The loneliness is harder to explain*
Apr. 14th, 2007 10:45 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
bending_sickleI’ve been fighting the urge to cry all day. Or, to be more accurate, all afternoon.
(I only woke up at 11:30 am, which explains why this past week getting up out of bed has been the equivalent a reluctant zombie lumbering out of the grave. Easter holidays really set my body clock back a bit.)
I haven’t caved to the urge, which has its plus and minus sides. On the plus side, no embarrassing wailing in the metro or unsavoury salty coffee. On the minus side, I still have the urge to cry.
And a headache.
I suppose most of this is due to my lovely hormones and that useless heap of an organ getting ready to throw the towel on another little ovum.
(The more I think about it, the more certain I am of not wanting children, curiosity over pregnancy notwithstanding.)
Yet some of this is also due to non-biological reasons. Reasons such as disappointment, loneliness, frustration and aimlessness.
My mother was upset at my decision to spend Easter holidays in Cubelles with my Uncle, Aunt and Gran. “All holed up,” she called it. “Might as well not be living in Barcelona.” I tried to explain that all my roommates – those same roommates who almost never appear till the late evening hours on week-days – would all be out for the holidays. I would have been all alone in the apartment – and in Barcelona, since everyone takes the opportunity to go touristing – and that just didn’t appeal to me.
This weekend, I stayed home. Talking to my mother yesterday, she asked me if I would go out with Ana, the new rommie. I told her I suspected she’d go to her town for the weekend, and I was right. (Although she says she’ll be spending a few weekends here, and we’ve agreed to go out some day.) Aloa is off at her boyfriend’s parents’ house** and Ines is off with her boyfriend too, which means that I am all alone in the apartment. I have enough of this on weekdays.
I had lunch shortly after having breakfast, a sorry excuse of stir fry if there ever was one.
(I seem to be always hungry lately, even when I’ve just eaten. Just constantly hungry.)
I watched a few YouTube videos, put up by “The WebElf”, of Neil Gaiman readings, and put the reading of his short story How to Talk to Girls at Parties on my iPod. Then I got all pretty, for once (snazzy earrings, makeup, button-down shirt which I never wear because you have to bloody iron it afterwards) and went out into the world. Not having a clue what to do or where to go – after having lived in Barcelona for 13 months, not counting December 2006 – I took the tram down to Plaza Catalunya, which is where the famous Ramblas (meaning “promenade” or something like) start.
I’ve described this stretch of city before: it’s one long pedestrian street full of tourists, pickpockets, human “statues” and various street venders grouped by theme. Since this was just after lunch time, the human statues were still setting up and getting their imitation marble face-paint on. The only statue set up was the Cleopatra: a woman all dressed and made-up in spray-paint silver, seated with her head bowed, holding the two sceptres of pharaohnic power. I think this is cheating quite a bit, what with the sitting down and keeping her eyes closed. I wandered past the pet vendors, checking out the hamsters, chinchillas, turtles, canaries, doves, chickens – but no ferrets this time – and then came the florists and the painters. Some of the painters do original work, whilst others do the basic thing all artists selling on the sidewalk do: portraits. Some do cartoon portraits of passer-by’s, others do startlingly realistic portraits of famous stars. (There’s one portrait of Sean Connery in a black turtleneck which, were matters simpler, I would love for Kathleen to have.)
Reaching the end of the Rambla – and the large statue of ol’ Colombus – I wandered by the two or three stalls of what will be Sunday’s flea-market and then crossed Calatrava’s instantly-recognizable bridge to our sorry excuse of a mall.
Calatrava is, apart from Gaudi, the only architect whose work I can recognize – and indeed, the only architect whose work I care to recognize. Though from Catalunya – this little province-that-wants-to-be-a-nation – I’ve seen his work all over the world. He designed the Olympic dome for Athens, and there’s a building of his in Toronto. Instantly recognizable architect, and quite lovely work at that.
Upon reaching my habitual haunting ground, that little mall “Mare Magnun” just off the old port, I didn’t stop for coffee and a quiet read of Until I Find You, as I’d been intending. Nor did I whip out my notebook for a half-hearted stab at Chapter 8 of Tricky Business (that Jayne-centered fanfic I’ve been working on since November 2005).
I just kept on walking. I think I was too bored to know what to do other than walk. I did sit down a bit in front of a large cruise ship, just to watch it rock and rise slowly, as if it were breathing, but only for a little while. I kept walking. I figured I’d keep to familiar grounds – none of that “exploring the city” for me, thanks – and walk along the coast with the other haunting ground, the non-dubbing cinema and mall, where I’d finally be able to stop. (Turns out, I managed to stop a bit before that too, though not for very long. I read a chapter on the beach until it threatened to rain again.)
That’s all I did. Read. And keep myself together.
Until, of course, my mother called.
She said she wouldn’t.
I wish she hadn’t.
