31

(My horoscope just explicitly told me that I need to get my ideas down on paper. To make the ideas in my head concrete. I guess I'll listen and actually write. You know how many blog posts I have in my head right now?)

I turned 31 a few weeks ago. 

I started this blog to specifically do things that I never done before. To go on adventures and get into trouble and just expand my life because I'm now a 30-something instead of a 20-something. 

I didn't accomplish much on my list. 

I did take a yoga class with Kurt. I did better than I expected to and felt more relaxed and alive than I had in a while. But have I gone back to take another class? Nope. Time and money barriers. Well, mostly money barriers because of life things. 

I did go to New York Comic Con. AND IT WAS AWESOME. I plan on going again this year, but 3-day tickets have already sold out. I will try my hardest to get some at least a ticket for Friday and Saturday. I didn't cosplay (dress up) last year due to the fact that I had surgery a few days before hand. But this year I plan to. There's no reason for me not to. Jack and I got some fantastic art that we only recently got up on our walls, and I can't wait to get more. 

Ha! I had forgotten that "visit Atlantic City" was on there! I did! I went to Atlantic City for my birthday actually. I lost $40, went to a club, and danced. Had some tasty drinks too. There may be a video of me dancing on the book of faces... We did take a ton of silly-ass pictures, and for a change, even the silliest ones don't embarrass me. 

3 out of 30-ish items isn't that bad! I do plan on doing the others! Perhaps I'll shoot for 4 this time...

------

There were some other things I accomplished. Like getting a new job, a new apartment, and an engagement ring. 

It's been a strange year. Finding my voice. Sharing my voice with new people. Going back to my geeky roots and embracing my spirituality. 

I'm reading tarot cards again, and digging into the meanings. I'm finding I'm learning a lot and truthfully, I haven't felt more at home with them. I was told by someone that reading cards was my super power. I don't know if he knows how much that made me smile. 

I'm writing again. Small little poems. Some are actually kind of decent. Others aren't, but not everything can be a winner. 

I'm slowly coming off my medication too. I'm finding I'm more stable now that life has settled down some. Not that I'm not moody still. I'll always be bipolar, but I'm trying to handle it more. Focus my energy differently. Being more aware of my warning signs for a upswing and downswing.  The new found spirituality has helped. Also, pushing myself to actually accomplish things helps too. 

Trying to tear down the walls that I set up to keep people out. Trying not to be the hedgehog. 

Trying to be a child of the universe as well as a child of communication. 

Realizing that I'm supposed to write. That when asked what I would do if money was not an issue, I keep saying that I'd be a writer. Why can't I actually get that through my skull?

So here I am. 

Thing change.
Fuck the status quo. 

I guess I am trouble.

real vs real

Everything looks real, and therefore it is real; in any case the fact that it seems real is real, and the thing is real even if, like Alice in Wonderland, it never existed. 

-- Umberto Eco Travels in Hyperreality "Travels in Hyperreality"

There was a conversation I had the other day with Jack. It was when I was more or less depressed (well more depressed than I normally am). He mentioned how he never understood why I don't have a sense of self. He knew who he was at a very early age, whereas I am always in flux. Of course there are things about myself that will never change, my snarky-ness, my seemingly non sequiturs,  my depression and my mania. But who I am changes with the people I surround myself with. I am the same girl who can go to a gay club and dance the night away, then only to stay inside for days on end reading my epic  fantasy or deconstructing meta fiction. 

I am a constant state of flux. 

I have these obsessions (? that's not really the correct word, but it will do) that deal with reality. Am I really here? Are you? Are you really just constructs of my mind put here in order for me to grow/learn/change/evolve? Or are we not really here at all ala The Matrix? OR am I just a replicant ala Bladerunner? Is my past fabricated? Are the people I call friends and family real or not? What is the definition of "real" and "reality" anyways?

Sometimes, I wake up in a panic not knowing these answers. 

Even though, at the same time, I know these answers don't matter. Because, regardless if we are all just constructs or holograms, this is all we know. Our fantasy is reality only because we don't know anything else. 

One would say that I need to be content with this, but I'm not. I can't be. 

