waxwing
25 Feb 2005, 05:23 PM
Yesterday, I realized that there is nothing quite as wonderful as hearing the words, "Your debt is forgiven." Well, okay, the loan representative didn't exactly say those words, but she did say that my account balance is back to $0.00 despite my failure to pay for the past three months. I felt like a redeemed sinner. Ha. I know I'm being melodramatic, and it's sort of irrelevent at the moment that I had to agree to a forbearance loan status to experience such seeming redemption, but those are some powerful words. Perhaps it's more the implication that strikes me as meaningful. Money is really not the point here. I'm talking more about feeling bound up in guilt, logistical bullshit, and the fear of failing, and then experiencing a moment of relief. Kind of like the grace period exponentially. Checks bounce back in my face as I'm simply practicing my ping-pong backhand with the table set at a right angle. If they don't bounce, they get stuck in the crack where the vertical and horizontal meet like this: __.| Or, apathy deadens my spirit to the point where nothing matters except those things that hit me hard enough to make me feel something even remotely alive.
While I diverge from tradition in many aspects of my life, chain-smoking against the wind, the reality of my life is that the so-called chain of cigarettes does not bring me any closer to any real, present-tense, life-link. I will receive a bill in the mail. I will need a new alternator. I will get sick, if not with the flu, then with a sort of nondescript illness of the mind. My friend will get killed by a drunk driver; meanwhile, my boyfriend will hit me then profess his undying love for me ("I want to marry you," said sobbing on his way to sleep). In a random "accident," I will destroy the underbelly of my car by hitting a sharp rock the size of a milk carton. I will be informed that "I neglected to pay Dr. Hola Hajimemashite" two years ago when I was in the throes of depression. Right, when all I could think of was ceasing to exist while I stared out the window at a gray miniature globe, you wanted me to whip out the checkbook and pay you for your life-giving services. Ta-da! You're the genie from Aladdin, aren't you? No, really. You replaced the gray with a rainbow spectrum and even were kind enough to take me on a magic carpet ride. "Shining, shimmering, splendid." "What a new, fantastic point of view!" You showed me the world, macrocosmically. I owe you. Big time. Let me tell you how I feel, Prince A-boo-boo. I mean, Aladdin. I mean, Genie....what the fuck? You've mistaken me for Jasmine.
In classic tangential form, the money troubles make me ponder a more grandiose idea -- we buy, we sell, we work, we play , we take, we give, we borrow, and we are expected to pay back. We make one move, perhaps impulsively, and we suffer the consequences mandated by a world we want nothing to do with. We pay Blockbuster late fees (or used to...), meanwhile denying ourselves basic possessions and failing to return our favorite "DVD"s in order to feel human in some nonconventional, profoundly meaningful way. Still, a sense of failure looms. Being human is not enough. Existing is commonplace. Surviving seems sadly bland. Finally, when it seems like I may be emerging from survival mode, I recognize that I may always be there. Hermann Hesse wrote, "An easy life, an easy love, an easy death -- these are not for me." Mmmmhmmm. Perhaps surviving is simply a way of living intensely, on the edge. Hunter S. Thompson talked about the edge, though. This is not the edge. However, I do feel like I'm in a perpetual state of near-hitting, missing, and metaphorical "hits."
But, I don't want a "hit" anymore (cigarettes are long term solutions, of course). No quick fixes. You know what? I can't balance a man. I apparently can't even balance a checkbook. I'm not even sure I can balance a chemical equation anymore. I need any relationship I have, even those I simply observe in the world, to encompass change. I need to strive to understand the world through a kaleidoscopic vision of what may or may not actually be true. So, I find myself once again surviving while trying to find meaning in the way the bathwater's surface feels against my hairline. Feeling like I'm on the verge of drowning in soap-scum or being deported to my home trailer-park state of mind, I'm expending all my energy to doggy-paddle, rapping with my breath something to the effect of, "Damn it all (Take it away, Fifty Cent)....
I hate money....I won't leave you (insert boyfriend's name), but can you just leave me alone, motherfucker (emphasis added)?
While I diverge from tradition in many aspects of my life, chain-smoking against the wind, the reality of my life is that the so-called chain of cigarettes does not bring me any closer to any real, present-tense, life-link. I will receive a bill in the mail. I will need a new alternator. I will get sick, if not with the flu, then with a sort of nondescript illness of the mind. My friend will get killed by a drunk driver; meanwhile, my boyfriend will hit me then profess his undying love for me ("I want to marry you," said sobbing on his way to sleep). In a random "accident," I will destroy the underbelly of my car by hitting a sharp rock the size of a milk carton. I will be informed that "I neglected to pay Dr. Hola Hajimemashite" two years ago when I was in the throes of depression. Right, when all I could think of was ceasing to exist while I stared out the window at a gray miniature globe, you wanted me to whip out the checkbook and pay you for your life-giving services. Ta-da! You're the genie from Aladdin, aren't you? No, really. You replaced the gray with a rainbow spectrum and even were kind enough to take me on a magic carpet ride. "Shining, shimmering, splendid." "What a new, fantastic point of view!" You showed me the world, macrocosmically. I owe you. Big time. Let me tell you how I feel, Prince A-boo-boo. I mean, Aladdin. I mean, Genie....what the fuck? You've mistaken me for Jasmine.
In classic tangential form, the money troubles make me ponder a more grandiose idea -- we buy, we sell, we work, we play , we take, we give, we borrow, and we are expected to pay back. We make one move, perhaps impulsively, and we suffer the consequences mandated by a world we want nothing to do with. We pay Blockbuster late fees (or used to...), meanwhile denying ourselves basic possessions and failing to return our favorite "DVD"s in order to feel human in some nonconventional, profoundly meaningful way. Still, a sense of failure looms. Being human is not enough. Existing is commonplace. Surviving seems sadly bland. Finally, when it seems like I may be emerging from survival mode, I recognize that I may always be there. Hermann Hesse wrote, "An easy life, an easy love, an easy death -- these are not for me." Mmmmhmmm. Perhaps surviving is simply a way of living intensely, on the edge. Hunter S. Thompson talked about the edge, though. This is not the edge. However, I do feel like I'm in a perpetual state of near-hitting, missing, and metaphorical "hits."
But, I don't want a "hit" anymore (cigarettes are long term solutions, of course). No quick fixes. You know what? I can't balance a man. I apparently can't even balance a checkbook. I'm not even sure I can balance a chemical equation anymore. I need any relationship I have, even those I simply observe in the world, to encompass change. I need to strive to understand the world through a kaleidoscopic vision of what may or may not actually be true. So, I find myself once again surviving while trying to find meaning in the way the bathwater's surface feels against my hairline. Feeling like I'm on the verge of drowning in soap-scum or being deported to my home trailer-park state of mind, I'm expending all my energy to doggy-paddle, rapping with my breath something to the effect of, "Damn it all (Take it away, Fifty Cent)....
I hate money....I won't leave you (insert boyfriend's name), but can you just leave me alone, motherfucker (emphasis added)?