Now I can’t stop blubbering.
It fucking hurts.
It started out quite nice. She sounded positively chirpy, telling me she’d seen the YouTube links I’d sent her of the singer Mika on the French program “Taratata”. She asked if I was home, so she could call me on the landline, rather than the cell. After the day I’d just had, I was positively thrilled to have a good talk with my mom.
When I picked up the phone in the kitchen, mug o’ tea all ready for a nice, much needed chat, it all went to pot. Mom started hounding me on my not scouring the driving places for information (to make a comparative analysis of prices!) and then just went right on with my lack of doing anything, my not caring about anything, my being worthless and without ambition, you name it.
Picture, if you will, me. Little ol’ me in sweatpants and a purple hoodie, makeup still on but smudged, hair messily tied back. I’m sitting on a stool in the kitchen, my feet propped up on it so I can rest my elbows on my knees – yes, I’m flexible. In my left hand, I’m holding the phone away from me, the shrill rants of my mother still loud enough to be heard – and understood, if I try. I’m staring away into space, trying not to listen too closely to my mother out of self-preservation, trying to just blank out everything until it’s over.
Now picture that monologue for some fifteen minutes. Maybe twenty. Gods know. It was much too long anyway.
I once, very recently, told my mother that she’d never shown me support. She didn’t – and still doesn’t – understand what I meant. Yes, she’s helped me. But there’s a very big difference, particularly on the emotional front, between helping someone do something, and standing behind them, cheering them on. I would have liked some cheering.
For example, it’s nice that mom’s checking out other driving schools that may cost less, and telling me what to investigate, It’s not, however, nice to tell me that I don’t give a shit about anything and that I’m never going to do anything anyway.
Makes me want to just say no to the whole driving thing.
And to a fuckload of other things.
Not to be too Romantic about it, but I’m miserably unhappy and have no one to talk to.
PS: Linky-links will be done later, when internet doesn't randomly die on me.
* Neil Gaiman, poem in The Goldfish Pool and Other Stories from the collection Smoke and Mirrors
** Here in Spain, the average age at which people leave their parents’ house is round about 30. The young ‘uns blame it on lack, or expense, of housing, but I suspect it’s the comfort of having your meals prepared and your laundry washed that clinches the deal. That people are not horrified at the prospect of still living with their parents when their 30 may also be a problem. I, for one, am horrified.
(I only woke up at 11:30 am, which explains why this past week getting up out of bed has been the equivalent a reluctant zombie lumbering out of the grave. Easter holidays really set my body clock back a bit.)
I haven’t caved to the urge, which has its plus and minus sides. On the plus side, no embarrassing wailing in the metro or unsavoury salty coffee. On the minus side, I still have the urge to cry.
And a headache.
I suppose most of this is due to my lovely hormones and that useless heap of an organ getting ready to throw the towel on another little ovum.
(The more I think about it, the more certain I am of not wanting children, curiosity over pregnancy notwithstanding.)
Yet some of this is also due to non-biological reasons. Reasons such as disappointment, loneliness, frustration and aimlessness.
My mother was upset at my decision to spend Easter holidays in Cubelles with my Uncle, Aunt and Gran. “All holed up,” she called it. “Might as well not be living in Barcelona.” I tried to explain that all my roommates – those same roommates who almost never appear till the late evening hours on week-days – would all be out for the holidays. I would have been all alone in the apartment – and in Barcelona, since everyone takes the opportunity to go touristing – and that just didn’t appeal to me.
This weekend, I stayed home. Talking to my mother yesterday, she asked me if I would go out with Ana, the new rommie. I told her I suspected she’d go to her town for the weekend, and I was right. (Although she says she’ll be spending a few weekends here, and we’ve agreed to go out some day.) Aloa is off at her boyfriend’s parents’ house** and Ines is off with her boyfriend too, which means that I am all alone in the apartment. I have enough of this on weekdays.
I had lunch shortly after having breakfast, a sorry excuse of stir fry if there ever was one.
(I seem to be always hungry lately, even when I’ve just eaten. Just constantly hungry.)
I watched a few YouTube videos, put up by “The WebElf”, of Neil Gaiman readings, and put the reading of his short story How to Talk to Girls at Parties on my iPod. Then I got all pretty, for once (snazzy earrings, makeup, button-down shirt which I never wear because you have to bloody iron it afterwards) and went out into the world. Not having a clue what to do or where to go – after having lived in Barcelona for 13 months, not counting December 2006 – I took the tram down to Plaza Catalunya, which is where the famous Ramblas (meaning “promenade” or something like) start.
