memorialrainbow: (Default)
Two second post from work while I still can. This place is teaching me how to and how to not run a business.

The A train stopped cold at 168th Street today. There was a door stuck and they had to take the train out of service and kick everybody else off. A few years ago, this would have been a big thing. Now, I guess I just don't care. I'm cold to it. It's not my responsibility to baby a train line. I have more important things to do, like try to run this office. (Emphasis on try.) I feel like I'm on a merry go round that's going to collapse, a walking disaster waiting to happen, where the stress level is always high. I'm grumpier to people now. My rage level is peaking high, and I don't like that at all.

I need to learn to see myself as separate from the job. Separate from my occupation. Even when that's music, or writing, or something creative. It exists, on its own, without me. Does it exist because of me? Yeah, I'm the one who got off my ass (or on my ass) and did the thing. But it's like kids. I don't just exist as my dad's daughter. I exist as my own person. So my jobs exist separately from myself, and they do take time and energy to do, but at the end of the day, I have to just let it be a job.

Which I'm actually really great at doing, and for some reason I don't want to do? I mean, it would be bad if work totally invaded so students were calling me at three in the morning with billing questions.

I'm afraid of starting over. I'm afraid of putting myself out there as a teacher and then having someone tell me I'm doing it wrong, that I'm too "whatever" to give Skype lessons, that I don't have enough experience in the real world to teach. I think about the things they tell me at work, that in order to have a leadership position they'll have to "whip me into shape." What does that mean? I still don't know what I'm doing wrong. I know I take things too seriously and I get stressed out a lot. I worked so hard to bring that stress level down, and yet I still snap into being perfect no matter where I go or what I do because it's what I'm used to. I don't know any other way to operate.

I think if I was able to do that for this job, I'd feel better about things. But everything is still important and urgent at the same time here. Everything is being presented to me in panic mode, and I'm internalizing it as my fault. We still don't have all of these contracts in, and I'm blaming myself because I wouldn't come in on my day off to work on them.

I'm internalizing the stress of this job, and it's affecting me horribly.

And I can either walk out and away, or I can find a way to stop internalizing it, and quick.
memorialrainbow: (bell what's out there)
So I figured I'd write.

A long time ago, when I was going through some rough times, I wrote in here a lot. I wrote about the things that were going on in my life, and I used this journal as a place to promote my work. People read along, for a good couple of years. I came out with an album, and then I came out with a book that grew into a series.

I'd post on here every once in a while after that, and my entries got more cryptic as they went on. And who knows how often I'll write now? But this time, I'm writing less for you and more for myself. Tumblr is too PC, Twitter not enough characters, Facebook too perfect. And yeah, maybe I'm writing from work at the moment, while I'm putting in information and being a database.

But nobody's really reading this yet, are they?

Here's the thing: I've been in New York City over four years now. Do you know how many albums I've produced in that time? Do you know how many songs I've written, how many times I've gone out there to promote myself? I actually made a habit out of it a long time ago, before places closed and I had to work instead.

There was a boy. It always starts out that way, there was a boy. We promised we wouldn't get too far in deep, that we'd be honest with one another. He supported my art. I was able to find temporary work, go to open mics. When I was let go from that job, he ensured I wouldn't have to worry, took a new job himself to make sure he could support both of us, moved in because living in New York is crazy. We were both crazy, we both had our faults, but at the end of the day, we were honest with each other. We didn't go to bed mad.

That was the most creative period of my life in NYC. I got a new job, one that enabled me to grow up from the crazy that I had been accustomed to. I found an open mic I could go to and even got my own show. I went to Comic-Con and we performed, and I created an album, and everything was perfect -- until it wasn't. I don't want to say my anxiety got in the way, but having all of your belongings in trash bags in your kitchen is more than a little rough. We grated on one another. Somewhere in the shuffle, my flash drive with my Comic-Con stuff was thrown out. I blamed him way more than I should have. I started blaming him for everything. He let me.

I went through a depression for the first part of 2015. Nothing happened. I woke up, went to work, came home. I wrote a little bit, but I was out of it. I was in survival mode all over again. The old-school methods I had used a long time ago woke up again: God hates that you were being creative, so He sent bedbugs to stop you. You might think I'm crazy, but that was the way my brain was operating.

