things just happen

labor day, 2011

2011-09-05T13:54:00.000-07:00

i worked a half day, starting at 7:45am, because my PTO hasn't kicked in and i fully plan on using my accrued PTO for a worthwhile holiday in the coming months. not this day, labor day, which is about as uninspiring to me as easter.

and so i worked in an empty office, listening to my music outloud instead of with headphones, and i've concluded that not many things beat listening to music in headphones.

i didn't take any time to put this post in the context of my last, but i can say im in a completely different part of life than i once was--which is always true when looking back. its encouraging to know that people do grow. its hard to notice day to day, and i am glad to realize how much stronger i am than i think. than i have ever been.

im living in minneapolis now with andrea--which has been very instrumental in my growth. she is someone who is unflinching (in a really productive and helpful way) to the trauma that i have found myself in, my heart recently broken--this time for sure. not broken. i wouldn't say my heart is broken as much as i would say that i never could imagine this to happen.

if there is enough love, what else does there need to be?

well, it took a long time to be honest about it but the answer is, as far as im concerned : a god damn lot. it isn't ever enough to love, but love is what counts. so how do you walk away from a lover--the Great Love of your life?

to be honest, i typically walk (or run) right into the arms of another. ive never left without a safe place to land. and so, i am face to face with a place i've never been, which is no where at all. with myself. people talk about this being the place of self-growth, and i am sort of shrugging at the idea. i still love doing the things i love when i am in a relationship, i am still interested in the same things, i just have no place to direct this energy. i have no one to ask me.

the obvious answer to this would be, of course, susan--direct it to yourself. which isn't something that comes natural to me. in fact, any attempt to do this has seemed futile at best. i am much more satisfied by satisfying others--and maybe this is me. maybe this is who i am. maybe after this period alone this will be what i conclude. this doesn't seem like a self-sustaining way to be--especially if i think about the horrifying truth : its asinine to rely on anyone but yourself. this feels like a ridiculous existence. this isn't what i want. i hope this isn't who i am.

nothing seems able fill this gaping hole, not even the person (people, really) who created it. consequently, i have stuck to myself, into the corner office adjacent to my bedroom, and begun writing letters. it never matters to who(m). its a conversation, even if one sided, and there's comfort in that.

most of the books on my shelf i haven't read. i've considered starting there.

the st. vincent album comes out in 8 days, but we've been listening to it for days. because people who love music as much as andrea does will find a way to get everything before everyone else. and i am lucky for that.

homage to when it was considered a sign of wealth

2009-12-29T17:08:00.000-08:00

when i think about my life as it is now, december the 28th, verses what it was in two thousand eight, i envision that scene in harry potter when they un-earth those plants that are actually screaming babies that squirm as soon as they meet the air. this is to say : my life has flipped on top of me. i am starting to see it for it.

for the first time in my life i have changed my address on my drivers license to a locale that doesn't match my mothers. i have bought and put a vehicle in my name-and even more shocking, i have added another to my insurance. we live in a small 2 bedroom house. the basement is ours. if a stranger walked into our house, they would know us just by looking at us. hardly an hour goes by where some kind of crisis hasn't arisen. just as i am learning to take care of myself, i have very quickly adopted four small children, girls. i just wiped a 5 year olds ass because she told me "its hard to wipe my butt when i poop." i agree. completely. the neighbors have just moved out. i can't remember feeling a sense of neighbor, the same sense that people mean when they say "that isn't very neighborly", since childhood. Marianne and Andy are gone, and i just saw the couple that has invaded their space. i think the most devastating part is that, for example, right now i'd walk across the driveway and borrow a cup of milk so i could make the mac and cheese that, ironically, they gave me last night. i don't think these new neighbors have milk in their fridge yet. fuck. oh well. they are young. i hope they aren't homophobes.

my consumption hasn't changed a bit since i last wrote with vehemently optimistic hopes of reclaiming my svelt figure of junior high. or even my first year of college. i should learn to never look at photos of myself then---heart recently broken, distant memories of an appetite, people wanted to fuck me. luckily, some people still want to fuck me. in greece, women like me were worshipped. my mom commented on my weight a few nights ago as she was trying to give me a back massage strataling my butt. she couldn't stratal me, however, which was nice because i could point that out to her. touche.

