she returns
for some, blogs are written to reveal perspective, or written in order to share life events. i think, for me, it is time i accepted that my blog is about catharsis (cathexsis?)
in a past life, i would offer some rudimentary justification here. so... (insert rudimentary justification)
i live in an apartment in which there never ceases to be noise. most of it puddles at the corners of my bedroom. at this very moment, there is someone playing music; it sounds as if it is radio music. it is emanating from the far left corner of my room, but it is uncertain as to whether it is originating from under my floorboards or from next door. civil (if somewhat nagging) requests have returned me no peace, merely curses. i would complain, except that i cannot find the source of the noise. one neighbor blames another, and all neighbors are of the opinion that i should simply "get used to living in an apartment!"
persistent noise creates in me a persistent desire to do violence. instead (of say, burning down my neighbors' doors) i invent fantasies of rest, create actual fairy tales in order to cope. "my bedroom is actually a walk-in closet. and my living room is my bedroom" (yes, i now sleep in the living room.) "it's wonderful to have two rooms for the price of one." and i ignore that i am angry that it is necessary for me to learn to cope with my home. because home was supposed to be where one goes for comfort. the home i created for myself was supposed to be, was meant to be, should have been a space/a site of quiet, somewhere -- a where that was/is apart.
no, there was no way i could have known that my apartment is a sound-trap.
and such is the nature of broken fantasies. they create rage: strange, primal rages. and there is not much one can do about this derivative of anger, i have learned. at least, there is not much i know to do about such rage. there is nothing to do, really -- besides function.
and the only functional thing for me to do is to walk out of my now-closet, into my new bedroom, and go to sleep.
though tomorrow, i am calling the landlord.
in a past life, i would offer some rudimentary justification here. so... (insert rudimentary justification)
i live in an apartment in which there never ceases to be noise. most of it puddles at the corners of my bedroom. at this very moment, there is someone playing music; it sounds as if it is radio music. it is emanating from the far left corner of my room, but it is uncertain as to whether it is originating from under my floorboards or from next door. civil (if somewhat nagging) requests have returned me no peace, merely curses. i would complain, except that i cannot find the source of the noise. one neighbor blames another, and all neighbors are of the opinion that i should simply "get used to living in an apartment!"
persistent noise creates in me a persistent desire to do violence. instead (of say, burning down my neighbors' doors) i invent fantasies of rest, create actual fairy tales in order to cope. "my bedroom is actually a walk-in closet. and my living room is my bedroom" (yes, i now sleep in the living room.) "it's wonderful to have two rooms for the price of one." and i ignore that i am angry that it is necessary for me to learn to cope with my home. because home was supposed to be where one goes for comfort. the home i created for myself was supposed to be, was meant to be, should have been a space/a site of quiet, somewhere -- a where that was/is apart.
no, there was no way i could have known that my apartment is a sound-trap.
and such is the nature of broken fantasies. they create rage: strange, primal rages. and there is not much one can do about this derivative of anger, i have learned. at least, there is not much i know to do about such rage. there is nothing to do, really -- besides function.
and the only functional thing for me to do is to walk out of my now-closet, into my new bedroom, and go to sleep.
though tomorrow, i am calling the landlord.
posted by J. at 10:29 PM
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