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ontologyAnd now I know: I didn't get into Oliver!. At all; not even the chorus.
I'm having a little difficulty finding something to say about this.
Here are two things you ought to know about me: firstly, my emotions and longings and loves and counting-ons are several times more intense than most people's, and a great lot more intense than they ought to be. Secondly, I internalise everything: not mostly out of necessity or fear or even habit, but because, idiotically, that is how the wheels and cogs inside of me turn. (No, there is a part of it that is -- reticence, or self-defense; when I was younger I was rather more open than I am now, but this only ever seemed to make people disgusted with me, or led them to patronise me ("silly girl, it's only a book; the moon; October; a genocide that happened over a decade ago!"), and it hurt, and so those emotions shut down, and now I don't know how to bring them out again. I've tried, goodness knows I've tried, but another thing you ought to know about me is this: if I say nothing and am very, very still, I have been profoundly moved.)
Therefore: nobody quite knows or understands (how I hate that word, staple of teenage diaries!) what this meant to me: not my parents, not my chums, not you lot, and certainly not the director.
Part of it was an escape from depression. Oh, I know, depression like mine can't be outrun, but it can be shunted back a little. I know; I've managed it here and there. When I am busy, with work I enjoy, when I am not feeling useless, I am happy. Even when frustrated, or exhausted! -- how much better that is than the thickheadedness that so often takes hold of me. I would see people and have a whole lovely experience and it would be doing something, instead of mucking about the house not having a job and not being particularly useful to anyone. And I haven't been busy in so long, except for the wrong sort, the crowded, smoggy sort of busy, which tends to make my head feel as though it's collapsing in on itself, or it was with the wrong people (viz. Mississippi), and I was lonely and awkward and unhappy.
Another part was getting chummy with my girls again; we see each other so seldom these days that I rather feel as though I am in a group of people who have similar interests and similar ways of seeing things but aren't quite proper friends for all that. And everyone else always seems to be involved in a Thing which I am not involved in (this is how it always goes, with me and people), and there's a thin, unintentional gauze of leaving out, and so they are talking about re-enactments in Williamsburg, costume-making, the theatre, and it is like all of the other crowds I have never quite been meshed with; it's like trying to slip into a group that all attends the same school and are always talking about this teacher and that class and this thing that happened and gawking at me, the odd homeschooler ("homeschooling must be such fun! do you do school in your pyjamas? I bet it's all so easy"), who doesn't know the jokes and doesn't know the lingo and doesn't fancy that one bloke in Chemistry. -- It's not quite like that, no, but it is a little. I am always the girl with her fingertips pressing the windowpane.
And I feel so rejected. I was good. For once I was actually good, and I can't even prod holes in it. But even my best isn't good enough. Ought I to have sung something less macabre? Did I not sing loudly enough? Was I just not interesting? -- But you see, this is how it has always gone. I am very easy to overlook. Once, twice, it would not have felt like a way-things-are, but always? There was a day I was riding my bicycle and I went over a bump in the pavement and my bicycle seat, goodness knows why, snapped off. I was sitting in the middle of the pavement, trying to fix it somehow and trying not to cry, and a woman walked straight around me. She did not stop. She did not even look at me. She just went. And very often people I know see me and do not greet me. And they forget to ask me along places. And they don't seem to think much about me unless I am straight in front of them and talking loudly and there isn't really any way round the thinking. It happened every year at camp when I was young (I don't know why I went three years; it was always disappointing) -- I was even outgoing then, and it didn't come to anything.
It was going to be part of the landscape of my autumn. I had been looking forward to it, counting on it, for six months, eight months, I can't remember. It was only those three-in-the-morning hours of waking that I thought it might end in disaster, and even then I never really believed it. What do you know? -- the worst possible thing can happen, and does.
Oh, how stupid all of this looks, written out in cold words! And here is one more thing you ought to know, if you don't know it already: a thing is, to me, never one thing. It is always inextricably tangled with a host of other things.
I'm having a little difficulty finding something to say about this.
