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World crafting. April 5, 2006

Posted by brianna in Verbosity.
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If you could make a line drawing of my mind, it would be the slow, graceful upsweep portion of a bell curve. That’s me, slowly sweeping upwards, once again singing merrily along to the noise coming out of my headphones and bouncing on my bed when something happy comes on.

Funny how moods work. Remember this next time I’m here writing Sad Things. Soon there will be Happy Things, it’s just all up to that bell curve I have no control over. Though, I find caffine helps. Alot.

It’s so lovely and warm out today. I love that humid heaviness where it’s not so hot you feel as if you’re bathing in air, but stepping outside is a tactile experience and it’s as if the atmosphere is giving you a little hug. I treated myself to a Fancy Coffee today while at work, and everything was very low key and easily managed, and I am wearing a lovely skirt that I even ironed. (Ironing is Of The Devil, but occasionally I’ll splash out and give something a once-over.)

I’ve been daydreaming little worlds for myself lately. I’m not good with friendship. I find them demanding and emotionally exhausting, I either neglect them or smother them, and most don’t understand my periodic ‘hermiting’, where I just…don’t leave my room/house/residence unless neccessary (work). As a result, my friends are flung all over the freaking place. It’s easier to keep textual tabs on people, and so I keep contact with the friend in Montreal, the one in Edmonton, the one in Toronto, the one in California. Those who have slipped by – my S in Louisiana, J who was in Athens and may well be living in France for all I know, D with two daughters now (!) still in Georgia – I keep little mental wonderings on, occasionally placing them in my room, they would sit here, we would say this…I write letters in my head and casually forget them.

I imagine a room, though, where things are easy and everyone is present. M for the prospect of debauchery and surprises, Joy to egg him on while being lush and comforting and provocative. Sarah hopping in with her fairy-sunshine demeanor to encourage me with Sailor Moon singalongs, D tagging along behind rolling her eyes at us weird liberals, for the grounding. D would be lounging around somewhere, being slyly dryly funny and young and perhaps talking to E who is enthusing on the purity of fly fishing. K would be there, simply because he is so /good/ and engaging, and we would hole up somewhere and have complicated talks with our hands while B stands back and watches people smokily and looms over everyone with his tallness, until he finds someone with his taste in music, and then he’s lost in conversation, too.

So, apparently, if I could stand over the world and pluck people out of it and set them into a room of my making, we wouldn’t be playing twister or taking jello shots or dancing or listening to anything or watching anything….we’d all just be talking. Which I guess says something about me, as that’s the most pleasent ‘all friends involved’ scenario I can imagine…everyone just having a nice long chat.

I really romanticise (a word that does not look as if it’s spelled correctly at all, though the dictionary swears it is.) conversation, though. We tend to do that to things we lack…or, more correctly, /I/ tend to do that to things I lack. So, in my head I have a lovely bustling salon incorperating people who always have something to say.

Sometimes I miss my Georgia roommate. She was odd and very bad with money and also at cooking things, but we used to have the most wonderful drawn out conversations. When money was our friend, we would grab some local wine, and turn on the Powerpuff Girls (Don’t ask. It was part of the whole thing.) and drink the wine and start off on something – say ‘living in a vineyard’ – and off we’d go, building our vineyard and deciding what the labels would look like and deciding it would be an /organic/ vineyard and then building a house and decorating my studio and her attic room and deciding who could come visit and where the animals would stay, and soon we were living in a lovely little creation all our own, covinced it was possible. We could talk everything into ‘possible’, from organic wine growing to cottage industry to moving to Paris together and living as starving artists.

As frustrating as life was at the time, the air of tangeble possibility was exciting enough to motivate me.

I catch it now and again on my own, and get caught up in my own multiples of maybe-lives, where I live somewhere else and do something else and work out the hows and whys and whos…but the momentum of a second party to add independently – to put steppingstones under your feet faster than you can climb them so soon you’re both talking over one another due to the overwealming possibility and opportunity and joy in it all – is sorely missed.

I need a collaborator so I have someone to write things on sidewalks in chalk with, and to hand flowers to perfect strangers with, and to take flights of complete fancy and build lives in rural Vermont on a Green Farm with. That feeling of being completely caught up in something dazzling is hard to generate alone.

Though, maybe the point of /being/ alone is to discover that momentum on your own? But then what is the point of finding collaborators? If you have everything you need – self contained – then what’s the point of relationships, friendly or otherwise, in the first place?

I have no idea where I’m going with this, I’m obviously missing something obvious. But I’m sleepy and there is noone here to coax me awake and into sleepy jabbering about nothing in particular, so this will end and I will shove away that tickling frustration I’m feeling in my shoulders and publish this despite my annoyance with it.

See? Not deleted.

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