e·go·tist (g-tst, g-)
n.
1. A conceited, boastful person.
2. A selfish, self-centered person.
Saturday, July 16, 2011
Friday, July 15, 2011
Threads
The outline of your hat is visible before I can decipher the rest of your figure standing slumped against the night air, hands in your pockets. In the middle of a tornado I suspect you'd stand the same way-- looking defeated, waiting for the whirlwind around you to slow down to your speed. What did she do to you? I think to myself, and then realize how incredibly foolish I sound. You were in love, you still are. Her fingers linger on you still, pulling strings like a puppet master. I wonder if this is how Will stood after we broke up, looking hopefully but distantly at my figure as I walk.
A late night phone conversation comes to mind, my fingers shaking with anger as I try to spark some sort of movement in him.
"Do something! Stop standing around, waiting for life to move on, Will. It's moving on. You're not moving with it."
A pause, deep breath. I can feel the fatigue in his voice,
"I can't. I try and I can't. Every time I talk to a girl I think about you. None of them even compare to you, and none of them are what I want so why should I move on?"
"Because. Life keeps going. I'm over it. It's been too long, and I've changed with life. You have to do that also. You can't keep living in the past."
Your camouflage hat nods at me when I get close enough. Let's sit down, you say, and I oblige because I don't know what else I would do. I'd love to make you run a marathon at this moment just to liven you up. You told me she left you for a country boy from my hometown. I remember his babyface, stocky stature loping through the school halls, the big truck he drove to school every day, old cutoff shirts that exposed a farmer's tan during the right times of the year. The first time I rode in your car, you sang along to every song on a country music mixtape that's been replayed every time since. I saw the glaring sun in the window and that damn hat and knew this wasn't you.
"Ashley, I don't even know who I am anymore," Will says as we walk through Brownsburg on an especially dreary night.
"You'll figure it out. It takes a while, but you'll get there."
"You think so? I was so different before I met you, and then I changed myself entirely for you. I'm glad I changed, but I don't know whether to be the old me or the new me."
You are so good at talking. That's not a typical compliment, but you really are. I could sit with you for hours and talk about nothing and everything. I can practically see the fragmented pieces of your life, I wish I could help. But that's silly. Of course I can't help. It's early in the morning, and we've sat on the bench and laid on the playground and for a moment I got you to take the hat off. I can hear the alarms as soon as you reach to hug me:
"Ashley, I care about you."
I laugh, "No you don't! We've known each other what, two weeks? You hardly even know me. In the big picture, this will mean nothing to you."
"No. It's different. I feel a strong connection with you. I need someone to talk to about these things. Do I have anyone right now to talk to? Like, three people. I need you."
"No you don't. Here's how these things go. You need me, and in a couple of weeks when everything is better, you won't need me anymore."
And that's how all of these unnatural relationships end-- badly for me. I put my whole heart into something and come out with nothing except sacrifice. It's so common for me it's almost laughable. In fact, I can't even count on my fingers the number of times someone has said "I feel a strong connection with you". That's my cue to run away.
Here's what it is. I find a loose string and for whatever reason I try my hardest to thread it into my heart. Perhaps because I think it will be safe there, perhaps because I see things how they are and want to make them better, perhaps because I thrive on conflict, perhaps. And for a time, I am happy making this loose string happy. In the end, however, the string snakes its way out of my heart. Sometimes it's quick and painful, other times it's millimeter by millimeter. You might say, oh it's just a string. How painful can that be? But the pain adds up, really. It teaches me to never trust another, it builds a needlework of solitude.
I throw your hat off, laughing, knowing that you don't understand the significance.
A late night phone conversation comes to mind, my fingers shaking with anger as I try to spark some sort of movement in him.
"Do something! Stop standing around, waiting for life to move on, Will. It's moving on. You're not moving with it."
A pause, deep breath. I can feel the fatigue in his voice,
"I can't. I try and I can't. Every time I talk to a girl I think about you. None of them even compare to you, and none of them are what I want so why should I move on?"
"Because. Life keeps going. I'm over it. It's been too long, and I've changed with life. You have to do that also. You can't keep living in the past."
