sublingua | |||||
The heart with a mind of its own.(Be present.) | The mind with a heart of its own.(It's past.) | The dream that is your waking life.(Go there now.) | |||
cursive reflexive, or, cursed & reflective: less perhaps more than more
dearest, there is not a chance that you will see this email before you get here and i can tell you about everything in it my own damn self. (that sounds real forceful, but it's just a curse-ive reflexive--which is a new grammatical category that i'm trying to get off the ground. pass it around, in other words.) so the dreaded four person class went okay yesterday. by okay i mean as well as can be expected. and by as well as can be expected i mean that no one ended up dead. cut dead is another matter however as there was another attempt at connection from the matthew that went something like this: i am trying to save my last eunuchs of rage for a worthy occasion, and consequently have been trying to be nice to smirka (she, if you recall, of the "i work in a blab" conversation). she, yesterday, was doing the crossword in the campus newspaper (i know. don't strain yourself, right?), and so i said, "the crossword? let's see what you've got." and we bent over the little square of newsprint together looking at clues. we started chatting about some clue or another that prompted her to ask my major. i answered and asked her hers. she is a double major: english and art history. i asked her if she had ever taken an art history class from a woman named katherine waymire. matthew pipes up: "i took a class with her." and the response (from both me and smirka) was: "(insert silence here)." then smirka and i went on chatting about the crosswords, and the professor came in and joined us, and matthew sat there hiding dejection. or rejection. or whatever-the-motherfucking-ection. don't care. not my problem. also? he attempted a lot of eye contact, which, despite the vato paul lesson, i could not bring myself to match. i suppose that's because it wasn't so long ago that eye-contact constituted the only way that we could touch each other and i don't want to encourage that kind of thing now. though i still miss him, sophistica. if i'm being brave, i can avoid admitting that, but even with all my unspent eunuchs--which are burning a hole in my pocket even as we speak--i still miss this man. i still want him to notice me and to hurt when he does because he decided not to be in my life. i want him to regret not being in my life. i want him to regret his decision in regards to that. i want him to miss me too. that's a terrible thing, i think, to want for someone else to feel, as i know firsthand that it hurts. ugh. and i am also aware that i haven't given max's state of mind half the attention that i give the matthew's. this, i am sure, along with everything else makes me not a very good person. i probably need to work on that. but later, right? i'll work on that later. anyway. so last night's conversation was interrupted by lea, who wanted to tell me about dinner with her new crush, lua. lua is this woman who works at the school of natural therapeutics with leah--or who did until she (lua) asked for more money and was "let go." anyway, lua is a biker babe--babe in quotes, as it's one of those things where lea sees her through the eyes of lust--but honestly, she is not bad looking. (lea had a picture of her, and so i got to see her.) lua is 32, with dark hair, pale skin and blue eyes, rides a motorcycle, is a recovering alcoholic, and has a bit of a guarded look in her eye. she enjoys long walks on the beach, alfresco dining, and musical theater. dial 199 to leave a message for lua. um. so it was totally girly to sit there on my bed, eating chips from the bag, talking to lea about her crush. i never really had those girly moments in my life, so it felt a bit, oh, i don't know. unreal maybe? or forced? but gently forced, if forced. i don't know what kinds of questions one asks about crushes. i don't know how to respond. should i be encouraging? should i tell her to turn back, ala dante and my recent experiences? i don't know. but girly? never did it. but i suppose the situation couldn't be more ideal for a maiden voyage into girly: a lesbian crush, a bag of chips, a futon, and me. strange but true tales from the lives of the girly inept. later: so i finally got to go and see my piece hung. it looked all forlorn and out of place amongst the other pieces, as it is the only mixed media piece and the only "non-functional" ceramic piece. but still, it was nice to see my stuff hung. always a thrill. (damn, isn't this exciting patter? really, i'm trying to kill a bit of time until a review for chemistry. today cary busted out the patented morrow "you all obviously don't know this stuff" lecture. deservedly so, as we are working on stuff that we should ideally have learned in 301 and no one, including me, knew a goddamn thing. at least i have an excuse: i had ham for 301. and ham? well, he wasn't too keen on making people feel badly for not knowing anything, so his solution to this was to not really require you to know anything at all. and then i got my a in the class and then ham left, and then i tried to take 302 from every other chemistry professor who teaches it, and then i dropped it every time because i had not the slightest idea what was going on. and that is the sad and ignoble end of the story of sublingua's career as an organic chemistry student.) days and days later: god, this is turning into some kind of epic saga. i mean, sans the epic and sans the saga part of that. and by that, i guess i mean that it's just long and meandering. so maybe i should have compared it to the mississippi river sans the huck and sans the finn. so four person class and the matthew conversation? i guess i've had a day to chew on it (thank you, brain) and i'm still a bit confused. my last words to him were about how he does the madonna/whore thing and how i have a few eunuchs of rage with his name on them or some such nonsense. i say, get out with a bang if you have to get out at all. but still, as he was telling me about his parents' car accident and about his brother's drunken stupidity and about his leaving the church, i got the feeling that he hadn't told anyone else about any of these things and that he hadn't told anyone else about any of these things because he hasn't anyone else to tell about these things. and it was a kind of emotionally detached observation in which i didn't stop to think, as i used to, that i was an integral part of the proceedings because now i can see that to him i am just a kind of listening device that uses a different kind of fuel source than ordinary electronic listening devices. and that was fine, i suppose. i suppose it has to be. eight more weeks, sophistica. eight more weeks and then i don't have to look at this man and wonder if he still cares about me. i can sit in the privacy of my own apartment and wonder if he still cares about me. i can cut him out of the loop.
much later: this all has no more to do with anything than it did when i wrote it and even less so now. professor f said in class the other day: "more or less. well, less perhaps more than more." and did i say i love her? am going to send this off to get it out of my hair and start fresh on a new one in reply to your new one. there's a light and it never goes out-- sublingua
More lies:
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