I'm a dying species. I think I'm the only member still posting here who joined in the first couple months of this forum's operation. But the veteran-killing plague has finally gotten to me, and I think I'm done here. To put it bluntly, the moderation here sucks. I won't go so far as to invoke Godwin's Law, because no one here is anti-Semitic, as far as I can see. But it's a little like Pleasantville. No jazz, booze, or Technicolor for you, you crazy kids. But Mal, this is a forum for writing, not some podunk free-for-all. We have to have rules! I agree. Someone has to keep the wheels of give-and-take critique turning smoothly. And someone has to keep out the trolls and spammers out. But there is a community here out of which strong friendship bonds have been formed, and I think that it is weakened by the heavy-handed administration staff who feels the need to control every conversational aspect of this forum. Not to mention the hypocritical favoritism exhibited by unnamed admins. The best Internet communities I've been a part of have had little-to-no moderator activity. Sure arguments break out and there may be some insults flung. But you know where you stand with everyone, and there's none of this feigned politeness. I initially joined so that I could post my writing, but have since decided that I don't want to publicly post any writing that I'm serious about. And the only reason I've stuck around this place so long is because I've gotten to truly care about some of the members. But it's not getting better, and I can't come here anymore without wanting to shout at the computer screen. I hate having to sensor myself. Sad, I know, but it's the truth. I know I'm not a favorite among the administrative staff. I like to be antagonistic sometimes, and it's childish, but that's me. This will probably be deleted, and I will probably be banned. But it's a long time coming. If this stays up for long enough for anyone to see it, then I would like to say that I enjoyed talking to most of you. If anyone would like to stay in touch with me, I can be contacted through Facebook or either of my Wordpress blogs. I'll probably give up and come back eventually. I'm lame like that. But until then, I wish all of you luck in all you do.
We don't talk about my grandma. That's all I knew about her for a long time. There were no pictures of her, and she was never brought up. If I hadn't known any better, I would have thought that my mother had just materialized one day, rather than being born of a human woman. When I was fourteen, however, I found out why we don't talk about her. She murdered my grandfather. By all accounts, my grandfather was a great man. A green beret, Vietnam hero, nuclear physicist, and musician who loved his family more than anything and always put them first. She, my grandma, took him away. This was in 1973. More recently, out of curiosity (because still no one talks about it) I tried to find news articles about the incident on the Internet. The only item available was the obituary of one of the detectives who had worked on the case. Last night, I'm not sure why, but I tried again. I guess the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette finally released their archives. There was a large article on the case. And a picture. At first, I thought that the dark, grainy photo was my mother. But the caption underneath told me it was her. My grandma. The evil bitch looked just like my mom. Just like me. There were details I never knew. How she was charged for extorting her neighbors, how she maintained for six years that my grandfather had committed suicide. How she was apparently flawless on the stand, the picture of innocence. She was eligible for parole in 1990. I don't know where she would be today, or if she'd still be alive. I don't know if I want to know. It scares me a little bit, to know that she might still be out there. It seems surreal, like something out of a movie.
There is no smell quite like that of a Florida summer morning. The warmth and humidity preserve the warm scent of the sun on the oak trees all through the night so that by sunup it’s just barely lingering from the previous day. This mingles with the salty undertones of the Gulf, and the faint odor of car exhaust. The exact smell that I’m talking about takes shape after 3am, but before 7am, in that precious window where the world feels secret. I wake up to this smell almost every morning, me having to go to work before the sun comes up. It used to be that I only caught it when I stayed up all night. Yes, I’ve gotten very familiar with that early morning summer smell. Shortly after high school, I ran into an ex boyfriend. He was someone who had hurt me very badly. But I forgave him the minute he smiled at me. I was working in a dollar store in the mall then, closing up late at night. We started seeing each other. We would go out with friends when I got off work, then spend the rest of the night at his house. All those R&B songs talk about making love all night. I never thought that was possible until I was with him. Rolling out of the rumpled, sweaty sheets, indulging in passionate good-bye kisses, and sneaking out of his house in the quiet hours before sunup was how I first became acquainted with that smell. To me, it’s forever married to the experience of falling in love. It made appearances after swing dances or late parties, during nights out with friends at Kristina’s 24-hour Café. My best friend Nick would play guitar, and though the people who joined us there would always be different, they would always end up staying there talking with us until the sky grew light around the edges. That was how I met Allen. He was home for the summer from college in Gainesville. One night sitting on the bench outside Kristina’s was all it took. Before we knew it, it was 6am and we were exchanging promises to meet again. We soon spent another whole night sitting by Mirror Lake before he finally kissed me. Dazed with infatuation and lack of sleep, we walked the streets of downtown. I love the early hours of the morning because they’re so secret. The city is silent, and it could be that no one in the world exists except for us. We climbed onto one of the huge red metal chairs that make up the art exhibit outside the St. Petersburg Courthouse, and we stayed there holding each other for a very long time. I can recall few moments in my life that have achieved the same height of perfection that I felt just then. I never wanted the sun to come up. Unfortunately it did, and the passing days and weeks showed that our romance wasn’t meant to be. I’ve always declared myself an anti-morning person, even though I seem to have a love affair with early mornings. They smell of adventure and romance and friendship, at least to my nose. I like to think about that as I drive to work.