Your camouflage hat nods at me when I get close enough. Let's sit down, you say, and I oblige because I don't know what else I would do. I'd love to make you run a marathon at this moment just to liven you up. You told me she left you for a country boy from my hometown. I remember his babyface, stocky stature loping through the school halls, the big truck he drove to school every day, old cutoff shirts that exposed a farmer's tan during the right times of the year. The first time I rode in your car, you sang along to every song on a country music mixtape that's been replayed every time since. I saw the glaring sun in the window and that damn hat and knew this wasn't you.
"Ashley, I don't even know who I am anymore," Will says as we walk through Brownsburg on an especially dreary night.
"You'll figure it out. It takes a while, but you'll get there."
"You think so? I was so different before I met you, and then I changed myself entirely for you. I'm glad I changed, but I don't know whether to be the old me or the new me."
You are so good at talking. That's not a typical compliment, but you really are. I could sit with you for hours and talk about nothing and everything. I can practically see the fragmented pieces of your life, I wish I could help. But that's silly. Of course I can't help. It's early in the morning, and we've sat on the bench and laid on the playground and for a moment I got you to take the hat off. I can hear the alarms as soon as you reach to hug me:
"Ashley, I care about you."
I laugh, "No you don't! We've known each other what, two weeks? You hardly even know me. In the big picture, this will mean nothing to you."
"No. It's different. I feel a strong connection with you. I need someone to talk to about these things. Do I have anyone right now to talk to? Like, three people. I need you."
"No you don't. Here's how these things go. You need me, and in a couple of weeks when everything is better, you won't need me anymore."
And that's how all of these unnatural relationships end-- badly for me. I put my whole heart into something and come out with nothing except sacrifice. It's so common for me it's almost laughable. In fact, I can't even count on my fingers the number of times someone has said "I feel a strong connection with you". That's my cue to run away.
Here's what it is. I find a loose string and for whatever reason I try my hardest to thread it into my heart. Perhaps because I think it will be safe there, perhaps because I see things how they are and want to make them better, perhaps because I thrive on conflict, perhaps. And for a time, I am happy making this loose string happy. In the end, however, the string snakes its way out of my heart. Sometimes it's quick and painful, other times it's millimeter by millimeter. You might say, oh it's just a string. How painful can that be? But the pain adds up, really. It teaches me to never trust another, it builds a needlework of solitude.
I throw your hat off, laughing, knowing that you don't understand the significance.
Thursday, June 9, 2011
Don't call my name
don't call my name, alejandro...:D I'm sorry. I simply couldn't resist.
Now, to serious matters.
Pulse pattering against my pale knees
tucked up to my chin,
pouting at the window as fields and interstate signs
fly by, I try to
hold myself together.
Veiny tendrils on your hand
snake toward me as you
solemnly slide your fingers
against my dress, try to ease my
armed fortress to rest.
A Freudian slip, perhaps?
A lapse of the past?
Don't call me that.
Or I won't let you call me anything
Now, to serious matters.
Pulse pattering against my pale knees
tucked up to my chin,
pouting at the window as fields and interstate signs
fly by, I try to
hold myself together.
Veiny tendrils on your hand
snake toward me as you
solemnly slide your fingers
against my dress, try to ease my
armed fortress to rest.
A Freudian slip, perhaps?
A lapse of the past?
Don't call me that.
Or I won't let you call me anything
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
Don't look back at this crumbling fool
“I’ve lost it,” I say to myself, the outlines of passersby disappearing as I see the redness of the sun under my closed eyelids.
The backyard was expansive -- a forest and a fortress. Sewage drained behind the swing set, and my brother and I would often jump across, pretending there were alligators lurking below the globs of brownish liquid. When I was younger, we played Cowboys and Indians and trekked the muddy terrain after it rained, exchanging fire with fake arrows and pistols, groaning as the orange sun grew big on the horizon and mosquitoes became the ultimate enemy. When I was older, I took a piece of Dad’s scrap wood still damp from sitting out next to the shed for several seasons, and ruined a giant sharpie marker writing “No Boys Allowed”. I clumsily nailed my sign to the playhouse and glared at my brother, who turned his cap backwards and shook his head at me in disgust. Most days, my pigtails bobbed up as I fiercely swung, determined to make it to outer space. I never jumped, but rather clung to the swing with as much energy as my young body could bring forth. I would close my eyes and feel the heat of the day, sticky sweat on my forehead and dirt under my fingernails, the breeze tickling my neck. I would lie in the grass and let ants crawl over me, a mountain. I saw the redness of the sun under my closed eyelids.
