Just some brief notes:
I have a pretty packed day for the first part of tomorrow. I'm going to try to get up relatively early (I slept til like 1:30 today-- not even because I was tired), get a haircut, drive out to the Jackson Outlets and Six Flags to fill out some applications and figure out how to make some cream this summer, then head out to Liberty Oak to play some Ultimate-- something I haven't done in a long time and am excited to get back into.
I've started eating right again, and exercising a little bit also. It gives me something to work towards and some semblance of control over what's going on. Typically I couldn't really care less-- would rather just go with the flow-- but it's a time in which I need something like this.
I'm watching this show on Comedy Central and doing my laundry. The show is called Ugly American and it is stupid. The laundry is also stupid.
I'm finding it very difficult to keep myself occupied. Everything is foggy and without its usual brightness, brilliance. This is an essential challenge, however. It is a good thing I like playing Ultimate and getting haircuts I guess.
I started keeping a paper and ink journal while away (oh shit, I guess I should blog about that trip or something I dunno) and I really like it. Think I'll keep it up. It helps.
AAAAHHHHHHGHGHGHGHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!
I want a Droid. And a sampler. And a job.
I have some bad habits to address and remedy. It isn't going to happen immediately, but I'll do what I can when I can.
I have really really unbelievably warm friends.
Monday, June 14, 2010
Monday, May 24, 2010
Friday, May 07, 2010
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Tunnelvision
Taking an undeserved break from researching for my postmodernism presentation (due tomorrow) and final paper (due I forget), that's what I'm doing yep yep. I'm finding myself short on everything these days, not least of all time. There's a hypocrisy about the length of my fuse that I'm considering with a sort of resolved sadness; I can't take what I give a good amount of the time. My self-awareness somehow falls short of understanding how I am at times a pretty fucked-up friend, and bad habits are hard to uproot when they wear flowers on their heads.
MAN am I ever (sometimes) supremely envious of nihilists!
I fear that I see things with terrible sort of paranoid distortion. It makes it super hard to tell when something is something I should worry about and when something is something I'm only worried about because I'm worried I am supposed to be worrying about it.
What's with this nagging fear of obsolescence I've picked up recently? I feel I've moved on from the stage of psychosocial development that I was hung up on for, LIKE, forever and now I've entered one a whole lot scarier and its lousy and blah blah blah I'm still the narcissistic whelp I've always been don't fret about that!
My problem isn't that I can't see straight but that I can only see straight, like I have this autistic inability to focus on stimuli, positive or negative, from more than a handful of things. So while I'm busy biting my nails over some shit only I'm worried about I'm losing contact with the orbiting periphery.
And I wonder if, in a grand stroke of irony, all of this would go away if I chilled the fuck out and got my shit together. I just want to feel less sometimes, or figure out how to stop burning my hand on cooking fires.
MAN am I ever (sometimes) supremely envious of nihilists!
I fear that I see things with terrible sort of paranoid distortion. It makes it super hard to tell when something is something I should worry about and when something is something I'm only worried about because I'm worried I am supposed to be worrying about it.
What's with this nagging fear of obsolescence I've picked up recently? I feel I've moved on from the stage of psychosocial development that I was hung up on for, LIKE, forever and now I've entered one a whole lot scarier and its lousy and blah blah blah I'm still the narcissistic whelp I've always been don't fret about that!
My problem isn't that I can't see straight but that I can only see straight, like I have this autistic inability to focus on stimuli, positive or negative, from more than a handful of things. So while I'm busy biting my nails over some shit only I'm worried about I'm losing contact with the orbiting periphery.
And I wonder if, in a grand stroke of irony, all of this would go away if I chilled the fuck out and got my shit together. I just want to feel less sometimes, or figure out how to stop burning my hand on cooking fires.
Sunday, March 28, 2010
I don't post here much anymore for a variety of reasons. It feels both too public and permanent to be completely honest in-- and without honesty, the whole thing is bunk, isn't it? I wouldn't be surprised if this was the beginning of the end for blogger and me. Seems my personal thoughts, the ones I've enjoyed posting to see what people thought of them or what shape they took upon revisitation, are better suited for the margins of legal pads-- where they can remain in ink, spared the embarrassment of internet immortalization, and me their eventual betrayal.
I most often haven't words to excuse the fits of anxiety I'm sometimes prone to. They come in flash floods and dissipate with equal unpredictability. For any number of reasons, I seize up with terror, draw scenarios in the sand and cast the sample in concrete. Then I unhinge my jaws and swallow the whole thing in one, where it sits in my belly a stone-- its etchings enhanced by stomach acid.
Everything now feels like setup for the next season. What comes and goes when one ends?
But if I were to say anything here with clarity, it would be that I am desperately afraid.
I most often haven't words to excuse the fits of anxiety I'm sometimes prone to. They come in flash floods and dissipate with equal unpredictability. For any number of reasons, I seize up with terror, draw scenarios in the sand and cast the sample in concrete. Then I unhinge my jaws and swallow the whole thing in one, where it sits in my belly a stone-- its etchings enhanced by stomach acid.
Everything now feels like setup for the next season. What comes and goes when one ends?
But if I were to say anything here with clarity, it would be that I am desperately afraid.
Sunday, March 07, 2010
Artax
It's 51 degrees out, cloudless and blue, a Sunday made for walks past cafes, through grassy city squares down to the water where great barges crawl like they're just left to float where they do. Reminds me of Savannah, so practiced at formality it manages prim in 90% humidity.
