i just had an interesting encounter.
when i'm down, one of the things that i like to do is get away to one of my favorite coffee shops in town -- which currently happens to be a starbuck's about twenty minutes away from my house -- get myself a grande iced soy chai latte, and sit outside at one of the tables so that i can chain-smoke and write.
i've actually been doing this quite a bit lately. if i can write while partaking of my two favorite vices -- caffeine and cigarettes -- then i can usually get myself into an appropriate mind-set and gain proper perspective.
so that was what i did today. i was sitting by myself outside at a table at starbuck's when some random, ghetto black dude came by, got a table next to me, then started chatting with me as if we were old friends. i was wary at first, as i am of strangers, but i soon warmed up to him, and we engaged in a bit of a dialogue, interrupted only when he got phone calls or when i thought of something i wanted to jot down.
of course, he flirted with me in a major way. but i didn't mind because i rather enjoyed speaking with him. he is a self-proclaimed nerd-thug -- although he had the thug look down pat more so than the nerd look. now, he was all up with the ghetto lingo, and what struck me, after we had only been talking for just a few minutes, was that he had a mad furious way with words. as an english major and total biblio-phile, i just always tend to notice these things. and he was stringing words together in astronomical ways that i'd never heard of. i was way impressed and found his liguistic skills pretty powerful. so right off the bat, within minutes after he started talking to me, i told him, "i think you should write poetry. the way you speak is amazing."
oh, and i should also mention, i think, that while we were talking, he totally busted out a glass pipe and was smoking right then and there, and by this time, his eyes had already started glazing over.
so when i mentioned that he had a poet's skill with words, he got totally elated. i can't remember what he said exactly, but he flipped out with happiness. he said he actually did write quite a bit and that he was glad he met me (although i'm sure his elation was due in good part by the glass pipe as well). i told him that if he was interested, i would give his stuff a read and critique it and then possibly give him some possible sources to which to submit his stuff for publication.
he asked for my phone number, but i refused to give it, saying, "i'm sorry, but i don't give it out to strangers."
actually, i don't give it out to anyone who is a self-professed thug, albeit a nerd-thug, who busts out a glass pipe in public like it's no big thing.
but he took it like a man and said it was "romantic" that i was going to make him earn my number (imagine me rolling my eyes internally even as i maintained a sweet and polite smile. like, dude. i'm a dyke). and then he made me promise to show up at around the same time this coming saturday at this same starbuck's so that i could read his stuff -- and so that he could detail my car. for free.
i tried to tell him my car wasn't worth it; it was so old and ghetto. and i even pointed it out to him in the parking lot nearby. he said it was no biggie and that this was his job anyway and that all i needed to do was wash it (which is true) and that he could add some chinese rims to it. he said he'd be happy to do both. besides, he could always use a few "practice cars" on which to practice his craft.
who knows if i'll take him up on this offer. prolly not, but it was a nice gesture, one that i really appreciated.
anyway, we had a sporadic conversation on and off during the course of an hour, and at the end of it all, he said i was a gift to him today and that i inspired him and that he was happy to be right then and there at that particular time to meet me. i smiled and thanked him.
and then he gave a gift to me in return, which i consider to be one of the best gifts i've received in a while. "you are such a sincere girl," he said. "your sincerity is a gift. you keep it real, and you're going to change the world."
i love him for saying that.
i kind of need to hear this, that even my presence or the sight of me to someone else can have meaning that transcends words and reverberates into the other person's heart and soul. and sincerity is really one of the true gifts i have that i like to freely share. i can't fake sincerity at all without looking hollow and pretentious so i don't bother faking at all. with me, i'm the real deal. what you see is what you get; and if i say it, i mean it. that's how it goes.
so i am glad to have met him, too, because he could see that in me.
it's funny the kind of random acts that can be given to you by complete strangers if you remain open to the possibility that every person you come across can bestow something special to you, even if you see them only for a fleeting second and never come across them again. and this is just a lesson to me to not be so fucking judgmental about people based on their appearances. sure, if stereotypes hold true, then i should've been running in fear in the opposite direction of this guy as soon as he tried to talk to me. he's a big, solidly built black dude wearing a do-rag and baggy shorts. but fuck that, he's a nice guy. a
poor one who probably wouldn't hesitate to take advantage of me, but nonetheless a good one.
and i'm glad to have met him today.
because i've been having a really shitty day. i have been down as hell today. and yes, much worse than yesterday. . . .
