I think
Who is this I call
My soul (whose calm)?
(Or whose storm to calm).
Stuck in startling search
I feed on silence a lot
(to be strong).
And I seek my shape
In the depth of closeness
And farness (both are like dance).
And I distribute myselves in strange words
Three dimensionally,
To accommodate my imagination
Yet, again I ask, who am I?
October 10 2014
My name is Beca.
When I think about my name I think about cones mostly. The cones I mean, that grow on pine trees. Sometimes I envision this deep forest, the breadth of it reaching further than my imagination and in there these quiet pine trees standing still, unperturbed, knowing. I think about time and about how time probably forgets that it is flowing, when it's around these pine trees.
But I'm getting carried away. mostly I just imagine the cones. How they come out, how they grow, maintaining their initial structure. I imagine what they are like - dry, edgy, humorless.
These three words obviously also apply to me. I always felt like that. lacking moisture, joy and curves. Which can also be said literally, but that's not the point. The point is that I do am, edgy, I mean. I can think about million perspectives to align this word to myself. I am neurotic, easily irritable, constantly wanting to get to the line. wondering just what's there at the border, what's there after this one step, what's there on the unknown land I haven't seen. Do I want to?
I am Beca and this is the story of my life. No, that's not right. This is not a story because I have no idea how to write stories, so let's just call it a store (very original) for my random, inadequate thoughts, which I don't know how to express any other way. I can't sing, I can't paint, I can't cook... In fact if I think about it I can't write either but in contrast to singing or painting - I can try.
So yeah, basically, most of the time I have no clue what goes in my head and I came up with this idea, to try and make sense of them by putting all on paper, or on screen as in right now. there will be a lot of rambling I feel. so be it. let's get this ship sailing. in the air. in the colorful air. with triangular air fishes also gliding by. I like triangles. (wow, so much cheer).
Any other angles too, really. There is something fascinating about two lines crawling, crawling and then, suddenly, crossing and creating this elegant gulf, this handsome surprise. How amazing is that? the dwelling place emerging so effortlessly, naturally, selflessly. This is how I think of beauty. Something that takes you beyond possibilities. Something that has a mind of it's own. Beauty feels like yielding into something that is grander than you. Nietzsche would say that beauty is Dionysian. (I really liked that essay).
In a way beauty is an escape. you escape yourself, you escape ordinary life, you escape continuousness. It's like all other times are similar bits and pieces of similar common experiences and suddenly you fall into this wholeness of feeling - like a carnival.
But where was I? yeah, my store of thoughts and all that shit. What should I name thee? Something classical, mythological maybe? Pandora's box? No, that's too grim and inappropriate, even though this idea stems from my curiosity to unwrap myself, my plan definitely doesn't include unleashing all kinds of ailing and misery on the world. So no, and pandora is a bit too feminine for my liking. My diary is certainly not female. that would be illogical. So I think it will be… The Weird Fish. yes, that's it. I like that. You will be my weird fish. (again, so original Beca).
So what do you want to know diary dearest? Where should I start? Maybe in the middle?
October 2011 I think - the beginning of my senior year of undergraduate studies. I feel like I want to ease into it. I don't know I feel like I should talk about the "preliminary period" if it even can be called that. A time before everything in my personal life will start to change and head in another direction. But that doesn't seem quite right. Rather I should say a time before my life would swerve and once again head in the wrong direction.
Yes, That's more accurate. My life is a collection of wrong directions. Always heading somewhere it weren't supposed to go. As soon as one trail draws to a close another faulty one starts, like an extension of a disease. Reins let go. The horse galloping meaninglessly through the dunes and the sand is everywhere, everywhere endlessly, going on and on, perpetuating emptiness which is unreal.
October of 2011 was the same as October 2010. I was a stranger. Other people were not. I missed classes or just mentally missed, other people didn't. I was queer, rigid and inhibited. Others were normal. I was very solitary yet never felt alone. I was closed off, isolated, distanced. Yet I felt like I was a gift to the world and to my peers which they couldn't appreciate because they didn't have the appropriate eyes to SEE ME. I was conceited, hungry for attention and my peers disliked me. They couldn't figure out what kind of product I was. And I was a very uneasy one to deal with.
It makes me smile now. I have grown I guess. But it is such a bittersweet feeling. Sometimes I want to ask myself what would I prefer? would I prefer not growing up and possibly still being that arrogant, looking down at others, still being - that sensitive towards everything, that self-conscious and broody, proper, starved, strange, emotionally underdeveloped, with distasteful superior attitude that made everyone hate me. I looked at people as though they were blind and I was the only one who could see. I looked down on people. I wanted to tell them - "I know and you don't", "Your life is superficial, your desires impertinent" - oh, so high and almighty! I thrust my mental pincers where they were not asked for or welcome. And people were not people for me - they were experiments. They were food. To be observed, to be mentally digested and spiritually eaten.
