(Livejournal Is) Where Words Go to Die

My friend recently had a baby. I only mention this because I think that is, perhaps, why she misses the way Livejournal used to be.

I suggested WordPress.

However, this phenomenon no doubt brings the quality of WordPress.com’s content down considerably.

Usually I use all the other ubiquitous social media to post YouTube videos and songs and macros and animated GIFs and political rhetoric.

I claimed at a few parties, for a lack of anything better to share, that I was a writer. This, however, is a bold-faced lie, because mainly I write about shit like this:

I was listening to my iPod on the way back from a disastrous family party (my uncle’s in-laws, so it wasn’t even my own family) at which I got sick, and the song “Where Does the Good Go?” by Tegan and Sara came on.

Now, I discovered this song back in 2008 on the MySpace profile of who I will henceforth call Luanne Moretti. Luanne was a girl whose boyfriend I stole.

The Mechanic and I fell badly madly in love (Freudian slip, there) and she was, of course, heartbroken. I, of course, compared myself to her at every turn, convinced she was better than me and I had only bedded her soulmate through the means of dumb luck.

The song had negative connotations for many, many years, but that summer I downloaded it from iTunes just to listen to it a few times.

Years later, the song came on, and instead of just being about Luanne Moretti, I imagined, in my sick little brain, an animated music video of my sexual history.

The women singing the song became the men in my life, and the…what would be the word? A sort of drumming rhythm, especially towards the end, provokes a sort of spiraling journey through time and space, fragments of moments whipping past the singers standing in the middle, who have now become either me, or the musicians. I like to think it’s the musicians rather than me, because I have a big nose and none of the class. Also, I’m not so sure I’m the one singing.

I imagined, firstly, dancing. Traded from partner to partner on a whirling, old-fashioned dance floor, waltzing from affair to affair.

But in the tunnel of swirling colors and faded fragments of time around the singers at the climax of the song, are just snatches of memory. I wish I could pull out those images of history and stick them into a music video like a dream-fueled RPS fanvid.

If I could draw, I would animate it. That’s way too much effort for a daydream, however.

I can’t find a music video to that song by the girls, and only one shitty “Grey’s Anatomy” fanvid so compressed it’s blurry, with bad editing.

Ah nevermind, I found a performance.


This Time (August 30, 2005)

I would take down all the clocks
Open up their bellies and
Painstakingly twist the cogs back
So the gongs strike 12, 11, 10

I would push back the pages
Calendars flipping past in reverse
Movie motion passing time
Backwards to a month, a year, two years

I would sit in a darkened car not speaking
I would nudge away from thighs in the theaters
I would turn my head at the exact moment
Lips touched electricity sparked and history…

I wouldn’t dance so close, so joyfully
Glancing, glancing, glancing
I wouldn’t call so late or smile so wide
I wouldn’t speak in code in halls
I wouldn’t sit down at lunch there
Looking, looking, searching
I wouldn’t allow myself to be hugged
I would forget those dreams that haunted me
Through first period, second, third, into fourth
Into fourth
Into fourth

I would erase the book’s pages
I would hold down on delete all the way back
All the way back to the moment you pointed at me
As I stood, announced lead
Insulted and amused and noticed
I wouldn’t ruffle your hair or make teases
I wouldn’t sit on desks with my legs
Spread wide like that with sixth graders near
I wouldn’t have done any of these things
Making lesbians late or grounded
Making friends lovers jealous
Making dramatic exaggerations
Or throwing purses

I would not have done any of it
In that fashion

I’d have been smoother this time

This is a work of poetry. Any resemblance of characters to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The Author holds exclusive rights to this work. Unauthorized duplication is prohibited.

“My movie is born first in my head, dies on paper”

Why is it always so much easier to write on a computer screen?

That’s beside the point, however. I’m supposed to make a video for my bosses at the rental house – they’ve filled up the summer with tutorials in their various cameras, even making me thread a film magazine, so they also want us to learn something in addition to doing a bunch of menial labor. It’s also in order to have something to put on their Vimeo site. All their interns have videos up there, and my supervisor, when I wouldn’t give him a straight answer about what I was planning on shooting, asked if it was a violent zombie picture or some kind of dewey sweet My Little Pony affair, and I said neither. He asked if it was a love letter to our rival company and I said it wasn’t that either. He’s just gone on vacation, so it’s bad timing, but I’m taking out some equipment anyway.

Continue reading

Not Looking Forward

I don’t want to see my therapist on Wednesday. I think she’ll just get mad at me again.

Anyway, that’s not the point. The point is that I forgot about this but found it again.


Makes me think about The Teacher getting angry and saying I’m doing the same thing I always do again – namely, pushing people who care about me away.

True, that would be more obvious had I moved to California this summer (or New York City). It would have saved a lot of trouble, but I…

Nevermind. I was going to jot down this thing about my mother.

See, I always had this sneaking suspicion it was my fault that my biological parents abandoned me.

I suppose that’s kind of like when a deadbeat Dad leaves or a couple gets divorced.

I get told a lot to “get over it,” and I suspect that’s what my new therapist will say. My old therapist (and I miss her terribly, but that’s normal) would help me figure this shit out. I wish she was here, even though she was annoying.

She gave me a key when I left. She keeps a jar of them and gives them to all her departing patients.

Nevermind. I was, after all, going to jot down this thing about my mother.

I can’t really ask my sister about it, or talk to her about it anymore than I already did in my flame-y emails last year, because she lost her mother to disease. Our biological mother is of no consequence. Her parents made her feel loved and special and instilled in her a strong sense of worthiness and ambition. She has friends and she knows how to keep them. She WANTS to keep them. Community is ever-embracing. I look at strongly bonded friends (especially female friends) and feel terribly envious. I think of my clique from high school and how much I miss that feeling of belonging. It was brief but it happened.

I wish she hadn’t died, so I could discuss this shit with her. (My mom, not my sister’s mom. Our bio mom. It’s all very confusing, I know.)

I’m still not over it.

Anyway, The Teacher’s mother died, and I couldn’t give two shits about it. But it makes me think of Her. How lucky my ex was to get to live with her, even through all the years of suffering. I kinda hope he departs again for parts unknown. Lord knows he needs healthy people around him. Healthy of mind, I mean.

I must have done SOMEthing wrong to make her leave me.

It’s so terribly CLICHE. I don’t want to let myself fall for anyone. They’ll only leave me, so what’s the point in keeping them around? It’s compulsive, what I do.

I wonder if The Teacher could forgive me for being so callous? I should go down there and so what if his sister (also, she’s my old classmate) tells me to leave…

I don’t really have time for that, though, do I? Time in this internship is running out, and they want me to make a video.

I want The Economist to hold me in his arms again, but he deserves better, too. He just wanted to give me pleasure. And I rejected him. What have I done?

The disaster with The Photographer was inevitable anyway. Well, no. I hurried it along. But we’re better off apart anyway.

“Just don’t remember me as some troll,” I said to him.

“I don’t know HOW I’ll remember you,” was the last thing he said.

Or was it “Goodbye [Eris]?”