Things are really, really, really, really bad, but I just can't seem to put my finger on what or why. Everything in my life is in shambles but I just can't seem to realize it to the point where I can feel it. Like I mentioned before, I don't really cut myself anymore. They're basically just scratches, they don't go deep enough to warrant being called cuts.
But the other day I was just playing with my knife, assessing how dull the blade was since I couldn't get anything more than scratches, and then whoops, a cut. It wasn't too bad, but it warranted putting something on it to block the bleeding. When I pulled the bandage off the next day, it was still bleeding but stopped soon after. It's not just a scratch, a mere line, but it's a cut because the skin split and has that vagina shape to it.
Maybe it wasn't a 'whoops'; an accident. But an expression that all is not well. And all is not well, everything is very precarious. I don't like my life, it has no prospects, I need to leave. I need to breakthrough to something else.
Wednesday, March 29, 2000
Wednesday, March 22, 2000
1557 Noe St., San Francisco
Well, nothing is happening in my life, I'd might as well look back at it and amaze myself at how I got here from there. I've been in California for more than six and a half years. How to quantify that six and a half years of experience and have it reach where I am now? How to draw the lines and connect the dots of who and where I am now with who and where I was then?
1993 was the hardest year of my life. It was the year that I was closest to the love of my life and made a mess of that relationship. I still read "Meatless Days" and think I'm hearing Amina. As far as I know, she's grown out of it and now hates the book. Like the two people I lent it to hated it. The way I see that, though, is that what Amina gave me is not transferable. Amina enriched my life but I can't pass what she gave to me on to anyone else. What she gave me was for me alone. But Amina herself doesn't even exist anymore. She exists no more than the me that existed then.
So from 1993, I drag myself around Lake Merritt and out of Oakland to a studio in San Francisco that used to be home to another Oberlin grad. From there to a house in the Berkeley Hills with more Oberlin grads. Lost a lot of friends and moved to another house in Daly City and it's been strangers since. From there to a flat in San Francisco.
I try, but it's not a continuous line. It's broken up too much. The fracture of Nobuko, the fracture of Cat. The incongruence of Josephine. The anti-matter of Joy. There is no connection between Amina and Anita. Kevin appeared out of nowhere and has just been there, outlasting all my Oberlin friends. And what the hell did Shiho have to do with anything? I don't know what I think of Madoka anymore, aside from "loving" her, whatever that means (but I do!).
And my now? Who the hell is Rosalie? Who the hell is Ritu? What the hell is Fiction? Where is home? That just about sums it up. Where is home? It sure ain't 1557 Noe Street between 29th and Valley. It sure ain't New Jersey or Taiwan. It sure ain't Amina or Shiho or Josephine. It sure ain't Fiction or Chris or Lisa. It ain't Rosalie, Ritu, or BAL. It's not so much about where home is anymore, it's where home isn't.
1993 was the hardest year of my life. It was the year that I was closest to the love of my life and made a mess of that relationship. I still read "Meatless Days" and think I'm hearing Amina. As far as I know, she's grown out of it and now hates the book. Like the two people I lent it to hated it. The way I see that, though, is that what Amina gave me is not transferable. Amina enriched my life but I can't pass what she gave to me on to anyone else. What she gave me was for me alone. But Amina herself doesn't even exist anymore. She exists no more than the me that existed then.
So from 1993, I drag myself around Lake Merritt and out of Oakland to a studio in San Francisco that used to be home to another Oberlin grad. From there to a house in the Berkeley Hills with more Oberlin grads. Lost a lot of friends and moved to another house in Daly City and it's been strangers since. From there to a flat in San Francisco.
I try, but it's not a continuous line. It's broken up too much. The fracture of Nobuko, the fracture of Cat. The incongruence of Josephine. The anti-matter of Joy. There is no connection between Amina and Anita. Kevin appeared out of nowhere and has just been there, outlasting all my Oberlin friends. And what the hell did Shiho have to do with anything? I don't know what I think of Madoka anymore, aside from "loving" her, whatever that means (but I do!).
And my now? Who the hell is Rosalie? Who the hell is Ritu? What the hell is Fiction? Where is home? That just about sums it up. Where is home? It sure ain't 1557 Noe Street between 29th and Valley. It sure ain't New Jersey or Taiwan. It sure ain't Amina or Shiho or Josephine. It sure ain't Fiction or Chris or Lisa. It ain't Rosalie, Ritu, or BAL. It's not so much about where home is anymore, it's where home isn't.
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