false dream

The Wednesday before Thanksgiving I went to the Cantab lounge for the third time. There, in the basement, people read their poems at an open mic (the second time I went and someone I had gone on an okay cupid date read), then an invited performer uses their slot (the first time I went it was Melissa Lozada-Oliva, whose poems I had already read) and then the slam poetry, which always happens too late for me to stay.

This time, it was me who read a poem at the open mic, followed by the drunken clapping of people who do not know my face and therefore are not as thrilled to see me. People who only understand poetry that burns, that competes as to who. is. the. most. miserable. I AM. if. I. speak. like. this. SEE MY RAGE. swallow my sadness i.am.shoving.it.down.your.throat. Who forget to value words and who just want to be heard by drowning out the rest of the screaming crowd. I am wrong to say these things. I was very excited to go there the first couple times, the idea of seeing some sort of active artistic scene, the odd good line in a mountain off poor attempts more than I would find otherwise. When I saw someone I had spoken to the first night working at a the coffee shop near me, I was thrilled at feeling like I knew people here who did words. But I haven't been able to go after the third time.

I read an old poem because I told myself "I will mourn. I will do it constructively, healthfully, watch me learn to mourn the way we are told we should". So I read a poem I had read for This Bardian Life, because it is something I can be grateful for - being told to speak my words aloud by Zappa, to let my voice be heard off of the page. Be glad for what he gave me. After I sat down I still wanted to disappear but then I got an e-mail and everything again seemed taken from under my feet is such a small pathetic way.

Hey Roomies,

I've decided to move out of the apartment. I found a place for mid-December. I know this is rushed but I'm positive you can find a roommate very quickly since this apartment has been extremely easy to fill in the past even during odd times. If someone else wants my room let me know before I post in the next day or two to Craigslist.

Thanks

The fighting that I had been ignoring had come to its apex. All three had talked to me at some point about it, and I just listened and waited for it to go away, for so many things to go away. About ten interviews later we have someone moving in, two weeks from now. I helped Therese move her things downstairs while her boyfriend just sat there. She told me to take a break and I said I was fine and she said "you're so stubborn" "when have I ever been stubborn with you?" "never! but I am stubborn too, so I can recognize it in other people" and we both smiled at that.
I helped Adrian move into Therese's old room - painting the walls, transporting carpet from home depot, cut by what seemed like robotic mice housed in a giant machine. I can hear the sigh of relief reverberating around the apartment. Hopefully everyone will be happier now.
 
I woke up this morning on Emily's house, from a dream in which Zappa was still alive.

He was slightly delusional, but I could still recognize him through that, having raced down elevators at the mall to find him and a bunch of his Bard friends at a cafe. He said "the first time I left this earth forever..." meaning that he thought he had killed himself twice, but he had returned, alive, and we had just lost track of him and he had thought he was dead and so that's how the misinformation surrounding his death (or lack thereof) happened. I ran towards him and jumped on him for a hug and he spun me around and then we all passed out Christmas or Return of Zappa gifts from him to us. I got a bunch of measuring spoons and a glittery golden pin. He folded up around my legs, lean and long, like a child and looked up thoughtfully. He said something and then added "but I guess that's considered to be an auditory hallucination", in an irritable tone, and we told him that that's okay, that that's not inherently bad, that we just want him safe and happy and taken care of.

I woke up and he was still dead. I had fallen out of touch and couldn't help. I had begun to morn before he had died because I assumed he was gone, not even taking into consideration the parts of him that were still there. I wanted to go back to sleep but I couldn't.


There are so many good things too but I'm afraid that if I pin them down on paper they will disappear, unable to exist without vibration, doubt and exhaustion. But I'll try again soon.

not a ghost

Months passed I had a dream - A boy I liked from high school but had lost touch with was dancing with me. It was in a building that used to be a psychiatric hospital years ago, by a lake with tall stone walls and hallways that echoed. Ghosts would pop up and then disappear just as suddenly. I've since wondered: if ghosts are usually freed to the spiritual world by resolving the issue that was tying them to the earth past their due, what do you do with a ghost of a paranoid schizophrenic? Are they more likely to get stuck here forever, unable to be brought clarity?

A week ago a friend I had in college killed himself. From my last communications with him, it was clear he had become increasingly disorganized and paranoid, overburdened with false guilt, annoyed by the lack of freedom. When Kelsey called I knew from her voice what she was going to talk to me about, I just didn't expect it to happen so soon.

He had been so sensitive, he was so bright - I can’t imagine what it is like to see yourself losing that, especially for a person to whom intellectual acuity is paramount - emotional sensitivity key - and he certainly felt that the medications blunted him in so many ways. 