When did I turn into this?
I grew up. One afternoon I hastily plucked a rose from my mother’s garden in the front yard and peeled the petals away, chanting the familiar lines, ending at “he loves me not”. Another, I crushed a dandelion and mixed it with water from the hose in a little jar. Closing my eyes, I clutched the jar forcefully, wishing for true love, good luck, happiness. To me, happiness meant catching the eye of my elementary crush, a blonde boy who rode dirt bikes and squinted when he smiled. In middle school, I hid behind my long hair and my books, desperately hoping that any boy would notice me. In eighth grade, I held hands with a brunette skater. I still remember his soft fingers, the blush creeping onto my face as we walked to the buses together. I hadn’t even begun to understand.
Why does the world turn so quickly?
I’m afraid the sun has swallowed me up. Somewhere I’ve lost myself. I hold on to everything that has passed. People, objects, memories. I hoard them all, until I’m so full that I begin to burst and I lose me. And I’m afraid that my identity is actually composed of only the jagged parts of strangers, people I no longer know. I am a dysfunctional compilation of every person I have so selfishly seized.
I am afraid of who I am.
I am afraid of who people think I am.
I am afraid of finding myself again.
The backyard was expansive -- a forest and a fortress. Sewage drained behind the swing set, and my brother and I would often jump across, pretending there were alligators lurking below the globs of brownish liquid. When I was younger, we played Cowboys and Indians and trekked the muddy terrain after it rained, exchanging fire with fake arrows and pistols, groaning as the orange sun grew big on the horizon and mosquitoes became the ultimate enemy. When I was older, I took a piece of Dad’s scrap wood still damp from sitting out next to the shed for several seasons, and ruined a giant sharpie marker writing “No Boys Allowed”. I clumsily nailed my sign to the playhouse and glared at my brother, who turned his cap backwards and shook his head at me in disgust. Most days, my pigtails bobbed up as I fiercely swung, determined to make it to outer space. I never jumped, but rather clung to the swing with as much energy as my young body could bring forth. I would close my eyes and feel the heat of the day, sticky sweat on my forehead and dirt under my fingernails, the breeze tickling my neck. I would lie in the grass and let ants crawl over me, a mountain. I saw the redness of the sun under my closed eyelids.
When did I turn into this?
I grew up. One afternoon I hastily plucked a rose from my mother’s garden in the front yard and peeled the petals away, chanting the familiar lines, ending at “he loves me not”. Another, I crushed a dandelion and mixed it with water from the hose in a little jar. Closing my eyes, I clutched the jar forcefully, wishing for true love, good luck, happiness. To me, happiness meant catching the eye of my elementary crush, a blonde boy who rode dirt bikes and squinted when he smiled. In middle school, I hid behind my long hair and my books, desperately hoping that any boy would notice me. In eighth grade, I held hands with a brunette skater. I still remember his soft fingers, the blush creeping onto my face as we walked to the buses together. I hadn’t even begun to understand.
Why does the world turn so quickly?
I’m afraid the sun has swallowed me up. Somewhere I’ve lost myself. I hold on to everything that has passed. People, objects, memories. I hoard them all, until I’m so full that I begin to burst and I lose me. And I’m afraid that my identity is actually composed of only the jagged parts of strangers, people I no longer know. I am a dysfunctional compilation of every person I have so selfishly seized.
I am afraid of who I am.
I am afraid of who people think I am.
I am afraid of finding myself again.
Monday, May 16, 2011
Because It's Been Over a Month
Jacob pointed out that I haven’t written anything in over a month. Funny, I always have periods of time where I simply don’t write anything. I mean, of course I’ll jot down some lines here or there. But I don’t sit down to write something from my heart. And I’ve always wondered why I am so writing-bipolar; one month I’ll be a writing nutcase and the next I’ll barely touch a pen. I’ve come to the realization that I write when I am most unhappy or conflicted. This is where my problems with contentedness lie, in that I’m afraid I’ll lose the deepest part of myself if I’m comfortable. Here’s the layout.