I wasted a year. I wasted an entire year. At least he was around, right? At least he was being productive, starting his YouTube channel. I stayed off the computer. I let him have it. I was just in the way, right? I didn't want to take the computer and waste time while he could be recording his shows. For what it's worth, I did try. I lost sleep composing music for a friend's cabaret and now she's not talking to me because I wanted to be paid for a future one. I choreographed a dance and performed it in front of others, and then a fight broke out and my boyfriend escorted me into the nearest Mickey D's before the cops could show up. It was supposed to be a competition, and nobody won.

Things like that wouldn't knock old Emily down. I'm not sure he ever properly knew old Emily. Old Emily existed before January 5, 2012.

And you're still here in black and gold
Your inner core the only change
So how much of the girl I fell for still remains?


You know what I should have done on January 5? I should have quit the city. I should have called my dad, said "this isn't working out, I'm coming home." And yeah, I signed a year lease, but those things are just numbers in this city, anyway. I would have gone home, maybe gotten yelled at a bit, but hey, I would have gotten what I wanted out of the city, right?

But in the end, I'm glad I stayed. I've learned a lot about myself, about the way I process things. I've learned that it doesn't matter where you are, as long as the people you love are around you. And I've learned what that actually means. I know now what New York City is, for better or for worse. I know it's not a be all, end all. I know people romanticize it, and even those who live in the city romanticize it. It's our bubble. We live here, and if anybody threatens it, we act like it's 9/11 all over again. (Ted Cruz just made some interesting comments on this.)

Because we make it, right? Because we all struggle in this city. It's a shared struggle that we romanticize so much. We talk about how hard it is to find a dollar coffee, how we're squished like sardines in the subway car, the number of homeless people and pigeons and piles of puke we walk right past on our way to work, where we must dress exactly how they want and act exactly how they want in those high rises lest we go back to working at Mickey D's. (And they probably make more money, at this point.) Everything is always our fault, but that's okay, because we're making it in the real world. We have our shoebox apartment and we wouldn't have it any other way. We can't afford to go out because we're too busy working two jobs, but we certainly have it better than anybody at home, right? We blow through our bonds and have no money left in our savings accounts, no future, but we're living like the starving artists on Broadway. You know, just like Jonathan Larson. God bless Jonathan Larson.

We pick up and we scrape by, and we're nice to those near us as long as that niceness doesn't actually hurt us any. We put on our headphones and ignore the beggars on the train, the people sitting with cardboard signs as we go to work in our elite sports clubs. We oversleep because we don't want to get up in the morning, but hey, it's what "real people" do. And I don't doubt that anywhere. But I used to talk about the Oxford bubble, and now I'm talking about the New York City bubble, and I'm wondering just what is real. Is real life what we make of it? If so, then everybody in New York City automatically gives too much control to everybody else. We have to, in order to make this city work. If you deviate too much, you're left behind. If you don't move at supersonic speed -- and that's saying something, considering this city must be moving faster than Top Thrill Dragster -- then you have no time or energy or money to write or music or create or anything. And it's even worse for those of us who deal with mental problems, who were bullied as kids, whose fathers' words echo in our heads even when our mothers tell us they no longer matter. New York City is okay -- but it's not for everybody. To pretend it is for everybody is to shame the world we live in, to shame every place that isn't New York, to ultimately shame New York and the individuals who might be creatively trapped here.

And I know what everybody in NYC might be reading. You don't like it, then leave?

Maybe I will.

I go to Jersey for a jaunt and I plan my life, knowing that when I'm back in NYC, I'll be moving too fast for me to properly think. I go to Albany for my yearly jaunt to the convention and I feel tired the entire time, unsure if I should return back to the city. I go to Cedar Point, because maybe racing for the sky and racing underneath the sky are two separate things. Maybe I can't fly in NYC. But maybe that doesn't mean I can't fly at all. Maybe it just means the buildings are too tall here for my liking. Maybe the skies are too crowded. Maybe it's more hopeful for me to leave.

There's only so much you can learn in one place
The more that you wait, the more time that you waste


In July, I went outside of the city to have the most successful gig of the year. We made it all the way through and my client was so happy, and I'll never forget the look on his face and I learned we might actually be making something here. While I was in Charlotte for the gig, my boyfriend was busy being in somebody else.

He told me in October. I should have chased him out, burned his things, but I was stunned enough that I let him stay another month. I still haven't gotten rid of some of his things.

But I dealt with the stress of that, and I've dealt with the stress of it, and I need to toss those things out. I've tossed out memories before, and I'll do it again. I say that I remember everything, and it's true -- but just because I remember something doesn't mean I don't want to remember. The past means nothing. The past doesn't help me out. The past doesn't pay the bills. It only holds me back.