I constantly question myself. My actions, my thoughts, trying to figure out why I do anything. Why people come into my life so rapidly and change my perspective on things. Why I don't do the things that attract my attention (moving to Brooklyn for one. Actually writing everything that's in my head is another. Creating the art I promised people. Writing the letters. Hanging out with the people who asked me to) 

Maybe it has something to do with the fact that I'm bipolar. My moods swing so much and so drastically  that how can anything really be "real." Is there a "real Kelly?" I guess the correct answer is that everything I do is "the real Kelly," but it's hard to accept that answer when everyone else seems to know who they are. How can I be conflicting ideas and emotions? How can every answer be right? 

How can my way of life be wrong though? It's the only life I've had. 

There's a line that I spoke in the play that I took one of my tattoos from:

I'm in the middle,

knowing 

neither the end

nor the beginning. 

And it's true. I can't explain how I will ever end, nor can I really explain how I began. I am not defined like that. 

Which brings me back to the quote. I know there is another one by Daniel Dennett that I can't for the life of me remember but I did write a paper on it my senior year of college. (another time where I was obsessed with this idea of reality) And brings me back to what Jack and I were talking about: is my identity an identity if I don't have a sense of self?

(And people wonder why I relate so well to Rei in Neon Genesis Evangelion)

exes

The words we give
each other to read.

The sounds to listen to.


Years later, repeat with another.

And another.

And another.

Remix, repeat.

You try to change the
connotations.

Negative
to positive.


Words and
questions
never leave your
lips.

After all these years

Does he still think you're pretty?
Will he still listen to those songs and smile and think about you?
Will he remember the taste of your lips fondly?

I never told you my favorite number is 4

I'm contemplating fate.

I personally believe in it. There are people I am fated to meet, fall in love with. People I am fated to care for regardless of the distance.

It doesn't matter if I took the path less traveled, I would still meet you.


And the coincidences that happen to follow you? Those numbers that keep popping up, that color that is always around? Are just path markers. The more you see them, the more you know you're on the right path.

People leading you to people leading you to love. Or a toss down a flight of stairs leading you to the one you marry.



But in the morning, when the sun rises; and the evening, when the sun sets, there is no fate. Everything and nothing is possible.

Endless.

All the choices
and none.

Constantly falling cadences keep suggesting the end of something. The plaintive melody builds up a sense of loss, of finality, of nothing more being left, which is profoundly sad. 

Yet, in the midst of the mournful passages, again and again there's a reprise, the original refrain reappearing as an assurance that there's been no break in continuity, a reaffirmation of the singers' former declaration of otherness...other values... introducing a hopeful note at the very point where a tragic climax might seem imminent and inevitable.

But then, immediately afterwards, sombre low notes restore the later version, so that two different conclusions are presented simultaneously and without any perceptible bias towards either....In the end one is left to choose between them; an choice implying the non-existence of a fixed or final form of reality, for which is substituted the idea of all eventualities being equally plausible or unlikely. 

-- Anna Kavan MeRcUrY

how i'm bipolar

It starts with a word, a turn of phrase.
"You're doing it wrong."
 "What's with your attitude?"
An offhand comment
 "You're intimidating."
 A dirty look.

The next step:
"I can't wear this."
"I gained weight."
"I need a change."
"Why don't I have anything I like?"

step 3:
constantly on guard.
the need to be perfect.
needing to be everything
needing to do everything.

4:
sleep from exhaustion.
tears when no one is looking.
a glass of wine turns into a bottle.
the fights.

5.
screaming
sitting in the corner.
"Don't you fucking touch me."


6.
sleep.


7.
a small smile.
a shower.
shave.
eyeliner.

8.
hugs and kisses
love again

9.
laughter
dancing.
confidence.

10.
parties
and friends
and love and all the stuff all the time.

11.
less sleep.
love and love and love
constant need for another's touch.

12.
Nothing can get me down.
"I'm awesome."
always saying "yes"

13.
begin from the top.

Spoilers!

I had a conversation with a customer in the store the other day. He was wearing a Doctor Who shirt and  had a tiny one with him. (child, not a tiny Doctor Who shirt). We got to talking about the current season, and he mentioned something that stayed with me.