i haven't been writing. ellen has been absent, and i don't blame her. nothing malicious. it ebbs and flows. i dont deny my dependance on her for my own creative tendencies. suffice it to say that i an dreadfully thirsty for what we used to do to eachother. i also haven't been reading. i just haven't been feeling to my potential. what an awful feeling. i have plenty to blame this on so that i dont have to accept that i haven't been focusing my energy to spaces that deserve it instead of, say, failed friendships, collection calls, health insurance. this world feels impossible to live in.

i am going to take a break from this.

shortest poem/story

2009-06-23T18:25:00.000-07:00

black out

mourning follows

i dont think i can actually do this

2009-03-18T17:50:00.000-07:00

I would do anything to not have the weight of three writing assignments due tomorrow (says the self-proclaimed writer). Fact of the matter is, I can't write about stuff that I don't want to write about. That isn't true. I am a ruthless procrastinator. Instead of doing anything scholastic, all I could find time to do today was : umm. ok. Yes. Today. I came home and drank some coffee because I almost fell asleep this morning on my way home. And granola, I consumed that a few times. Why not, you know? Ginkgo. Ginky. I had two visitors today. Liz : stopped by for a hot minute to say hi and that was nice. Claudia : figure of my periphery. She floats in and out of my life like some current who is constantly influenced by some other thing. She gave me a CD. We smoked a cigarette out of the back of her van. It was picturesque. I went to class. The sun shined, I swear, solely on me and I was sweating but forgot to put on deodorant this morning so I didn't want to take off my sweater.

I came home. That was three hours ago. I have about one page of a paper done. I have three papers due tomorrow. FML. Instead of doing anything productive. I feel like I am swimming against will, like someone threw me into a pool when I said "no, I don't want to swim at all" but I have to swim otherwise I'll drown. You know?

Dear Spring Break,

You are so close to me. Hurry the fuck up. Thanks.

Signed,

Susan

fuck tomorrow and fuck my attention span right now.

OH. The reason why I decided to blog. Two funny dialogues with my parents :

St. Patrick's Day:

"Green is the color of my envy" - Susan to Dad

"Green is the color of my underpants. It's 54 degrees and the earth is greening. I'm going home now" - Dad to Susan

"God you are perfect." - Susan to Dad

About 3 minutes ago:

[on the subject of the fact that my mom's sister is 6 years older than her and her brother is 12 years younger]

"well, this was back in the days when people wore condoms" - Linda

(knees collapse, heavy laughter) "WHAT?!" - Susan

"careful, don't knock over your glass of wine" - Linda (priorities, you know...)

"As if people don't still use condoms?" - clueless Susan

"well that was when that was the only means of contraception. when we were kids we used to go in daddy's drawer and see 12 boxes--" I cut her off

"Of unopened condom boxes?" -I say for her

"haha. Yeah pretty much"

"Was grandpa a stallion?"

"yeah I think he was. He revealed this to me later in life"

"oh god. I can't imagine that Gloria was all that receptive to that lifestyle..."

and so on. The subject turned somehow to douching. Really, a lot of ground was covered tonight. Linda is now baking me cookies downstairs because she feels bad for me and the scholastic landmines that hide in my path to freedom and happiness. The hedonist in me says, "hey! aint it wednesday? aint there, like, dollar drinks tonight?"

shut the fruck up, greve. focus focus focus focus focus.

ok bye.

There isn't really anything to say today

2009-03-05T07:06:00.000-08:00

There is always something to write about, though. Always. For example, this morning, while driving grumpy Julia to hikeschool, I turned left and saw, in my periphery, a white car motioning towards the intersection. I slammed on my breaks. And realized they were turning right. No danger. Just overreaction. Overreacting to things is one of my favorite things that humans do. Like the time that Claire fell into the Christmas tree and exclaimed "SHIT!" as if she was most certainly plummeting towards death. Or once, when I was at work at the old Target, a kid knocked one of the bulk racks containing all kinds of tissues and paper towels and such and all of a sudden boxes of Kleenex were falling one by one and he literally DOVE to catch one. Take it easy, pal...Kleenex is rather resilient towards trauma.

