upward on the cupola of that street

Hey you,

sorry for being a little AWOL lately.  I’ve been caught up breathing and dreaming.  Lots of alternate universes to explore, and very little sleep.  I guess that’s what you get for being young.  Fuck this.

Songs are fake, they make you live in your head, in the moments that exist only because you recognize them from the rhythm of a tambourine.

“There is no shortage of good days.  It is good lives that are hard to come by.”

“A schedule defends from chaos and whim. It is a net for catching days.” -Annie Dillard

Sometimes things are dirtier after you clean, even though my father doesn’t believe that, not really.  Everything pristine. Everything like the second-hand – he should have been German.

It’s like, things end only to go on and with their continuous mocking make your life endless.  Think about it, because a day has no end, so think about it for stretches at a time.

Appreciation.  Either, “I appreciate you”, or “You appreciate in value as time speeds up.”

I still want to play the guitar but I don’t think I will ever end up playing what I want to play.  I am not that committed, not to disguising paper or strumming strings.  I guess that means I should develop words.

I think I’ve lost my mind, again, in a better, more precise way than last time. (Hey, it’s summertime so it’s the righttime.)

I still hear opera singers from the windows of my dreams.  They sing from the banks of rivers and boats mired in oil spills.  They cry with sound.  Everything is so dirty, and it never gets clean.

-Arina

you came along singing your song

Sure there’s things to update you on, like job progression (or staleness?), or essays (rewritten and edited), or exams (totally unprepared for), but I don’t really want to get into all that.

Whenever things start getting focused on school outside of me, I end up focused on everything inside my mind.

For example, all of my thoughts on my friends, that I generally keep deep deep down in a pit of regression behind my liver (not to be confused with ORGAN of REGRET).

What? See, it’s just that I’ve recently had an incredible falling out with one of my best friends.  And I really don’t know what to think.  And I don’t know if she reads this, and if she does, whether she’d be upset that I’m writing about it, or not, and if she doesn’t, well, it doesn’t hurt her if she doesn’t.  And anyway, she thinks I’m selfish and self-centered, so of course I would just be following in my own prints by writing about more of my problems here, right?

I just wonder about certain friendships you’ve all had that have broken apart for one reason or another. I know we’re in different universities, and therefore different cities, but does that suffice?  Did we become different people? Were we really different people the entire time and then the “keeping up” just pissed us off to real-ness?  She says she was tired of the “pleasantries” necessary to keep up with each other when “I didn’t care anyway”…

I think it’s silly saying I didn’t/don’t care.

But that’s just half an opinion of the situation.

But really? I care about freaking stray cats enough to take em home……. I’m just not the sort of person to not care about people that I respect.

But whatever.  You guys have any stories or words of advice?  I just want to hear words from someone’s mouth other than my own.

Ah well, it was a good Sunday anyway, just thoughts twisting in my head.

Arina

gotta be dead stupid to sleep on this

It’s almost February.  A twelfth of my year has gone by, and that makes me a little bit sad.  Does it make you sad?

I decided not to write what I started writing, because I know, I know I know that poetry saves me more than once.  So again, I turn to this metaphor.  I turn to this word or phrase to save my mind.

Here’s some Rumi for your Saturday morning.

Leaves About to Let Go

This world of two gardens, both so beautiful.
This world, a street where a funeral is passing.

Let us rise together and leave this world,
as water goes bowing down itself to sea.

From gardens to the gardener,
from grieving to a wedding feast.

We tremble like leaves about to let go.
There is no avoiding pain,
or feeling exiled, or the taste of dust.

But also we have a green-winged longing
for the sweetness of the friend.

These forms are evidence of what cannot be shown.
Here is how it is to go into that:
Rain that has been leaking into the house
decides to use the downspout.

The bent bowstring straining at our throats
releases and becomes the arrow.

Mice quivering in fear of the housecat
suddenly change to half-grown lion cubs,
afraid of nothing.

So let us begin the journey home,
with love and compassion for guides,
and grace protecting.

Let your soul turn into an empty mirror
that passionately wants to reflect Joseph.
Hand him your present.

Now let silence speak.
As that begins, we will start out.

You know, for a person that is not very sure of themselves, I am very sure of things like this.  Their ability to change your train of thought and predisposition of mind.  You are no longer biased towards awkwardness and desolation and giving up.  You are reborn with every word.  Your thoughts take shape all around you when you read this.  Like some sort of high-tech new fangled 3D contraption of poetry.  I saw this digital design project from some student that attempted to chart poems in 5 dimensions or so.  It was the magnum opus of some graduating student, and it was pretty cool but it didn’t have nearly enough depth that it should have.

I guess what I have to say for today, January 30, 2010 is that I need to backtrack a little to pick some things up.  I have forgotten pieces of myself all over this world and it shows, to him it shows, and I know it shows to my family.  If anyone is to love others, they must love themselves.  And I am wracked by self-doubt every minute. It’s like, awesome, but really not.

I guess I just don’t know what I’m capable of.

But yeah, poetry is good.

So, so good.

