Special Topics in Calamity Physics

 

 

"And I feel like I'm dippin' and divin'. 
My sky shoes are spiked with lead heels. 
I'm lost in this star car I'm drivin'. 
But my air sole keeps pushin' big wheels. 
My world is a constant confusion.
My mind is prepared to attack.
My past, a persuasive illusion.
I'm watchin' the future it's black.
What do you know? 
You know just what you perceive.
What can you show?
Nothing of what you believe.
And as you grow, each thread of life that you leave
Will spin around your deeds and dictate your needs
As you sell your soul and you sow your seeds
And you wound yourself and your loved ones bleed
And your habits grow, and your conscience feeds
On all that you thought you should be
I never thought this could happen to me." 

- Don McLean, Dreidel 

An imperceptible sigh. That is how I categorize my existence now. The slow and steady release of breath symbolizing my inability to hold on to the will to live. My perpetual decent into the various circles of hell. Dante's Inferno beckons me, with whispers that feel like thistles on my eardrums, blood trickling down the side of my face, the metallic aroma prickling my nostrils. I always thought of myself as a writer, yet I am barely grasping my ability to formulate the narrative, the lyrical dialogue, the intro, body and conclusion, as it were. I have lost the plot, a thoroughly post-modern dilemma, some might say. Is it ethical to call myself a writer if I am hardly wont to label myself human? Are the two really indissociable? My perception is warped, not unlike fun-house mirrors, distorting reality, drawing one into what lies beyond the twisted glass. A world of fear, loathing and disillusionment.

Love & light,
M xx 

Happiness Is...

The relative guilt I feel for abandoning my blog for such an extended period of time is increasingly overshadowed by my adoration for what can only be described as the most gorgeous creature ever to exist. My love for animals and my unrelenting persistence in begging my father for a puppy finally paid off. Despite my previous disdain for those people who Tweet, Facebook and Instagram countless pictures of their animals with silly captions, I have unwittingly become one of them, and the amount of fucks I give is less than none. Pepper is undoubtedly the most beautiful thing that has ever walked the earth. And our love for one another is unconditional. 

So I apologize for my abandonment of all of you two-legged followers out there, I have been rather consumed with the four-legged enigma who has stolen my heart. 

Love & light, 

M xx 

P.S. Stay tuned, more fashion-related and pseudo-intellectual (i.e. me being pretentious with my extensive vocabulary) posts to follow. 

The Unbearable Lightness of Being

“But is heaviness truly deplorable and lightness splendid? The heaviest of burdens crushes us, we sink beneath it, it pins us to the ground. But in the love poetry of every age, the woman longs to be weighed down by the man’s body. The heaviest of burdens is therefore simultaneously the image of life’s most intense fulfillment. The heavier the burden, the closer our lives come to the earth, the more real and truthful they become. Conversely, the absolute absence of a burden causes man to be lighter than air, to soar into heights, take leave of the earth and his earthly being, and become only half real, his movements as free as they are insignificant. What then shall we choose? Weight or lightness?”

- Milan Kundera, The Unbearable Lightness of Being

Milan Kundera is one of my 'all-time' favorite authors. At the risk of sounding like a pretentious sycophant claiming to be enlightened by the power of literature, I can honestly say that reading The Unbearable Lightness of Being altered my very essence. Please do not mistake my intellectual epiphany for some frivolous Eat, Pray, Love-type journey of so-called self-discovery, which is actually little more than a thinly veiled romance novel masquerading as a proclamation of empowerment. No. Reading The Unbearable Lightness of Being was not that kind of experience. The war-torn political wasteland of the 1968 Prague Spring seemed to serve as a metaphor for my eternal neurosis. Yet, what has haunted me most since opening the cover and absorbing the words for the first time, is the unshakable realization that I am, and probably will always be, a heavy person. Despite my constant efforts to let lightness into my life, I am continually weighed down by my perpetual anxiety. I am beginning to accept that I will always be more like Tereza than Sabina - endlessly heavy, freed only fleetingly by a chance encounter with a bowler hat and the unconditional love of a dog named Karenin. 

