There are some things you just can’t ever un-hear.

That’s not a word.

Surely we’ve all said and done things we didn’t REALLY mean.  Or we said because we were angry or sad or drunk or happy or just–altered, somehow.  It’s then that I wish my natural filter would thicken, or if not that then I wish my mind would forget things I’d rather not have heard or seen or experienced.  I am not opposed to hypnotherapy.

I’d like to just block it out, or forget, sometimes.  The bad stuff, of course.  I mean–wouldn’t it be great if we could all just hear and remember the good stuff? Somehow though, I don’t think just blocking it in my head will actually work because it won’t make it go away.  It’s like throwing a blanket over the pile of shit.  Shit is still there, isn’t it?  Just because you can’t see it doesn’t mean it isn’t still there.

I’m unable to understand what I am trying to say.  I’m distraught, I’m sad, I’m even a bit flattered and my eyes are hazed over by pieces of romanticism.  Haze.  That’s a mighty fine way to describe this, or these, feeling(s) and perception.

I had envisioned what my life would be or become so many times, and changed it so many times, and changed the guy I was with, the place I lived, my weight, my hair color, my relationship with my friends and their kids–and my kids.  It changed so much I stopped dead in my tracks–finally–and just tried to be present.  Just be in the moment.  All the acting teachers, and movement classes, and songs, and poems, and movies, and cards, and sleepless nights, and salty-pillow days all point to just being in the moment and it would appear, and until now–I haven’t done it once.  I’m always thinking about the next response, the next loving word or sarcastic remark.  I think about how i should say something, how it will be received.  I think about my surroundings, is it day? is it night? Have I been drinking? Am I hungry? Will any of those things alter all of the thoughts racing on the rocky terrain circling the clutter of my life that I’ve compiled into the middle and thrown a blanket over??

Will I ever just–be.  It seems I’m always working towards something.  Whether it’s for me or someone else.  Whether that someone else is related to me, dating me, meeting me, leaving me, talking to me –anything.  I’ll listen but I will also be preparing for something else.  And that’s just no way to live.  Life= the ever prepping place.  Life= the staging area for the big show and I don’t even know my lines or the direction I’m supposed to take and any direction I’ve been given has left my mind, or I didn’t write it down, or I didn’t like the direction and decided just to not do it.  And who the hell am I to make such decision? I’m just–me.  The unable to *be*–me.

Wow, that’s a bit of a discovery.  Unable to be.  Me.  Do you see the different ways that can be said?  And it all comes from experiences I’ve already had, experiences I thought I would’ve had by now, or experiences I wanted to have had by now.  I had prepared for something and it didn’t happen, or it didn’t happen my way or this or that or wah wah wah.  Such a princess.  Such a brat.

But even THEN–nothing could’ve prepared me for the words I heard last night.  Nothing.  No amount of sarcasm, or jokes, or romantic-ness, or hatred, or lust or anything could’ve prepared me to hear the words that came out of the man who said them.

“You are dead to me.”

I just can’t fathom.  I can’t wrap my pretty-little-head around such words.  What EXACTLY did I say and how exActly did I say it to receive THAT from a mouth that not two hours earlier was smoochin’ me and smiling with me.  And what will I ever do now, that I can’t un-hear it.

It’s on repeat.

There was more, of course.  I mean–there’s always more.  And there was my part.  My strong-willed, thick-headedness that some people love and admire and others despise and want to kick me as an attempt to knock some sense into me.  There’s everything I said in my defense, that I still stand by.  And there is nothing I said that is quite like that, I think.

And it really should’ve hurt.  Right? It really should have.  And it hurt but only so-much.  It should be something I hold on to that could possibly disrupt all the “me-work” I’ve been doing this past year.  I should hold on to it like a grudge, because that’s what I do.  I should hold on to it like ammunition–because that’s what I always do.  That’s what I’m good at.  Throwing the words and mistakes others have made regarding me, back in their face when they are down.  I can be heartless.  But…why?  Does it actually DO ANY good???  Does anyone REALLY win when it becomes a vicious circle of he said-she said? Who the hell am I to hold others accountable for their words when I rarely hold myself accountable?  I just say what I think.  I don’t care if you like it. Except–I do.  I care what people think.  The masses.  I don’t care what the one thinks, I care what the masses think–I guess? Well–HELL how do I prepare for the masses when I can’t pull it together for myself or one other person.  And not just ANY other person, a man-person.  Someone I care about.  Who says he cares about me.

What is it about me?

What’s the big deal??

What is just…SO…FUCKING BAD…that I am now DEAD to someone who claimed he cared for me.  And not even that–was “falling in love” with me.  And not just that, but would the next day have his hands at my waist with his soft gentle eyes that have seen enough emotional and physical and mental abuse, and apologize for speaking so harshly out of anger.  And that it’s not who he really is.  Then he’ll walk out and I’ll stand at the doorway unable to move or speak or cry or laugh.  Unable to do or be or feel…anything.  And he’ll appear in front of me again and say “I love You.  And that’s why it hurts so much.” And I should hear that.  I should hear it, but it’s muffled because I can’t un-hear something else.

[And that whole “should” and “shouldn’t” stuff is also a distortion, keeping me from be-ing, and just experiencing what I’m going through then move on from it.  ]

And so they circle one another.  I’ll sit here and let the words circle one another as if fighting over who would get to claim the rest of me.  And what words win remains To Be Determined.

“You have opened my heart wider than anyone ever has.  It takes a very special person to open my heart. Your name has been engraved on my heart.  It would be an honor to call you my girlfriend.” He whispered softly as a single tear glided gently down his face as he lay next to her with his right arm enveloping her body and his left hand caressing her face and running his fingers through her hair.