He mentioned how as an executive producer, Moffat is better at overall story arcs. Things get tied up. Things move forward. Things don't get stale. Moffat has BIG IDEAS. And sometimes though, these BIG IDEAS kinda get in the way of everything. Things don't pan out and sometimes they fall short. He mentioned some of the episodes that Moffat wrote back with Davies, fell short.

I am going to have to agree with this Doctor Who loving customer. Moffat does have a knack for big mystery and ideas. I think he's fantastic at picking out writers and stories to play out these BIG IDEAS for him.

But I am still going to stand by my "Moffat, please don't write single episodes anymore" stance.

This episode. Oh this episode. Reminds me of Donna and Pompeii. Maybe it's all the red hoods and running around. (or perhaps they used the same set pieces?)[1] I really really really liked this episode. THE DOCTOR CARES AGAIN. HE SAVED EVERYONE!! Well, no. Clara did. CAUSE SHE IS AWESOME.[4]

The cinematics. The creepy void thingys. The vampire in a box. Even Mary. These are the things have have stories and stories and stories behind them. They are full, beautiful creatures with backstory and you grow to love/hate within an hour. You feel the backstory oozing with each step these side characters take. Now, THIS was an episode of Doctor Who. And truth, I did tear up a bit when he's talking to sun/parasite about all the stuff he has loved and lost. You feel the pain of the heartache there.

(this is might be my favorite scene of Doctor Who ever)

11 looks old. I know Matt Smith is younger than I am, but he's playing the Doctor as a old man, tired of all the crap he's been through. He's still excited about life, but the weight is there in the close up shots. In his shoulders. Furrowed brows. 

I do like the way this is all shaping up. 

[1] I thought in the Donna/Pompeii episodes, the Doctor mentioned how there was a translation field. Mostly because everyone was speaking "English." "I'm speaking Latin right now??!!" etc. How come that doesn't happen here? I mean, this isn't the first time we've seen this happen: the lack of translation and only the Doctor can communicate. I guess this goes under the whole convoluted canon acceptance of non-canon Doctor things. [2]

[2] I just read a tumblr theory that the reason why the translation field doesn't work for Clara is because the TARDIS knows that Clara is a paradox. Also the reason why she wouldn't let Clara in with Mary.  HEAD CANON ACCEPTED. [3]

[3]FUCKYEAHFOOTNOTES

[4] Or perhaps it's because Clara's story is so much more full of stuff that the Doctor's. I mean, 1000+ years is a lot, but Clara has these different lives she may be living all at the same time. That's a lot to wrap an appetite around.

Doctor What

Oh Moffat. Why do I get my hopes up every time? You let me down time and time again. It's almost an abusive relationship: no matter how much it pains me, I go back to you.

Because there was so much hope in the teaser preview of The Bells of Saint John. SO MUCH. And when the actual episode came on, it fell flat.

Oh yes. And horrible name for an episode that has nothing really to do with the aforementioned bells (spolier alert: it's a telephone ringing) and gets thrown aside quite quickly.

I remember the good old days of Davies: where the first episode of meeting the new companion actually had a plot. Where the companion was dragged along for the ride and mystery of BIG BAD THING HAPPENING. Instead we get Moffat's excuse of an episode that introduces us to Clara in such a boring way. The BIG BAD THING that happens has no resolution. The Doctor doesn't seem to care at all about the rest of people being (spoilers! uploaded). Only Clara. Since when was he so selfish?

The mystery of Clara also gets nowhere. So the Doctor finds her. He didn't lose her again. Bah. Would have been more interesting if he did. Instead we have a boring, almost one dimensional woman with witty lines and a talking speed to match Smith's. I love Clara as a concept. And I love how Coleman portrays her. But her other incarnations were so much more interesting.

What kills me is the potential that this episode had. It could have been so much better. It could have felt like an hour's worth of story and mystery instead of a fast-paced look at how much the Doctor just cares about this ONE PERSON AND NOT THE REST OF THE WORLD. He doesn't even seem to be interested in who/what is behind this whole plot.

So, Dearest Moffat: please stop writing episodes. Or at least ask Davies to write again. Maybe it will counteract your inability to understand the concept of plot and follow-through.