I’m not asking you to read this

I set the motion sensor off tonight.

My mom seems to have a special sensor that detects my presence. Once that sensor is activated, she begins to yak at me.

It doesn’t matter if they are things that I don’t need to hear. Or things that I don’t want to hear. Or things that I’ve heard three times already in one day. They apparently need saying again.

On one level, it drives me nuts. On another, it makes me sad. I tune her out as a reflex (coping strategy) and in that way, sometimes miss things that I would have liked to have known. Once, I went nearly two years not knowing that my Nanny’s dog had gotten hit by a car and died becuase I incorporated the news into the rest of the white noise.

Perhaps I long to join a monastery simply for the silence.

(In my idealization of a monastery, no one talks at you when you walk through a doorway, turn on a light, or walk down the hall.)

I really hate when people talk about things y nunca cumplen con sus palabras.

I’ve been listening to my Mom talk about someday losing weight, someday getting the house shoveled out, working in the garden. And in 18 years, she has never mounted a sucessful, or substantial, effort. If you aren’t gonna clean, don’t talk about it.

I listened to my boss’s roommate talk about repainting the wreck of a tagged-up delivery truck as we drove around Boulder stocking vending machines every Wednesday for a month or two. Did he ever paint it? No. It gave him incredible anxiety, and also made him a burden to work with. But even that wasn’t incentive enough to get off his ass over the weekend and paint it. Why not just shut up about it?

I guess I could never go into therapy as a profession. Sitting around and listening to people talk about thier problems would kill me. If you aren’t gonna do anything about the problem, once you’ve established what it is, don’t talk about it continuously.

i feel so empty today.

maybe its just  function of too little sleep.

Part of me is bummed that I will probably get a C in Bruhn’s class for going to visit the Pope. Its my fault for not hoarding my absences.

Another part of me wishes never to go back to FedEx again. I am a crappy loader. Pfluger ought to spare himself and Cowley the agony of having me load thier trucks and just tell Chris to fire me. I can’t fight the system, and I don’t know anymore what systems are worth fighting.

Yet another part of me doesn’t want to go in to Noodles tonight. It means I wont sleep much today, if at all. And I would rather go in and talk to my german professor. I also know we are down three people for tonight, the weekend, and the entire week really. I know this too, could have been prevented, or could have gone down differently. But I’m not around enough anywhere to really be invested in something.

And another part of me doesn’t want to go to class today  becuase I know what the other students have put together as portfolios and that makes me feel bad about mine. I haven’t had the time to put much effort into it.

I want to eat all the time, and I am always hungry. But when I eat, I feel that I hadn’t really wanted to eat in the first place. And then I feel fat.

And as much as I know I am atleast somewhat of an intellectual, albeit one who doesn’t try very hard and is wrong a lot, i dont have the motivation for school. It just makes me feel inadequate in yet another way.

The cure for this wants to be to go to bed, but when I go to bed, I have crazy dreams and I cannot sleep for very long. Dreaming about Marian group always feels more uncomfortably cathartic and confrontational and self revealing than the real thing. And I am tired of dreaming about packages. And I’m tired of waking up all the time at odd hours due to odder things.

In some ways, I want to stop existing. Death is too permanent, but the future is so vague I cannot live for it in the same way that I cannot live for graduation becuase I dont see it having any tangible or sensible value.

we played a game last night. Someone had to think of another in the room and people would ask, “if this person is a clothing store, a car, a saint, etc, who/what would they be.

I am:

A color: Bright Red

An Animal: A dog/a teddy or Koala bear

A type shoes: combat boots

a Type of plane: a helicopter

a virtue: fortitude

a flower: a bonsai

a piece of furniture: a sofa

music: classical

a store:

Heute fahrt meine Freundin nach Peru. Sie ist aus Peru gekommen aber sie hat 5 Jahre hier gelebt. Jetzt muss sie gehen.

Es ist etwas anderes, “aufwiedersehen” sagen. Auf Englisch, es ist sicher wann mann “goodbye” sagt, dass alles beendet ist. Auf Deutsch, “aufwidersehen” ist nur wie “bis spater” veileicht.  Ich weiss nicht ob ich meine Freundin wieder sieht.

Alles gehort des Willes Gottes. Vertraue ihn!

Coming back from Switzerland, I discovered that I had left a piece of my heart in Europe and it refuses to come home with me. The fallout I felt from a 48 hour trip was rather stark.  

Coming back from spending Easter with the Christian Life Movement at Camp St. Malo, I experienced a lesser feeling, though similar.

Wherefore, then, is my vocation? That loneliness, or more properly, that longing, is undeniable. Yet I do not know where it leads me.

What right has a general geographic area to exact on me a greater sense of forlornness than a group of people? Can I argue that St. Malo is a place too? *and by place I mean a location that exacts on me an emotion*? 

so every time i write a paper, it takes me forever to start it and i hate it most of the way through. but then something breaks through and i see the arguement that could be made if I had the time, energy, resources, or research. and it makes me remember how writing papers can be fun. the extensive arguements that peak through also make me wonder if i wouldn’t like going to grad school or writing something great. but what would i write on? how do i care about learning again?

So every time I come home I feel burdened even before I get into the house because I know I will have to walk the gauntlet to get to my room, where I will accomplish nothing.  If I dont talk to her I feel bad but if I do talk to her I have nothing to say and she just asks questions I dont want to answer like, “were you at work tonight.” Well, if I was or if I wasn’t its my problem. I know my schedule. I get home when I get home and then lets deal with me being at home, okay?

Though its interesting to note that I hated talking to my dad but not I talk to him and almost enjoy it. But we only talk politics.

And then whenever I log into instant messenger and a certain friend who isn’t well catechized but tries to be a good catholic talks to me, I dont really want to talk, and I end up doing so until I get really angry and want to take the damn shower that I’ve wanted to take all night and then my brother walks into the bathroom and takes a bath, which takes forever and after which there is no hot water. He’s on his second bath tonight and its half past 11.

I wish I lived in the boarding house my mom doesn’t want this to be. Why does everything have to be so fucking stiff? Its all so fucking stiff.

More and more I feel that I cannot connect with the world,

that I am not fully aware of myself or in control of myself as I do things,

that I cannot remember what just happened or if something I think happened was in a dream or reality,

that I have lost a community or two again,

that I have no grip on the world around me,

or understanding of how things work, how they ought to work, what ought to be done, and what I should be doing,

and that I have a chronic minor ear infection or that I’m going deaf.

I hope its just stress. Senior year of college is something I’ve never experienced before and th world is before me bigger and scarier. But its like being an Alzheimer’s patient and knowing that you are in possession of the cognizance that allows you to know that you slowly and devastatingly losing your mind.

Please pray for my Mom, who has a suspicious looking mamogram.

For my Jesuit university who sports a “Gay-Straight Alliance” under the umbrella of University Ministry and celebrates “National Coming out Month” instead of “National Right to Life Month.”

For the intentions of Denver’s Incredibly Awesome Archbishop.

For courage and fortitude and most of all hope, especially for my friends and I.

For an end to abortion, capital punishment, and politcal correctness.