And some out there are going to roll their sarcastic little eyes and shake their stupid little heads because of romance.  But to romance?? I say:  “It’s.  About.  Time”

You can read about it.  You can want it.  You can write about it.   You can watch it on TV and in movies and think “awww if only that would happen in real life.”

For years I’ve said “I want to be in love in a movie.”  Because that’s where the good writing and good direction is.  Then, there is real life and we realize that we set ourselves up for disappointment with too much hope.  We set ourselves up for let down when we hear something and turn it into something else.  And we certainly lose the spontaneity if we’re telling someone that what they said would’ve been better if they said it this-way or that-way.  I mean, geez.  I can’t be the writer and director and star in my life–can I?  Can I just hope, but hope that my *level* of hope is adequately placed on a level of realism? And isn’t hope supposed to be this unbound motivation that transcends the physical aspects of life?  Hello?  No? Yes?  Can I just continue to watch TV and movies and hope the law of attraction and the power of my thoughts reaches to someone I’ve created in my mind and haven’t yet met and hope that they capture all of the bullet-pointed material I’ve placed on a list of wishful thinking and perfection?  I mean…really???  Aren’t I just setting myself up more?  Or is the fact that I’m being specific and unwilling to settle going to continue to quake within me adjusting my path and pushing away the mistakes and ogres and alcoholics and convicts and liars and thieves?  Man, that would be nice.  And nice–what the hell is that? Why would I say that?  Ever notice that people get offended if you tell them they are nice?  As children we are told to play nice, be nice, act nice, say it nicely.  And as adults we now are turned off or feel we’ve lost some sort of untitled-chance by being recognized as “nice.”  Well to that I say, calm down.  I like nice.  Nice can be misconstrued and perceived as weak or too sensitive.  Nice is supposed to be about manners, etiquette, and confidence in my opinion.  It shouldn’t be fake, or forced and I don’t think it’s a very good blanket to attempt to hide behind.  It’s just a layer.  And it can be genuine.  it’s okay, I promise.  SO–yes, I’d like a nice, romantic guy to say something that others would see or hear in a movie.  But not because I want others to wish they were me, or because I want their approval, but because I believe that kind of stuff, those kinds of words are born of genuine caring parts of a human and it’s something everyone should experience.  They are lost lessons.  They are forgotten times.  Bring on the romance.  Bring on the niceties and caring behaviors.  You can call it a cliche if you want, but the bottom line is you want to be a cliche just as much as the next person.

My name is Aiyani and I’m a cliche, and I’m okay with that.

I wish I’d actually take the time to write about my day, every day and at the end of the day.  Reflection can be very cathartic, therapeutic, funny, and calming.  I think my problem here is–nothing really ever happens.  And I could just write that, I suppose:

Sunday:  Nothing really happened today

Or I could break it down into time slots and amounts of coffee, food, and booze I had in one day.  Sunday: Two cups of iced coffee between 8am and 10am.  Showered with body scrub.  Made out with the man I’m seeing.  Went to see Man Of Steel–got to the theatre at 5:30 for a 6:30 showing and it was sold out.  Went to another theatre by 5:50 for a 7pm showing and got in.  Large popcorn, small drink to share with my brother and the sweetheart.  Movie ended.  Came home by 10:30 and studied for my Anatomy quiz until 12:30p.  :::::: But this is all terribly boring.  Hell, it’s boring for me to write let alone for someone to read, no imagine the experience of it all, or the lack of for that matter. heh.

So I guess I’m sort of left with “what else?”  These two words come up often when I’m on the phone with people I chat with on the phone or via video.  I don’t text that shit, that’s stupid.  By saying “what else” it helps jog my memory and relive fun stuff that I’d like to share, but have forgotten to share.  And another added bonus is I can tell the same story four times to four different people and it won’t ever be the exact same story, or tone or inflection.  But the reflection and fun-ness of said story remains structurally true, and adds to the conversation nicely.

And here’s this fun little gem:

After the movie last night my brother and I are sitting on the benches down by the train station and there are several young girls sitting next to us.  Ages maybe 4-6 in range, they are still eating popcorn.  Which is to say there are still playing with it, dropping it, throwing it at one another and on the occasion chewing and swallowing the stale snack.  These young girls are hispanic ish, and an older (think grandmother age) white woman with dyed red hair approaches the bench and starts rattling off that someone is going to have to clean up this mess, that we have a rat problem, they’re being messy disrespectful–and my personal favorite moment directed at me “What are you teaching your children??!”  She said this to me and my brother with such confusion and disdain that all sarcasm and snappy comebacks left me to fend for myself and I claimed with some volume “they’re not mine!”  To which you’d think she may have said something like “oh, sorry” but no.  No, no, no she turned and said “well who’s are they??!!!” And a young lady talking with family or friends claimed them and the old gal chewed her out.  The young woman glanced at me as if to say “do you hear this old bat?” and my response was a non-vocal “wow” in agreement.  But wait the story gets a little better when the old gal finally walks away, and the young woman says to her children to not mind her she’s an old crazy woman.  And time passes, enough time to let the entire situation die down.  That’s a feeling, when somethings finally over you can feel it.  Then low and be-fooking-hold the Old Gal walks herself back to continue educating, questioning and scolding the young woman and her family (I say family because they look like mom, aunt and daughter and children–but that’s just speculation).  As she finally begins what we hope is her final exit I look up at my friend Mr. Snow and say “There are rats?  It’s NEW YORK” and we chuckle.  I’m amazed.  He’s amazed, the girls continue their popcorn games and life as we know it continues.  Saying “we have a rat problem” in New York is like standing on a very small island and claiming you’re surrounded by water.

“WHAT ARE YOU TEACHING YOUR CHILDREN” is what I continued to say the rest of the evening.  That and “WHO’S ARE THEY??”

oh.  people.  come on, what else?