I'm furious.

That may be the best thing to be right now.

For now, though, I work. And I plan, in the little bits that I can. I get outside the city to think. I take the ferry. I fix music. And hopefully, this summer, I'll go back to the place where I had my successful gig, and lightning will strike twice.

And the thunder will follow afterward.
memorialrainbow: (Default)
I had a dream last night.

It's not any secret to anybody that I'm a huge fan of roller coasters. In this dream, I had taken a train out somewhere to Six Flags in New Jersey, probably the biggest park in the New York tri-state area. Nice big park, really nice collection of coasters, ugly little park itself but whatever, I don't go there to have it look pretty.

Of course, parks in my dreams never show up as they're supposed to, and when Dylan (my boyfriend) and I get there we notice they're doing a special promotion to mark the end of the year -- you know, since it's November. O.o It was a Wednesday, and the park closed for the season on Friday.

The special they were running?

They had Kingda Ka running RIGHT SMACK DAB NEXT TO Top Thrill Dragster. As in, the only two stratacoasters in the world were running side by side, and I even remember watching both sets of trains coming down the hills at the same time, rushing right towards me. Dragster's profile was mirrored, which puts Ka on the right side, because I remember it having that extra bunny hill like it does.

(For the un-coaster initiated, RCDB has information on both Kingda Ka and Dragster -- they are basically the same coaster. Kingda Ka is installed at SFGANJ, but Dragster is my favorite coaster at my favorite park, Cedar Point in Sandusky, Ohio. Ahem...um...other things. Yeah.)

So we're walking around and at some point we do decide to ride Dragster, up until that point our only coaster of the day. We ride, I ride with my eyes closed for some reason, which is totally cool because I'm sure my dream world can't keep up with 120MPH of pure AWESOMENESS. (Remember what I said about this coaster? Yeah.) Upon getting off, though, Dylan reminds me we have to be back in NYC at 3 for something job-related for him, and when I tell him it's 3:32, he panics.

He heads back to the train, and I do as well. I don't know if I turn around then, or if I come back to SFGANJ at a later date, but one way or another, I turn tail and find myself back on the train toward Six Flags. If I remember it correctly, I ran into my roommate and one of my other friends at a station labeled 116th Street, which is actually on the 6 local line here in the city. (Another fact: in case you didn't know, I'm kind of obsessed with the six line.) They try to stop me, and I have to run into the station and keep away from them.

For whatever reason, when I'm down in the station, the 5 train is running local as well, but not the 4. But I don't take either the six or the five -- instead, I run down another set of stairs that are labeled with a blue sticker that I think, in my dream, says PATH. The PATH train does go to Jersey, but not as far as Six Flags. Plus, all of these trains are actually going north, to 125th Street in Harlem. (The more I think about it, this PATH lineup more matches the Metro North than anything on the PATH line: although neither stop at 116th Street in Manhattan, the Metro North does stop at 125th.)

I get right on the PATH/Metro North train as the doors close and the train heads north. I end up sitting on the floor as the train pulls out of the tunnel and goes on an elevated track, and then, on a plateau underneath the wide, cloudy sky, I see Six Flags and the two roller coasters, side by side. It makes me think it's a new day because I can see that nobody's at the park yet; in my mind, it was that Friday instead of the Wednesday that Dylan had gone with me. But my dreams are weird like that.

All of this proves one thing: it needs to be onseason yesterday.

Among other things.

So that, among a few extra fun things at like six in the morning, started my day. Before, I was more unsure, but now, I can't help but comment that everything seems more alive.

We'll see, like all things, where this goes.
memorialrainbow: (Default)
Insanity.

How do you define it? Is it the loss of your senses? The inability to remember who you are, who your loved ones are? Or is it when you try to redefine the parameters to what they were previously defined to be, only to have the plan fail time and time again? To stand at the crossroads and declare, "This is how it should be."

And to be turned away.

"We're sorry that you're not qualified for your own job."

"I love you, but this just isn't going to work out."

Expectations are shattered, and I shiver in the heat of my room, stifling and suffocating and can it all just end now? But I'm not an idiot, and everybody knows by this point I'm not an idiot. But it hurts. It hurts so much, like I'm falling in the sky and I can't stop.

This wasn't supposed to happen.

But it never is. It always comes out of left field, a whisper of "what are you doing here?" and then it hurts like a broken promise and you're not there, you don't care. And it all shatters, and it collapses, and I pick up the pieces and I become normal again and everything is perfect and pretty and I add one more color to the collection.