I remember her only in theory. this is how far the "aftermath" went: erasing almost every emotional attachment or understanding I might have had with my previous self. I remember her like one remembers somebody else's story. You know it happened, maybe you even were there but you can't understand the narrator at all, can't relate to her/him. It is just a story, like any other story, a mix of words and instances that has some importance to somebody. But not to you. One day I could wake up and convince myself that I had different major and total blast at university and that would be as much a truth as this. As real. Because the past is not real.
There is a rupture in the line.
October 13 2014
When I was young my grandfather used to say that things always come together. As time flows and seasons change (that was his second favourite topic by the way) life reveals itself and the threads entwine, in a peculiar, enthralling manner that you could never have predicted yourself and that is the magic of life.
Well I am 24 now and life has not revealed much to me.
Except probably these three things: I don't know who I am. I don't know who I want to be. I don't know if I can ever know any of the other two.
October 14 2014
It used to be worse. It is better now. Remember Beca. You Must Remember. You must fight. You must. Or everything is lost. You are lost. And you should care about that. You are the only thing you have.
October 15 2014
I still can't get out of my head.
Today I was out with Em, we went to this hipster place we like, "Chat Noir", to catch up a bit. There is nothing "Noir" about that place really. It's old tables with flowers and cat's on the walls, some old letters here and there, amiable light and pretty cool atmosphere. I was a bit late when I arrived, Emily was waiting outside as usual, still can't teach that girl to not wait for me. So we went in but my bra straps were slipping all the time on my way to there, so irritating, so I wanted to go to the restroom as fast as possible but guess I was not fast enough. Do I even care? Stacie sat at the back, with her friends and other people. Lily was there too. I wanted to slip past unnoticed. It doesn't matter so why shouldn't I? She saw me so I couldn't just ignore her and go on my way. That would be rude and she'd doubtlessly reprimand me later. She still has this weird habit of demanding I greet her like a proper person. It still doesn't matter. Hadn't mattered for a long while now. We greeted each other. As we occasionally do and went on our separate, merry ways.
Sometimes I wish she and Lily just moved to another town so we don't have to have these pointless, impotent greetings. Greeting people is not difficult for me at all. Greeting Stacie and Lily is not difficult either. I just feel, every time, that it would be better if it was.
October 15 2014
the day i met Stacie is the day i can't remember but she does or she did. she told me. maybe that was the day Stacie met me and not the day i met Stacie. so the day i met Stacie would be at the party. how ironic.
the community had a small gathering at Flu's place and by community i mean gay people, girls, mostly close acquaintances. Flu's real name was Florencia, but everybody called her Flu, she called herself Flu. Flu was this social honey-girl type of a person, she stuck people to herself and liked to constantly be in others' company, i think it was a part of her identity and self realisation, she revelled in introducing people to herself, obviously, and to each other, to bringing these different tones and bashing them together in a chaotic pattern or picture that took a life of its own. Back then i really liked observing and categorizing people, being as detailed as possible. To me Flu was shallow and dramatic, a spectator by nature, she could be watching kangaroo sex on nat geo or stupid cheerleaders bitch at each other on fox tv, yet she chose rather to create her own mini soap opera, always tweaking strings go reveal drama, to concoct something fleshy. In my mind i was the most interesting person, in Flu's mind i was probably a raw, ok-eish meat that leads a mildly uninteresting literaturistic life. yep, her exact words. or rather 'wordishsomethings'. i disliked Flu but I'd never directly tell her that. I disliked Flu and her stupid then-girlfriend Frannie. two peas in a pod. i disliked Flu but Flu didn't dislike me so i was invited and i came. and so did some others. and some of them would have a grandiose impact on my life later.
today i was trying to explain to Em that the united reality or shared reality is an illusion, no such thing exists. people don't share realities, there is no shared reality, everybody is in their own heads, in their own reality and nobody understands anybody else.
sometimes when i sit in the room full of people i think - what is the use of talking, communicating? there is no communication. communication is impossible.
I feel this helplessness yet I know this can't be any other way. once i imagined what it would be like if we could record our experiences like songs and if you could then 'listen' or rather feel somebody else's experience (and feelings), like the way you listen to an mp3 songs on ipod. probably the extension of experience would be 'xps'. but would even experiences converted to 'xps' help me get closer to others? i wonder.
most people don't probably ever notice this but all their so called communication is based on belief. you believe that when you said you are angry i know how angry feels. but do I? do i know how angry feels to you? so easy, so fundamental i don't know how angry feels for you and i can't ever know, because i should be you to know it and i can't be you. so i can't understand you, i can only understand the copy of you in me. it's my reproduction of you. there is no you, i don't understand your anger, i understand my anger and tag your name on it.
sometimes i think what it would be like if we could swap minds temporarily or swap thoughts and emotions, why are we such underdeveloped species? we could have had a consciousness transferring capacities, like bluetooth, i don't know. we don't, so we are stuck in this united aloneness. united aloneness of humanity.