Rooted, I used to think.

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Rupert Part II - Sunday, Sept. 10, 2017

Saturday, Nov. 23, 2002 @ 11:04 am
Four Novels

I want to break from the rights and wrongs of science. It used to satisfy my desire for control, for reward of learning, for praise of a photographic memory.

Science stills fills a part of me. I'm curious about how things work, and life is an amazing thing to understand. But I look at myself right here, 10am on a Saturday morning. I'm wearing my green cat-eye glasses. I am dehydrated from dancing to progressive house last night, my ears ringing from the techno beats. My bed is unmade, and among the tangle of two cats and blankets are four novels, each half read, each is me leading a different life. The kitchen table is littered with different sized brushes, and smears of paint stain every tea towel in the laundry basket.

If I could change my life and wake up as something else - someone with time and talent - I'd be the girl with glasses playing her guitar in the back of that coffee shop. I'm already there writing lyrics. Or I'd wake up to see my crazy paintings on the wall of The Whip. The after-work drinkers would muse at the purpose and price of such crap. On morning three, I'd stretch out in the early sunrise and actually touch my toes. My legs would be long and lean, the muscles not thick from mountain biking, and I'd be a dancer. I would be able to fly. On morning four I would be there with a laptop editing short stories, the apples ripening in the orchard, bees humming from the hives within.

Now all I can do is dabble.

I dabble in everything, never sticking to become stellar at one thing. I've got stories that I love left half-written in scattered notebooks. I go up to the hayloft at night and pretend that I am Karen Kain. By candlelight I paint out my emotions, going outside the lines that science tells you a tree should stay in. Trees glow purple in the night despite any chlorophyll or tannins. At work in the lab, I write down the lyrics, the words that click together, during five-minute incubations.

It seems that my dabbling nature has spilled into how I develop relationships with people too. Any old friends I call once a month, do the chit-chat how ya doing, where's the party, and drink with for a few hours. New relationships I hold out, arms reach away, ICQ message to plan the night, phone calls short. I'm not going to throw myself into someone, especially Someone who will not be true.

"You should call me this weekend."

You should show me that you really want me to.

Roots | Shoots