I’ve described this stretch of city before: it’s one long pedestrian street full of tourists, pickpockets, human “statues” and various street venders grouped by theme. Since this was just after lunch time, the human statues were still setting up and getting their imitation marble face-paint on. The only statue set up was the Cleopatra: a woman all dressed and made-up in spray-paint silver, seated with her head bowed, holding the two sceptres of pharaohnic power. I think this is cheating quite a bit, what with the sitting down and keeping her eyes closed. I wandered past the pet vendors, checking out the hamsters, chinchillas, turtles, canaries, doves, chickens – but no ferrets this time – and then came the florists and the painters. Some of the painters do original work, whilst others do the basic thing all artists selling on the sidewalk do: portraits. Some do cartoon portraits of passer-by’s, others do startlingly realistic portraits of famous stars. (There’s one portrait of Sean Connery in a black turtleneck which, were matters simpler, I would love for Kathleen to have.)
Reaching the end of the Rambla – and the large statue of ol’ Colombus – I wandered by the two or three stalls of what will be Sunday’s flea-market and then crossed Calatrava’s instantly-recognizable bridge to our sorry excuse of a mall.
Calatrava is, apart from Gaudi, the only architect whose work I can recognize – and indeed, the only architect whose work I care to recognize. Though from Catalunya – this little province-that-wants-to-be-a-nation – I’ve seen his work all over the world. He designed the Olympic dome for Athens, and there’s a building of his in Toronto. Instantly recognizable architect, and quite lovely work at that.
Upon reaching my habitual haunting ground, that little mall “Mare Magnun” just off the old port, I didn’t stop for coffee and a quiet read of Until I Find You, as I’d been intending. Nor did I whip out my notebook for a half-hearted stab at Chapter 8 of Tricky Business (that Jayne-centered fanfic I’ve been working on since November 2005).
I just kept on walking. I think I was too bored to know what to do other than walk. I did sit down a bit in front of a large cruise ship, just to watch it rock and rise slowly, as if it were breathing, but only for a little while. I kept walking. I figured I’d keep to familiar grounds – none of that “exploring the city” for me, thanks – and walk along the coast with the other haunting ground, the non-dubbing cinema and mall, where I’d finally be able to stop. (Turns out, I managed to stop a bit before that too, though not for very long. I read a chapter on the beach until it threatened to rain again.)
That’s all I did. Read. And keep myself together.
Until, of course, my mother called.
She said she wouldn’t.
I wish she hadn’t.
Now I can’t stop blubbering.
It fucking hurts.
It started out quite nice. She sounded positively chirpy, telling me she’d seen the YouTube links I’d sent her of the singer Mika on the French program “Taratata”. She asked if I was home, so she could call me on the landline, rather than the cell. After the day I’d just had, I was positively thrilled to have a good talk with my mom.
When I picked up the phone in the kitchen, mug o’ tea all ready for a nice, much needed chat, it all went to pot. Mom started hounding me on my not scouring the driving places for information (to make a comparative analysis of prices!) and then just went right on with my lack of doing anything, my not caring about anything, my being worthless and without ambition, you name it.
Picture, if you will, me. Little ol’ me in sweatpants and a purple hoodie, makeup still on but smudged, hair messily tied back. I’m sitting on a stool in the kitchen, my feet propped up on it so I can rest my elbows on my knees – yes, I’m flexible. In my left hand, I’m holding the phone away from me, the shrill rants of my mother still loud enough to be heard – and understood, if I try. I’m staring away into space, trying not to listen too closely to my mother out of self-preservation, trying to just blank out everything until it’s over.
Now picture that monologue for some fifteen minutes. Maybe twenty. Gods know. It was much too long anyway.
I once, very recently, told my mother that she’d never shown me support. She didn’t – and still doesn’t – understand what I meant. Yes, she’s helped me. But there’s a very big difference, particularly on the emotional front, between helping someone do something, and standing behind them, cheering them on. I would have liked some cheering.
For example, it’s nice that mom’s checking out other driving schools that may cost less, and telling me what to investigate, It’s not, however, nice to tell me that I don’t give a shit about anything and that I’m never going to do anything anyway.
Makes me want to just say no to the whole driving thing.
And to a fuckload of other things.
Not to be too Romantic about it, but I’m miserably unhappy and have no one to talk to.
PS: Linky-links will be done later, when internet doesn't randomly die on me.
* Neil Gaiman, poem in The Goldfish Pool and Other Stories from the collection Smoke and Mirrors
** Here in Spain, the average age at which people leave their parents’ house is round about 30. The young ‘uns blame it on lack, or expense, of housing, but I suspect it’s the comfort of having your meals prepared and your laundry washed that clinches the deal. That people are not horrified at the prospect of still living with their parents when their 30 may also be a problem. I, for one, am horrified.
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no subject
Date: 2007-04-15 12:24 am (UTC)Maybe you *should* have a nice long cry. I find that a good'ol bawling the eyes out can be quite therapeutic :) Mine usually make their appearance at bedtime (when I'm guaranteed to not be interrupted), although remember to keep lots of kleenex nearby so you don't have to go fishing for it ;)
no subject
Date: 2007-04-15 02:48 pm (UTC)