Journals
This is day 543 of August, 2011. I came back from vacation and have not stopped, for even a few hours it seems, from trying to get my head above water. How in the word did I make something so large, so complicated and so time consuming?
What I really want to do is write. But as my son once said, 'Dad, I have noticed that in order to get the money you want, or even to have the opportunity to do what you want, you have to do something you don't want to do.'
But I wonder about that. I wonder about whether his generation, your generation, will have a different world where you do work at what you want to do and find other ways to make money. Or, maybe, additional money.
I want to do great things. I want to find things that no one has found yet. I want to know the speed of dark. I want to know what water thinks when it’s freezing. I want to explain how rain can fall up. I want to feel what it’s like to be in a passive thunderstorm. I want to figure out how to make pi rational, and I want to eat pie until it’s no longer real. I want to turn a mobius strip until it’s all facing the right way.
I want to discover meaning.
And out of all of those, that’s the one least likely to happen.
I have been occupied by the reality that I am the 99%. I am the 99% and I can't go to let my voice be heard. I have been silenced by the system, by the three jobs that I have, the multitudes of credits that constantly pile up in front of me and the two unit plans that are lying in pieces on my living room floor. There are lesson plans to finish, ovens to clean, birds and rabbits to be fed and compost that needs to be taken to the heap before the frost comes and the weeds spring up over the path.
I cried today when I read the signs that people have made, when I had to leave the protest and the rally on campus and drag my heavy bags back to the apartment. We have heart, we have soul. We are more than poor 20-somethings that can't afford our education.
I don't want to be a teacher. I don't want to teach. I want to be a horticulturalist and raise goats on a small farm in the back woods of Vermont. I want to live life off the grid and know that I am doing as much as physically possible to preserve this environment for my children.
The thunderstorm was a wake up call. We don't have thunderstorms in the winter, we don't have northern lights or hail the size of quarters in July. This is not my home. We are not the people effected by the hurricanes who struggle to understand the future of our tiny towns.
I haven't read for months and haven't written in longer. I cried today because some words are just so beautiful (what a terrible word) its impossible not to fall in love with them.
I miss creation and vocabulary. I miss confidence and financial stability. I miss interactions with other people and relative time.I was a golden child. Growing up has made me brass.
Today is January 12th 2012.
I've been counting the fights per week that I get into with my boyfriend and it's reached an average of about three per week. Do I really want to be garunteed a fight three times a week? No.
I'm at this point where I've got a pit in my stomach similar to the one a heartbroken sould gets right after being dumped. It's weird. I'd almost rather be heartbroken than a heartbreaker. I'd rather be the victim than the criminal. I don't like breaking anything let alone a heart that I promised I'd never let go of. I think the fairest thing to do in this situation is just be brave, be strong, be honest, and be independent. I've got a future ahead of me that is so bright it blinds. I've got a spirit that makes people dance. I've got a little sister but I've got only-child syndrome. I'm sick of sharing my life. I'm sick of being reffered to as Jackienmatt. I am just Jackie. I am just me, and unfortunately he's going to have to be just him too.
Thanks for listening, journal.
