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Aug. 19th, 2003 12:03 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
danuvI tried to go to bed but my mind is unsettled. To amuse myself this evening I thought I would watch a documentary about strippers on Sundance. I have a fascination with sex trade workers, as I am sure many women people do. The show only depressed me really. It had the usual cautionary tales found in shows about strippers... 'It's demoralizing! Objectifying! Turns women into soulless shells!' I was prepared for all of that, however I wasn't prepared for the ending in which we discover that two of the women we've been following end up vanished or dead.
My mood didn't lighten when next up on Sundance was a strange mini documentary (it being Documentary Monday and all) about a girl/woman named Francesca Woodman. Francesca was a photographer, a very young one, who threw herself out of her loft window at the age of 21. The film contained no pictures of hers so I had to go and look her up. What I saw made certain that I would have trouble sleeping tonight.
After trying to watch the next feature up, a cheaply done show about Dominatrixes, I decided to give up and head to bed. On my way through the kitchen I grabbed J's forgotten ice pack which he'd brought to nurse his ankle after running and left in my freezer. It has a new purpose in life, I put it under my pillow at night so that in the first dozen or so times that I flip my pillow to the "dream side". it is even cooler than usual. I stumbled a bit getting into our room, tripping over Tomas's blue jeans that he'd left where he peeled them off, right outside our bedroom.
When I climbed into bed, everything felt damp. Our room already has a strange feel to it. It was once the living room and now has a thick blanket stapled up to the door to help keep the air conditioning from the large window unit in. It isn't entirely successful at this due to the large gaps at the bottom and top of the door where the blanket doesn't reach, so that now there are large currents of hot muggy air and crisp electrically cooled breezes circling each other. It makes sleeping... interesting. I decided night before last, that it would be good to clean out the a/c filter. However, things got a bit crazy and I forgot to put the fliter back in. For some reason this has not only made the air a little bit colder, but much much more damp. So at 11:15pm I tried climbing into my soggy bed, head full of strange images and stranger stories, ready to go to sleep but too afraid to. Instead, I decided to get up and come post. Grand.
Live Journal sometimes seems so audible to me. I can hear you all as I read my friends list. There is laughter, drinks are clanking, children play in the background, there are clear beautiful girlish voices babbling with wit and humor about hobbits, new cars, saris, dates and other things that make me grin. There are strong mature women speaking with purpose about their lives, goals, dreams, and frustrations. Sometimes I hear soft men speaking about love and life in voices heavy with mystery, hinting at deeper (or much more shallow) meanings.
Lately though it seems that I hear so much grief and sorrow. Not just on my own friends list but in many of the communities that I read but do not belong to. So many tears. Loss and depression.
I am not really someone who posts an awful lot in response to other people's entries. I read them, I think about it, but usually nothing I can think of to say feels important enough. It is especially true at times like these when so many are hurting. I wish I knew what to say. My thoughts are with you. My heart aches when I read your words. I will try to do better at letting the right people know.
So now I am going to try and push all these voices out of my head, going to try not to think about broken girls photographing themselves in broken buildings, and I am going to crawl back into my damp bed and hope that sleep comes quickly and is deep. Goodnight.
My mood didn't lighten when next up on Sundance was a strange mini documentary (it being Documentary Monday and all) about a girl/woman named Francesca Woodman. Francesca was a photographer, a very young one, who threw herself out of her loft window at the age of 21. The film contained no pictures of hers so I had to go and look her up. What I saw made certain that I would have trouble sleeping tonight.
After trying to watch the next feature up, a cheaply done show about Dominatrixes, I decided to give up and head to bed. On my way through the kitchen I grabbed J's forgotten ice pack which he'd brought to nurse his ankle after running and left in my freezer. It has a new purpose in life, I put it under my pillow at night so that in the first dozen or so times that I flip my pillow to the "dream side". it is even cooler than usual. I stumbled a bit getting into our room, tripping over Tomas's blue jeans that he'd left where he peeled them off, right outside our bedroom.
When I climbed into bed, everything felt damp. Our room already has a strange feel to it. It was once the living room and now has a thick blanket stapled up to the door to help keep the air conditioning from the large window unit in. It isn't entirely successful at this due to the large gaps at the bottom and top of the door where the blanket doesn't reach, so that now there are large currents of hot muggy air and crisp electrically cooled breezes circling each other. It makes sleeping... interesting. I decided night before last, that it would be good to clean out the a/c filter. However, things got a bit crazy and I forgot to put the fliter back in. For some reason this has not only made the air a little bit colder, but much much more damp. So at 11:15pm I tried climbing into my soggy bed, head full of strange images and stranger stories, ready to go to sleep but too afraid to. Instead, I decided to get up and come post. Grand.
Live Journal sometimes seems so audible to me. I can hear you all as I read my friends list. There is laughter, drinks are clanking, children play in the background, there are clear beautiful girlish voices babbling with wit and humor about hobbits, new cars, saris, dates and other things that make me grin. There are strong mature women speaking with purpose about their lives, goals, dreams, and frustrations. Sometimes I hear soft men speaking about love and life in voices heavy with mystery, hinting at deeper (or much more shallow) meanings.
Lately though it seems that I hear so much grief and sorrow. Not just on my own friends list but in many of the communities that I read but do not belong to. So many tears. Loss and depression.
I am not really someone who posts an awful lot in response to other people's entries. I read them, I think about it, but usually nothing I can think of to say feels important enough. It is especially true at times like these when so many are hurting. I wish I knew what to say. My thoughts are with you. My heart aches when I read your words. I will try to do better at letting the right people know.
So now I am going to try and push all these voices out of my head, going to try not to think about broken girls photographing themselves in broken buildings, and I am going to crawl back into my damp bed and hope that sleep comes quickly and is deep. Goodnight.
