ALLI 445: Delicacy and the Affected

Sometimes everything just feels fine. It's as if every grasping, shaking desire within me has ceased. My muscles relax, the tension just floats away. When these moments spring about, I'm content. But these unruffled moments are seldom, and as hard as I try to concoct them--when my mood is less than serene--I sometimes cannot. I've heard a tranquil landscape is good to visualize during times of melancholy, ennui or overthinking; but how can one genuinely focus on an imagined visual when one's heart's so shaky and the picture will fade if your mind's eye doesn't refresh it constantly? Work harder I guess. The beach is my favorite faux-reality to visit. And this is coming from a person who loathes sand; It's itchy, granular structure always seems to find it's way in the most unpleasant of places. I mean, I like souvenirs as much as the next guy: there's nothing quite like finding some salivated morsel of food caked in-between my molars some time after a meal, or catching a whiff of a person I care for, long after they've left. But sand isn't pleasant though, and although it isn't as bad when its in its natural environment, and even though it may be tied to a place that is actually pleasant; It just doesn't rock my shit. The beach in general does rock my shit though. There's nothing quite comparable to standing on the shore line while the waves wrestle back and fourth, eager to graze your feet. The sun waters a tightening glaze over your skin, and the sizzling waves call to alleviate it.

ALLI 432: Sensitives and the Immune System

The annual Christmas party my Parent's friend held was a no go--at least for me. I had been on day two of some gunk producing virus: my nose was tight and dry and leaking simatameously, my throat was swollen, and my head and body had sporadic clumps of achy tension. I laid, stomach down, on the oriental-styled throw rug. The smells of basement stained Christmas garb and heat thickly painted the air, while small bursts of dust arised from the carpet (this only exaggerated my headache naturally). And even though my nose could hardly smell this layered smell, it still swished past my nostrils 'till it filled my sinuses and head. I tried to focus on the chintzy plastic wreath I was holding. It was electronic and had small feathered (but definitely) plastic birds that buzzed a two-cord Christmas song. It was warm to the touch, and as I held it, it began to HOLIDAYITIZE* me. I could see the people at the party chuckling while multicolored strings of lights pulsated beyond them. They drank eggnog, wore holiday sweaters, ate fruitcake. How dare they have fun! I was here, stomach down, on some need-of-a-cleaning carpet with two nonsense for friend birds. How is it that at the very precise moment someone is unhappy and ruminating, someone else can be laughing and content?

* A zone induced by Christmas paraphernalia.

ALLI 428: Romance and Frailty

Robert wasn't all that special now that I reflect back on him. He was an average-sized four year old, with mouse-brown hair, olive skin and dark-brown eyebrows. We met...well, not actually met...we were in close proximity to each other (which to me was more than enough) in 1987. We went to preschool together. He sat a few tables behind me. We were going to get married. Yes, I was only four. No, I didn't understand that marriage was less of a fuzzy, satiated gasp and more of a partnership/comittemnt type thing. All I really knew was that when he passed by I felt like the fairy tales that had been read to me, a panging magical eagerness, a muted electric surge. It fascinated me so! (And still does). Everyday, upon returning from school, I'd grab the nearest writing utensil and a clean piece of paper. I'd sit down at the kitchen table and with all my focus I'd summon the feelings that Robert erupted in me. My palms would be moist and the pen or pencil would slip sloppily from my hand as I tried to conjure the momentum. I was afraid: he may not feel the same; what if I completed one of these letters and gave it to him and he just laughed? It didn't matter. I needed him to know what brewed within me. I needed to know if he could lull it. Again and again I'd re-grab my utensil, until eventually it became an extension of myself, an extra finger that could expel the passion. The words would eventually come, slowly, earnestly. My plans for us I'd describe, along with my analysis of his beauty. * I was in a romantically charged zone, one that wouldn't end 'till I got every morsel of feeling out.

*The detail in the letter was actually not that thorough, or so I figure. It was probably just words with hearts and what have you. Remember, I was only four.