And the voice echoes out from the train tracks, "it's over." And everybody is happy.

But somewhere in the back room, she sits with her long purple hair and regalia, praying for a corrected timeframe, praying for patience and alignment and knowing God doesn't do anything foolishly. Maybe she knows the truth. Maybe nobody does. Maybe I'm just making things up as I go along. But maybe this is real. Maybe I really am an expert at this.

Maybe God doesn't play tricks.

What are you fighting for? If you lose that, that's when you hit insanity. You stop being yourself. You start being somebody else. For me, I've discovered that it's my writing. To stray from that dream is to pursue insanity, to follow a blind path of the wolf. Yes, I still have my music, but my dream to be a writer should always be right there, in front of me, something I should chase.

If I take a six train, I'll be too late
Don't be afraid; take me with you!
Just snatch your questions out of midair.


It's not that simple, although it is. It's messed up, but it's all right. Everybody gets happy endings but me. I'm the one with the misaligned destiny, who wants to be a writer but should be a musician but is neither so shame on her. And in the end, I'm used as a friend and nothing means anything and I'm just playing but I'm not. I'm honest, but nobody cares, and I get nowhere, and I can't perform, and you lose your patience. I become a friend. Just a friend. And the door is closed, and I lose my worth, and I fade away. A doll. A tool. And the five train arrives at Flatbush Avenue, right on time.

I have a message for the world: everything gets better. If you're caught in a tough situation, just believe it will be fine. And that's great. Because I can give advice about these types of things, but I know that it'll never happen to me. Not even the dropped bass can save me now.

It's okay. It will all go away.

You will go away.

As it always happens.
memorialrainbow: (Default)
Who are we behind closed doors, and what face do we show the world?

I've been struggling with this question for some time now. I've always been a very behind closed doors person, which comes from my childhood. Being the odd ball out, I was the only person who understood me, and so, I would close the doors to my playroom, creating stories and being inspired and not telling a soul about any of it. And I enjoyed it, but I knew that at some point, the creativity would have to be unmasked.

When the LRPLI was in its heyday, I was able to create stories and distribute them to the other members. Even if nobody else understood, I had an audience. I remember watching an episode of Sailor Moon, my personal favorite, where a friend of Makoto's (Lita) was a writer who had a severe case of writer's block. Makoto reminded her of her dream. "As long as one person read your work, you would keep writing for the sake of that one person! That was your dream, wasn't it?"

I first did NaNoWriMo in 2005, alone in my basement. When I moved to Miami, I took NaNoWriMo on the road. I kept writing, even though my focus was on music. But I was still used to having my genius hidden, although it felt like a crime to do so. This January, I figured out why: because music is where I hide, but writing is what I want to share with the world.

I tend to forget that. I tend to also forget that it's okay if I don't make a living off of it. I give myself a lot of flak for 'not doing more to further my writing career.' A friend called me a hipster the other day. While I suppose I don't represent the culture in its entirety, I guess that's not too far off the mark. I've spoken before of being inspired by Jonathan Larson's work, the lifestyle he lived, wanting to do that as well. Now that I am, I couldn't be happier...except when your family ain't happy, sometimes you ain't happy as well.

Where does your confidence come from? Your parents? Your readers? For me, I've figured out where my confidence comes from. It's a secret, extremely painful at times, but it keeps me going unlike anything else. If I could only write for one person, I know who that person is. And I think it'll bring a flurry of new activity, as it always does.

NaNoWriMo is going quite well. I'll have updates on the main site as it happens. I'll have to be a bit quiet about the plot, of course, but that's understood. I'll start writing music once I drag out my keyboard. I'll send the recordings over the Metro-North line, perhaps not only to the south, but to the north as well.

And still my heart is saying...

If my feelings can't scare you away, then what will? If one day, if one meeting can change the course of history, will it? Will this actually mean something? Could this be what I've been waiting for, finally, after all this time?

Why does the sky seem so wide again? Why is the Lexington line super-express? The key to your heart; flying high on ancient wings; the odds and ends fall from the sky; one thousand paper cranes make a wish come true. Questions I may never have the answers to, but I'm okay with asking.

I won't ask questions.

I won't tell myself it'll all come to an end, that I make these mistakes all the time, that I don't deserve love -- or worse, life.

I'll just live.
memorialrainbow: (Default)
Whoo! That was a fun week -- NOT.