Here are two things you ought to know about me: firstly, my emotions and longings and loves and counting-ons are several times more intense than most people's, and a great lot more intense than they ought to be. Secondly, I internalise everything: not mostly out of necessity or fear or even habit, but because, idiotically, that is how the wheels and cogs inside of me turn. (No, there is a part of it that is -- reticence, or self-defense; when I was younger I was rather more open than I am now, but this only ever seemed to make people disgusted with me, or led them to patronise me ("silly girl, it's only a book; the moon; October; a genocide that happened over a decade ago!"), and it hurt, and so those emotions shut down, and now I don't know how to bring them out again. I've tried, goodness knows I've tried, but another thing you ought to know about me is this: if I say nothing and am very, very still, I have been profoundly moved.)
Therefore: nobody quite knows or understands (how I hate that word, staple of teenage diaries!) what this meant to me: not my parents, not my chums, not you lot, and certainly not the director.
Part of it was an escape from depression. Oh, I know, depression like mine can't be outrun, but it can be shunted back a little. I know; I've managed it here and there. When I am busy, with work I enjoy, when I am not feeling useless, I am happy. Even when frustrated, or exhausted! -- how much better that is than the thickheadedness that so often takes hold of me. I would see people and have a whole lovely experience and it would be doing something, instead of mucking about the house not having a job and not being particularly useful to anyone. And I haven't been busy in so long, except for the wrong sort, the crowded, smoggy sort of busy, which tends to make my head feel as though it's collapsing in on itself, or it was with the wrong people (viz. Mississippi), and I was lonely and awkward and unhappy.
Another part was getting chummy with my girls again; we see each other so seldom these days that I rather feel as though I am in a group of people who have similar interests and similar ways of seeing things but aren't quite proper friends for all that. And everyone else always seems to be involved in a Thing which I am not involved in (this is how it always goes, with me and people), and there's a thin, unintentional gauze of leaving out, and so they are talking about re-enactments in Williamsburg, costume-making, the theatre, and it is like all of the other crowds I have never quite been meshed with; it's like trying to slip into a group that all attends the same school and are always talking about this teacher and that class and this thing that happened and gawking at me, the odd homeschooler ("homeschooling must be such fun! do you do school in your pyjamas? I bet it's all so easy"), who doesn't know the jokes and doesn't know the lingo and doesn't fancy that one bloke in Chemistry. -- It's not quite like that, no, but it is a little. I am always the girl with her fingertips pressing the windowpane.
And I feel so rejected. I was good. For once I was actually good, and I can't even prod holes in it. But even my best isn't good enough. Ought I to have sung something less macabre? Did I not sing loudly enough? Was I just not interesting? -- But you see, this is how it has always gone. I am very easy to overlook. Once, twice, it would not have felt like a way-things-are, but always? There was a day I was riding my bicycle and I went over a bump in the pavement and my bicycle seat, goodness knows why, snapped off. I was sitting in the middle of the pavement, trying to fix it somehow and trying not to cry, and a woman walked straight around me. She did not stop. She did not even look at me. She just went. And very often people I know see me and do not greet me. And they forget to ask me along places. And they don't seem to think much about me unless I am straight in front of them and talking loudly and there isn't really any way round the thinking. It happened every year at camp when I was young (I don't know why I went three years; it was always disappointing) -- I was even outgoing then, and it didn't come to anything.
It was going to be part of the landscape of my autumn. I had been looking forward to it, counting on it, for six months, eight months, I can't remember. It was only those three-in-the-morning hours of waking that I thought it might end in disaster, and even then I never really believed it. What do you know? -- the worst possible thing can happen, and does.
Oh, how stupid all of this looks, written out in cold words! And here is one more thing you ought to know, if you don't know it already: a thing is, to me, never one thing. It is always inextricably tangled with a host of other things.
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no subject
Date: 2007-09-27 12:28 pm (UTC)I'm sorry about the audition. :(
So many of things you said here, rang very true for me. Things will start looking up soon. :)
Times like these make you appreciate the good times more.
If it helps, I think you seem awesome. :) You like Sirius Black, so you must be. ;)