ALLI 322: Understanding Frailty

I hope my introductory piece gave a you a clear picture of my psyche: the tumultuous--yet tender--place, which I've resided in all my life. Early on, It didn't register, or I didn't care that I was/am more on the sensitive side. Then adolescence hit, and that's when I started comparing and questioning myself in relation to others. I didn't realize at the time (and still on occasion) that adolescence and onward is the time when society's standards regarding power and standards of appropriate behavior begin to weigh on the mind of its persons; the time when people want to claim their place in the very primitive dominance higharchy. All I knew was a lot of people seemed to hurt my feelings, and I seemed distinctly different from them. Let's just say, I spent a large portion of my adolescence trying to unearth why I was different. (That's not to say I didn't have any friends or was completely rejected by everyone. I just didn't have an abundance, and certain people, who weren't my friends, could sense my sensitivity and exploited it). But, I don't want to go too far in to the darker side of what my sensitivity seemed to bring about--atleast just yet. I'd like to ease you in, like a small breeze of sugary-tainted air, before summoning those heart-twisting, shattering thunderbolts.

Sometime before adolescence....
I was exiled to my room. I must have done something. Today, I obviously can't recall what that something was, but it was enough that my Father had sent me to my room, with no lights nonetheless. I hated being in the dark alone, sure it was comforting when my Sister was in the bed next to me: we'd chat about fuzzy characters from the television or share our innocent and shimmering childhood fantasies. But my Sister was not in the room with me that time. I was alone, and afraid of dinosaurs. Dinosaurs, that wanted to eat me. Why dinosaurs? Not so sure. Why did they want to eat me? Because they liked the taste of small girls with overactive imaginations that's why. I could feel them. My room was a hot jungle and their muffled growls and snorts enveloped me in panic. They'd inch so close then pull away, just sniffing with their dinosaur nostrils, waiting for the precise moment to devour my ripe and supple child-flesh. Green and reddish and scaly in this hot jungle with me. I was sure to die. I had to do something, so I positioned my head just outside of the steaming, sweating thicket. All the while keeping the other three quarters of myself submerged in the greenery. (Technically, I was still in the room!) Ha! My Dad would sure rescue me when he saw my ghostly painted face or heard the 'saurs exercising their jaws, waiting to devour me. Or maybe he wouldn't. I was going to die. My hands were soaked and trembling. I kept waving them incessantly, like two fleshy fans. My eyes welled. The darkness and the heat spread. Even with my head outside, it was all still engulfing me. I don't recall much else after that moment. I may have collapsed, or maybe I was so worked up-- I just don't know. But the next thing I do remember, was my Father, and his cooing, his cooing me to sleep; not in the jungle, but in my bed.

ALLI 321: Introduction to Frailty...

As long as I can remember I've been strongly reactive. And when I say reactive, I mean easily overtaken by my neuronal responses. These overtakings--or emotional upheavals--are induced by seemingly benign stimuli. The stimuli, whether it be an internal or external happening, leaves me un-composed; it's something that isn't ingested fluidly, something I have a hard time shaking. The surrounding environment, noises, smells, presence of persons, etc., are all good examples of external happenings that can bring on this heightened state. The internal happenings are a little more tricky to define, but produce the same effects. They can be rehashed memories that have some importance emotionally, or even imagined scenarios that feel equally as real. All the happenings though, I am genuinely affected by. Now, don't get the wrong idea, I'm not excessively this easily jarred or joyed. It's not like every time I see a sunset I'm in awe for hours, or a horrid smell leaves me immobile--because that would be a total over-exaggeration. But the stimuli do provoke observable changes: my eyes may widen, twinkle or dilate or become fearsome, and the feeling does linger. Sounds human, right? It is. But, I've noticed these emotional upheavals, are a little more extreme than the average person; and I know this because I talk openly about it and am actively like this. And from what I've gathered most people just don't seem to get it--or, maybe, they pretend not to. Whatever the case may be, it's not relevant. The only thing that is, is that I am this way, a soft-centered mush face with a lot of feelings.