Love & light, 

M ♥ xx 

A Portrait of a Woman as a Young Girl

Last night I dreamed that I was running through a forest. I looked down and realized that I was naked. I was confused by the serenity of my surroundings because my heart was pounding with fear. I had the feeling I was being chased. I glanced behind me and noticed an ominous shadow in my wake. I ran until I reached the bank of a rapidly flowing river. I spun around to face my shadowy opponent but I was only surrounded by trees and flowers and the soothing sound of the animated water below me. The distinctive aroma of cherry blossom suddenly occupied my olfactory senses. I looked across the river and saw a tall, pregnant woman staring back at me. "Am I dead?" I screamed, but the words caught in my throat and I was acutely aware that I could no longer speak. The woman smiled at me and dived into the water. I awoke expecting to find her beside me but I was alone. 

Love & light, 

M xx 

I Lost Myself on a Cool Damp Night

Sometimes I feel like my life is nothing more than a vague imitation of a badly written postmodern novel. Disjointed. Fragmented. Unfinished. I am floating around in a sea of grey, waiting for the epilogue that never comes. Some cliched indie film about a young ingenue suffering through an existential crisis. The not-so-enigmatic anti-heroine. A supporting character in her own narrative. A tragic victim of my neurosis. A thinly veiled portrayal of my poorly disguised desperation for a happy ending that is as tangible as a wisp of smoke.

Long hours spent on the dance floor tying to re-live my misspent youth. Is this what passes for music nowadays? Or is my repulsion just an indication that I have become jaded? These people are like the undead, wafting past one another, looking but not really seeing, speaking but not really listening, silently judging as they repeat their carefully constructed swaying ad nauseum. I have the gnawing suspicion that I should feel excited to be here but I am incapable of summoning the appropriate level of joie de vivre. I surrender and let the chaotic amalgam encircle me. I close my eyes and let the vibrations carry me.

The morning after the night before. Smudged mascara and the stench of stale cigarette smoke linger on my hair and under my fingernails. Re-watching old reruns of That 70's Show and pretending I don't exist. The canned laughter is my own. Stolen embraces in deserted stairwells. Juvenile wishes made under touching tree branches. I am anxious that all I will leave behind when I'm gone is the vague scent of Very Cherry lip balm and regret.

Love & light,
M xx

With a Wink and a Smile and a Vial of Meth, I Took his Hand and we Walked through the Shadow of Death...

More and more frequently I am beginning to think of myself as a lump of clay. Never fundamentally one thing except something that can be moulded into every possible shape or form. Perhaps this means that I am like the water, constantly flowing, moving, changing. I have grown weary of the constant desire to please everyone around me. Fear is a powerful motivator. Taunting. Teasing. Always second guessing. Too scared that what I say will be the wrong thing. Surely I can't always be the only one making an effort. Yet I am. It is impossible to live up to the unrealistic expectations that are unceremoniously thrust upon me. My troubled mind is so clouded by the desperate need to hold together that which is rapidly slipping through my fingers that I can barely keep my head from toppling off my shoulders.This is a dangerous place to be in. I can feel it. I can sense myself tip-toeing closer to the edge of the abyss but there is nothing I can do to stop my perpetual descent.

There are fleeting moments of blissful oblivion. A poorly lit, smokey room filled with strangers. The smell of whiskey and stale cigarettes. The familiarity of my friends' faces, their infectious laughter. The heady seduction of the warm, golden liquid sliding down my throat and embracing my insides. The unbridled excitement of tasting his lips for the first time. I am ashamed to admit that this is my favorite part of being with someone. That shiver of anticipation at the temptation of the unknown, that which has not yet been conquered. The fear that the inevitable boredom will descend and spread until it consumes me will only come later.

Sex has become shrouded in shame. Done behind closed doors, in the dark, naked but unexposed. Leaving the scent of guilt lingering until it is scrubbed off under scalding water. Yet, the idea of another person's flesh against my own thrills me. A warm body to thaw the impenetrable facade.

And still here I sit. Constantly reapplying lip ice as if it will make a difference. My mind is a whirlpool of various streams of consciousness. I struggle to arrive at any semblance of coherence. If I have an essence I have yet to discover it.

Love & light,
M xx