thank you, former owners!

the people who owned this house before us left a chair. an avacado green vinyl recliner. it was on the second floor when moved in and since that time, it has sat in my bedroom, across from my bed. it's purpose, until just moments ago, was that of a clothing rack. wait. that makes it sound organized. it was a spot for me to toss clothing that i didn't wear in usual rotation and that i was too lazy to put away. well tonight i was sitting in bed, lamenting over the loss of a few paragraphs because microsoft word sucks ass and froze up, and i saw the chair. the chair saw me. we regarded each other. i decided to clean off the chair ("clean" meaning "toss crap onto floor") and have a sit.
and now i am. i'm having a sit. my feet are elevated and my cats are pissed they can't sit on it, too. but this is my chair. my green chair that provides firm back support for a girl who writes.

thinking back on my life, i don't think i've ever been capable of keeping a bedroom tidy. given the numerous things i could be doing with my time (blogging, reading blogs, watching movies, etc.), it seems silly to devote SO MUCH TIME to a place where i really only sleep. it's not the living room, where i spend much of my day. it's not the kitchen, where i make and consume food. it's a room where i keep my clothes and i sleep.

even growing up, however, i never kept my room clean. i had hours of phone conversations to have with boys my parents didn't approve of, hair to make poofy, tapes to mix and bad poetry to write. i spent most waking moments in my room, but even then it seemed like a wase of time to clean it up.

(on itunes now: "chances are" by johnny mathis.)

from where i'm sitting i can see a bookshelf on my left that is home to a few different journals. uh oh..i'm feeling a journal entry coming on!

this journal i receivved from my lovely, wonderful, amazing friend matt, whom i met at moorhead state univ. in 1993. i first saw matt at an english club meeting and he lived in my dorm on the floor for older students -- he was 23, i think, i was 18. i was walking back to my dorm and i saw this guy -- this total hippie -- walking back to the same dorm through the grass with no shoes on. i eventually passed him and i was whistling, and i distinctly remember him sort of whistling along with me. he was (and still is, if memory serves) absolutely brilliant and stunning and beautiful. i had a crush on him for about 20 minutes, then realized that this wonderful man would become a best friend of mine. and he did. he used to call me pokey tok, for illicit reasons. the day i left moorhead state, all my friends helped me pack up my stuff into my parent's minivan and all of a sudden, after already saying goodbye to my matt, he ran out from behind the dorm to say goodbye again.

i've not thought about that in a long time. anyhow, he gave me the journal on march 20, 1994.

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3/20/94
i have struggled so long to get to this point, and now i have to up and leave. will he ever know what he does to me? [AM TRYING TO RECALL WHO THE "HE" WAS]
do i tell him or do i wait for him to miss me first? [OK. I REMEMBER NOW. HMM.] my stomach hurts, i feel like crying. no, i feel like smoking. i'm going to tell my dad eventually, as the cigarette butts MIGHT give it away. so much to unpack. so much to lose. nothing to give.

[the inevitable decline of kari begins around this point. watch for the fun!]

3/23/94
where am i at? are you there? will i be gone when i get there? what is this ripping feeling? why can't it leave me alone? why is this in me? who put this here?
this is me. this is what i fear. i fear myself. i fear the monster i just saw i fear the mosnters in my closet the monsters in my head. they are yelling at me, telling me things that are untrue. i am scared of everything.

[later that day]

i'm watching my sister meg sleep. how can she be related to me? she is so little and pure and unknowing. this beautiful, tempermental creature is just sleeping. i wonder if i will have one like her one day? how would my life be different without her? i don't want to imagine, i can't imagine. what i wouldn't give for her. i would lay down my worthless life for hers. she inspires me to continue living.

3/25/94
it's all unfolding around me. i still have no control. everything is spinning around in a sick and twisted whirlwind of colors and images of smiles and screams.

[the entries are interrupted by really, really shitty poetry that i don't think anyone needs to read.]

then there are a few letters written to boys that were never sent. a nice little excerpt:
"to you i'm a consolation prize, a friend when no one else can stand you. and now i'm nothing. fuck you."

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a few more journals sitting on the shelf, but why have too much fun in one night, right?