Epochalypse – Borknagar
The evening yawns and pushes at the walls, and I’m sitting at the foot of the bed pretending to fiddle with the bronze-plait buckle on my shoe, listening to you tell me again and again the story about your mate Ramon, from Spain, and his bird Martha. How they met, and wear matching sweaters on Christmas over gingerbread and tinseled gifts, and how you claim you want that too, except that you don’t. Sweaters are meant to keep children warm on wet winter days, you said last year. Really I’m just hoping that you’ll stop chatting and fidgeting with your sleeve cuff long enough to see my silence over my unzipped dress back I’ve purposefully left undone, hoping that you’ll sprint over to zip me up like you sprinted across the train station last December when we flew to the beaches of Montenegro and Martha came to greet us at the gate and chauffeur us to their manse. Ramon wasn’t with her at the airport that day. You feigned sad to hear that he was delayed on a business trip, and would be home in a day or two if the weather let up in Oslo, but really it was just the advantage you’d been waiting for.
I didn’t know it at the time. I was a fool. But you were in love with Martha long before that. Fuck, you’re still hot for her now.
Jess Arndt says that some people need more space than others. I suppose that describes me
holy fuck = work. like, i’m super thankful for my job where i have my own big desk, nice computer and air conditioning, but also my job still sucks. and so does the pay.
reviewing software sucks. it’s boring and lame.
nobody gives a shit – nothing means anything and everything means nothing.
Obligatory “omg thank u for checking out mah blog baes!!!” I don’t know what this blog is supposed to be, nor do I know what anyone can expect from it, yet I felt compelled to create it.
I guess it’s here because I’ve tried writing and blogging and doing other shit, and it’s all fallen by the wayside. I’ve put too much pressure on myself to be a writer, and to be perfect and successful immediately but bailed after 5 minutes. Sometimes I feel like it’s because I hype up my efforts, and tell other people about it, then I just don’t follow through, like, at all. Every step I take is through the graveyard of my failed past efforts. An effigy of me would just be a pile of trash and jumbled letters, or a perhaps nothing at all.
But I want to change that. So I’m going to write this. I’m not going to tell anyone about this blog. No publicity, no 24/7 cross-social-media livestream tweetstorm bullshit. I’m not even planning on telling my boyfriend about this, though if he sees me working on it or stumbles upon it on his own then whatever I guess I don’t really give a shit. I’m not hiding anything here, it’s just a bunch of unimportant nothingness. A no-man’s land of gobbledygook syntax.
I just tried too hard to be something in the past. No wonder I thought it was hard, and no wonder I failed. Many people have told me “Dahlia, you just need to write what you know,” only to be told “You haven’t lived enough to write anything. You don’t have adventures. You don’t go do enough. You can’t just keep writing about your past. You have to go outside and do stuff and travel.” Like excuse me, sorry for being poor and being born in the most boring state in America. Now as a grownup, my lifestyle is the exact opposite of the cultural majority here and there’s nothing to do or experience and everything’s too god damn expensive to buy or travel to these days.
So what am I going to do with this blog? Write what I know? No. I’m gonna write me. I’ve got to. I need to write because I’m full-up of words and I can’t think straight. This is me ejaculating verbiage to keep a clear head. This blog will be my orgasm and my meditation. And I guess the least I can do is try to be mildly entertaining in the meanwhile.
So I will write whatever interests me. I will write angry rants and depressed rants. Horrible book reviews. Short idiot sentences. Shower thoughts. Lists of upcoming things I’m excited about. Stream of consciousness philosophical rants wherein I’ve completely misunderstood a major concept and still get angry about it. Fake tweets.
I also want to work on my poetry and other more legitimate writings. I am an immeasurably anxious person, and my anxiety of course carries over to my writing. I have long noticed all the ideas swimming around in my cranium but rarely done anything about it. The couple of times I tried to write I overthought things, and was scattered and panicked. I was so concerned with what people would think of my writing that I never finished anything. I feel like I’m a good writer, deep down, but I need a small place, a bit private, to feel out my words, to crumple up sentences then try to smooth them out again. I need to write things. Entire things. Seven-course meals of things. Wish me luck.
Enjoy the blog, I guess. Or don’t…