Friday, November 20, 2009


Each syllable rings in my head. Al-le, al-le-loooo-ya. Each year in choir a reminder of where the accent goes.

I'm feeling slightly better. Some things are upsetting me. Today I realized how much my roomate is like V. Physically, petite, offbeat fashion, eclectic tastes. Insecure. Unstable, creativity about to burst in every unexpected way, from cake decorating to tunnel making to singing songs about Jesus and tampons and sketching birds. Dependent, on people who can't help them, on conservative family who don't understand, on substances all the time. I found myself at first sympathetic towards one and loathing towards the other. Now I don't know what to feel. I almost think it's unfair to hold one in higher regard.

I might end with this-I've heard it twice recently and I really like it.

"Gloria!" - Barbara J. Pescan

The tenacity of Earth and its creatures.
Kyrie eleison
These children who will go on to save what we cannot.
Baruch ata Adonai
The ordinary tenacity of plants and of people.
The center of the universe which is everywhere, not the least place in the human heart
Love that survives anger, and winter, and despair, and sorrow, and even death.
Love that persists.
Nam myo-ho renge kyo
Calm that is the seed in the dark.
For endings that are beginnings, for beginnings that are endings.
For the circle, the spiral, the web, the egg, the orbit, the center, the seed, the flower the fruit, the opening, the death, the release, the seed.
We are going on.
It is going on.
Blessed be.

Sunday, November 15, 2009

Last Tuesday, again. I suppose Wednesday morning.

I can name a dozen people who told me not to. I did anyways, vainly hoping to gain some power from the experience.

It's 5 am. I've slept in his bed that's missing a sheet, just a fitted sheet and a comforter. This is how I usually sleep at home, but it makes me uncomfortable here. The fabric is thicker, like upholstery, with thick leaves embossed in the mustard fabric. It's hideous.

I start rubbing his shoulders. He's awake. I never know if I'm good at this. In choir, I can rate any of the half-dozen singers that stand by me. The shy freshman has huge hands but never goes below my shoulders. The boyish tenor is probably my favorite. The most charming boy digs his thumbs in between my joints. Sometimes I can feel his knuckles pop apart my spine. Sometimes I feel giant when he grabs the flesh between my underwear and tights. The girls are never that good, too soft and focused on one area. My hands easily dwarf theirs. I wonder if I feel the same.

Regardless, I'm getting quite a different response than in choir, for I never end up naked in choir. Couch-comforter is off, and I remember these are the leggings with the holes in the crotch.

I'm trying what's comfortable for me, but he moves me aside. Doggy style.
Ok. I hate this. Last time's problem, not an issue 30 seconds ago, is back. I have absolutely no interest in this anymore. He lubes up and pushes me down. I pretend to like this. Power play has turned, it always has. I don't know why I expect anything else of this. We're both frustrated. He thrusts. Misses his intended target, but the arrow hits his neighbor's bullseye. Or in this case-

He takes my cry to mean pleasure. It's anything but.
Get off. Please.
He pulls out. I'm suddenly embarassed, making excuses. It's just, the only other times, I mean, he had a tiny dick-
I was trying for vaginal.
Yea, well.

We continue, with no success. He wants nothing to do with me, despite some half-assed efforts. I give up, dress in a hurry, nudge his shoulder goodbye, leave my bra on the floor. I realize this as I step outside, but don't want to go back in there. This is the first time I've left, protesting for change of any kind, knowing it's going to happen.

Friday, November 13, 2009


It's come full circle. The earring plays a popular leitmotif, coming back, transfigured, inverted and retrograded. If this were a Wagnerian opera, that is. Or a post-tonal work.Sometimes I'm not totally convinced it's not. Regardless. I'm not going to let this happen anymore.

Stupidly, you can say, I want to remain friends.

We'll see what happens.

I still kind of want to throw up.

Wednesday, November 11, 2009


I tell my friends my plan of action. Cement it, as motivation to stick to it. The last friend I drop off in front of my old dorm, while helping her with her bike, asks me if I need help. I can go with you. Really, it's ok.

No. I can do it. I promise. In and out. I'll call you.

