I am doing something I never do. I am sitting in a bar. OK, I retract the first statement. I am often in a bar…just working. Tonight, I am a patron enjoying the ambiance of an establishment that so reminds me of home. This bar even serves Rogue…how fitting. I assure you, this evening is spent sober and coherent. I needed to get out, so out I went. Here I am, sitting alone at a bar. I have not been this bizarrely happy in a long time. Oregon, I miss you and this is the best I can do until I am home to you again.
Life has taken a strange turn lately. I think I am in the midst of a slight identity crisis. As I re-read what I have posted recently, I believe this to be ever so apparent, it just didn’t dawn on me until now. Be warned – this could be strange tonight. Even more so that this is not my standard writing element. I have grown accustomed to writing hidden between the silenced, four walls of my bedroom, not a dark hookah bar, curled up on the corner of a maroon velvet sofa, with Pearl Jam’s first album sounding through the speakers. For the record, I’m wearing flannel. This feels oh so politically correct.
I mentioned not too long ago what a divine feeling it was to be surrounded by friends again, and no longer feeling as though I am a prisoner inside of my own head. Introducing the first part of the identity crisis: since moving here, I didn’t quite realize just the extent at which I can feel alone. This is still strange. Though friends are present now (and ever so thankful for them I am), I still feel as though I am lost in my own thoughts a bit. The ever wandering words, stories, the book, poems, it is all compounding into noise and I am struggling right now. I am fighting to turn this all off and the only solace I have had from being too emo (yes, emo) has been the comfort of others. Where once alcohol had been salvation, it is now the company of a good friend to quiet my sensitivity to life. There, I finally said it.
A few years ago, I was working for a website. The building our office was in also was the home of an art gallery and local artist. The artist and I became close friends and she even displayed some of my photography in the gallery. One day we were chatting about love, what it meant to us, and if we could really define it. She asked me if I would describe myself as sensitive and my knee-jerk reaction was a quick no. If anything, a vehement no. She then gave me this all-knowing look of understanding and handed me a book. It was a self-help book for the overly sensitive. For years, I have carried that book around, almost in denial of admitting that I am sensitive. I have put on a tough face and created my version of Berlin. Wall down: I am sensitive. I still haven’t read the book. It is in a box, burning a slight hole in it I fear, but I fear more that I would read it and only find myself tucked away between sentences and words of the sensitive person, that same person in love, carrying a heart that almost feels as though it is going to explode, and replacing tears with words. Here she is, sensitive and afraid that this is the beginning of a quarter-life crisis.
I’m sure tomorrow I will have pulled myself out of this funk a bit. I am thankful for much right now. If anything, I am thankful for my anonymity the most at this moment in my life, as I can hide on the corner of a sofa, in this strange, beautiful bar that reminds me so much of the organic beauty that is home, and write the words that I have kept so hidden from myself even. I am still not the girl to cry, I just feel a bit too much.
I certainly haven’t been shopping for any new shoes
And I certainly haven’t been spreading myself around
I still only travel by foot and by foot it’s a slow climb
But I’m good at being uncomfortable so I can’t stop changing all the time
I noticed that my opponent is always on the go
And won’t go slow so as not to focus and I notice
He’ll hitch a ride with any guide as long as they go fast from whence he came
But he’s no good at being uncomfortable so he can’t stop staying exactly the
same
If there was a better way to go then it would find me
I can’t help it the road just rolls out behind me
Be kind to me or treat me mean
I’ll make the most of it I’m an extraordinary machine
I seem to you to seek a new disaster every day
You deem me due to clean my view and be at peace and lay
I mean to prove I mean to move in my own way
And say I’ve been getting along for long before you came into the play
I am the baby of the family
It happens so everybody cares
And wears the sheeps clothes while they chaperone
Curious you’re looking down your nose at me while you appease
Courteous to try and help but let me set your mind at ease
If there was a better way to go then it would find me
I can’t help it the road just rolls out behind me
Be kind to me or treat me mean
I’ll make the most of it I’m an extraordinary machine
Do I so worry you
You need to hurry to my side, it’s very kind
But it’s to no avail
I don’t want the veil or flowers
I promise you everything will be just fine
If there was a better way to go then it would find me
I can’t help it the road just rolls out behind me
Be kind to me or treat me mean
I’ll make the most of it I’m an extraordinary machine
If there was a better way to go then it would find me
I can’t help it the road just rolls out behind me
Be kind to me or treat me mean
Fiona Apple – Extraordinary Machine
