I've had scrambled eggs for brains for the past week or so. It had to do with my ex-girlfreind contacting me. I love her very much. Emma.
She did a good job hitting me up. She was trying to help maybe, I'm not sure, by giving me advice as to what to invest in. She said I should buy a house, or that we should buy a house. I've already written about this so I won't go in too much.
I have been eating alone. I have been paintings alone, and reading alone, and I think other students have taken notice. At the dining hall, sometimes I am with a plate of food, and some writing materials, or a book, and I'll be approached, by another student, offering for me to join them (fingers pointing accross the dining hall to another table) 'over there'. I accept, and go have food with these friends. It's sweet, but not very relevant to the writing that I feel I need to get out, or the reading that I need to get done, to feel at ease, or prepared for things to come. So I go chat up these friends, and eat some food, then we all break off, and I go back to reading or writing.
The other night, (and I was burning through paper writing, documenting dreams, and thoughts and trying altogether to get to a resolve regarding my feelings for Emma, and regarding domesticating, and fantasizing, and going back and forth, and reading and reading into things very deeply, like under a spell. I was exhausting possibilities, and exhausting myself), I was sitting at a high-top table for dinner, with a sketchbook and mechanical pencil, writing and coming up for air every so-often, and a friend came up to me. This is a classmate first and foremost, we are friends too, but we don't often talk, we just work together in Illustration department as fellow students. So he comes up to me and starts small talk, which at this point, I've become a little used to- this patronizing, which comes from a sweet place, and I see him begin to tear up. He's nearly crying, like he's saying goodbye to his dog. I think the whole thing a little funny altogether, though there's a desperation to him, and the roles have kind of changed, where I thought I was the outsider figure, not understood, alone, or whatever, now he, took on the look of a lost child. So I ventured as far as to ask if he was alright, and he said, 'yeah', and it seemed like a great flood was forthcoming. Then a couple others came over, his friends, and engaged in some banter, and playful talk, and at some point he kind-of said, 'gotta go', and I said, 'sure thing, have a good night', and I didn't write much after that, I stared into space a bit, thinking if I'd seen an illusion, or what. How strange. So I packed up my things, took my plate to the dish pit, then back to the apartment, where, along the way, I developed intense emotions and a sense of a spinning world, like a ship in big waves, so cliché. I got a kind of tunnel vision, and there were tears on the way, and I invited them. I was flush, my thesis coming to a head. I felt a strong sense of a narrowing in my mind, the blood behind my eyes became a hot and glowing tunnel, where through like sitting at the throne of the mind of a chameleon, flashbulbs exposed snapshots of my deteriorating reality. I was giving up in a way, and it hurt. I was tormented by my ignorance- for what was all this fantasizing about in the first place? When I think of another, more domestic life, I think of a studio, a place where I spend most of my hours, and my wife, whom I am devoted to. I think of ourselves like knobby trees, whose knots and branches through time have grown in respectful relation to one another, that we not block light from one another, and that upon embracing, we feel an interlocking. I think of a carrot patch, as if that's all we need, carrots. I think of a front door, with a big painting on it- something graphic- recently thinking, it would be a three legged frog, borrowed from Korean images, depicting a symbol if prosperity, he which lives in the moon, and swallows it during the eclipse. I think of knees and hips and elbows, and how they grow and become old, and dying later on, but not yet. I really nursed the tears along, I knew I had a reserve of sad thoughts that could wet my cheeks, and I went into those a bit- these deal with the people I've let down. Those emotions seemed topical, though, in relation to the big feeling of general craziness, what to get so caught up in possible futures, as to load my present with make or break stakes, and high stakes, all imagined. I wanted to cry, and I did. I don't know how many of the tears were real and how many were a product of me wanting to cry, to find relief, so maybe all of them were real, but that's characteristic of me- watching myself experience, and questioning all the time as to it's validity, or legitimacy. Sometimes I think I do twice the thinking, and am getting twice the intellectualization, and am getting twice as smart. And sometimes I feel good about my self and my standings, or how I stand up and such, and other times, and what had me in a pseudo-genuine eddy of emotion, was the feeling of simultaneously feeling bad and also that I could not feel bad enough truly- in part because feeling bad is not a matter of trying, just like love is not a matter of trying. There is a lot of effort involved in a relationship, truly, but love is (hippie), all there is, and at the end of a storm comes light, though some trees might have been felled. Wow I'm full of 'em today.
So called Emma, as the tears were drying but I was still sensitive, but unshakeable, like after orgasm. I thought it would be a good time to call. Before I called I did that thing where I looked around the room and it all seemed very clear and raw and plastic. She answered, and I asked how she was, and I told her I'd been going crazy and that I just cried a bunch, and she asked me why and I said because I can't have nice things, and that was true. I'm all wrapped up in environmentalism- I spend a lot of time with it, eating less personally, using less, using things not directly sourced from nature (second-hand, however), and that's something I see more of but not enough of. And Emma said, 'but you don't want nice things', and I was stuck.