At one point he had been one of the people I hung out with a fair amount, he came to a couple of my movie nights and I took photos for This Bardian Life, and we went out dancing, and he came to my 21st birthday party and numerous lunches and dinners together, he called wine vino and had a particular way he nodded his head, large bony hands, hair that had to be constantly swept to the side, low voice and eyes that paid attention when you talked; conversations not to be had in passing. 

I wish I had more I could find of him, it's a strange drawback of having communications in person, in vivo; you can't look over them later. I read something for TBL, he was thinking maybe I should expand it, I was concerned -- 
You mean you think the re-work would weaken it? I think that's reasonable. If you're interested in a remaster, go for it, although, with my bit of experience with creative work I was thinking your past self might have more to say. But it's up to you, of course. Send me the new version if you're comfortable; i'm also open to talking more about your process if you'd like.
 

We lost touch, he had started to lose something, and I was busy and attributed it to other things until we had stopped trying to speak to each other once I had graduated over a year ago now and only recently did I hear from him again, but not him, some other person. I miss the he who I knew, who he was, but both are entirely gone now. I know I can’t feel like I could have done something, but I wasn’t there, one of my last messages to him an apology for us not having maintained contact, and somehow I want to apologize for him being dead, to apologize to him for the sorrowful mix of genetics and environment that led him to not be here anymore, age 22 forever, for the world for having played such a cruel trick on him, that I couldn't do anything to stop it.

I don’t believe in restless ghosts: I have my memories of you on this side. 

french toast

A German a Japanese and a Russian-Jew are eating french toast.
It sounds like the beginning of a bad joke.
Bianca said she would visit me as soon as she got a job. She has a part-time unpaid internship showing art in NYC. Close enough. She came on Saturday. We walked by Blithewood and the waterfall, enjoying the sudden onset of autumn. In the evening we went to Christo's sisters band Tinmouth at smog. At some point we had texted Shinno telling him to come join us. He showed up on Sunday and Monday morning we ate french toast.

I received some advice about The Future. Bianca was an art history major. She's planning on going to Vienna for a year come December and then grad school for geospacial analysis. Shinno was a psychology major. He's planning on grad school and deciding somewhere between design and fashion and making sure to not get deported - he's on an extended student visa, but he's lived here since he was ten.

They both left Monday evening. I was just sweeping the floors and stairs (on my chore rotation) listening to Built to Spill.

soup

After being sick for ten days and feverish for seven health services gave me antibiotics. My friends boycotted movie night, telling me I was too sick to host anything. If only boycotts of vodka and pasta were as effective (and sensible). Instead I watched The Perks of Being a Wallflower (2012 USA) alone, drinking tea with clover honey.
Last night Zoë's parents arrived and we made dinner. Jono finally convinced me to watch The Room (2003 USA), allegedly one of the worse movies ever produced.

I had a dream Shimon had been wed when he was four. Three years later, that being now, I was at Yosef's arranged wedding ceremony, held on the rail road tracks cutting through the Hudson River. A thin strip of land surrounded by water, tufts of grass and thin trees growing on it. I did not understand why Yosef was okay with it.

we'll meet again

dinner at curry house with Shinno and Bianca

I’m back from Bard. Goodbye’s and sweet promises to meet up over the summer. 

Last movies:

1.       大紅燈籠高高掛 (Raise the Red Lantern – Chinese): we watched the first half with Chinese subtitles. Kelsey did most of the translating since she studies it, and Kalena helped with her knowledge of Japanese.  I watched the rest on my own after I found English subs.
2.       Trainspotting!
3.       About a Boy: because we needed to watch something that did not require any thought to process. Finals, after all.
  

Papa picked me up on Monday and we got home at 3am. The next day I drove Mama to the airport (she’s in Moscow now!) and when I came back Yulka had picked up Sima from gymnastics. We sat on my bed listening. Today I picked Sima up from school because he got sick but he’s on the bed next to me reading Calvin & Hobbes now.

A month ago I had a dream that Shinno and I were walking around this red city. Except at some point I realized that, even though we were walking straight, we kept coming across the same guy (someone who goes to Bard) looking through a dumpster. The city was actually one small planet.  The guy was trying to salvage items to sell – I’m not sure to whom, it seemed to be just us three on the planet, even though there were quite a few buildings to live in. When I asked Shinno about the dumpster guy, he said “he finds enough to sell throughout the week, and then on Thursday’s, he’s gone” – meaning that by Thursday he would save up enough money to shoot up on heroin.

 

S is for

Сегодня перевода нет.

Sunday- Chamber singers performed Sucut locustus est and Suscepit Israel for dedication of the (now) Bito Hall in the new conservatory building.