I could use a parachute.
As March begins, it burrows inside me spinier than I expected, and I expected it to hurt terribly. Ironic that with the sun and the warmer weather, so [nearly] ending my hibernationesque retreat from myself, comes this month of rejection, change, and difficult decisions.
In the hollow part inside me, left by the wilting of a child's garden: wonder, amusement, trust, belief, faith-- I feel this detachment and loneliness pressing out like gas expanding within me, or dark water pushing at the sides of a pipe-- finding imperfections to gnaw at until it bursts.
I wonder if there exists a spring to water myself from.
Sometimes I get shakes when I realize I see things too romantically or fantastically. I worry that if I'm not good enough even at what I'm good at, well, what use is there for me? And losing the good things. And being stuck somewhere/here.
Will I be like Artax, overcome and doomed?
I could use a parachute.
As March begins, it burrows inside me spinier than I expected, and I expected it to hurt terribly. Ironic that with the sun and the warmer weather, so [nearly] ending my hibernationesque retreat from myself, comes this month of rejection, change, and difficult decisions.
In the hollow part inside me, left by the wilting of a child's garden: wonder, amusement, trust, belief, faith-- I feel this detachment and loneliness pressing out like gas expanding within me, or dark water pushing at the sides of a pipe-- finding imperfections to gnaw at until it bursts.
I wonder if there exists a spring to water myself from.
Sometimes I get shakes when I realize I see things too romantically or fantastically. I worry that if I'm not good enough even at what I'm good at, well, what use is there for me? And losing the good things. And being stuck somewhere/here.
Will I be like Artax, overcome and doomed?
Monday, February 15, 2010
Wax cast
2/12
I've got a wet rattlecough robbing me of sleep lately, as if I'm trying to get something out but can't. Sometimes words get stuck to my inner throatlining like the spikeball seeds we threw at each other as children did to sweaters. The cooperation of my stomach and lungs, tightening and, so, pushing up against disease is valiant, even heroic-- and in this grey time futile and impotent.
Winter is as it tends to be, lined with trees reaching feebly up like bronchi on burnt trachea fishing in lungfluid. I wonder about the relationship of snow and nicotine tar, about duality and sameness and irony and death. The panic of falling through a frozen laketop giving softly to the sad cold synapse failure of alcohol.
2/15
I have this recurring dream in which I'm in a play but don't know any of the lines I'm supposed to deliver. Last night I was watching the show and using the bathroom during intermission (after wandering accidentally into the ladies' room and running into a very unexpected Ramaperson). Then I was told to go onstage and was expected to take the role of a sort of scripted stage manager. There was a halfwall upstage that I could hide behind momentarily and glance at the script, but never for long enough to glean any lines. At some point a man rode by on a horse, said something, and delivered me a large fish. At another there was a giant green snake.
I wonder now, recollecting as I sit in a class that demands "what does it mean?" what business I had in this dreamspace. We take on different roles daily, momentarily, different masks for different performances. I'm painfully aware and, it seems, concerned less with how I am than how I appear to be. The great irony is the near universality and therefore nullification of any validity, any truth, to this obsession.
And then the words, how I can never seem to hook the right ones. The cottonmouth feeling of wordlessness and, so, silence. Improvisation as a method-- in dream a viable approach when in waking life I'm bound by this repeated cerebral assessment of possibilities and opposing vantages, forever in rehearsal.
It doesn't seem enough anymore to ask "who am I?" so much as "where am I under all this?"
I've got a wet rattlecough robbing me of sleep lately, as if I'm trying to get something out but can't. Sometimes words get stuck to my inner throatlining like the spikeball seeds we threw at each other as children did to sweaters. The cooperation of my stomach and lungs, tightening and, so, pushing up against disease is valiant, even heroic-- and in this grey time futile and impotent.
Winter is as it tends to be, lined with trees reaching feebly up like bronchi on burnt trachea fishing in lungfluid. I wonder about the relationship of snow and nicotine tar, about duality and sameness and irony and death. The panic of falling through a frozen laketop giving softly to the sad cold synapse failure of alcohol.
2/15
I have this recurring dream in which I'm in a play but don't know any of the lines I'm supposed to deliver. Last night I was watching the show and using the bathroom during intermission (after wandering accidentally into the ladies' room and running into a very unexpected Ramaperson). Then I was told to go onstage and was expected to take the role of a sort of scripted stage manager. There was a halfwall upstage that I could hide behind momentarily and glance at the script, but never for long enough to glean any lines. At some point a man rode by on a horse, said something, and delivered me a large fish. At another there was a giant green snake.
I wonder now, recollecting as I sit in a class that demands "what does it mean?" what business I had in this dreamspace. We take on different roles daily, momentarily, different masks for different performances. I'm painfully aware and, it seems, concerned less with how I am than how I appear to be. The great irony is the near universality and therefore nullification of any validity, any truth, to this obsession.
And then the words, how I can never seem to hook the right ones. The cottonmouth feeling of wordlessness and, so, silence. Improvisation as a method-- in dream a viable approach when in waking life I'm bound by this repeated cerebral assessment of possibilities and opposing vantages, forever in rehearsal.
It doesn't seem enough anymore to ask "who am I?" so much as "where am I under all this?"
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