I am at work. I am sitting at the desk they've given me since my promotion. It finally feels like I have a real job. A few months ago, I never would have seen myself in this position. Authority, responsibility, and a hell of a benefit plan. All that American Dream ****. I was terrified that I wouldn't be able to handle the responsibility, but I'm surprised at how easily I've taken it all on. Only my third week, and I have no problem running the whole shebang on my own. I wonder how other people see me. The guy that I'm replacing was 6'4". Someone asks to see the manager, and I come out. All 5'0" and 90lbs of me, and I feel like they must be thinking, "Who the hell is this kid?" But then they listen to me, ask for my advice, bring me their complaints without any questions. So I suppose that I must be doing something right. It's funny how this is the type of thing I've been wanting for so long. Yet, I wake up on Monday morning and I can't help thinking...is this it? Is this how my life is going to be for the next thirty years or so before I retire? I mean, I love my job and the people I work with. But I can't help thinking that there must be something more. I'm just not sure how to get at it. I don't want to live this same monotonous life until I've been so desensitized by it that I don't care any more. My boyfriend and I, we annoy each other. It's basically our entire relationship. Who can be the most annoying before the other person gets seriously angry. I can't put my finger on what appeals to me about this, but there's something in me that enjoys it. My right hip feels like its been removed and replaced with a Fiery Knot of Horrible Pain. No idea why. Must have slept on it funny. I want to start baking bread. What else says home/love like that yeasty smell of rising dough, and a fresh loaf of crusty bread right out of the oven? It reminds me of being a little kid and playing on the kitchen floor while my mom baked and handed me extra bits of dough to mold into mermaids and dragons and trolls. It reminds me of the artisan bakery at the Ferry Plaza market in San Francisco, where I sat last summer with a fresh baguette and a basket of cherries to watch the morning traffic on The Embarcadero. I want that in my home. It scares me that I spend so much time reading books and so little time living out my own stories.
And I suppose that those who can't write review. I may not be able to finish my own novel to save my life. But I read enough for five people. I've started a book review blog on Wordpress, and I've noticed that it's been making me think a lot more about what I've been reading. And it's been making me read more than I normally do, as well. It is called Mal Has Bookworms. If anyone has any comments, criticism, or questions, I welcome each one.
Lately, I've been haunting the Good Reads website. In addition to a lot of trivia, quotes, and thousands of discussion groups, it's a really good way to keep track of your reading list. You can read peer reviews, and add your own as well. And I have to confess, I spent two and a half hours the other night in the Never-Ending Book Quiz. If anyone here finds their way to that neck of the Interwoods, or if you're already on there, my user name is Malsies. I'm a Gemini who enjoys the beach, King Arthur lore, and people who say hello.
I am just plain tired. I'm tired because I haven't slept much the past three nights. I'm tired of acting happy when I'm sad. I'm tired of being reassuring when I'm not sure of anything. I'm tired of trying to make everyone happy. I'm tired of being afraid to leave my bedroom. I'm tired of not being able to tell the whole truth. I'm tired of here. I'm tired of now. I'm tired of me. I just want out.
This is a more in-depth explanation to the situation I alluded to in my last blog. So, I love my boyfriend very much. He's funny, playful, smart, and good at pretty much anything he tries. In almost every aspect, we are perfect together. However, he is a couple years younger than I am. I feel like a lot of our relationship (3.5 years) has been me waiting for him. Waiting for him to get into school, to get his driver's license, to save up money, to be ready to get our own place. I'm ready to be an adult now, and I don't know that he is. I have a friend who I like very much. He doesn't exactly click with me like my boyfriend does, but we have a lot in common. Plus he's my age, he's in his fourth year of college for civil engineering, and he lives by himself. We talk a lot, and often our conversations last for four or more hours. He's wanted a relationship with me for a long time, but I was never available. I'm at a crossroads. I can see being happy with either one of these guys, but for totally different reasons. I know that, if I do break up with my current boyfriend, I won't immediately jump into another relationship. It's not smart, and it's not practical. However, I don't know that I do want to break up with him. He hasn't exactly done anything wrong. However, I can wait forever for him to grow up. In the past couple weeks, I've changed my mind about this several times, and I can't seem to come to a satisfactory conclusion. I feel like I need to decide what I'm going to do, or go completely insane.