Discontent → writing a lot → thinking about things → questioning → forming conclusions → feeling independent and happy.
Content → never writing → thinking about things but bottling them up → trying to talk to people but failing → feeling too dependent and unhappy.
That probably won’t make sense to most people. But it’s how my mind works and I’m dealing with it. Am I content now? I certainly don’t feel that way, but my writing (or lack thereof) begs to differ.
People floor me, sometimes. Lately, I have been spending much of my time questioning. The motivations of other people scare me. I worry too much as it is, but I definitely worry most about the truthfulness of those around me.
Trust, Shuff.
Too bad I suck at trusting people. That’s downfall #1 of Ashley. I have hardly any trust, because I know those I’m closest to will end up hurting me the most. This is not to say that I don’t form close friendships with people. I only like to form close friendships, really, as the other sorts of friendships are usually petty. But typically I spend much of my time listening instead of talking, because it is only in myself that I trust my thoughts.
Downfall #2: When I am upset, I do not enjoy talking about it until I’ve fully understood what I’m thinking. Some might consider this a good thing, but it is extremely frustrating to others. If I stop talking for a long period of time, it’s probably because I’m really upset and don’t want to confront it.
Downfall #3: I seek revenge. I’m sure I don’t seem like the type. This is probably because my revenge is always subtle. I will make underhanded comments, will deliberately push buttons, will seek ways to make someone mad when I know that what I’m doing is wrong.
Downfall #4: I do not think someone is worth my time if they don’t consider me a best friend. Even though I don’t give back what others give to me in a friendship (until I am very comfortable), I expect my friends to consider me their closest. Typically, if I realize that I am not a priority, I will stop talking to a person altogether. I would much rather love another passionately and with intensity than with mediocrity. Perhaps that most hurtful thing someone could say to me in a relationship would be, “s/he is more important than you” or “my friends come first”. I am not to be taken advantage of.
Downfall #5: I do not let go of things that hurt me. I love conflict. I thrive on conflict. I don’t like arguing because I typically get very upset, but I love thinking about things and feeling that intense mix of emotions that so often comes with problems. I will spend days stewing over something so much that I become physically ill. This is an awful way to be, and I have tried to work on it, but unfortunately I haven’t made much progress. Most likely, this downfall is my least favorite.
I am who I am. Take me or leave me. But don’t ever make fun of me for things I can’t change, don’t try to change me, and don’t take me for granted. Don’t let your friends speak poorly of me, don’t keep things from me that I should know, don’t lead me on.
I am fully capable of leaving and finding exactly what I want/need. And I will, even if it means having my heart broken. But I would love to stay. I would always love to stay.
Well, that post took several paths I didn’t expect. Hope you enjoy learning a bit more about me (although I’m sure if you’re reading this you probably know a lot of this already).
Discontent → writing a lot → thinking about things → questioning → forming conclusions → feeling independent and happy.
Content → never writing → thinking about things but bottling them up → trying to talk to people but failing → feeling too dependent and unhappy.
That probably won’t make sense to most people. But it’s how my mind works and I’m dealing with it. Am I content now? I certainly don’t feel that way, but my writing (or lack thereof) begs to differ.
People floor me, sometimes. Lately, I have been spending much of my time questioning. The motivations of other people scare me. I worry too much as it is, but I definitely worry most about the truthfulness of those around me.
Trust, Shuff.
Too bad I suck at trusting people. That’s downfall #1 of Ashley. I have hardly any trust, because I know those I’m closest to will end up hurting me the most. This is not to say that I don’t form close friendships with people. I only like to form close friendships, really, as the other sorts of friendships are usually petty. But typically I spend much of my time listening instead of talking, because it is only in myself that I trust my thoughts.
Downfall #2: When I am upset, I do not enjoy talking about it until I’ve fully understood what I’m thinking. Some might consider this a good thing, but it is extremely frustrating to others. If I stop talking for a long period of time, it’s probably because I’m really upset and don’t want to confront it.
