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Nov. 18th, 2008 12:08 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
phthalombrageMost of the mail you get is crap, but occasionally, occasionally there's something memorable.
Today I was immensely surprised to see in my inbox an email from my old dance teacher. I wrote to him, his wife, and his daughter at the end of July and hadn't heard back from any of them. The last time before that I was in contact via email was September of '07. Anyway, it's horribly depressing wisdom, his life is sucking, and he is feeling old before his time, and at the same time, there's that little bit of hope at the end, reminding me I'm still young and still have potential to do great things, if I'd ever believe that. I sat there and absorbed it, cried. Not a selfish cry, nor a desperate cry, none of the usual, just a cry for humanity out of place at a table near the boxed-up forgotten old uptight microfiche nobody loves anymore in hunt library, feeling lonely waiting for lab partners and wanting to reach out to some human because of the things that have just happened, the synapses that just fired in my brain, with rainbows. These are the things you wait for, I read my old emails, my life spread out on an electronic line, and I see myself telling them as a frosh: "one day when I was walking to class, I saw an eagle standing on top of another bird, eating it"... yeah. I found it entertaining that I would choose to share such observations with people who brought me up and sheltered me with dance, people whom I hadn't seen in person in far too long.
But I guess most things are like that. Life's a chortling stream of dribbly crap, you amuse yourself au maximum possible, depending on your threshold for such things, and every once in a while something sparkles - that's something you keep.
I've been thinking a lot about the smell of men on the bus who smell like my dad used to. It makes me gag. Overtones of nicotine, tar, tobacco, dirty dirty choking cigarette smoke, perhaps a tinge of weed to add authenticity, with a strong binder of pungent booze, sour beer, sour breath, sweat and the stale flour smell the pizza place leaves on your clothes, or pizzas past their prime, or sweat and work in general just emanating from these tired souls on the bus as my lungs try to close up and abandon ship, abandon all the memories. They're probably not pizzamen, they're probably not even homeless, as I initially assumed from the odor of vice. I think my mind fills in some of the gaps as I sink alone and barely breathing into the scent of despair and try to sort out its sorrows, stitching together the traces of a man who was never around in overlay on a stranger's form. But he's cleaned up. People change. I exit the bus, eventually, after an infinitesimal infinity, a minute eternity of inhaling emotional stagnation. It's a disagreeable comprehension.
Some kind of animal lives in or on my roof, I think.
Today I was immensely surprised to see in my inbox an email from my old dance teacher. I wrote to him, his wife, and his daughter at the end of July and hadn't heard back from any of them. The last time before that I was in contact via email was September of '07. Anyway, it's horribly depressing wisdom, his life is sucking, and he is feeling old before his time, and at the same time, there's that little bit of hope at the end, reminding me I'm still young and still have potential to do great things, if I'd ever believe that. I sat there and absorbed it, cried. Not a selfish cry, nor a desperate cry, none of the usual, just a cry for humanity out of place at a table near the boxed-up forgotten old uptight microfiche nobody loves anymore in hunt library, feeling lonely waiting for lab partners and wanting to reach out to some human because of the things that have just happened, the synapses that just fired in my brain, with rainbows. These are the things you wait for, I read my old emails, my life spread out on an electronic line, and I see myself telling them as a frosh: "one day when I was walking to class, I saw an eagle standing on top of another bird, eating it"... yeah. I found it entertaining that I would choose to share such observations with people who brought me up and sheltered me with dance, people whom I hadn't seen in person in far too long.
But I guess most things are like that. Life's a chortling stream of dribbly crap, you amuse yourself au maximum possible, depending on your threshold for such things, and every once in a while something sparkles - that's something you keep.
I've been thinking a lot about the smell of men on the bus who smell like my dad used to. It makes me gag. Overtones of nicotine, tar, tobacco, dirty dirty choking cigarette smoke, perhaps a tinge of weed to add authenticity, with a strong binder of pungent booze, sour beer, sour breath, sweat and the stale flour smell the pizza place leaves on your clothes, or pizzas past their prime, or sweat and work in general just emanating from these tired souls on the bus as my lungs try to close up and abandon ship, abandon all the memories. They're probably not pizzamen, they're probably not even homeless, as I initially assumed from the odor of vice. I think my mind fills in some of the gaps as I sink alone and barely breathing into the scent of despair and try to sort out its sorrows, stitching together the traces of a man who was never around in overlay on a stranger's form. But he's cleaned up. People change. I exit the bus, eventually, after an infinitesimal infinity, a minute eternity of inhaling emotional stagnation. It's a disagreeable comprehension.
Some kind of animal lives in or on my roof, I think.
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no subject
Date: 2008-11-18 12:54 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-11-18 07:39 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-11-18 09:10 pm (UTC)If it's a big animal, then she'd just make a scared pose and run? She runs pretty fast...