on driving at night...
There was a moment today, while I was driving, when I was alone on the night road. Four lanes of highway is just too much room... White dashes flashing by, seemingly into the hood of my car, creating an optical illusion that the road was getting narrower. As the car was slowly climbing a hill, there was a moment when the road ended and turned into sky. No horizon -- just road and navy blue sky.
Being alone, my mind wandered. Was this a metaphor for my life? Constantly traveling... always moving, going somewhere. Will I always rush to get away from where I am? to grow up? to change? Is life only the search for something else, something more, until we die?
My father went to Ukraine to join in the protests, to dress in orange and play the part of the political activist. Funny that he's never even been remotely interested in politics before this election. On the one hand, it could be because this is the first time that Ukraine has a glimmer of hope for a true change. However, my father was barely moved in 1992 when we got independence. On the other hand, this is a chance for him to gain meaning for his life. He judges his life by how interesting it is to tell to others, and this would be one heck of a story.
I didn't follow in my father's footsteps of loving to be the life of the party, telling stories and anecdotes, which is probably why I don't have the same method of estimation of my life. I think I value my life by how many people I've touched, affected, influenced. The fact so many people love me (or have loved me) means a lot to me. The fact that I can be loved and can move people -- that moves me, and gives me a reason to live.
on writing...
There is a moment when you read your own writing and you wonder whether it is your own - your voice. Aside from AIM-speak, our written language tends to be more formal than our spoken words. Still, while rereading my JP, I am blown away by its complexity. Five years ago, I would have never believed that I would be writing these types of papers.
I wonder if one's typed language differs from one's hand-written language. That would be an interesting study to do. (I'm a psychology major with a flair for language, so this is my cup of tea). Along the same lines, while doing research on the "tip of the tongue" effect, I came across research on slips of the tongue and slips of the pen. Neither were actually explained, but their similarities were pointed out. At first I thought mistakes while typing (typing the wrong word) could be considered "slips of the pen," but too much muscle memory is involved in typing. So when I want to type "thin" and it comes out "this" because the latter is more frequent, it shouldn't be of surprise.
More later. Back to my JP.
on sleep..
To say good night to someone at 5am is disturbing, even more so when you are not the one to be heading to bed. Once again, it is the morning and I am still awake, but barely. My mind is in a fog, and my body weak from lack of movement. I've spent nearly the last 18 hrs writing. Just as this paper is on the tip of my tongue, so is the topic (i.e. I'm writing about the tip-of-the-tongue effect).
Sleep is not a slice of death. Death should not require a conscious effort. Yet I do not resist sleep (nor death) on purpose. With each hour sleep eludes me, death draws nearer, my body grows wearier. Although that bothers me, there is little I can do, but wait for sleep (and death, perhaps). We all sleep, as much as we all die. And each instance we wake up we are nearer to death (a day older).
I'm not usually this morbid. Writing a JP for several days straight will make one's thinking not as straight. And wondering what the consequences of not doing well would be makes one's perspective skewed.
...to sleep, perchance to dream...
on peace...
There is a peace that we seek -- inside ourselves -- a quietude that nothing external can offer. It is the comfort of confidence in tomorrow. It is a calm retrospection on the past, knowing that what was created what is, and that is the only way to be here today.
There is a peace that we seek -- yet is so hard to find. We busy ourselves with the present. We worry ourselves with what's to come. We cringe at regrets of what happened before, and we forget to breathe.
There is a peace that we seek -- and keep seeking.
on fears...
There is nothing to fear but fear itself. What do I fear?
Failure. Perfection has been my goal since the first moment it became a possibility in my mind -- perfect grades, perfect posture, perfect manners, perfect body. All my life, I have been striving to improve. Never far enough, I've reached further, stretching myself like Elastagirl from the Incredibles. Jumped higher. Worked longer. One of my greatest fears is to lose everything I've worked for, to not become everything my parents have dreamed for, to let myself down.
Abandonment. Being left behind, left alone, unloved, unwanted. Psychologically it might stem from my father always leaving me and my mother behind. Now, he's left for real, choosing a young girl over a family. Yet, even years ago, he was always going away -- to the army, to the United States, from the US back to Ukraine for months at a time. Perhaps this fear is one of the reasons I stayed with E for so long and afterwards came back to him so often -- because I knew that he'd always be there for me. He would have done anything for me and I didn't know if anyone would ever feel the same way about me again. Perhaps that is also why I have nightmares about J leaving or not wanting me any more...
What else... Heights. But that's exciting as much as frightening.
Deep water. Being in a submarine would be horrible. The fear that water would leak in and we would all drown... and the pressure....
Most insects are icky, but I don't think that counts as a fear, per se. I just avoid them.
Can't think of any more big ones. Too tired to be creative.
on dancing...