Downfall #3: I seek revenge. I’m sure I don’t seem like the type. This is probably because my revenge is always subtle. I will make underhanded comments, will deliberately push buttons, will seek ways to make someone mad when I know that what I’m doing is wrong.
Downfall #4: I do not think someone is worth my time if they don’t consider me a best friend. Even though I don’t give back what others give to me in a friendship (until I am very comfortable), I expect my friends to consider me their closest. Typically, if I realize that I am not a priority, I will stop talking to a person altogether. I would much rather love another passionately and with intensity than with mediocrity. Perhaps that most hurtful thing someone could say to me in a relationship would be, “s/he is more important than you” or “my friends come first”. I am not to be taken advantage of.
Downfall #5: I do not let go of things that hurt me. I love conflict. I thrive on conflict. I don’t like arguing because I typically get very upset, but I love thinking about things and feeling that intense mix of emotions that so often comes with problems. I will spend days stewing over something so much that I become physically ill. This is an awful way to be, and I have tried to work on it, but unfortunately I haven’t made much progress. Most likely, this downfall is my least favorite.
I am who I am. Take me or leave me. But don’t ever make fun of me for things I can’t change, don’t try to change me, and don’t take me for granted. Don’t let your friends speak poorly of me, don’t keep things from me that I should know, don’t lead me on.
I am fully capable of leaving and finding exactly what I want/need. And I will, even if it means having my heart broken. But I would love to stay. I would always love to stay.
Well, that post took several paths I didn’t expect. Hope you enjoy learning a bit more about me (although I’m sure if you’re reading this you probably know a lot of this already).
Monday, April 11, 2011
Letter Writing
These are selections from a letter that I wrote to my good friend. We have actually begun to correspond regularly, which is really nice. I love the old-fashioned way of doing things. All of this technology really creeps me out sometimes (and once again I am not making any sense, because I'm writing this on my blog). I am not including the entire letter as that would just be silly, but here are several paragraphs:
I am always so bewildered by the fact that we set apart certain days to celebrate certain things-- why not just celebrate every day? And then today comes, my Uncle's birthday, and I remember that this is simply a reason to live "in memoriam" -- in memory. Usually when I'm home I visit his grave, and there's not a day when I don't think about him in some way, but today is special. Set aside. The day that I write and remember. And this ties in to the moving idea (talked about in a previous letter). I don't think we are always moving, no. We have to take time to reflect. So-- happy birthday to my uncle and I'm moving on.
...and here I talk about predestination, selflessness vs. selfishness, etc. Only the big world questions ;) ...
So if you haven't read the English Patient already, I suggest you do so, and immediately. I could foster a love of writing that you've never known before, it's that good. I would totally go into detail, but that would take forever and it's just too complex to overview. But one of the main themes of the story is identity, and it made me think-- what is my true identity? What is identity in general? According to Ondaatje (the author) we consist of several identities. We are vast deserts of constantly shifting sands, although we are still deserts. We are defined by national identity, those values instilled in us by culture. But perhaps our true identity is the one where we are happiest. The true, real-life Count Almasy (protagonist) was homosexual, had a love for motorized vehicles, and harbored a deep bond with the desert. He lived during WWII and aided the Germans, but also tried to aid the British and Italians. All of his missions were in the desert-- his area of expertise. He helped smuggle German agents to Egypt and performed countless other notorious acts. But did this man's interest lie in Nazism, or politics? I think not. His identity was in the deserts, where he found true happiness. Being a spy was simply an adventure, a series of expeditions in which he could explore those sands and that terrain. So this leads me to believe that identity is not what you do, but rather who you are. I write, but is my identity "a writer"? I sing, but am I "a singer"?
Some identities are inescapable.
Here are a few quotes I found interesting:
"Identity is theft of the self"
"I've grown certain that the root of all fear is that we've been forced to deny who we are"
"Memory is a way of holding to the things you love, the things you are, and the things you never want to lose"
...I love this idea of letter-writing. It makes me think. And it's also nice to break out the pen and paper :)
I am always so bewildered by the fact that we set apart certain days to celebrate certain things-- why not just celebrate every day? And then today comes, my Uncle's birthday, and I remember that this is simply a reason to live "in memoriam" -- in memory. Usually when I'm home I visit his grave, and there's not a day when I don't think about him in some way, but today is special. Set aside. The day that I write and remember. And this ties in to the moving idea (talked about in a previous letter). I don't think we are always moving, no. We have to take time to reflect. So-- happy birthday to my uncle and I'm moving on.