I stumbled through it. I felt like crap. I locked myself in my bedroom, walked home from Starbucks in a daze, treated those I loved like crap. Knocked on windows, disturbed the peace, misunderstood. Hated pretty much everything.

WELL. Now that I have gotten all of that bitchiness out of my system, I could either sit around and apologize for it, or I could stop being sorry and make awesome shit happen. I think I'm going to go with the latter.

I've always used it as a weakness, a place I can run. I figured if I felt bad about myself, if I punished myself, someone else would save me. I've written about this time and time again. It's a problem I'm aware of, a habit that for once I'm actually doing pretty good at kicking. I only need myself. (As I start to realize what the entire problem has been with this week. I'm not mentioning it here, but if you've spent any time around me this week, YOU KNOW WHAT IT IS.)

Thankfully all of that insanity is ending today, and hopefully I can go back into the studio without being a soppy, crying mess. Hopefully.

What does it take to be strong in this day and age? What is the true meaning of strength? To be a little braver, to be selfish? You taught me these things, and I threw them all away. I won't apologize. I won't say I'm sorry. Because I know you forgive me. I'm just going to show up, put it all behind me, and deliver.

I can live my life now because of you.

No amount of music can thank you enough.

That said, I can't forget who I am. What my missing piece is. Why I like writing so much, and what my personal and professional goals are for that. I think as long as I can keep running toward October with my head high and my computer under my arm, I think magical things will happen. I already know they're starting to.

Let's make something happen, y'all.
memorialrainbow: (bell what's out there)
I remember dreaming of a faraway land,
where the trains rolled on into the night
and you were always by my side.


It's not that I'm no good at expressing my feelings. It's that I don't know how to express them properly. Don't you think so? I think that when I want to say something, I think about the way I want to say it. I deliver it in the best way I can possible, soft and whispered in the middle of the night, loud and proud in front of a microphone, hidden away within my song lyrics so the person in question will never know. But because of this, my words have a lot of weight. How must it feel to be hit with truth time and time over again? Perhaps this is why so many shy away after I've shown them how I feel.

The water bottles,
the keyboard I can't understand,
the all too familiar view...
I'll shortly get rid of them.


People worry about me. Sure. But I think the person who should worry the most about me is me. Yes, I do love myself. That took me a while to figure out. I love myself. I should just stop hating others. I don't know how to properly deal with real people. For so long I've been "the only one," the one who writes music, the one who writes books, the one who is smart, the one who is beautiful, that they never knew how to categorize me well. And so I wasn't categorized at all. I hid away. I buried myself under a blanket. I made fun of myself and made myself ugly, made it the norm, so maybe I'd be normal. Maybe I could have some friends. And I suppose it worked for a while. But when I got to New York, all I did was remind myself that "I am the stuff legends are made out of."

Goodbye, and thank you.
You taught me what it means
to look for happiness
in the midst of sadness.


But what happens when the legend ends? What happens when you wake up in your own bed and you're not sure if this entire summer was a dream or not? A nightmare, in some places, I'm sure, but still a dream. One that turned strange at the end, and for a minute, I knew exactly what I wanted out of life. I remembered who I was beyond the chaos and the real world eating away at me, and I wanted to step forward and grab that. And then I woke up.

Perhaps I can find a way to keep going.
But the six train is too late.
I'm lost in a crowd at the station.
Do you even know where to find me?


I retrace my footsteps and it takes me back to 96th and Park. This is the area where the Metro-North trains go elevated, where the underground meets the sky, as they go in and out of the city each and every day. Now, these tracks seem even more real. I can understand that scores of people worked so hard to make this all a reality. Perhaps the world is not a dream, and my reality was the dream after all. Perhaps this chain link fence is really made of metal, perhaps there really is concrete below my feet, perhaps that train really is bound to exciting places such as Poughkeepsie. Although each of those Metro-North trains has to stop somewhere before heading out of Manhattan. I send a little wish on each train that heads out to the big unknown, hoping that the wish will shine, will reach its intended recipient.

The old CDs,
the faded pictures,
the memories...
I'll shortly get rid of them.


The bracelet I made is finally fraying. I wonder if I should just take it off at this point, considering that I'm here in New York and that I'm not going anywhere, despite what my mother says. I don't care if I get tossed out and have to live like a bum...okay, I care a little bit. I've started looking for places to live. Anywhere is fine, I suppose, as long as it's a room. I don't have to worry about making any noise now. But I don't want to disappear as I did before. There's someplace I'd rather be. I want to be on Top Thrill Dragster, fearless towards my goal, locked into the track with only one place to go: up. And if I rollback? I can't let it affect me like it did before. I'll just try again, knowing that the charge beneath my wheels comes from a different place now.

