new glasses



You know the expression “seeing through rose colored glasses?” Well I could probably use a pair of those, if the prescription were for a bad left eye, decent right one, and the frames were, like, uber cute. I’ve had less than perfect vision since sixth grade and despite a brief dalliance with contacts in high school, I’ve been walking around with this slightly blurred perspective for almost a decade.

And that’s just the thing. My perspective: it’s blurred. I’m not seeing through prescribed lenses but rather those damn pinkish ones. Today when the eye doctor flipped the little “can you see me now” switch, I jumped back at the clarity of the tiny black letters. It’s frightening, feeling like you thought you knew something, saw something, everything, just as it was. And then suddenly a B becomes an E and maybe everything else looks different too.

It could be little. Maybe I skimmed a poster too fast and my favorite band isn’t playing this Saturday, but next. (I throw this example in to make it look like I read posters and also that I like music) It could be big. Maybe I almost swerved into the wrong lane on the highway because the lines weren’t entirely clear. And then, maybe, this blurred vision could be the worst thing ever, the thing I pick when someone shouts “…your poison.” My rose colored glasses sit in line next to my three hour naps, my constant Twitter updates, my obsession with DVD box sets of late 90s, early 2000 shows. These seemingly harmless hobbies/activities/are really/defense mechanisms. Avoidance tactics.

What am I avoiding? Good question. Long answer. My too short class schedule. My potential summer in London. My lack of funds for said summer. My lack of funds. My future. My desolate future. My hesitant present. What can’t a good slumber fix? And those witty twit pics–now those always remind me that I’m connected, clever and also that I have an iPhone. I’d much rather wallow in the mire of high school alien drama than acknowledge my own inner turmoil. Or rather, lack of turmoil. That’s where those rose colored glasses come in. I can both avoid what worries me and skim over it in those times when I’m not in my bed, on the couch, attached to my phone.

If I wanted to blog about “woe is me” Connelly than I’d hop a plane to a third world country and get super poor and hungry along the way. I don’t feel bad for myself. I’m usually pretty angry at myself. I have a lot. One thing I don’t have: glasses. And I’m getting them. There goes blurred vision, the age old “I really didn’t see you” excuse. I see you perfectly clearly now. Perhaps people should be scared. Maybe I’ll turn into a PI (early 2000 TV series) and catch college co-eds in all kinds of acts. Maybe I’ll realize I was bad at math because I just couldn’t see the numbers! Maybe I’ll see that I’m super model material and give my hair the blowout it always deserved.

Maybe I’ll start stopping avoiding. I can’t ask too much of myself, for I am, after all, woe-is -me-Connelly. It’s like a version of exercise Barbie; I’ve got the gear and I’m ready to go but alas I’m forever frozen in pink velour (or rather fighting the ticking clock of youth– but you get the point). First step: cut contact. I’m de-activating those really fun social networking sites for a bit. While I’m so engrossed in them I think I could be missing out on some stuff around me. Life, etc.


I’d never leave



“Promise me you’ll never forget me because if I thought you would I’d never leave.”–Winnie the Pooh

Earlier I was wondering if my beau loved me and also if he knew what beau meant. I’m not sure about either.

I was wondering if I’d ever be happy with my self, the outer shell part at least. I’m sure that I will be, a very long time from now.

I was wondering how to make steamed milk without an espresso machine. I couldn’t figure it out.

These musings left me lonely, pouty and without a cafe au lait.

Who is it that I don’t want to forget me? Any lover I may have? My inner shell part of myself? My memories? My dreams? Sometimes I think so many thoughts that I forget what they’re about. It’s as if the one aspect of my identity that could truly define me doesn’t even mean anything. Just thoughts about thoughts, like the fluff in one’s head Pooh would certainly point out.

I don’t read Winnie the Pooh books anymore. I don’t know if I ever did; maybe I only watched the TV show. I Google search “pooh quotes” whenever I feel sad, scared, happy, nostalgic. He makes you feel how you’re feeling or how you wish you were feeling.

There are a lot of things I’ve never left. In Life (the big one not the magazine) most people just fade away. Not for me. I don’t rid myself of the feelings I have for people once they’ve faded away from me. They’ve forgotten me but I never leave them, because the thought of being forgotten is unbearable. If others don’t forget me, even if I convince myself that others have not forgotten me, than I won’t have to create new memories or a new self. I am a pieced together mish mash of every Connelly that’s walked before.

So what I was really wondering earlier was if my beau will remember me once he’s left me, if my body will remember what it once was, if someone will buy me a damn espresso machine and remember how much I wanted one.

One of many sadnesses

I see so many kinds of people every day who make me sad. Older men, alone in Starbucks, drinking some kind of too sweet beverage, simply being lonely. What are they looking for? They’re worse than homeless people, for what they need most is tangible and yes I can spare a dollar. But what does it feel like to go unnoticed?

excerpt from Nabokov’s short story

“I think that here lies the sense of literary creation: to portray ordinary objects as they will be reflected in the kindly mirrors of future times; to find in the objects around us the fragrant tenderness that only posterity will discern and appreciate in the far-off times when every trifle of our plain everyday life will become exquisite and festive in its own right: the times when a man who might put on the most ordinary jacket of today will be dressed up for an elegant masquerade.”

–“A Guide to Berlin”

One day I hope to write a sentence like this one.