Ciao. Arina.

the cure for pain

There is so little I need from life, but so much that I ask of it.  It’s tough to crowd out a popular opinion when it is your own and you are a bull (no, seriously).

I have realized lately that your being, your person, your personality, WHATever, is something that needs to be tended to and refurbished every once in a spring-time.  I need some fertilizer.  I need some poetry.

It’s not something that grows naturally once you get older, it’s something your stream of consciousness puts together in a coherent string of something and you decide to call it a life.  But life isn’t called anything until it’s built and re-upholstered with silk and gritty cement.  It’s something that breaks once in a while and grows accustomed to your large bottom when you can’t.

You are not an epiphany, but the downswing of orgasm.  You are that lingering tickle on your top lip that makes your stomach curl like the most delicious spoiled milk.  You are the cigarette in between white sheets and white too-early morning sunshine, even if you don’t smoke.  You are the “third cup of watery tea” but you are also the “shaking wings of our exultant and terrible youth”.  You are the seabird.  You are going to relive the life of Icarus, even if that means making Atlantis a home.

You are failure and trying.

You are something.

You are something worth it.

You did not come empty handed.

————————————————————————————————————————————————–

Arina.

P.S. Good bye unplanned dreams! You were nice while you lasted.  I live in aftermoments now.

P.P.S.  I am referencing A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man in those quotes.  Joyce FTW!

Something you may not know

I like sex.  Just to, you know, throw it out there.  What’s interesting about sex though, is that I find a lot of people that are way too shy to talk of anything regarding it.  Of course I’m excluding my bar’s patrons, since well, that’s about all they talk about.  Maybe I’m biased because I don’t really talk to guys my age about it as much as I used to (I talk to girls that, when I mention sexual activity, blanch and look absolutely horrified that I mentioned something to do with nether regions – “WHAT? What’s a vagina? I don’t have a vagina.  Stop saying vagina.”), but I think it applies still.

A lot of young people are scared to talk about it, and I think it’s kind of funny.  A lot of people think it’s gross even, and that is just…. so misconstrued.  Sex is great!  It’s intimate and passionate and oh, so so yummy.

I don’t see what there is to be scared of?  Maybe if you’re a relation-phobe in general, where intimacy or trust with a person seems completely unfathomable, sure, but even that can be taken care of.  Penises aren’t scary – really? Have you seen one when they’re cold?  It’s pretty funny, and totally makes you feel that kind of universal switch in partnership roles from mouse to cat. And think of inverted nipples. But you know.

However, the thing I find about it is that without talking, it doesn’t work.  At least if you’re in a long term relationship, since I personally haven’t had any one-night stands to brag about (or regret! Win win).  You have to talk, because if you don’t you end up with sex that you don’t enjoy.  It might sound funny saying, “Hey, you know that thing you did, with the (body part) in the (an orifice)… yeah, can we try that a little different next time? As in, without it, perhaps?” But it’s CRUCIAL. For example, The Boyfriend and I were both pretty new to the sex thing when we gave it a romp together and went through the whole “Is it in yet?” scenario (which, now, gave me a wonderful story to tell), we had really absolutely no idea what was going on apart from what was supposed to go where.  Putting on the condom took like, 10 minutes, which isn’t really a problem the first time (but becomes so during recurring events).

Anyway – the thing is that it was awkward at first, and I think it is for everyone, but the fear of it being awkward does not a good deterrent make.  Not for sex anyway.  Because if you’re comfortable enough with the person to let them stick their “love torpedo” (as urban dictionary lovingly calls them) into your va-jay-jay, then you’re comfortable enough to tell them something’s up (not, up, which would actually benefit you in such a situation).

As the phrasing goes, Communication is Key.

Apart from all of this sex talk, which, came from um, nowhere, life is very un-sexy lately (remember, The Boyfriend is in pain and all, from surgery) and while I’m not particularly fond of it, I’m focusing on all sorts of artistic endeavours and putting my sexual frustration into writing.  Huzzah! I am channelling lots of old non-sex-having-poets, like, perhaps, Emily Dickinson. Hopefully not all of that seclusion though.  Although the seclusion and the non-sex-having is probably linked in some non-incredible and inextricable way. Hmm….

TODAY, for sure, I will work.  I’ve made a goal of a rough draft for my Personal Context essay.  YES.  YES, ARINA, YOU WILL WRITE A ROUGH DRAFT TODAY. Okay? Okay. Here’s a cookie, me.

I’m not secluded, what are you talking about?

Sorry for the lack of interesting posts, lately, readers – I figured talking about sex was the only way to make it up to you, so really, I kind of blog-whored myself out.  It felt good, though.  I miss talking about sex.  Nobody talks about sex except dirty old men to me. And that makes me sad.

I will try to get more interesting soon! I promise! I’ll post some “What You Didn’t Know About Arina” posts soon, which were wildly popular on my Livejournal.  (Okay, “wildly” is an overstatement, unless you think 4 people is wild? Mayhaps?)

Okie dokie Smokey Peroki!

Ciao. Arina.