Monday, March 19, 2007

don't want to discuss it, think it's time for a change

I wanted to be honest with her, to tell her it all feels a bit surreal to be leaving San Francisco, to tell her I’ll never quite accept it though I say I’ve made my peace. I wanted to tell her that dizzy spells swirl around my brain when I think of the logistical drudgery that awaits me over the next month. I wanted to tell her that one train my hide another, and I fear I am dodging so many bullet trains that I could very easily miss their meaning, or get mowed over by one. I wanted to be open with her, especially since she says I used to be more closed off. But I put up a guard anyways; it seemed the only way.

When someone cares about you, it’s impossible to tell them you are freaking out, unless you are willing to, or are especially yearning to talk it through. But sometimes freaking out has legitimacy, sometimes you need to swallow it, digest it, and leave it alone. It cannot be discussed and dissected, because that only amplifies the freaking out effect.

It’s almost as though, at times like this, you are better off with strangers, around people disinclined to look beneath the surface, to poke around for substance. It’s a simple thing to talk nonsense around such people. Much tougher is betraying those who genuinely wish to see you.

It was nothing intentional, and so much of the weekend was lovely, drenched in sunlight, kissed with fog. But it’s exactly when you’ve grown particularly close to someone that you can detect that false note, the chords that are off key. I unknowingly chose to ignore it this weekend, but then, on Sunday evening, back to an empty house, the reality presented itself. And I felt guilty for being somehow, subconsciously removed. But it’s something I’m not willing to sacrifice right now, the self-containment, the silence that keeps me from looking past the immediate demands of circumstance.


To switch gears completely, I had to post this week's song, because I am curious about it, about how it strikes people. It's got this weird dichotomy that a lot of songs have. It reminds me a little of Every Breath You Take, which a lot of people find romantic, but others find disturbingly celebratory of stalker-esque behavior.

Beauty by The Shivers has the same strange feel. A guy like this seems like he could either be the love of your life, or the guy who stores your butchered body in his freezer. Seriously.

Or maybe I'm just getting old. Because I feel like someone else could listen to this song and find it wholly moving. It's intense- the dude means business. But, I'm suspicious of that kind of intensity. How could something that intense possibly sustain? Not only am I suspicious of it, but I also find it somehow stifling. No offense, but I don't want to be that responsible for someone's happiness or stability. As my cousin K would say, it's too much. And if that means I am getting old, then I'm all for signing up for the AARP.

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