The Good: I made my television cooking debut today on “Hawaii’s Kitchens.” If you weren’t up at 6:25am watching the Channel 2 Morning News, that’s cool, it’ll probably be online soon. Next month I get to do vegan baking. Channel 2 today, Food Network tomorrow!
Okay, the good’s over.
There is a girl driving home.
This girl, she’s crying.
I’m watching myself, and it kills me to see how sad I am.
I’m crying for the both of us.
And so on.
And so on.
It’s unbearable. Not being able to live with your best friend; not being able to live. Slipping into debt; slipping away. Falling into routine; fuck you routine.
What makes me insane today?
I’m glad you asked.
What makes me insane today is that I’ve lived on this island almost my whole life, and I still get lost, take wrong turn after wrong turn with escalating horror at the truth of the metaphor—dead end, dead end, we’re all going one way, merge or hit us head on, we all must go the exact same speed.
Almost every time I get behind a wheel, I wonder if I’ll make it to where I’m going.
“Living, naturally, is never easy. You continue making the gestures commanded by existence for many reasons, the first of which is habit. Dying voluntarily implies that you have recognized, even instinctively, the ridiculous character of that habit, the absence of any profound reason for living, the insane character of that daily agitation, and the uselessness of suffering.” –Camus, The Myth of Sisyphus
I’m searching for meaning in the meaninglessness. I am looking for the fun I lost last year between the couch cushions.
Ryan is the only person I feel safe around, and this neediness overwhelms him. Friday nights I want to go out, laugh, merry-make, extricate my inner hippie, be all jah love and shit—but a shot of vodka is no longer a shot of short-lived freedom—and if I’m out all I can do is worry about how the hell we’re going to get un-broke. How I don’t have the right to be carefree. Panicking over when we can get our own fucking place to live. How it’s already January. 2009.
I wonder when I will stop being a bittermelon and start being a honeydew.
But when I’m in, alone, all I can do is resent the fun lovers, the carefreers, the world that looks so perfect, from where you writhe, inside your restless prison of a body.
Can’t go out, can’t stay in, can’t move.
I usually just annoy the shit out of Ryan, wherever he may be, until I pass out mid-tantrum, like a two year old who has no words for what he wants, where it hurts, and is terrified by the size of the dark.
I feel like I’m riding a rollercoaster that is actually just a Kalanianaole Highway that stretches on forever. So. Fucking. Boring.
Ryan spontaneously went to Vegas (see entry below), and since he’s been back, we’ve been loving, patient, BFF’s. Last weekend, the Entire Island Power Outage gave us permission to just play. Dad Hee worked the gas stove, making coffee, bacon, pancakes. We read Outliers (Ryan) and The Stuff of Thought (me), ate breakfast on the lanai. We borrowed Scrabble from the neighbors (I won), played Transformer Monopoly (I won), had a Tangoes-Off (I won). Winning is never boring, friends. Never boring. In the afternoon, when the lights and television surged back on, we went back to our Facebook, our blank pages, but it was a wonderful catastrophe, and most mornings I want to wake up to that same dim stillness, where there is less that can be done, and so much more to do.
The first drizzly sunrise Mati-walk of the New Year. The first evening run, hip hop mix, one extra valley for good luck. Family breakfasts, hikes with Mom Hee, getting to boss my sister around at work and write things like, “Make Tofu Poke—FATTY” on the white board. It’s not all intolerable. I just want to go back to living like every day something amazing could happen. And does. Something worth writing about, worth photographing, worth capturing. I want to live like I travel, not wait until I travel to live.
So I suffer and it doesn’t matter—to the universe, to anybody. Blah blah blah. So it’s the same shit, different year. Unless. We make a radical change. What is that radical change? Leaving each other, just for the shock, even though no matter who we are with, ever, we will always be single, because no one can ever understand who we are. Close is still Pluto. From Pluto, it’s hard to even hold hands.
I’m grieving for the girl that used to drive and sing Tristan Prettyman, Ani, Journey at the top of her lungs, windows down, hair down–and that was all there was to driving.
You can only fake it so much, until you begin to fake the faking, and you lose all that was real.
Everything is so nightmarish that I can’t begin to articulate it. It’s just a sense. Of everything falling apart.
Of the pieces changing shape so they can never be put back together.