Was awoken last night by my doorbell -- five in the fucken morning. I was just falling asleep. Nobody at the door, just a blue car -- a Lincoln, it looked like -- beeping its freaking horn off. I didn't recognize the car, and wasn't about to go outside in my freaking pajamas to see what the hell the problem was. Ignored it until the person drove off.
Decided to take a bath this morning. The water that ran out of the pipe was reddish-brown for five or ten seconds, filling the tub up with a bloody-red watery substance. Well, what the fuck -- I know it's an old building, but why are there ghosts ringing my bell at five in the morning and blood coming out of my faucets? I guess a water main broke on Thursday, and I haven't been running much water here in the past few days, so I didn't notice the blood before, but still... Freaked me out for a little while.
Didn't wake up on time to get to the post office. Oh well. My out-of-town friends will have to get their Christmas presents a week late. Have finished all the rest of my Christmas shopping, and most of my wrapping. Bought myself a Christmas present as well: a silver hammer-like object with an ice-crusher at one end, a shot-measuring-thingy at the other end, and a bottle opener on the handle. It's quite beautiful, and I hope one day I'll learn to bartend; I like the idea of being a bartender and putting on a show, throwing things around and all. Just my small dream. Bought my mom some crystals in a little ceramic box; she'll love them. Peter's gonna hate me for what I got him. That's his business.
You always say I'm just like Him, well Merry fucken Christmas, Peter, you may be right, and if you're not, it's sort of fun to aggravate you by pretending like it... Ha. Merry Christmas from the past you're so sure I'm obsessed with...
Went to see Requiem for a Dream at the Art Theater this evening. Put me in kind of a chaotic mood. Usually, I hate drug-movies; they always seem to be about a pack of fucked-up ghetto kids who make a lot of trouble and barf a lot. Not my thing, especially not when I'm just begging for the fucked-up ghetto kids to off themselves or otherwise kick the bucket. Especially Trainspotting. I hated that movie. But Requiem was remarkably good; I was really hoping nobody had to kick the bucket (or use the barf bucket, although I guess the barf bucket kind of goes with the territory of drug movies...) Anyway, it was good -- really good.
Had an interesting conversation with my coworker Renée this evening. She's from downstate, and while I'm kinda sorta Anti-Downstater, she's not all that bad to talk to; not as anti-Binghamton as most of the rest of the downstaters I know, although she's still got that downstate pickiness and hasn't quite gotten the idea that you don't need to wear designer clothes to the fucking mall in Binghamton in order to fit in. Anyway, she said when she moved here, she asked around about the history and stuff of Binghamton, and someone told her an old Native American legend that anything built at the confluence of two rivers is an invitation to misfortune. Of course, the Chenango River and the Susquehanna River meet about a mile from my house. Renée says that the confluence of two rivers symbolizes conflict, and thus misfortune for anything near it.
I like that...
Not necessarily the misfortune part, but the idea that my town is home to a certain darkness. Conflict. I cannot imagine my life without conflict; wouldn't be happy in a place where there was nothing to struggle for or against; am not even sure I'm happy being happy. I much prefer the idea that something will always go wrong, because I was born in a cursed town. Fine by me. Would much rather have a bit of tragedy mixed in with the blessings than be blissfully satisfied somewhere. Makes for a more rounded person, I think.
...And, no matter where I go, no matter where I might move, I know I will never be happy or well-adjusted without rivers or lakes or oceans... Especially rivers.
Was offered a ride home from the movie by my friend Chad, who happened to be at the same showing, but I refused it, despite the cold. Prefered to walk home, to stand for a little while on the South Washington Street Bridge, overlooking the Susquehanna, quite near the fateful confluence. And so I watched the water for awhile, watched huge chunks of ice floating by, smashing against other huge chunks of ice... They made a slishy sound as they smushed together. Wished I could have filmed it and made a movie of my own. I suppose smushing river ice could be a metaphor for just about fucken anything.
Two years ago, I would have considered jumping. But now I'd rather watch something enormous and horrifying rather than being overcome by it. Maybe someday I'll make a film about someone jumping off that bridge. Certainly is beautiful enough. Already have half of a script written, I suppose, although I've never had the heart to actually off my own beloved characters.
Have received a few early Christmas presents: a CD from Aaron: Lynyrd Skynyrd's Greatest Hits; a CD from Alex: a mix of Pink Floyd and Dave Matthews and REM and such; a Tetris game and a handful of magnets from Mike; and a handful of Christmas cards. The best was from Brian, my Santa Fe friend, who is no longer in Santa Fe, but riding elevators in skyscrapers in Seattle. Everyone's in fucking Seattle, it seems. I wonder if there are any rivers there that converge. Anyway, even though it's been a year and a half since I last saw Brian, I miss him dearly. Of course, I bonded immediately with College of Santa Fe's token blue-haired gypsy-freak with the best collection of music I've ever heard, a love of David Lynch, and a tiny blue Plymouth he'd once accidentally driven into a river. If things had been different, we would have become a lot closer, the best of friends, and ultimately, I don't suppose I'd be in Binghamton now. As it is now, I must make due with infrequent emails, Christmas cards, and a memory of Brian tucking me snugly into his leopard-print hat in the middle of the night in the middle of the windy Nevada desert. Yeah, it's safe to say I miss him. But I'm glad things are the way they are, at least most of the time. Besides, it won't be long until I can visit Brian.
Am drinking Orangina. Believe truly that almost nothing is better than Orangina, except maybe love and good music. (If Norman was here, I'd whisper in his ear, "Baby, nothing's better than Orangina..." He'd ask, "Nothing?" And I'd say, "Well, Orangina and your penis." Then we'd giggle, pretend to be an awful redneck couple from the backwoods of Chenango Forks, tease each other about how Real Men are supposed to be, and giggle some more. It's awfully cold without Norman to snuggle into...)
It's nearly midnight already. I promised myself I'd take out the garbage this evening; it's piling up and getting hard to stand. I also promised myself I'd rent a movie and do laundry, but I'm too lazy to bother with that... So, off to garbageland and then off into a book, and then off into unconsciousness...
~Helena*