Goodbye, and thank you.
You taught me what it means
to look for myself
in the midst of you.


I've finally found the strength to go forward, but is it too late? Did I spend this entire summer throwing off everything that has ever held me back, only to not have anybody waiting for me at the finish line? What happened to the one who told me to get off the train? What happened to the one who said he would be my guardian? Perhaps I still can't see the world as properly as I need to, but at least I know the difference. The right words need to be recorded on the tapes in my head. Real world memories do not have to only mock. They can inspire. They can shine. And as for the bad memories? Honesty is always the best policy when you're with somebody. If you can't keep it honest, then somebody is getting a bad version of reality, aren't they?

In these far-off days,
I was always spinning.
I still have one wing left.


I walk back down to 96th and Park and wonder, if I just threw all of my old memories onto these train tracks, and they scattered to the wind, what kind of new memories could I make in this city I call home? I look to the north, and the promise that I won't soon forget, and the light of the silver moon. Perhaps this will all end in tragedy. Perhaps I will fall again. But I'd rather fall again, I'd rather feel something real, I'd rather chase my dream than hide away. I'd rather have somebody recognize me for who I truly am than try to be somebody I'm not to get attention. I think about it, and 'I try to search for an answer and it all comes back to you' comes to mind. God has gotten me this far. To hear his voice would be blasphemy. But I think I'm stronger now. I think I finally get what it means to suffer.

Hello, and thank you.
You taught me what it means
to look for the sunrise
in the coming dawn.


The clock on the wall continues to tick. I don't have much time left in this apartment. But as long as I stay fierce, as long as I remember who I am -- lightning, the potential, the charge, the raw power -- as long as I don't stop.

Don't stop.

Please.

Don't let it stop.

I will stay here until morning.
I finally have the correct strength.
I think I can go on as I am now.
memorialrainbow: (Default)
This will be the first summer in 7 years where I will be SO HAPPY for it to be done.

Goodbye, Coney Island. I'm sorry I didn't make it to you twice during the summer. Maybe I will during Labor Day weekend, if anybody wants to go with me. Maybe it won't suck. Maybe I won't throw up at Sheepshead Bay and stake out sanctuary in Dunkin' Donuts. Maybe I won't get lots of bad memories and hate myself the entire time I'm there.

Actually, let's make that a hopefully. I really like you, Coney Island. Let's not screw this up.

See you soon, Empire State Building. I wish to not hate you for the same reasons. Actually, considering the outcome of it all, I can look up at you and smile.

A bittersweet goodbye for now, Cedar Point. It's okay. I still love you. I wish I could wrap you up and give you a great big hug. You've given me so much over the years, but more than anything, you've given me two things that have stood the test of time: an identity and a missing piece. I still have both of those, and I want to thank you for that.

(And to my missing piece: who would have thought it would be you? But I digress. I ask that question about you way too often.)

Ja ne, WaHi. You're like that old friend I'll never see again, good memories, lots of late nights, sleeping over, feeling like home. But you're not home. I look out my window and wonder if I'll ever take the M96 bus again, if I'll ever arrive at that door, if I'll ever fully understand. The future is an uncertain place. Maybe someday it'll all be okay. But it's all okay now.

I will soon bid a farewell to Normandie. I really do like you. You're just too expensive for the lifestyle I want to live now.

Goodbye, the me who used to not care. Goodbye, sitting under my blanket. Goodbye, not wanting to eat food because I'm afraid I'll throw it back up. I'm trying to throw you away the best that I can. It doesn't always work, but I have a feeling it will get better.

So long to the summer that sucked.

Hello, Grand Central Terminal.

Today, I pick up Ringo and pack everything up. I shoulder my bag and get ready to go to Argo. I don't have any food in my house save for ramen noodles, but I'm kind of okay with that. When I get to Argo, maybe I'll finally sit down and figure out what I want to do with my life.

But to start with, I will go to 96th and Park and watch the trains run in and out of my city, to places I can't even begin to understand.
memorialrainbow: (Default)
Scene Shifts There
a really creative nonfiction

A lonely scientist created a robot; when he finished, he called it a miracle. )

We don't have enough data to call it alcohol abuse --
uh, we have no way of knowing, um,
if these are the only two incidents that have ever occurred
in the history of the HyperSong corps
or if there is the tip of a very large iceberg.
memorialrainbow: (Default)
It's June. Hello, June! I haven't blogged yet for June or yet for this summer, so it's comforting to know I'm having a bit of fun here. I literally have sat in this chair ALL DAY. Nice to know that my butt likes it here.