and this is why i'm back on blogger and why i need it so much. i am more down than i would want my family and friends to know or realize. they have no idea. sure, they're aware of my abrupt mood-swings, my tendency to flash quick anger, or to suddenly retreat from the world back into myself. they just don't know the real extent of how deeply i can plummet into despair and hopelessness. and frankly, i prefer it that way -- they don't need to know my true self. so i will keep that other blog of mine over there for them -- and i will keep this particular blog for me over here.
i am back to chain-smoking, as if the next cigarette i inhale will give me that sense of peace i desperately am in search of, as if the very next inhalation of smoke from a freshly lit stick will latch onto every last bit of unhappiness i have and happily carry it out into the air when i exhale.
when i first set up my blogger, it took a while, but i chose this screen name: ABBAGirl. in a way, it represents everything i am -- up-beat, positive, in the moment, joyous, light-hearted, and not too serious. just like the namesake from which i chose it.
at the same time, it is
not me but something i wish i could be every moment of the day.
every now and then, despite the really joyous moments i find when i least expect it, i find myself getting so tired of life. or at least of the facades i've erected and must maintain. i'm tired of all the damned expectations. and that is why i have been so down for a good chunk of today. for once, i'd like to live a life that is wholly
mine, one in which i can enjoy myself as i please and i don't have to be perpetually reminded of who i "should" be instead. i don't want to live confined within a fixed role or always have to be so fucking nice and dependable all the time.
because what i'm finding is that it is not a fair trade-off. i have given so much of myself up, and it used to be enough for me that in doing so, i made others happy. now, i have to ask just what the hell am
i getting in return?
these moments of despair hit me every now and then. not too often, which is nice, but when they do hit, i get completely devastated and depressed and become even more anti-social than ever before. when this happens, i inevitably end up getting some sort of wake-up call. something dramatic or serious occurs to someone i care about and jolts me wide awake out of myself. i then begin kicking myself for being so ultra-self-absorbed -- and then i fall right back into line, unquestioningly taking up the roles that i had so dearly wished to shirk, and life goes back to being hum-drum and fine once more.
but this routine can only last so long. frankly, i'm already sick of it. it's no longer working very effectively on me. i hate it so much . . . .
the bar exam is only one component of this but the most glaring example of it, if not the epitome of my woes. i loathe it so much. i fear it so much. and yet i want it so very fucking much.
the best way i can think of to explain all this is through use of platonic theory. now, i absolutely
suck at philosophy and political theory. all the schools of thought get to be too convoluted and obtuse for my puny little brain. but if i understand (and remember) platonic theory correctly, plato was obsessed with the idea of forms -- ideal forms of both justice and goodness -- and he wrote that in an attempt to achieve perfection, all humans should seek to conform their conduct to these ideal forms as much as possible. in so striving, such humans would eventually come to
embody these ideal forms.
(did i get it right, at least in lay-person's terms?)
and so it is with me. in my head, and in the heads of everyone important to me, there is an ideal way for me to be. i've already spent much of my life matching myself to this particular form in almost every possible way. but the ideal remains elusive. i'm just not
there yet. there are still acts i must complete and achieve -- and until then, i am imperfect. flawed. unworthy.
is this the proper way to be thinking about my life? i know my shrink would ask me that. and i would say, "fuck no. i'm miserable as hell, aren't i? obviously, this is
not the way to go." but i don't know any other way to be.
fucking shit. i am miserable as hell.
to take this platonic analogy further along of matching one's acts to those of the ideal forms, i further wish for another kind of matching -- and i only realize this thanks to a number of very interesting and cool dialogues with my good friend
girlinshortshorts.
i want my insides to match with my outside.
my insides are tremendously crushed. i feel like i have nothing left to give and nowhere to move from because everything inside me has been bludgeoned, blistered, and bruised; that i have no sense of self -- at least not in a positive way -- that has been left untouched after years of psychological flayings and beatings from both myself and from others.
so a part of me just wishes that my outside will be as torn up and busted apart like my insides are. because i can deal with physical pain. in fact, i would welcome it and relish it and know i deserved it. but this psychological stuff i can't take; it provides a different, intangible, immeasurable pain that is so much more difficult to deal with.
i think it would help me to face the fact that i failed the bar.
i really think i did fail.
it's only a damned fucking test, for crying out loud -- albeit one of the hardest fucking tests of its kind in the nation.
but i am still crushed.
and i suppose i'm glad i had a chance to talk with my old high school friend yesterday about it and realize just how much i've potentially fucked up on the damned thing. it's better to deal with failure as soon as you can then falsely have wishful thinking drawn out for an over-extended period of time.
