Gypsy Lou

This gypsy metaphor stuff is getting so pretentious! It's so easy to do, though. And, despite being an overused and cliched metaphor, it's perfect for me.

Before I forget to ask: somebody lend me some David Sedaris! I don't have any, and I'm too broke to buy it!

I realized today that the reason that my blog doesn't reflect my personality at all is that I censor myself, and restrict myself. Take my last post, for example. I had a busy weekend, and felt obligated to blog about everything that happened to me. From now on I'm going to blog the way I think--philosophically, drawing concrete conclusions from my life and the world as I see it. That's what I enjoy most, what I care about most. I had just about reached this conclusion when I read this blog; the final straw hit my metaphysically camel-like back and I decided to be honest and blog the way I want to. If I'm controversial, so be it. I'm not a judgemental person, and I don't intend to insult anyone directly, and if people disagree with my opinions... well, then they'll have to come to terms with that. I'm not hiding any more. I'm Veronica Midnight, an atheist, a hippy, an idealist, not a blind liberal, a very bad vegitarian, a soft-hearted animal lover, an ex-buddhist, a book nerd, and a very lost and wide-eyed person. And many things besides. Take it or leave it.

I've got two main literary projects in mind that I haven't really told anyone about yet. The first one I described to Harry early in its development and to LK and Rachel more recently; the last one I've barely told anyone about. One is a short story/novel, and one is a one-act autobiographical play. The odd things about the play are that I'm doing it for Playwriting class (although I'm getting inspired so much that I think I'd write it even if I didn't have to) and that Frankie's also doing one of those. The difference, so far as I can discern, is that hers is about her, and ready to shoot; mine is unconcluded, unwritten, and generally unprofessional. And I'm loving it.

The problem with me and plotlines, you see, is that I get fabulous ideas and work at them like a slave (after all, I really am a slave to my books) until they slowly but surely begin represent my own life, or the lives of people I know.

So, to make a long story short, I decided to write about myself.

And you know what? I think it's going to be OK. I think, when it's done, that I might not hate it.

Basically, it's about a main character--me--examining the way people invest passion in things; religion, politics, science, art, other people, etc.; and trying to draw conclusions about the nature of human passion. Misplaced? The only thing that matters? Useless? Too mundane? The only truly lofty thing? Questions in this vein. There would be a character that represents the antithesis of my existence, a lot of passionate people sharing their experiences with me, and some sort of facet that reflects the way the main character changes, making room for a killer monologue at the end.

The problem is that I don't know how it ends. I don't know what conclusion I'll come to, if I'll even reach one. Perhaps I'll pull a 28 Days Later and write five or six endings; maybe I'll play them all out like a madwoman and let the reader draw their own conclusions. Maybe it's not so much of a play as a book or something.

Maybe I'll write you all in.

Witty Frankie, bright-eyed Rie, understated Sharpie, blossoming Laura, veiled Oona, magnificent, bitingly cynical Elena, loving (and brooding) Alex, analytical Greg, wise Zack, sunny Chloe, lively Lucas, cheerful Rachel, open-hearted Jaya, and, of course, my own sweet insane loveable Harry could all have parts. (And anyone else I've forgotten--I know I'm missing a bunch of people. I'm too lazy to figure out who; you guys know that I love you.) It'd be perfect.

I've been reading Herman Hesse's Siddhartha all week, and I'm falling in love with it. I don't feel as Buddhist as I once did, but I'm definately feeling my Zen roots again, and it feels great. I feel far more balanced already. It's easy to forget to take care of yourself, to make yourself happy, and the less happy you are, the less you desire to lift yourself to the light again; but the second you feel the golden rays, you remember again how lovely they are, and how badly you want to stay there forever.

Yesterday for some reason I snapped. I hadn't eaten lunch or breakfast, or much dinner the night before, and I was PMSing, and Renata and Harry had taken forever to get out of the house to get to this Sushi place I wanted to go to; while I was on line to buy the sushi, Renata shoved another box of Salmon rolls on top of my pile, my phone rang, Renata said "I don't have any money, so you're going to have to buy my food, V." at the same time as Harry said "Could you pass me one of those?" and I dropped the sushi boxes. I answered my phone with one shoulder while picking things up with one hand and fishing for my wallet with the other, and Elena said "Dude, I'm bored" into my ear while Harry asked for his soup cup again. And I flipped like a light switch from 'Happy and loving' to 'Reasonlessly pissy.' And then something vile came out in me and I became the part of me that I hate most, the part that came out when I couldn't write, the part that comes out when I fight with my parents and when I cry about stupid things. And every vile thought that came into my head was true, bitingly accurate and painfully real. And then we ran into Ms. Daly at Books of Wonder and Renata read me a Dr. Seuss book to try to cheer me up.

I meant and felt all of those things. I still do. I just feel so much love in addition to all of those feelings now. (Bad grammar, I know; 'I feel so much love that __.') It is exceedingly strange. Something happened then; I saw this ugly thing in me and realized that it's a part of me, and that I can kill it, or at keep it dormant, maybe even rid myself of it. I remembered who I became when I was awarded Silver Knighthood, and all of the love that scattered when I dropped the sushi boxes came back to me like a flood to a land of drought, and it was beautiful.

I wish I could turn my mind off. I think too much. I poison myself sometimes, and I never tell anyone my deeper thoughts, as though they were too intimate to disclose, as though I might get hurt again. Who knows? I might. Oh, God. There I go again. I have to stop myself from developing the insane inferiority complexes of my-life until-last-year all over again.

I honestly used to think that there were these girls--in my grade and everywhere--who were perfect. They were all pretty and neat and charismatic and popular, and they never had bad hair days; I came to believe that they were invincible, that they couldn't look bad if they tried. They were feminine and dainty and beautiful, and I was a gawky ape with glasses in comparison. (I really was, though. I was much taller than any of them and had a one-inch haircut that didn't suit me at all.) I felt like a different and inferior species. I knew that I was smarter than any (or at least most) of them, and that I was capable of and in the habit of deeper thought on a more regular basis than most of them; but they looked down on me, so I looked down on myself. I couldn't even talk to them. It was ridiculous. I wasn't friendless or anything; I had a wonderful group of wacky, non-mainstream friends who all grew to hate each other by the time they left. I turned hippie and learned to be happy and to love. I went to high school and made new friends and learned to talk to people (even though I'm still pretty bad at that) and never abandoned my books. I found my gypsy self and learned to find beauty in things, to see things the way Poe and Pushkin and Lawrence and Blake and Francesca Lia Bloch did, to see the magic surrounding them. And suddenly I've got a boyfriend that I love and who loves me back, just as I am (something I hadn't dared to dream would ever happen to me), and people who I admire immensely have befriended me of their own accord and a few of those beautiful, unnattainable people have become editors and staff reporters under my supervision and report to me and respect me as an equal and smile and wave when they see me in the hallways. And when I have two weeks to spend in the city, suddenly I've got the guts to call people up and make plans, and I've got concerts to hear and plays to see and things to do, and I won't mind taking a few days to relax and not see anyone, and I'm me, Gypsy Lou, at last, but this time I'm not running away; I'm just enjoying running and feeling the grass underfoot.