Weirded by nostalgia

Okay, so I was just surfing around, checking out various and sundry blog sites as I’ve recently become acquainted with this new form of lovely addiction, and I run across a webjournal of a person I knew in high school. Now this person and I were friends of the hang out, and occasionally make out, persuasion. We had a lot of mutual friends and spent many evenings en masse listening to music or otherwise doing those things that parents fear their teenaged offspring are engaged in, despite having done the same things themselves without an iota of harm coming to them. (Except for my mother, who grew up in some alien culture with some really weird-assed cultural expectations and apparently didn’t do squat. But that’s a whole ‘nother rant.)

Anyway, back to this ex-friend. He was, and apparently still is, a highly intelligent individual, but I remember he was also socially clueless with a veritable cocktail of neurosis that tinged every interaction with him with a patina of awkwardness and strained silences. Once, he made it known to me that he was quite taken with me and was interested in progressing our relationship to a closer level. Now this declaration wasn’t all that surprising since it was delivered, if memory serves me right, on the tail of a prolonged kissing session on a grassy hillock (while another pair of friends were engaged in similar impetuous displays of hormone-induced libido beside us). However it made me contemplate him as more than just someone to have casual lip contact with and I realized that part of me shrank away, twitching under a coffee table, at the thought of it. There was too much that was alien about him to ever make me completely at ease, and that’s no way to conduct a relationship. So I made some comment to put off my answer and hoped he’d get the hint. He didn’t always (remember that social cluelessness from above?) but this time, it seemed he did. We continued to hang out, but as time passed and I saw less of him, I didn’t really make an effort to keep in contact. But he was a markedly intelligent individual (and I value intelligence more than any other character trait) with a creative bent that I always admired.

And now I’ve stumbled across his blog. And it seems like he’s turned into a caricature of who he was in high school. His entries scream out witty intelligence. His ironic satires make me envious of the smooth turn of his phrases, wrought with allegories that are insightful and keen. Yet at the same time he’s devolved further into his nest of neurosis, living alone with his cats in an un-air conditioned apartment swirled up in a dark morass of paranoia, anxiety, and isolation, working at a minor-ducats job he obviously despises and that is way beneath his abilities.

So. Okay. My childhood was, by all measures, a bad one. My mother was insane, not someone who should be allowed near children, and my father was a shit who left her and me when I was three. I can’t blame him for leaving her. I would have too if I could have. But he was a shit to me as well during the sporadic visitation periods he “gifted” me with and his sole interest in me was to elicit promise after promise that I would take care of him when he got old. My father didn’t have issues. Uh huh.

But high school was different. I became who I am during those years, largely due to the influence of the company I kept who, though being for the most part assholes who suffered from low self-esteem and thought the cure for that was trammeling my self-esteem into the mud, introduced me to different ways of thinking, thereby setting into motion the realization that everything that parents, school, and society had fed to me as truth was up for debate. Despite the trashing my ego was taking, I discovered I could think on my own, thank you very much. And that stuck with me. (And eventually I bandaged my ego up, stuck it in a sling, met the most wonderful man in the world, married him, and lo and behold, my ego recovered.)

But okay, so it’s left me with some really weird-ass feelings about high school and my hometown. This person who’s blog I’ve discoverd was one of the rare few who never tried to build himself up by cutting out other people’s legs from under them. And he’s got some qualities that I find laudable and rare in people. I considered, for a moment, contacting him, sending him an email just to say “hi, how’s it going?” But I’m in touch with my inner reality enough to know that I won’t. It wasn’t a conscious process at the time, but some part of me made a decision many years ago to lose touch with this person. I’ll respect that.

But now it’s left me feeling weirdly nostalgic. The past is a strange and murky creature. I love mine and hate it. That’ll show it.

A slight re-direct

If you came here from Livejournal.us, please know that my journal has gone Friends Only to protect myself against the cyberstalker who runs that website.