At first I thought that “oh, singing for some rich guy who gave us money, at least we have a new building”. We did have to listen to a few pandering talks. And we do need the money; though (or because) we have a great academic and arts programs, not too many students go off to make money, and since it’s a non-profit, a lot (though not enough) goes to scholarships. Simply: we have no endowment.

But the guy who donated is László Z. Bitó, who came to the U.S. from Hungry as a refugee. First he was in the camp in Cleveland, but then he went to Bard for a English-learning program. Of the people there, two received scholarships to go to Bard College. He came and studied biology, in part because his English was still not strong enough to pursue a literature degree. After that he went to Columbia and has since then he has developed a medical cure for glaucoma and written a few successful books. Though watching people pander is still uncomfortable, at least he’s respectable to begin with.

This evening I went to a performance of The Bakkhai (or The Bacchae) as performed, translated and staged by Bard students. The initially set was this giant sheet of semi-transparent plastic, like a taut curtain. From behind it, you can see someone moving. With a knife, he cuts a straight opening in the sheet. The lights go out and for a moment nothing is to be seen. Then, you see him, torso through the plastic sheeting, lighter flickering in his hands, and a wild sexual gaze on his face. He is Dionysus.

When the scenes come that are not in Thebes but in the woods, the sheet drops, and a giant cloud of fog roles off the stage and you see that the stage is covered in a giant hill of dirt, and a fir tree is suspended upside down from the ceiling. Yes. The set design, some stage moments, costumes, lighting (and use of strobe lights) and music were all quite great.

Saturday- Farm Fest was Bard bands playing outside throughout the day. In the evening I went to a production of The Vagina Monologues. My neighbor directed it, and a few girls I know performed. Then: Hannah’s leek soup, stuffy Surrealist Circus show, and the cast party.

Sentimental- Friday I went to TBL and read a poem and took photos (I'll post links later when it's online). We smoked chocolaty hookah and drake tea and I fell asleep that night with a sadness in me. Some of my friends are finishing college this year- Did we have enough time? Of the people I hung out with last year- One went back home to Tibet. One moved to Jersey City and we still keep in touch. One went home to India. One moved from Florida to India. Britt never came back to start senior year.

umbrella

 русский внизу.

The first day I came back at Bard, Shinno and I went to a Tastebudds, and then to a store where they sell the old stuff ... not really an antique store, but also not a thrift shop (on the way to Hannaford’s, most of the stuff is outside). He bought an umbrella with holes and a wooden handle in the shape of a dog's head. He said he had dreamt of it.

Over spring break, Yosef brought up coconut cake; the fact that I’ve made it, and the fact that he wants it. I think I’ve only made it once a few years ago, but right now, listening to an album by a band I have never listened to before (The Devil’s Walk, Apparat)… I remembered that he is so bony it hurts when he sits on me. That when he hugs me my arms are above his but that he is growing and so this will change. That we still have to watch Argo and that he wants us to make coconut cake.

This Thursday, looking for an apartment to rent in Red Hook for next year, I caught myself saying “my parent’s house” to the (potential) landlord. I don’t have a room there, the things I don’t bring with me (books, camping cloths, bits of paper I have horded, paintings and letters) are kept partially in my brother’s room, partially in plastic bins in the basement. There is no certainty in that I will move out after I graduate (the economy, the new generation of twenty-something’s living with their parents) but right now I will not entertain the thought of the possibility of such stagnant prospects. Today I woke up at 6:30, two hours later I called two more realtors.

Last Friday Hannah and I went to a concert – mostly poems set to music, with faculty and students from Bard and the Longy School of Music which Bard recently…acquired? They started with period music; oboes have changed so much.

 (Rufus Muller – tenor, Stephen Hammer – oboe, Libor Dudas – harpsichord organ piano, Stanley Moore – violoncello).

                Saturday there was a glorious bonfire.

В первый день как я вернулась в Бард мы с Шинно пошли в кафе, а потом в магазин где продают старое барахло...не то-что все антикварное но одежду там тоже не продают. Он купил зонтик с дырками и деревянной ручкой в форме собачей головы. Сказал что он ему приснился.

В весенние каникулы, Ося упомянул кокосового торт – и то что я его умею печь, и то что он его хочет. Я кажется его испекла только один раз, и то несколько лет назад, но сейчас, слушая альбом группы который я никогда не слушала... Я вспомнил, что он такой худой что больно, когда он сидит на мне. Что, когда он мы обнимаемся, мои руки сверху его рук, но что он растет и это изменится. То, что мы все все еще не посмотрели Argo и что он хочет чтобы мы испекли кокосового торт.   