To the sky high, toberu hazu )

Everyday I'm shufflin! )

So now I have moved from the chair. Have a good night, ya'll.
memorialrainbow: (Default)
A little less 'clock is ticking' today, although I really didn't get any writing done. Maybe, like, a sentence. Then again, I kept myself busy all day and it was a fantastic day, so I'm not complaining at all. :) I'm praying about it, which is my version of giving it to the universe. (MICKY!!! YOU BETTER DO SOMETHING!)

I had a very good dream the evening after my birthday (yes, when I ended up in my friend Kristene's bed near Herald Square -- YES, THAT HERALD SQUARE, ACROSS FROM *THE* MACY'S), a dream that I wish I could remember in its entirety. There was a group of people in that dream, a group I knew from high school, and they had gone on living their dreams and I hadn't, really. I hadn't stuck to the path I had made for myself when I was sixteen. Now, it's cool that I haven't, but I haven't kept the same spirit. Those people (fictional) came back to me in my dream, and I realized after I woke up that the leader was me, that kid who still exists in me and won't give up anything for the sake of others.

Where is your bright dream? What happens when we abandon our childish dreams, grow up? Even Barrie told us 'all children, except one, grow up.' Wynona Judd sang we 'put those dreams away, thinking that we'll find them come some rainy day.' But the past rarely leaves us alone. In Kanon, Yuuichi, the main character, has to remember who his friend Ayu is so that he can help her. He has to go back years and years to memories he's not sure he really remembers, memories of a school and a hill and a tree. He's a character who doesn't want to grow up, and he really does remind me of my boyfriend (Jesse notwithstanding!~~~). Dylan often doesn't want to make a big deal out of his birthday. He doesn't want to be old.

Let's make it an 'unbirthday,' then. Eternally six. Or seven. Or eleven. I wouldn't mind being eleven forever. But twenty four year olds don't wear rainbow colors in their hair, or color with crayons. They have kids and get married and put on suits and ties and go out and get sensible jobs. They don't wait on a startup they tell themselves will never happen, and they certainly don't pray for it to happen. They get practical.

Twenty four year olds don't move to New York City just because they can. That's reserved for eighteen year olds with guts...or twenty three year olds with everything to lose.

The sequel to THOIA directly deals with the loss of childhood love. But it doesn't deal with childhood dreams directly. While THOIA's sequel (which I'm not gonna talk about a lot, since it's not even pended out!) is based off of my younger childhood, this new idea is...different. It's something even I had long forgotten until the dream I had, a dream so vivid it grabbed me and won't let go.

Perhaps I'm just a silly artist. But I'm a silly artist who wants to animate a video, who wants to put together music, who wants to participate in Camp NaNoWriMo using an idea that she had back when she was sixteen (!) and never fully developed.

This idea might just kill me.

Today I went to Kmart (not knowing I'd go to Michael's later) and got a beach towel, more glow in the dark stars, and red duct tape. I took the duct tape home and put it on the rug in my room. Nine squares, eleven by eleven, thirty three by thirty three in total. I put little markings on some of the squares, because I was too damn lazy to make full arrows. It cost me five bucks in duct tape. But it's beautiful. And I'm going to keep using it. That red duct tape isn't going anywhere.

And if it doesn't work...

And if it don't work, make the real thing wipe it out!

What Scotty D. said.
memorialrainbow: (Default)
Hey.

Can I get my 2011 back? 2012 has kind of sucked so far. I got the floor pulled out from under me on the five train -- late, late, FUCKING LATE. And my new work schedule, while I like it, has me dog-tired.

I'd like to talk about two things tonight.

The first is food.

Oh, em, gee. I just went to Fairway to get some perishables and I'm so glad I did. I feel so much better now that I've arrived home with tomatoes and celery. I'm pretty sure I'm obsessed with both; so tonight for dinner I had chicken salad with celery, along with about a half a tin of grape tomatoes (addicting!!!) and a bit of hummus and ranch. I'm slowly getting used to hummus. It's weird, but good. I just have to tell myself it's peas. Right? Maybe?

The other thing I'm noticing is that I'm not who I once was.