Click HERE for more information and to see the few entries I’ve left public.

If you’re on my friends list, you can still read this re-located entry Here.

Comments here have been disabled in order to halt any further harassment by this cyberstalker. For the record, I have asked him several times to go away and leave me alone.

A funky dreamscape.

I had this reoccurring dream again last night. It’s not nearly as interesting as the one where I’m going to work or class stark, bare-assed naked, but I haven’t had one of those in years. Plus Eugie-the-dreamer is always amused with that dream rather than mortified, which I think is what’s supposed to be the requisite emotion. (Hmm. What does that say about my psyche? Mostly that I’m not into dream analysis, I suspect.)

Anyway, my dream is that I’m getting ready for finals (Note: I’ve been out of school for years) and I realize that I’ve just plum completely forgotten about a class–Biology. Now why is it always Biology?–all semester long. And I’m all panic-stricken because there’s this big test coming up and I haven’t attended class all semester. Then, when I try to either 1. vainly attempt to make up the whole semester in one review sitting or 2. beg the professor for more time, I can’t remember where the classroom is and I can’t find my schedule book that will (ostensibly) tell me. Of course, if I had my schedule with me in the first place, I assume I wouldn’t have forgotten about the class. But why, for godsakes, am I dreaming about missed classes? It always leaves me with the vague feeling that I’ve forgotten something when I wake up.

I’d much rather have that sex dream where I’m flying over this forest of phallic trees . . . .

What’s really ironic is that I think Freud and his theories are all tom-quackery. Snarf.

Entry whatever. Who’s counting?

Okay, so it’s been–what?–a week since I updated this. In that time, I’ve just about fully recovered from the whatever that hit my system and knocked me out for the count. I hate being sick. And I hate that weak, wobbly feeling I get after doing nothing but lie on the bed or the couch for days on end. But, that’s over and done with. Hurray!

To celebrate, Matthew and I had a caloriefest/moviefest last night. Sushi for dinner, brownies and ice cream camped out in front of the big screen for dessert, and coffee with ice cream in it for after hours. Mmmm. I can’t believe we ate nearly a whole half gallon of ice cream between the two of us.

We watched “Sabrina”–the 1995 one with Julia Ormond and Harrison Ford–and “American Beauty.” 1999 was a truly amazing year for movies. What the hell happened? 2000 was so lame. Anyway, “American Beauty” is just an amazing movie. We saw it when it came out amidst the slew of other 1999 films and it holds up well to repeated viewing. I wish I could write like Alan Ball, drool.

Taxes, belly dancing, and ANWR

Conflicting emotions leads to vast tracts of confused brain wrinklies.

Okay, first of all, we’re getting money back from taxes. Blink. Guess paying two mortgages for a lot of last year really helped us (not, btw, something I’d recommend even with the tasty tax refund ensuing). Hurray!

Next, I recently found out that I’m belly dancing for some heart/cardiac charity event on the 19th, but it’s not going to be my solo, Rohee, but rather the troupe number. But, get this, with only one other troupe member. It was staged for six dancers and in a week we need to have it ready as a duet. Furthermore, I didn’t think we had rehearsals scheduled for this week at all. Urk.

Finally: George W. wants to open up ANWR to oil drilling, prompted by Iraq’s recent 30-day “nope, you don’t get none.” Even though if they started drilling today, they wouldn’t get a drop of oil for a decade. Even though ANWR is a beautiful, pristine(ish) haven for caribou, polar bears, and other wildlife. Even though there’s not enough oil in the reserve to make a spot of difference in the economic/oil situation. Even though Iraq is only our 6th largest oil supplier. Even though I see squadrons of gas-glugging SUVs and mini-vans littering the roadways when smaller, more fuel-efficient cars exist. Splutter!

Argh. I’m conflicted. Am I happy? Trepidatious? Or livid? It’s really hard being all three at the same time, but I’m working on it.

Doh! Or: “Yes, I’ve lost count.”

