When I'm feeling upset or homesick or unstable or like I'm 15, I like to listen to Hole's album, Live Through This and "She Walks on Me" is, still, after all these years, perfect, especially when Courtney sneers, "Don't you touch me, don't you dare.
I got my score on the Praxis II - a perfect 200 out of 200. At first it felt like it might mean something significant, but after a long day of writing awkward lesson plans that I don't really believe in and really, I don't even know why I'm writing this.
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
By the Way
I just rediscovered Built to Spill's cover of "By the Way," a gorgeous Heavenly song. I'm not sure which version I prefer, except to say that the Built to Spill version has this whine to it, this sadness and need that doesn't quite come across when I listen to Heavenly.
I've been thinking about music a lot lately. Listening to Kaia in bed a few nights ago, I was reminded of high school -- lying in my old twin bed, my walkman resting on my stomach while I listened to mix tapes, mainly songs by Kaia, Tattle Tale (fuzzy sounding and always, always cut off), the Butchies ("Heartfelt" from Are We Not Femme?), and "Fuck It" by Delta Dart, whose tapes I would order through an Australian zine distro. But Kaia, always Kaia. I remember hearing "That's Mr. Baby to You" for the first time, long before I would even understand how much it really meant, hearing her say, "It’s gonna take so much time to undo what you did to me and this is a big fuck you for every name and every shot you took." It was something I needed to hear, just like I needed to hear Tattle Tale singing about recovery from sexual assault (for years that line from "Erica" was all I could think about, wrote it over and over in my journals and on myself, sweated it off when I was trying to escape my own skin) and Kathleen Hanna singing about the importance of living, of continuing to live. When I am alone in the car, when I'm feeling homesick, when I am scared or sad or angry, I still hear those songs, still draw on them, find myself singing, "Does that mean my body must always be a source of pain? No, no, no, no, no, no, no," reminding myself, that it is possible "[to turn] cursive letters into knives."
When I was in high school, I wanted to give these songs to people, wanted to show them these sounds because I could not, would not, and still won't tell them about myself. But I still draw on memories, seeing Bonfire Madigan in high school, walking home from downtown Willoughby after a night that I thought might be signaling the beginning of something singing "Carrie's Song" by Tiger Trap, and I guess I don't know why I'm writing this except for the fact that I'm seeing Mirah next weekend and Kaia at the end of the month and all day, all week, all of my life since I was 15 years old has been too tiring and too complicated
I've been thinking about music a lot lately. Listening to Kaia in bed a few nights ago, I was reminded of high school -- lying in my old twin bed, my walkman resting on my stomach while I listened to mix tapes, mainly songs by Kaia, Tattle Tale (fuzzy sounding and always, always cut off), the Butchies ("Heartfelt" from Are We Not Femme?), and "Fuck It" by Delta Dart, whose tapes I would order through an Australian zine distro. But Kaia, always Kaia. I remember hearing "That's Mr. Baby to You" for the first time, long before I would even understand how much it really meant, hearing her say, "It’s gonna take so much time to undo what you did to me and this is a big fuck you for every name and every shot you took." It was something I needed to hear, just like I needed to hear Tattle Tale singing about recovery from sexual assault (for years that line from "Erica" was all I could think about, wrote it over and over in my journals and on myself, sweated it off when I was trying to escape my own skin) and Kathleen Hanna singing about the importance of living, of continuing to live. When I am alone in the car, when I'm feeling homesick, when I am scared or sad or angry, I still hear those songs, still draw on them, find myself singing, "Does that mean my body must always be a source of pain? No, no, no, no, no, no, no," reminding myself, that it is possible "[to turn] cursive letters into knives."
When I was in high school, I wanted to give these songs to people, wanted to show them these sounds because I could not, would not, and still won't tell them about myself. But I still draw on memories, seeing Bonfire Madigan in high school, walking home from downtown Willoughby after a night that I thought might be signaling the beginning of something singing "Carrie's Song" by Tiger Trap, and I guess I don't know why I'm writing this except for the fact that I'm seeing Mirah next weekend and Kaia at the end of the month and all day, all week, all of my life since I was 15 years old has been too tiring and too complicated
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
Saturday, September 20, 2008
Skulls
I've been listening to The Misfits a lot lately, blasting "Skulls" and "Last Caress" and all those other stupid songs that remind me of years 13-15 (one of my friends loved The Misfits so much that he painted one of the walls in his room with a giant Misfits skull-logo mural, no wonder we all seemed so uncool).
Today was pathetic attempts to look professional. Cardigans, my glasses, and the lowest heels I could possibly find. Today was driving through Hamilton alone, blasting favorite songs and singing loud to myself.
I finally forced myself to re-register myself to vote in Butler county. I'm almost done with my Shakespeare paper. I'm reading Alice, I Think (a supposedly feminist book for a YA book club that I'm facilitating) and finding it almost impossible to choke down. Maybe The Misfits are causing a deterioration in my feminist ideals? Regardless of what Danzig might think, I'm glad that Bitch Magazine isn't going under.
I was really hoping there would be more to senior year than takeout for China One and tv on dvd.
Today was pathetic attempts to look professional. Cardigans, my glasses, and the lowest heels I could possibly find. Today was driving through Hamilton alone, blasting favorite songs and singing loud to myself.