...and here I talk about predestination, selflessness vs. selfishness, etc. Only the big world questions ;) ...
So if you haven't read the English Patient already, I suggest you do so, and immediately. I could foster a love of writing that you've never known before, it's that good. I would totally go into detail, but that would take forever and it's just too complex to overview. But one of the main themes of the story is identity, and it made me think-- what is my true identity? What is identity in general? According to Ondaatje (the author) we consist of several identities. We are vast deserts of constantly shifting sands, although we are still deserts. We are defined by national identity, those values instilled in us by culture. But perhaps our true identity is the one where we are happiest. The true, real-life Count Almasy (protagonist) was homosexual, had a love for motorized vehicles, and harbored a deep bond with the desert. He lived during WWII and aided the Germans, but also tried to aid the British and Italians. All of his missions were in the desert-- his area of expertise. He helped smuggle German agents to Egypt and performed countless other notorious acts. But did this man's interest lie in Nazism, or politics? I think not. His identity was in the deserts, where he found true happiness. Being a spy was simply an adventure, a series of expeditions in which he could explore those sands and that terrain. So this leads me to believe that identity is not what you do, but rather who you are. I write, but is my identity "a writer"? I sing, but am I "a singer"?
Some identities are inescapable.
Here are a few quotes I found interesting:
"Identity is theft of the self"
"I've grown certain that the root of all fear is that we've been forced to deny who we are"
"Memory is a way of holding to the things you love, the things you are, and the things you never want to lose"
...I love this idea of letter-writing. It makes me think. And it's also nice to break out the pen and paper :)
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Death of a Salesman
A great classic drama.
Willy Loman, salesman extraordinaire, lives a lie. He is grandiose, histrionic, deceptive to himself and to others. He has perfected the art of appearances, of seeming to be everything he is not.
A party. He looks at her, when the lights are off and the buzzing silence is more apparent than it should be. Words, soft, cautious words spoken in low tones. Faltering voice, sideways grin, is this real?
No. Of course it isn't. How could it be? That would mean contentedness, and she's already embraced the fact that she never wants to be content. But she was ready to be, at least for one night, perhaps forever.
The symbolic heart is such a delicate figure, fragile. She fully gives hers to a rare few.
"You are a really good salesperson". She wanted to hurt him.
"I just don't think we are at a place to be anything". He hurt her.
But she is resilient. She will get over it. It's the only thing she knows how to do anymore, as the light fades into her window. Warmth. Solitude.
Long ago, yesterday; the scene is the same. She feels like, somehow, she always ends up the most hurt.
...
I apologize if this post is unclear to some readers. It is not necessarily meant to be understood.
Happy Birthday to me :)
19, but I feel just like a child! Which reminds me...
Willy Loman, salesman extraordinaire, lives a lie. He is grandiose, histrionic, deceptive to himself and to others. He has perfected the art of appearances, of seeming to be everything he is not.
A party. He looks at her, when the lights are off and the buzzing silence is more apparent than it should be. Words, soft, cautious words spoken in low tones. Faltering voice, sideways grin, is this real?
No. Of course it isn't. How could it be? That would mean contentedness, and she's already embraced the fact that she never wants to be content. But she was ready to be, at least for one night, perhaps forever.
The symbolic heart is such a delicate figure, fragile. She fully gives hers to a rare few.
"You are a really good salesperson". She wanted to hurt him.
"I just don't think we are at a place to be anything". He hurt her.
But she is resilient. She will get over it. It's the only thing she knows how to do anymore, as the light fades into her window. Warmth. Solitude.
Long ago, yesterday; the scene is the same. She feels like, somehow, she always ends up the most hurt.
...
I apologize if this post is unclear to some readers. It is not necessarily meant to be understood.
Happy Birthday to me :)
19, but I feel just like a child! Which reminds me...
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