I suppose its worth mentioning that the air isn't as heinous as it has been in the previous days. They say its going to get up to 35 today and 45 tomorrow. I'm sorry, what? Minnesota is the master of deception. It will be snowing until May. Yesterday I was given the brilliant idea to go and look through old Facebook messages and found some gems. It made me miss certain individuals now bound in relationships which wouldn't allow for mutual nostalgia. To be so sweet. I am seeing how good I am at biting my tongue. So far I haven't said anything all that inappropriate. I haven't even really alluded to things. Progress that came with a cost. Fucking Libra.

Its clear I am avoiding something. I have night class tonight that I am skipping to go see Anni Rossi with some loved ones. Can't. Wait. Two shows in one week. I feel like a highschooler. I haven't looked at my syllabus for my night class once this semester. We're a month in. I'd say I'm doing pretty well for myself. I also haven't met with Cecelia about my directed study. Seems fine. Neglect is the new proactive.

This is quite clearly pointless.

I haven't written anything that excites me in over a week. That makes me feel a bit like a mudpuppy.

a revision, indeed!

2009-03-03T08:09:00.000-08:00

the desperate compromise

two like sides of a magnet

are equally drawn

as they are repelled

invisibly pushed and pulled into

some mutual neutrality,

they will dance but they will not touch

they can't touch--but oh my god

how they can move eachother!

until one slides slightly to the side:

the intimacy of fuck.

silhouettes on a piece of paper at a bar in chicago

2009-02-17T07:29:00.000-08:00

A silhouette is but an

abbreviated imitation of

a scene:

Scenery as it appears at dusk,

how trees always look

black in winter

It isn't offensive

but rather the opposite--

what is left out is

revealed in a composition

lovely to the eye

A contrast is honest--

oxymoronic but descriptive

the way that light makes dark

dark

Only against its opposite

can we know a thing:

a deliberate exchange

Antonyms are born in pairs

for a reason

an early collaboration (sgg&ets)

2009-02-08T11:39:00.000-08:00

there is an overused image in art and literature

inbetween the checks of an unbalanced bank account

lies the beaten accent of an oft-trodded rug

and this image--off white against white

like a slightly told story

from a fistful of fingertips

what falls out is those palms

is not the truth but something like it

Friday + CC Club + $7 pitchers = impromptu salon (sorry liz)

2009-01-31T09:20:00.000-08:00

[snippets]

on self-loathing:

months of a hedonistic approach to life--the religion of indulgence has taken its toll on my image, and still I drink and eat in excess. my legs and stomach are obvious scapegoats for my reckless behavior, but there is always someone who will find me beautiful. i am a walking, breathing scrapbook of decisions made. kirsten used to carve into her arms and legs the things that bothered her and i would kiss them then sometimes still bleeding : she was honest. humility is honesty in its purest form. to admit one's weakness or inadequacy in an obvious way takes years of deceit. i will oft find myself in duel between head and heart, all the while searching frantically for forgiveness from myself and others. were i made of glass these tasks would be compulsive and finished like a poem but not as perfect. perfection is the end for which there are no.reasonable.means.

on heaviness:

so many things to be heavy about! there is the obvious--that longing which keeps the poet up at night. oh cruel love. oh love in wrong places--oh prematurity! sometimes when i am falling asleep at night my body is heavy and light at once. try telling a doctor of this paradox and you are met with looks of crazy. for some it feels like demons--that devilish weight, the angelic lift. there is hope--there is a light at the end of the tunnel. I once watched my cat die of natural causes. I saw that oppressing fear rise to her eyes. i saw the moment she recognized her mortality. but then, too, there is a moment of peace before something ceases to exist. Inbetween two storms there lives a deceptive calm that makes people untuck folded secrets: show yourself. A mistake will lend itself to a learned truth. Let's be real now, in absence of storm. Oh security of destruction! What is done will find itself irresistibly undone.

about a door, sort of

impressionable I have become

like a door that swings

in a subtle breeze

a slave to those invisible hands

those polarities on the street

and those people by chance i have met

it is as if my legs are raised

off the pavement in some

perpetual sort of neutrality

to commit to a direction

is to yield to those

archaic notions of predestination

well what of free will, then?

it is the gentle click of a clasp locked

or the slam in those desperate times:

all things move if given a push.

feeling like a primate today

2009-01-20T07:54:00.000-08:00

I had a brilliant moment today, at the bank (where--by the way, I saw this beautiful woman who looked painfully similar to an ex-lover) when I saw that my unreasonably long brown coat mismatched exactly with my black softball warmups and brightly colored sneakers. On top of my head was a slouching red and navy stocking cap, a susan greve staple. The moment was when I realized I looked ridiculous but felt so confident.