There's a disappointing difference between Ohio-Emily and New York-Emily. When I see me in Ohio, I see me in Brookover, hanging out in my apartment, eating food and watching TV and sitting down. When I see me in New York, I see me running to the ferry. Every time. That's just one of the things that has changed. Before all of this happened, I thought I was incapable of change. I was going around in the same circle, over and over again, the same rut and everything.

When everything started happening that summer, when my life changed...I can't explain it. Even now, a half of a year later. Although there is someone I need to thank for it -- and that person really is Dylan. See, if Dylan hadn't been such a dick and moved to Madison this summer to pursue his dreams, I wouldn't have gotten so pissed off at him. And I mean, I was really pissed off at him, because I had spent all that time waiting for him to graduate from Miami and NOW HE WAS LEAVING ME FOR AN ENTIRE SUMMER. What had happened to us going together?

But I figured, hey, he could go and get his foot in the door, and then either he can come home and stop dreaming those crazy dreams or he could become rich and famous and move me out there. And so I let it slide. Until I realized that by letting Dylan move, I had lost my riding buddy. And there was no way in hell I was going to let the summer pass me by without going to the Point at least once.

That was mid-June, when I saddled up my car and went to Cedar Point all by myself, because I could. The extreme success of that trip (known as the Royal Tour) led to the road trip to Madison for New Years. (For those of you who have lived under a rock, my New Year is July 16th at 10:00 PM. Every year. Don't ask why. There's a Chinese New Year, there's a Jewish New Year, and I get my own, too.) During this trip, I learned a lot about myself -- that I could drive with an eyelash in my eye, that I was capable of driving a car cross-state, and most importantly, that I could go to New York City all by myself. That was, honestly, the scariest thing I'd ever done.

(It was also during this trip that the 'ride warrior' idea that Cedar Fair has so fantastically planted in everybody's mind took root, and the entire drive home was spent immersed in a post-apocalyptic Point with a New York chick named after a coaster. YES, THUNDERBOLT, I AM LOOKING AT YOU.)

But more about that scary thing. I feel like my entire life, I've been able to hide behind what's easy, because I do it so well. I'm talking about my music. Whenever it came up, for a choice or what not, I was like, "Oh, I'll just do music with my life." It was never hard, because music was like breathing. So I went through life without a lot of trouble. The first trouble I really came up against was when I didn't want to become famous, so I moved home after graduating from Miami and started working at the Job. And even then, all I did was beat myself up.

Going into that city by myself...that was the scariest thing I had ever done. It reminded me of the first time I got on the Vortex. Anything else was like not living. I had to do it.

Back to my story, and then I'll talk more about how life = hard. If it weren't for Dylan, I wouldn't have driven to Madison and discovered all those things about myself. I really am capable of more than I thought. That's what I told myself then.

And then, in the space of one night...something really, seriously catastrophic happened. I don't like talking about it. Some people have an idea. TTR readers know what it is. It's a secret. And it has nothing to do with Dylan. But what happened that Thursday night was so life-changing that I had no choice but to move to New York as a result. What I had lost was so important that I couldn't wait to find it again.

That part of my life has been completed, and as a result, I'm now here. The Ohio Emily mentality is long gone. And Dylan is still here. He still pisses me off, and he pisses me off a lot, actually. But I love him. The cycle of hatred and misunderstanding has been broken, and I am confident in saying that Dylan isn't going anywhere.

He's that into me.

From what I've learned this summer, I want life to be hard. I want to take ownership and understand how life works, to do my own taxes and pay my own rent and not have anybody else do it for me. To 'drive myself.' Whatever that takes, I'll get there. I'll become a published author, and I want to work on my career in music, too. Not a fame-based career, something more along the lines of teaching or writing professionally. Something to keep me going until I find my way.

Until then, I have the Job. I understand that writing takes time. So I better get good at this Job -- not because it's something to do, but because I really do like it. And I love being there. It's enough that I think I'll move to the Island -- I still hate it, and I'd want to live close to the ferry, but not in a house, Aoiko. And perhaps from here, I can really, truly rebuild my life the way I want it.

I have Dylan to thank for that. I really do. I love you, so much. I normally don't gush about it a whole lot, and especially not on this blog. You changed me, sweetheart, for the better. Thank you.

And to you. You know who you are. You showed me that my life could be rebuilt, with the truth. I would follow you, and I will follow you, no matter where you go.

Because of you, I am never alone.

Thank you.
memorialrainbow: (default)
This entry is all about my recent trip to New York City. It was awesome, and you should really read more if you want to hear all about it. Read more... )

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