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Thursday, May 19, 2011

Thoughts on Love, Being Overtired, & Bathroom Acoustics

I am currently watching The Matrix for the first time.  I feel like it's constantly on TV, but the Fates always conspired to keep me from watching it - something else more interesting is on, Mom is home and won't change the channel, I turn it on too late to understand anything.  Like I always like to say, I'm also not usually the top to just sit myself in front of the television and turn on a movie.  I always feel like there's something more important I could be doing.

I also think the bellybutton bug freaked me out the first time I tried to watch this.  Because my dad, knowing how soul twin-ish we usually are with all this kickass sci-fi/fantasy action/adventure/sentient computers, was all, "You're gonna love this!"  And then I was all, "I'm eight and WHAT THE HELL JUST HAPPENED."

Anyway, we just saw the part in the movie when Neo (Keanu - whoa! - for those of you who aren't pop culture savvy) goes to see the Oracle, the awesome old black woman who tells him not to feel bad about breaking the vase.  To avoid spoilers and give some focus to this little vignette, I'll just focus on the line that made me go all warm and fuzzy inside: "No one needs to tell you you're in love.  You just know it, through and through."

Even the world's biggest cynic couldn't help but feel a little hope at that line.  And not just in the universe of the movie (even though I do get too invested in fictional characters and focus way too much on making sure the ones I love most are most likely to fall in love), but hope for life.  I am a self-proclaimed romantic; I am in love with love.  I don't believe I've ever been in love before, because I haven't been lucky enough to just know it, through and through.  I haven't even been lucky enough to really connect fully with someone, to make them love me when I know I already feel something for them.  I love love, but it seems to hate me.

I think that's why I like movies so much.  You can root for the good guys, not feel bad about screaming for the horrible, bloody death of the bad guys, and watch until the happy ending and the credits roll.  That's where fanfiction comes from, where "shipping" wars were born.  Everyone has a different idea on love and, in the loose confines of the media, anything is possible - even if only in the imagination of the fans.  But, at least, when you're dreaming of a pairing in a movie or on a TV show, you don't feel pathetic.  Your dreams could come true.  The loves of your life might still come together, someday.

In real life, you can hope and pray and dream and write stories.  You can pour out your heart and soul to the Internet.  But you can't grow love.  You can know it, through and through, but nothing can make it show up tomorrow like a quick script rewrite or a contract negotiation gone wrong.

That doesn't stop me from believing in love, of course.  I believe in it, through and through.  I'm just searching for it, waiting for it, never giving up on it.


The time you laugh at anything.  The time you laugh at everything.  The time you can't get Queen's "Flash" out of your head, because of the stupid iPad wannabe commercials.  Flash.  WAAAAAoooooooh.  The time you start singing "Radio Ga Ga" to save your sanity.  The time you realize it's already gone.

The time you start talking about nonsense, your words become gibberish, you're speaking in tongues, because your mind can't function anymore and it's a Thursday night and you're sprawled on the chaise lounge in the corner, trying to make sense of your world.  The time you laugh at Tom Brokaw on the TV screen, only to belatedly realize that he's Tom Brokaw and he isn't funny.  The time your dad's laughing at you, never with you.

The time you know you still have a blog post to write, sleep to catch up on, dads to drive around, a weekend to plan.  The time the movie isn't over and you're being a child and refuse to go to bed, even though you're exhausted.  The time you remember hearing your dad using the same word to describe you now that he did ten, fifteen years ago, back when you were small and you had an excuse to throw a temper tantrum and insist that you aren't tired.

The time this world doesn't make sense, but maybe dreamland will.


Sometimes, I get the urge to sing.  And I don't have a great voice, so I reserve it for quiet, private moments.  I  sing to my house in the morning, after a cup of tea and reading a chapter or two, when I don't have to clear my throat every third word.  I mouth the words and pretend I'm on a stage, and famous.  I blast my music and belt in the shower, making faces to myself when I miss a note or skip a verse.

And, all of a sudden, a few years back, singing in the shower made sense.  I felt like I could hit impossibly high notes, work my way through complex vocal rhythms.  My God, I was a musical genius!  I could sing everything!  Showtunes, pop music, rap - I was a jack of all trades.

Of course, I left the bathroom to get dressed and realized soon enough that no one would ever experience my talent, unless I welcomed them all into my upstairs bathroom while I got ready for the day.  But that's okay.

There's still something glorious about the way the tiles throw your own voice back at you and make you sound like perfection, like angels, like Susan Boyle.  How can those innocuous squares make you sound like a professional?  I guess it's just another mystery of the world that the tiles will keep for themselves.

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