Floating

Today's just been one of those days where I screw up everything, everyone seems to be in a bad mood or getting in my space, and later I became furious (again) with one or two people, myself included. It's been fascinating to kind of watch from one side as the rest of me quickly degenerated effortlessly into an "I can't" being after I got home from work. It's not a thought, "I can't" it's a weird state of existence I can't describe, beyond the fact that it feels heavy. And life is heavy and meaningless, stupid.

And then I had a listening session with Sigur Rós and while I don't feel tons better, the music takes me out of myself. It's another kind of nothingness, but a good kind. Listen. Breathe. Life's a miracle. Even if it does seem pointless, it can be so beautiful.

Night Air and Mary Jane

Strange.

I haven't laid down in bed with the window open in a long time. I couldn't at Dad's, they were sealed shut upstairs. And up here in Washington, I just haven't thought about it. But I had to open the window last night; I hadn't slept well for the past three days. And it was such deliciousness to sleep with the window open, let the cool air in, hear the wind, and pretend there was no danger in leaving it open. And I slept so, so well.

But right now, in the late evening, my day winding down to its last minutes before turning out the light, I was listening to the sounds of the evening outside, the cars driving by on the busy road near this house and what I was reminded of surprised me.

I felt like I was back in Provo. Alone in my room, homework done, about to go to work...except that's wrong. That strange alone feeling I had while going to college, not a bad feeling, but a sort of separation and being away from family, making friends only on occasion. And yet everyday held the possibility of some great change, some great opportunity, small delights, a million things. I was alone but not alone. And the smells and sounds of night living in a town are so full and so empty, which is how I nearly always feel. A contradiction. It's both joy and sadness, excitement and stillness. Always present.

I wanted to write this down for some reason. There's no one to talk to here. Not that I've ever really been a talker. It reminds me of how Nikki and I lay down on the wood floor in her living room in San Diego and listened to a Sigur Ros album, never really talking at all, until Nikki said other people get high so they can do this. To let go and be somewhere else in their minds and everything's okay.

And it is. Everything is okay.

Anchored

Had a nice, slightly sad evening with Mom. We lay down on her bed for a while, looking out the open window, listening to the birds and the wind in the trees, not really talking (she had been crying in the kitchen earlier). Later, we went through some her books and movies and got together a good pile of stuff she doesn't want anymore. And she told me things, things I already knew but were good to hear. It made her seem even more human, more fragile, despite the strong front she puts up. She's going through a really difficult time right now. Echoes of what I've experienced came back to my mind, and as selfish as it is, it made me glad that I'm not going through the dark days anymore, the dark days she's experiencing now (and hasn't she had enough dark days, enough trials?) And, self-absorbed as always, it reminded me of how little my intense experience was based on, how quickly I fell to pieces, compared to the strong relationships others in my family have experienced, that had actual meat to them, that fell apart and warranted a strong reaction. But I don't feel ashamed. Just sort of empty.

I'm glad my sisters, my mom and I are all so close. They are my anchor.