I finally forced myself to re-register myself to vote in Butler county. I'm almost done with my Shakespeare paper. I'm reading Alice, I Think (a supposedly feminist book for a YA book club that I'm facilitating) and finding it almost impossible to choke down. Maybe The Misfits are causing a deterioration in my feminist ideals? Regardless of what Danzig might think, I'm glad that Bitch Magazine isn't going under.
I was really hoping there would be more to senior year than takeout for China One and tv on dvd.
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
Spit on a Stranger
Good Ideas that are actually Bad Ideas:
Listening to favorite, sentimental songs on repeat ("Erica," enough said about that)
Rereading old journal entries (that is part of the problem with keeping a record of your life next to library books and poetry anthologies -- you will read it and only be reminded of things you are trying not to think about)
Creed by Meg Kearney -- beautiful, but too much, and sickening to read the last lines and think about yourself 5 or 6 years ago ("and it would be more than I could stand" -- exactly, exactly)
Making your to-do list for the next three weeks -- crying when you see just how much there is to-do (crying, itself: supposedly therapeutic, mostly frustrating/embarrassing)
Trying to read Judith Butler when you're already feeling confused (you will only end up thinking about how much of your adolescence was governed by gender melancholia and nobody likes thinking about middle school anyway)
Contemplating petitioning for graduation without student teaching (sure, it gets you out of here 16 weeks sooner, but then what?)
Good Ideas that are actually Good Ideas
Just going to bed already
Listening to favorite, sentimental songs on repeat ("Erica," enough said about that)
Rereading old journal entries (that is part of the problem with keeping a record of your life next to library books and poetry anthologies -- you will read it and only be reminded of things you are trying not to think about)
Creed by Meg Kearney -- beautiful, but too much, and sickening to read the last lines and think about yourself 5 or 6 years ago ("and it would be more than I could stand" -- exactly, exactly)
Making your to-do list for the next three weeks -- crying when you see just how much there is to-do (crying, itself: supposedly therapeutic, mostly frustrating/embarrassing)
Trying to read Judith Butler when you're already feeling confused (you will only end up thinking about how much of your adolescence was governed by gender melancholia and nobody likes thinking about middle school anyway)
Contemplating petitioning for graduation without student teaching (sure, it gets you out of here 16 weeks sooner, but then what?)
Good Ideas that are actually Good Ideas
Just going to bed already
Saturday, August 23, 2008
Possible Harm
I'm back in Oxford.
After three years of coming and going between Oxford and Cleveland, I've started to realize that whenever I come back here, it feels like I never left in the first place. It's like Oxford exists in some weird time loop that allows you to pause and resume old lives. So, I'm back in Oxford and back in rm. 222 and even though the beds are in different places and posters are arranged in new ways, things feel basically the same. I'm hoping that means this semester will go by quickly.
I've never started a school year with such low expectations, which is sort of nerve wracking. Senior year is supposed to feel like something and so far this just feels like a whole bunch of nothingness. Even spending time with other people feels like being alone.
The same old Yeats quote is taped up by my bed and my hair is all out of control, like it always is. I forgot to pack my hairbrush, like I usually do. You'd think by now I'd know how to do this, but I'm still clueless.
After three years of coming and going between Oxford and Cleveland, I've started to realize that whenever I come back here, it feels like I never left in the first place. It's like Oxford exists in some weird time loop that allows you to pause and resume old lives. So, I'm back in Oxford and back in rm. 222 and even though the beds are in different places and posters are arranged in new ways, things feel basically the same. I'm hoping that means this semester will go by quickly.
I've never started a school year with such low expectations, which is sort of nerve wracking. Senior year is supposed to feel like something and so far this just feels like a whole bunch of nothingness. Even spending time with other people feels like being alone.
The same old Yeats quote is taped up by my bed and my hair is all out of control, like it always is. I forgot to pack my hairbrush, like I usually do. You'd think by now I'd know how to do this, but I'm still clueless.
Sunday, August 17, 2008
How
This time next week, I'll be back in Oxford. It's strange to think about. It's hard for me to imagine packing up the car and settling into 222 again. It's hard to think about Shiree's room being occupied by someone other than Shiree. It's hard to think about how much things have changed over the past few years, though some, select changes were completely necessary and have done nothing but make things better. I'm having a hard time sorting out my feelings and can't seem to really make sense of anything.
On Wednesday night, I made a fool out of myself. I cried too much about too little when I should have been having a good time. Wednesday night's meltdown was followed by lots of good days, falling asleep on the living room floor, lots of spooning, too much pizza, and what should have been an endless vacation.
This summer has been David Lynch movies, not enough books, C-86 pop, forgetting to roll up my windows, thinking about apartments, falling asleep during movies. Moving on from: The Cardboard Mansion, downtown Willoughby, high school friends. Never letting go of: bad music, messy rooms, old diaries.
I am thinking hard about how I am going to make this school year work: book club with Susan, weekly bike rides, eating healthy, writing lots of letters. Coming home whenever I can.
On Wednesday night, I made a fool out of myself. I cried too much about too little when I should have been having a good time. Wednesday night's meltdown was followed by lots of good days, falling asleep on the living room floor, lots of spooning, too much pizza, and what should have been an endless vacation.
This summer has been David Lynch movies, not enough books, C-86 pop, forgetting to roll up my windows, thinking about apartments, falling asleep during movies. Moving on from: The Cardboard Mansion, downtown Willoughby, high school friends. Never letting go of: bad music, messy rooms, old diaries.
I am thinking hard about how I am going to make this school year work: book club with Susan, weekly bike rides, eating healthy, writing lots of letters. Coming home whenever I can.
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