I can't explain why. Trying wouldn't help. But it's like I have a Presidential Debate going on inside my head. Except that they're not just debating, they're also fighting to the death with battleaxes inside a ring of fire. They both make very good points, but I can't trust either one completely. (If you hadn't picked it up yet, this isn't actually about politics.)
I went to the flea market this weekend with a friend. Our main mission was to find him a sword or three, but we took our time browsing around. In one stall, I found a basket of Beanie Babies for $1 each. Like many children of the 90's, I collected the hell out of Beanie Babies as a kid. I remember people waiting outside of stores early in the morning to get their hands on the new releases. I remember doing extra chores to get the money to buy the Princess Diana Bear. I remember how the price of a Beanie Baby would skyrocket when it was announced as retired. I remember being at this very flea market ten years ago, and even here not being able to find Beanie Babies for less than $20 a pop. Yet here was Chocolate the Moose, Nanook the Husky, and Zip the Cat in a $1 bin. All retired beanies that probably would have sold for over $100 each when I was collecting them. It made me a little sad, and a little nostalgic. I bought one of the cats for sentimental value.
My car has been falling apart since I first bought it. In some ways, it's a lucky thing. It looks so bad from the outside that no one in their right mind would dream of trying to steal it. If the locks worked, I would still never have to worry about locking it. I love my car. I love driving it fast down rural roads, with the moon roof and the one working window open so that the wind can ruffle my hair. I turn the music up loud, and I sing until my throat is raw, and I can feel the tension leaving my body through the tips of my fingers and the ends of my hair. Out here in the boonies, you can't drive anywhere without racking up biomass. Little flecks appear on the windshield. Splats of red, brown, and yellow. Smears that used to be sentient life. At night, they appear in your high beams, illuminated, like those "Balls Of Light" that show up in pictures of old, dusty houses, the ones that paranormal investigators claim to be proof of ghosts. At high speeds like this, my car feels like it's going to shake apart. The bad wheel makes a lot of noise. I turn the music up louder, threatening to blow out the ancient speakers. Yesterday, I drove out to see my great grandmother. It was her eighty-ninth birthday. It's terrifying what age can do to even the most beautiful, fierce, independent woman. Her living room is filled with flowers from family and friends, though she can't tell me who most of them are from. She still remembers me, although she doesn't remember me calling her to say I was coming over. During the half hour that I stay, she asks me four times where I am working, and if I enjoy it. She asks five times how I knew it was her birthday, and twice how old I am now. She talks about how much she misses my mother. My beautiful, vivacious, self-destructive mother. She asks me to talk to her about coming to visit. I say that I will. I don't want to add that mom has cut ties with everyone in my family except my brother and me. I don't want to tell my grandmother my fear that she'll cut ties with me, too, if I push the subject. A nurse from hospice pulls into the driveway. I let her in, and take my cue to leave. I decline for the fourth time to take some flowers home with me, and kiss my great grandmother good-bye. On the way home, I drive extra fast and turn up the music extra loud.
I'm home. I have my car back, I have my minimal social life back, and I'm about to have my job back. Everything back to normal, right? Well, there's a couple things. First and foremost, I need to find an apartment for my boyfriend and I. The cost of living is so damn expensive here, especially when you're working retail for $7.25 an hour. I want to be out on my own more than anything. But the thought terrifies me. What if we get out there, and we find that we can't make it? It doesn't help that the economy is getting worse and worse, and prices for everything are going up and up. The other thing that worries me is school. I'm not stupid. I know that. However, I've wasted just about all my college fund taking random classes because I have no idea what to do with my life. And I still don't know! I have my AA degree, plus a slew of absolutely useless credit hours. I keep telling my family that I'm making progress. I don't want to go to them and say, "Well, all my college money is gone, and I still don't have a bachelor's degree." I know what I want to do. I want to join the Peace Corps and get the hell out of here. I want to do something worthwhile instead of sitting around waiting for an epiphany. However, I don't think I have the courage to do it alone. My boyfriend says that once he gets some school out of the way, he'll marry me and we'll go in together. I don't know how long that will take, though. I don't know how long I can stand to wait.
It's Valentine's Day again. Almost. Cubic zirconia will never be good enough for this holiday, no sir. On Valentine's day, it just isn't love if you don't get real diamonds, Swiss chocolate, expensive flower arrangements, restaurant reservations that had to be made six months in advance... Tacky heart-shaped jewelry will masquerade as true love, red silk lingerie as affection, and lovers will be enamoured of the gifts they've exchanged rather than each other's eyes. Valentine's day just screams fake to me. It doesn't mean love. It means pumping money into the economy, under the guise of showing your true feelings. Because if you don't buy your lover a fancy musical card, you have no heart. Then again, I might just be bitter because my boyfriend is far away.
