Adjustments

Trauma is stored in the body. Do you ever note that in people’s little nuances? The rocking back and forth, the quivering, the crossing of the arms, the tightening of the neck. It’s all this ugly and confined and coiled anger and pain and fear that just unravels in some insignificant movement, in just a second. A person’s past can slap you in the face if you care to watch them in motion. The horrors of the world are revealed in the way people move.
Do you think it possible for beauty to be stored in the body, as well? Not just in the face, not the eyes or the mouth. But what about in the feet? What if something that once made someone feel beautiful can trigger them to dance lithely down the crosswalk? Is it more subtle that way, as opposed to pain allowing them to give in to gravity?
I wish for beauty to be stored in the body. In the feet, in the fingertips. I wish for honor and pride to be present in the way you carry yourself. Merriment and hope and recovery.
I wish for our bodies to be less limited. I wish for them to be able to present things other than trauma.

Always Feelings

Recently I've been thinking kinda hard about my childhood, mostly my relationship with my mom. And I say kinda hard because I sort of skim around it in my mind, and then stop. Because it's not something I want to dwell on. Because I want to like my mom. I suppose there are a lot of reasons why I am the way I am. I'm sarcastic because I watched a lot of Will and Grace growing up and because it's a defense mechanism. I'm outgoing because my parents taught me to be, so on and so forth. Now I've been trying to figure out why it is I'm always asking how everybody is, what they need, what they want, how I can help. I've been trying to figure out why I'm a fairy godmother. And I think it's because no one else is. Don't get me wrong, I love taking care of you. I love being there for you, I love helping you, I love making you happy, I love loving you. I'm just observing though, that this is probably because it's something I lack in my life. I just want to make it clear that I'm not writing these things because I'm whining. It's just what I've been thinking about lately. Nobody really asks me how I'm doing. It's amazing how you can sit there for 15 minutes and willingly listen to someone talk about themselves and be interested and want to know more and want to help, and then that person stops talking, and it's like there's nothing left to say. I'm sorry, is it not just to ask me back? Isn't that mere protocol? But nowadays you won't get anything from me even if you do ask. Especially if you've let up on the opportunity to genuinely care before. I'm almost unforgiving in that sense, which I get from my mom. I don't want to tell you anymore. There's a lot I could say. It might change how you look at me. It might make things different. But now I won't let it. I don't know if it's your fault. I don't know if it's my fault. I just know that it's upsetting. A woman I deem to be like a mother to me asked me today about who takes care of me. I take care of me. It's okay. I don't need you to ask anymore.

Is an existence without desire very desirable?

I write everything down. The strangest of things. And I write them everywhere. In the notepad of my phone, in the notepad of my iTouch, in my wooden journal. All the strange or interesting or sad or lonely or passionate things that people say or do are all mashed together in my head, everything makes sense together.
Matt once said that I could walk on his hands so I didn't ruin my shoes.
I heard a song in Nolan's car by Common with the line 'If heaven had a height you would be that tall.'
My dad explained to me that the semi-truckers were sleeping on the side of the freeway when their massive vehicles were parked in diagonals.
My mom and I walked out of Bristol Farms when she so eloquently stated 'This is how Oprah Winfrey eats.'
McGinnis told us about how people used to think they needed to know the origins of something to conquer it, so that a man would cut himself with something made of iron and would need to recall iron's origins for the wound to heal, no bandages, no antiseptic. Just origins.

I've thought about the ads on the flappy things on a grocery cart, where the babies are supposed to sit. How shameless do you have to be to get your face on one of those? How unsuccessful would you have to be to imprint your name and business where finicky toddlers rest their bottoms? What about being a California psychic, the ones that wear turbans on their heads and tell you to dial the number on the bottom of your screen. How in the world do you end up behind a desk begging for strangers to call you so you can fake their future? How lonely must you be?

Are there requirements for these things?

Hey Maybe

Maybe I'm too insensitive. Am I too insensitive? You're going to say yes. Actually, now that I think about it, you really are all going to say yes.
I'm sorry about that. Sincerely, I don't mean to be unkind. I have no filter.
Wait.
Should I be apologizing for telling the truth? I am a genuinely nice person. I can tell because I don't tell people the truth to hurt them, I tell them the truth because they need it. I do it because I think it might help them in the long run. So I'm nice, really. Just mean at the same time. Right? No. I'm not mean. Just. Detached? Is that the right word? Sometimes. Sometimes I'm detached from certain emotions or situations so maybe that leads me to be insensitive.

I just really really really want everyone to see themselves for how they are. Please!

Not Nice

I've always been one to see the best in people; it's never something I had to work to do, it's just exactly how I saw. Lately, though, my vision has been riddled with negativity, and I can't differentiate from myself changing or from people around me changing.
I can sit here and close my eyes and envision all of my friends circled around me, a thick crowd of faces I've become acquainted with over the past years. I see the beautiful girls who are going through unnecessary trials to achieve their definition of perfection. One, three, six at a time with eating disorders. I want to scream at them. I want to shake them by their shoulders and force a mirror in front of their eyes that reflects back at them the girl I see, not the deformed, ugly version of themselves they've invented. I want her to see the beauty in the roses of her cheeks. I want her to see the depth in the colors of her eyes. I want her to see the unique bone structure of her face. I want her to see the charm in her freckles. I want them all to see the humor in the set of their mouths, the intensity, the intelligence in their gaze.
I see the people who think they need someone else to be whole. I hear the girls saying they're sad. They're rejected. They're lonely. I tell them, you're 17. You're beautiful. You don't need it right now, you don't NEED it ever, but you'll have it. You are whole now. If you're not whole it's because you're 17. Not because you're 'alone.' Be alone. It will teach you how to be whole.
I don't want to see anymore. I don't want to hear. I won't be like you. I'm sorry for how you feel. I'm more sorry that you've given in to it.
I won't see it anymore, and I won't tolerate hearing it. I will tell you the truth. I will tell you shut up. I will tell you you're acting like a petulant child. And I will tell you that you should learn to be whole.

N3W Y3ARZ

Is it weird that New Years means virtually nothing to me? Even the fact that we just transitioned from the '00's' to the '10's' didn't phase me. It's really just another day to me.
I think, maybe, it's a big deal to people cause of the resolutions thing? Could that be it? Oh hey, but why don't you just do those new things when you notice you want to anyway? A few days ago I decided I didn't want to eat as much meat. So I'm not. Should I have waited till New Years Eve to proclaim that or something?
Maybe all the hoopla is centered around the passing of another year, or another decade even. Maybe that doesn't seem too significant to me because I contemplate that type of stuff more frequently than others. I'm living in the moment, but I'm also living in 9 years ago and 14 months ago and one year from now.

I've happily noticed that I really like the person I've become, and am still becoming, I suppose. When does one stop becoming?

Equivalent of a Christmas Wish List

Things that I want:

For it to be December 12th because I love Brett Dennen.
For it to be December 21st because I love my friends' music.
To figure out the logistics of my living in Israel for a year.
To screen-write. A lot.
To novel-write. A lot.
Yoga.
Love.