(this is annie)

Question of the day: is love supposed to hurt? Not to be all Carrie Bradshaw about things, but I'm trying to evaluate whether my existing take on the question makes sense. Here's my take on it: love isn't supposed to hurt, or to sting, or to make you feel inadequate. At its purest, I think love is (and now I start to sound like Leo Buscaglia) something that improves your life, that feels strong and solid and ultimately healthy. It betters you and the people around you. I really believe that love isn't supposed to hurt, but that certain situations can be sad or painful. Case in point: I love my late grandfather, but I'm sad that he's gone. But I place the sadness on his absence rather than on the idea that I love him.

I feel like a pop song come to life, complete with cliched sentiments. And pop songs are making me wobbly in my emotionally topsy-turvy way. This is shameful, but lately I have been listening to FM radio to hear what "the kids" are listening to these days. Yesterday, the new Sum 41 song came on and I started bawling as I drove down Western. That is really embarrassing. Sum 41 should not make me cry. Yet they did! (My punk scene points have dived to -57, if you're keeping score)

In other "songs about lurve" news, I bought two tickets to the Death From Above 1979 show today. The last time I bought two tickets for a show, I did so optimistically thinking, "I will take a date!" Except when M83 came to town, there was no date waiting for me, and I had to sell my extra ticket to a suburban dude who had come to the sold-out show with his buddies. "I just came for the beer," he told me. And then that was that. This time, though, I am buying the extra ticket without reserving it for a date. I will reserve it for a friend, because it feels less potentially depressing that way. I can't decide if I like DFA1979, or whether I merely find them curious. I like the idea of these hip rocker guys whose lyrics are all about how much they want to start a family with their girlfriends. That's endearing. And it's pretty crazy that two men can make as much noise as they do, but some of their songs sound like a violent fart of '80s metal. Maybe their live show will clarify things.


Lately I've been thinking about redwoods, and how in northern California you zig-zag through hundreds of them on narrow nighttime roads. When we were a couple of hours north of San Francisco, Phil drove our rented beige sedan through the unlighted capillaries of Highway 1. I couldn't do it. The thick fog seemed inpenatrable to my Midwestern eyes, and my nerves conspired with my imagination to concoct all sorts of plausible disasters. I worried that we would hit an adorable and endangered animal that hopped into the roadway, or that one of the oncoming cars would nudge us a little too far towards the shoulder and therefore to a deadly collision. When I watched the dips and angles of the road, my stomach would lurch, and I'd occasionally have to talk my digestive system out of making an uninvited outburst.

(I feel like I would make a very good mother someday, because I am proficient at identifying and worrying about implausible accidents. I am also becoming good at desperately clutching the car door handle whenever the automobile takes on anything more than a ten-degree curve.)

During these drives, Phil's face was focused but calm. I suspect he had his own white-knuckled moments, but he concealed them well. It made me feel like a little girl in the best ways, safe and taken care of. I'd gaze through the passenger-side window, staring at the stars peeking through the tree canopy. When your eyes are accustomed to the dull glow of city sky, the speckled blanket of night feels like a gift.

Sometimes I think about those drives, and how their combination of fear and beauty made me intensely aware of the temporality of time and existence. It's like remembering the present as it happens, writing down all five senses in slow and detailed motion.


guess who's back

I apologize for the lack of writing. I started a new job at the beginning of the year, and it has kept me as busy as I'd anticipated it would. One of the observations I've made over the last few years is that most people my age, unless they are well-off or family-subsidized, spend most of their waking time working. I'm lucky, then, that I enjoy my job. Onward, then.

say hello

    it's anniet at gmail.


© 2009 avt

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