Я ищу квартиру на следующий год, и когда я разговаривала с владельцем дома, сказала "дом моих родителей". У них у меня нет комнаты. То что я не привезла с собой (книги, одежду для похода, записки, картины и письма) хранятся частично в комнате моего брата, и частично в пластиковых коробках в подвале . У меня нету уверенности в том, что когда я закончу колледж я смогу переехать (экономика, новое поколение двадцатилетних людей живущих с родителями), но прямо сейчас я не буду думать об этом. Сегодня я проснулся в 6:30, через два часа я позвонила еще двум риелторам.

В пятницу я с Ханной сходила на музыкальный концерт. В субботу кто-то устроил распрекрасный костер.

good excuses

October Break was dearly needed (we had the 8th and 9th, so I had  a five day weekend, since I don't have class on Friday's).

I went home and saw my family. The day before I left we went apple picking along with Inka&co.
They gave us these sticks to get the apples, but we made a team: she climbed up the tree, I caught the apples she threw down. This photo was taken after we had collected a bag and caught up with our brothers.

 

When I came up for a weekend last time Shimon had overheard me say that I had a good excuse to come. He later told me he wanted me to have more good excuses. This break he spent most of his time trying to situate himself in my lap, but he doesn't quite fit like he used to.

I also went to Yulka's apartment in Boston. It's in a nice area walking distance to Newbury St (and also Emerson) so of course there it's four people living in two tiny rooms. They call it their shoebox. It's a pretty accurate description. We danced in the apartment before going to a party somewhere. The night ended with me yelling on the phone at some guy I don't know, and I wish I could have done more than yelled. The next day we had tea for breakfast and then made lunch. Somehow between all of this I also read half of "The Perks of Being a Wallflower", adding to my list of books I have read half of. We walked to Newbury and sat at L'Aroma cafe and eaves dropped on a conversation and decided that the couple was not on a date but friends. 

Quitting Self-Sustained Propaganda

I made a list of things I haven’t packed yet (letter writing materials, nail scissors, German dictionary, tripod, cloths in the laundry machine...).  

Tonight is my last night home. I just kissed Shimon’s soft cheek goodnight but he’s still talking to me through the bookshelf which helps to mentally separate the room into two. He’s asking me why Yosef and I speak in English to each other so often, reprimanding us – это вообще то неправильно, and he’s right, but I care more about what Yosef has to say, and in Russian I just end up correcting his grammar every two seconds and we both get frustrated with me. 

The rest of this post is pre-start-of-academic-year ranting.

Last year I wrote “I feel like I'm freaking out more about college this year than I did last year. Which makes about as much sense as a balding monkey.” I know that I will not flunk any classes, I know that if I forget to pack something there is a post office both here and there. I am not freaking out.

In Berlin I was happy because I went to museums, which was both something I really enjoy and makes me feel accomplished, but also something not incredibly hard to do. After I had my dose of organized culture, I would go on with the rest of my day. 

Which makes me want to continue setting realistic, satisfying expectations, but I’m afraid I’ll fall back into the habit of setting ten goals as high as the moon. Quitting the habit might be hard, like it’s hard for a smoker to quit smoking at the place where he has smoked for the past eleven years. Bard is then on of the many places where I have "smoked". I’ve had the idea ingrained in me for a long time; that I should be in some pursuit of intellectuality and everything else too, and that this equates to happiness. I may now understand that that is not the case, but understanding and to act on that understanding, to make sure my entire being is on the same page with that concept…that sometimes seems almost as hard as reaching ten goals set as high as the moon.  

I will be enrolled in Painting I, Drawing II, Abnormal Child Developmental Psych, A Haunted Union; Germany and the Reunifications of Europe, Chamber Singing, a Photography Tutorial, and a Neuroscience Lab. I will continue doing Emergency Driving, I signed up to volunteer to mentor freshman, and I convinced Eames to do Argentinian Tango with me.  I also want to write and go to the clay club room and read for myself and try to at least not forget German and have a social life.  

This can go two ways, or more, but here are two. One is that I freak out from all the stress and everything I am not obligated to do goes by the wayside, and I unhappily start equating myself with school work, unhappily because I am unlikely to get straight A’s and so numerically, on paper, I will not be ‘fulfilled’. The other option is that I will structure my time well, and, in having time to myself, but not so the type of time where I just sit around hopelessly ruminating, and not doing what I want to do, just sitting there, and that when I don’t do absolutely everything perfectly I don’t let the cockroaches inside me grow by eating me, guts first.  

Note that I described both options using the negative. It is hard to separate out 'happy' as being something other than 'not unhappy'

There is this hope that I will somehow be able to ‘realize’ myself but of course that is simply the continuation of the same self-sustained propaganda. I cannot wait to become who I am. My life is now.

Wish me luck remembering that. 

breathe