Dancing is listening to a beat and letting it run through your body, pulsing through your limbs. I'm not talking about choreographed dancing -- that's muscle memory (and some emotion). Freestyling is where true creative power is exhibited. When the bass resonates in your chest, and your shoulders shrug to the beat unconsciously... When your feet start moving and the rhythm gets stuck in your head until you can't help but dance it out, the way your body wants to express it.
Freestyling is like putting words to the music -- visual lyrics. The smoother your movements, the more eloquent your style. The more unique, the more captivating. When you enter a circle of familiar faces, who are cheering for you, believe in you, support you, and your body feels the music and moves with it -- that's a rush you could never get from drugs.
That said, I performed tonight with my break-dancing crew. Being one of only two girls in the crew (and usually the only one that actually performs or battles) is empowering. I like the rush. At the same time, it's scary. Everyone expects you to not do well - they just don't expect much from a girl. If you go out there, and show them that girls can do that shit, too, they give you props. But if you fuck up, they still give you props, just because you're a girl, doing a guy thing.
Tonight, after the show a couple of chicks came up to me and were saying that I'm really good. I was flattered, but I know I didn't actually dance that well today, since I'm sick (again, still). Part of me loves the attention, but I also have performance anxiety. Much less now than my first times out a couple of years ago. Confidence is important out there, but confidence + adrenaline can lead to bad decisions (like thinking you can do a move well that you've been practicing for only a couple of weeks on stage -- pretty unlikely).
My antidrug is dancing.
Dancing is powerful. It can seduce, impress, surprise. No wonder it had been outlawed in some conservative places.
on messiness...
In my head there's some shelves that need cleaning from basement to ceiling... control... ~Blue October, "The Answer"Does clutter in one's living space mean that the mind is cluttered? Looking around myself, I barely see the floor. A dirty glass stands to the left of my keyboard. A bowl from yesterday's cereal to the right. The wrapper to the Advil I took this morning, a post-it note reminding me to go to an experiment last week... all crowding me, like souvenirs of my inner confusion.
When I was little, my mother made me clean my room once a week. What seemed like a grand punishment at the time is now my secret source of rebellion. The last time I cleaned my room was before J's first arrival. I wanted so much for him not to see my messiness...
My life has been messy in general. But what interesting life isn't? People often enjoy stories from my past -- about fleeing to Siberia after Chernobyl's accident to escape radiation, about pretending to be Jewish to get a good ESL education, about romantic misadventures, about traveling around Europe with my sister... It makes me feel like I've lived, at least a little. My mess is real. It makes me real.
on eavesdropping...
My roommate is crying next door. Her boyfriend is comforting her, saying something in the form of an apology. Her sobs resonate through my room, because there is no wall between us. Technically, there should be, but the room is constructed such that the wall is actually a partition that ends just before the window, and what separates us next to our room-long windows is mere millimeters thick. Her bed is next to the wall, so I can almost perfectly hear their conversation, not intending to eavesdrop.
"Do you really want to be with me?" she asks, her voice almost a whine.
"Of course, I do. I would not be here if it didn't matter."
"Honestly, you swear?"
"Yes. Yes," he insists, exhibiting more patience than I could imagine myself having with someone speaking in such an annoying tone.
"Really?"
"Yes." Here, I hear kissing, and turn the volume on my music player louder.
I'm left even thankful that my boyfriend and I avoid this drama. Perhaps it's because he feels immediately when anything is even slightly off and tries to fix it. Perhaps it is because I'm less like a "woman" in my way of dealing with problems -- less petty. I went through too many tears with my ex, where they seemed to be drawn from a bottomless well. Perspective helps to make little problems seem little. I didn't have much perspective in high school. Or in middle school for that matter -- then, dating someone 5 years older seemed like a cool thing to do, made me feel special, made me forget that a high school senior who goes out with a 12 year old probably has some severe problems. I was too young and naive to realize that. I paid for that stupidity, though.
on autumn...
This one moment -- pure, perfect -- struck me today. The autumn blossoming in yellow and red petticoats... morning sunlight creeping through cracks in the foliage... and suddenly, two dozen leaves decide at once -- without wind or coersion -- to let their stems go of the branches and freefall into the sky...
on stress...
My current state of mind.
on missing...
I miss his arms around me, holding me... I miss the way his arm fits right under my head... I miss the way he tells me that he loves me.
You set up your place in my thoughts, moved in and made my thinking crowded... ~Indigo Girls
on divorce...
51% of couples who get married in the US get divorced. That's a huge percentage. Still, if you ask a couple on their wedding day what the chances are that they will get divorced, they'll be grossly overconfident. Perhaps that overconfidence is the one thing that keeps lovers getting married, taking that risk.
I remember when E and I made the "My Best Friend's Wedding" pact... that if we're not married by the time we're 28 (rather, I'm 28, since he's older) and we don't have anyone in our lives, then we'll get married to each other. Just a year ago, that sounded like a possibility... now, we have grown so far apart, I'm not sure I'll even be invited to his wedding (hypothetically, of course).