As I am writing this Barack Obama is about to give his inaugural speech to the nation. It is also a brilliant moment to be present during history. So, so many people are watching this same thing. Its quite amazing.

Anyways. I looked scrappy as fuck and as I was walking from my car to my house I caught a draft from beneath my coat and could smell the heavy musty smell of sex except it was not sex. I have not had sex in weeks. I just smell intimate. I'm not sure that makes sense.

sigh. sg.

feel good ghosts

2009-01-16T11:40:00.000-08:00

today feels so saturated with happiness and feeling like that boy from american beauty who can do nothing but feel. this feeling i have is largely influenced by cloud cult ("may your hearts stay strong") and the fact that the sun has been present in a big way for the past three days despite the unforgiving temperatures. sun dogs happen in conditions such as these. no one hates that. they are rare like love. mutual love. let's be clear. it's so dreadfully easy to love.

i feel a bit like a glutton today/always. it is gorgeous outside and i haven't found an excuse to experience it, although my time for that is rapidly approaching. I will be meeting a dear friend in a dear place to us. dear because it has been the host of every point in the (un)predictable cycle to our friendship/whatevership. not quite as predictable as the moon--it is something more like the tide, which is poetic in that the tide is influenced, perhaps most, by the moon. full circle. interconnectedness. oh, universe.

today i am in love with my life in the same way that i love the way that certain shades of green and blue make my eyes live to their potential. i love it in the way that straightening my back makes me feel like i dont have unreasonably sized breasts. life dripping with life. sunrays penetrate.

ramble.

what would

2009-01-16T09:56:00.001-08:00

even if shared her attention feels something

like heaven if heaven could be had

two lives chanced upon eachother like a

missed bus or a car accident

glass plates on uneven surface will slide off--

a foundation must be sure

to love a kindred is to gaze the mirror of one's own heart

but to love a friend is to walk on uneven ground

to love without condition is reckless as Faith

because nothing pains like the violence of hope

deep rooted and not obvious

for friendship is insured by default. And yet--

all things fragile

will break.

This doesn't quite make any sense

2009-01-03T08:21:00.000-08:00

I have blogged before in just about every public venue possible and I don't really agree with blogging on principle---except that I write best in blog form. Or maybe that isn't true. Maybe I just write best on the computer. Either way--its a little alarming to go back and read these things I have written in 2004 when I was furiously convicted like jesus about these things I can't even remember. I guess there's a beauty to that, too.

I like the idea of blogging, of having a public journal of sorts for people to read; strangers in particular. I am fascinated by strangers, by knowing the thoughts of people without actually knowing them materially/conventionally. There is a certain element of serendipity that plays into it, of course, and what romantic is not charmed by chance encounter? Its a poets crack. Or, perhaps, it is my crack.

I have been working on becoming.

I am embarrassed to say that even because who isn't interested in change, in growing, in developing that first inspirational week of January. I want to roll around naked on my clean slate. There aren't really ways to quantify all the mistakes 2008 let me have. I am trying to leave them behind, to be a better person, to use this arbitrary day to forgive myself of everything and literally become someone else, someone better. I do this every year. Everyone does. Its exciting until its disappointing.

I am not sure when I became so pessimistic about everything. I am either sucking the beauty out of everything or romanticizing everything.

I wish I was reading a book. A novel. I have been reading "Opening Skinner's Box" by Lauren Slater pretty passively this break so far. The subjectivity of mental health alarms me. Am I crazy or am I just smart? Was Skinner crazy? He was a victim of poor word choice. Control. That is such a harsh word to mean influence. If he had just said influence instead!

Here's to free will and my mom dragging me to Herbergers. Ack.