I drive down the street, vocalizing. Singing bits of arias I know, then stopping when I realize how inappropriate they are. I go, I go to him. With the bite of a viper. Scenes of horror. Oh what a joyous occasion. I'm sure there are arias for mezzos with anxiety problems, but each piece that pops in my head is quickly dismissed. I pull into the parking lot to the Ride of the Valkyries.

Work up the courage. I'm going to throw up. I adjust my backpack. Flip my hair. Clean my glasses, my newest nervous habit. He opens the door. Hey you. I just got home. Come on in. He's dressed up, slacks and a dress shirt. I pull my sweater tighter. Well, just for a minute.

I give him his books back. We talk, about nothing important. I keep my arms crossed. It's all going so well. His apartment is clean, but no signs of anyone else living there. I like your boots, he says. I think of the boots she has, shinier, higher, pointier. In contrast with my black rubber round toe butch boots. I accept the compliment. We drink tea, and move to the bedroom.

I know when the evening turns. When I look at my watch and realize it's well past 1:30. When he offers me vodka, my favorite, he says, it's pretty cheap but tastes like Grey Goose. When I come back from the bathroom and his bed is cleared, he's lying across facing me. I'm so much smarter than he thinks I am for knowing exactly what he's doing. And I'm so fucking stupid for falling for it each time.

We lay on our stomachs like sardines, chins up, facing the wall. A gun is sitting on his dresser, pointing at my face. After a few silent minutes, I get up and turn it around.
Yea. Generally don't like a gun in my face.
Really? That's unusual. He smirks. I must perform a study.

2:20. He's asleep. Each time I roll over thinking another hour has passed, I'm disappointed to see that it's only been fifteen minutes since I turned out the lights. I watch each minute until 3:47. Somehow fall asleep.

5:30. 50 minutes before my alarm is set to go off. We're both awake. The inevitable is going to happen. Nothing different. Except.

7:00. Got dressed. I feel disgusting. Think I'm bleeding. Leave without saying goodbye. My bra is still under the bed. Cautiously walk down the stairs. Done.

Tuesday, November 10, 2009

I need to document this

There are so many things that should make me feel horrible. I'm overwhelmed. I don't know how to budget my time, or say no. My housemate hates me, I am constantly walking on eggshells, my piece isn't memorized for Friday, I have two big papers due this weekend, plus four Mass services. I have responsibilities, somehow. And I just worked out for the first time in awhile, only to come home and eat Cheetos. The roomate that hates me is talking on the phone. I think I heard my name.

And yet. I love the way voice lessons make me feel. My teacher is so inspiring, and I always leave lessons thinking I can take on the world. Today, I decided I will go to grad school, a program in piano accompanying and coaching. Hilary is going to teach me French. I'm getting the music tonight. I'M SO EXCITED.

Sunday, November 8, 2009


The headaches are back. Once the weather makes up its mind, then my mind will make itself up. I hope. I bought flannel sheets today. Two sheets a handmade quilt a comforter and a mexican blanket. And a space heater that surpasses its power at least nightly. I text my roomate asking her to turn hers off for a minute so I can warm my room. I never know what to say to her. Sometimes she is reasonable, sometimes she tells me to fuck off, sometimes you can tell that she loathes me.

I was complaining about this to another roomate. We went to Chopstix, too early. Sat drinking our fancy drinks out of the delicate glasses. No music was playing. Another couple sat nearby.
I was warned about her, I lamented.
We continue to stare blankly at the table. Well, I was warned about her, but you know. People said, I can't believe you're living with [her], and others said, I can't believe you're living with [me].
I don't even look up, even though it terrifies me to know that someone else hates me. Who said this? I want to ask her. I think of mutual friends, or not-so-friends. I cross off names in my mind, suspiciously underline others for later.

The whole thing just makes me want to throw up.

Thursday, November 5, 2009

Not OK

I feel horrible, and I need a rational person to assign me blame, and a friend to tell me it's ok. They can't be the same person. I'm not the same person.

Frantically trying to finish this book. My thoughts, usually a full conversation from all directions, has grown sparse, one side of a telephone conversation. I hate feeling like I'm trying but damned anyways.

It's raining again. My headaches come back when the weather changes. I hate the surprise Indian Summers, craving normalcy, not the twitching in my arms, eyes. When I take off my glasses, I still see the frames. Is that normal?

Things on my mind, 7:25 pm:
-my tailbone
-d minor
-calendar squares
-finger legatos