The pain of losing a friend is hard to describe. I feel like I've lost a part of myself that no one else really can ever know. Every person we come in contact with knows us in a certain way -- learns certain details about us that no one else can ever understand -- sees us in a light that no one else could squint their eyes to see. He saw me through a difficult and awkward time and helped me out of it. I don't think anyone else will ever again see me dumpster-diving or blowing up cantaloupes with fireworks. Know one will ever know that part of me again.
Perhaps, some parts of us are meant to die as we mature. But it's nice to know that someone remembers you as you once were. I'm definitely not the person I was back then. Rather, the person I am now grew out of the seeds of my experiences then, but barely resembles that one.
Why I remembered about E is that this summer, he was the person I tried to turn to about my parents' separation. I figured that he knows them the best since he lived across the street and he would have insight that no one else could offer. I guess I was mistaken, because he offered little comfort. When I came back from Ukraine, we went out to eat. He brought it up, and I had been containing it for so long that I started crying. He didn't even say anything. And didn't hug me or anything. I think that might have hurt more than thinking about my parents. I felt like I had definitely lost a friendship that had meant so much to both of us.
Is it normal to be better friends with males than females, in general? I wrote my college application essay about that. All my life, it seems like that was the case. Even now, the person I trust most and share my life with is my boyfriend. Girlfriends are good for cheering up or listening to my whinging, but when it comes to needing someone there, I turn to J.
I had an awful nightmare last night. Woke up from it crying and couldn't stop. Haven't been able to focus on anything all day since then. Need to get myself together.
...where every step I took in faith betrayed me.
~Sarah Mclachlan
on jealousy...
Jealousy is a sign of weakness, which I try to avoid. I trust people until they have proved themselves untrustworthy. That means that I trust him.
J inadvertently asked me today if I am a jealous person. He's apartment hunting and one possibility is sharing an apartment with at 25 year-old female law student, so he asked for my opinion.
I wouldn't be jealous... but I may be scared. Partly because there is a much greater probability of something romantic developing with a person when you are in close proximity. In other words, I'd have a greater chance of losing him. How can I forget that my father and G lived in the same house for a year and a half, which eventually led to his affair? I'm afraid that I might become more apprehensive in general, which might cause problems between us, since that makes me tend to be quiet. We've never had any real issues. It's always been perfect. I don't want that to change.
In all, who am I to talk about jealousy, when I've been a monster in previous relationships? In the past, I'd refuse to be labeled as anything more than a friend, while expecting the treatment of a girlfriend. I would think it almost amusing when new guys became jealous over my ex-boyfriend (of several years). I even partly thrived on his persisting love for me, while still rejecting him. A horrible person. A monster. Why should I expect anyone to be good to me?
At the same time, perhaps I've learned my lesson. I've learned many in my life. Academically, emotionally, and physically. I'd like to think that I've changed, or grown, because I realize that now.
on procrastination...
Have you ever felt you entire will refuse you? My mind keeps saying that I need to do one thing, but my fingers and my body do completely the opposite. Why is Scrabble so addicting? What is it about making words out of random letters that appeals? Or is it just the competition, just for a moment feeling smarter than another. Ivy leagues do a good job of putting you in your place as far as intelligence. Perhaps, this is my revenge. It may also be my downfall...
begin at the beginning...
I've abandoned every other journal I've ever started, perhaps because it somehow became public and I started to withhold from it. As soon as restrained was issued, it became fake, like the everyday version of my life. Some diaries, I burned, some are hidden in boxes in the attic for me to reread when I'm 50 and laugh at my naivete. Why am I starting one online, then? Because there is a part of me that wishes to make my thoughts public domain, not necessarily read or interpreted or commented on by others, but just for them to be a part of the literary universe. I've been advised to publish -- books or poetry or otherwise, but when it comes down to it, I'm afraid of rejection.
Most journals are started at a bad point in a person's life, when they need to vent, to share their frustration, to let the world know their pain. This one is not like that. I cannot say that I'm not happy. Despite the insanity that's going on in the political world, which I, not being able to vote, could not do a thing about, there is little to complain about. Disappointed - yes, but hopeless. More worried about my home country though, which is on the verge of a civil war.
A few words to describe myself... actually I'd rather not. Perhaps anonymity will help me continue writing.
At the moment, I'm procrastinating writing an abnormal psychology paper... and reading the behemoth called Quiet Flows the Don, which I'm supposed to finish by tomorrow. But I'm basically going to fuck it all for now and go break(dance).
Photography
Some of my photographs:
Posts about photography:
Dancing
Posts about breakdancing and dancing in general:
Psychology
Post about things psychological:
Creative Writing
a little bit of poetry... a little bit of prose... and a little bit of both...
a few of note:
