really good at being detached and numb.

dear queen of wands,
i'm not surprised you're fucking him. not really. but honestly, truly, i don't think i could hate you more. emotions this strong are reserved for those you once truly loved. think about. and if the emperor gives you my number, don't call it. and if he invites you over when i'm there, don't show. 'cause, babe, i will choke the life out of you with my bare freaking hands. and you, who has looked into my heart in the past, should know that i'm dead serious.

dear prince of swords,
i'm really glad you called. i was stunned at how glad i was. i've missed you. and rather than being sore because you haven't been around, i find myself happy that you picked up the phone and called me for the first time since i moved away. please visit me before the year is over. please make things somewhat normal again by being my friend the way you used to be.

dear empress,
i'm sorry i haven't called. it's just, you scare me sometimes. you remind me a little of her, and with her shitting where i just slept she's on my mind. that and i know he's poisoned you against me to an extent. i don't blame you. he calls you back and i don't. he's charming and tells all, and i don't. but please, don't believe everything he says. he lies and he's delusional. and please, don't stick a sword through my back like she did. be different. be better.

dear princess of cups,
i miss you. i miss you and i feel left behind. it's not your fault. i'm not angry, except for possibly at myself. i haven't been around and you've had to fill up the hole i left. you've made new friends and kept busy. and i'm not a part of it. i picked up and left you all alone, and now i'm sad because i know you've moved on. i hate that in leaving him i might have broken things. i hate even more that i'm too weak to fix them properly right now. i just hope that you'll still be there, if even a little, when i come crawling home.

dear king of cups,
you really hurt me yesterday. badly. and i know you know it. things were stiff, uncomfortable, today. i'm not angry, just hurt. if you're actually sorry, and you want to make it better, just do what you're so good at - pretend nothing happened. i want to forget about it even more than you do. trust me on this one.

dear jasper,
i think you somehow intuitively know that i need you right now. when i couldn't stop crying yesterday you wouldn't leave my side. thank you for sleeping by my feet, and sitting with me on the deck. thank you for listening and offering nothing but unconditional love in return. well, sometimes it's conditional on food, but everyone has their vices. thank you for being exactly what i need right now even though we never really bonded before. we've bonded now. so thanks. or in terms you might better understand: good boy. good dog.
notesinblue: (profile)
i haven't written in here in a long time, for good reason. i'd rather try and ignore how unhappy i am, not wallow in it by writing (and rereading) about it here. but i have to write something now. this cannot pass without comment.

i just finished my second novel...and i'm miserable. i remember finishing Icarus. it was the best feeling ever. i had never been so happy. the feeling was honestly indescribable. so why is it that i'm utterly miserable finishing this one? if i stop and think about it, there are a thousand reasons.

- i don't like it.
okay, well, that can be fixed with editing. you can make it work with some revising. even though it seems unbelievably ugly now you can still work it. relax.

- now i have to write my play and go back to work.
well, that's life kiddo so you better get used to it. i know it makes you unhappy and anxious, but there's not much to be done about it. best start learning to deal with it. or better yet, hammer out the play in the next few days so it's behind you and apply for a loan. you'll feel so much better.

- i can't stop thinking about all the shitty things the emperor has done.
ah. see, this one's the toughie. every time i start to heal, something happens to twist the knife. each time i start to get my feet under me he pulls out the rug, without fail. it's gotten to the point where i can predict badness just by my mood: oh, i feel okay, bet something shitty will happen within the next hour, and bam! i'm right. for example, here's the past eight days:

i start to feel alright, then i go to game and he doesn't even bother to get the door and say hello to me. he's insensitive to the point where i can barely drive home i'm so upset. i start to recover a few days later, the day before Thanksgiving, and he calls that night to tell me he's sleeping with the queen of wands, and he's sad because K is upset with him. i have a meltdown. it's the crappiest thing he could have ever done to me. i'm blown to bits. i begin to feel slightly human again, then go to game and get in a two hour discussion with him about how much of an asshole he is. i leave feeling empty, which is better than the sucking pit i felt a few days earlier, and decide i might be healing.

then the next day, today, i wake up sad again after processing all the ugliness in my sleep. i cry all the way down the mountain, but manage to cheer myself up throughout the afternoon. by the time i get home i'm genuinely happy. i got to enjoy that for about an hour. i'm halfway through my first celebratory cookie when he calls to tell me he totaled the car and can he please borrow mine. i hang up feeling like my heart is missing again. i realize it's not because he totaled my old car, which has enormous sentimental value to me, but because he was calling yet again because he needed something for me. he disguises it under other pretenses, but that's the real reason.

'K is upset with me and maybe screwing the village ho was a bad idea, boo-hoo. oh, but i didn't call for a shoulder to cry on, i called 'cause i thought you should know. not that i think it's any of your business.' or 'i need a car to drive cause i'm a shitty driver and totaled the one you gave me. i mean, gosh, i was in an accident, but i'm okay. thought you should know.' it's crap.

i was angry at him last thursday, and i managed to hold onto that all through monday. but today the anger fizzled out when i thought he might be hurt in a bad accident. he's not, and now i'm left feeling sad and used again. every time he does something like this it makes me want to call him. i get sucked back in. it's like heroin. i resist, but i jones for at least a couple days. it's just an indication of how sick our relationship was that it's the bad things that make me want to pay attention to him.

i really hate him at the moment. i hate that he does this to me. i hate that in a way i let him. i hate that i still miss him and care about him. i hate that he's fucking the one person in the world i can't handle him fucking. i hate that he seems to be happy. i hate that i give a shit. i hate feeling like this.

i'm sure i'll feel better in a few days, but i'm so tired of being sad. i thought finishing my book would lift me up, give me the confidence and joy i needed, but it didn't. if anything it did the opposite. i feel like this book is horrible. i feel like i've lost my touch, and worse, my passion. i feel so god damn empty inside. if writing a novel won't help fill and heal the hole, what the hell will? i know only time will heal this hurt, but i'm tired of waiting. i've been hurting for so long. when does it get easier? when will i wake up and be over all this grief? they say grief has five stages. i've been through them all multiple times and i'm not done yet. how many times do i have to spin around this wheel before i start feeling alive again? how much more do i have to take? how much more before i can say i'm over him and happy with me?
notesinblue: (sitting alone)
i'm not sure which kills me more:
the fact that he asked the king of disks to take him to the airport instead,
or
the fact that he left early to go see his girlfriend.

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January 2013

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