Well, I went to belly dancing last night and, there was no class. Doh! The session starts next week. Pointless travel time = one and a half hours of my life I’m never getting back. Damn.

And we’re going to Mr. Tax Preparer to get our taxes done today. Shudder. This is the first year that I “get” to pay taxes as a writer too. Joy.

Calmblueocean. Calmblueocean. Calmblueocean.

Tuesday blahs

I always seem to get these murk-mood doldrums after big, fun weekends. So here I am post-Fantasm and post “Nomadic Breezes” and I’m in a funk. It’s nothing dire, just a blah-don’t-wanna-do-anything-or-see-anyone sort of feeling. I skipped out on yoga last night and crashed on the couch instead. Tonight’s a new belly dance session. Guess I’ll drag myself to that although I don’t really feel like it.

Maybe I just need a swift, hot infusion of caffeine. Better living through chemistry. Where’s my coffee mug?

Entry 3. And I haven’t lost count yet.

Daylights savings my red-rimmed, desiccated eyeballs, hah! I just looove losing an hour in the middle of my weekend. And still with the early morning wakefulness. Even though computer-darling says it’s well nigh 9:30, I know better. Twitch. I guess, technically, 9:30 (8:30, dammit!) isn’t all that early, but it really is when you don’t get to bed until past 4 am. Mr. Sandman = way too flighty. Someone oughta paperclip that fellah to a pillar and superglue his footsies to the rug.

But hey, the show was utter bravura! I was so a virtuoso of belly dance! Hee. That is, I didn’t trip over my hem and fall on my nose. The troupe number was fine, ‘cept it was more of a warm-up than anything else–being only like three minutes long. But the solo is what I was really intent about and that went by in an absolute blur. I’ve got snapshot memory-visuals of faces and a couple moments of my dance, but I was in such a transcendent state–read nerves/anticipation/euphoria–that not much made it past short term memory. This has happened to me a couple times before–at another dance solo in Springfield, IL and the time Matthew and I went skydiving–and it’s real funky. Brains are perplexing critters, ain’t they?

But okay, highlights, or rather the only parts I can remember:

My entrance with veil: perfect. I don’t usually dance with a silk veil, but the difference between silk and chiffon is like dancing with liquid water versus trawling for bats with three yards of butterfly net. I borrowed a silk veil for the performance; damn but I wish we had gobs of money-bucks so I could buy one of my very own. They’re decadently priced, but so much swoofier to dance with. Alas! Alack!

Next: What the Hell? Were there no men sitting in the front row?? There’s this cuter-than-belief section of the opening choreography where I drop my veil over an audience person’s shoulders and I was really looking forward to lighting up some unsuspecting XYs eyes, but there wasn’t a single male in the front row! Whazzat about? But hey it was okay. A fellow dancer-in-arms not in the show was up front and I tossed her my veil and the crowd loved it. But where or where were all the eager lads?

Penultimate: seeing Matthew in the back, watching me with a big, proud grin on his face. I just love my hubby. He got shafted into volunteering to staff the ticket counter (the poor thing!) so missed most of the show. I’m inexpressibly glad he was able to duck in for long enough to catch my solo.

Finis: A dim awareness of the crowd clapping along with the music, random eye contact (it’s all about the eye contact), the last chorus section when I knew I’d made it through nearly the whole damn thing without forgetting a step, and hey–my gawd!–I’m done. Applause and bows. I so get off on the sound of hands snap-clack-clacking for me. Bask, bask.

Sadly, Matthew wasn’t able to take pictures since he was stuck way in the back. I saw flashbulbs going off like mad throughout my solo, but I didn’t recognize any of the shutterbugs. Pook. I would have liked a memory de perpetua of that. Sigh.

And that was my grand performance. Hurray!

Now, I’m starving. Wonder if we got yummy breakfast fixins . . . .

Toodles ’till later,
Ms. Fantasm 2002 (Yep, that’s still a rush.)