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| Every time I update, it always feels like it's been much longer since my last update. This time it feels like six months have passed, but it's only been two.
Lately, I've been really tired all the time. Throughout much of the day, I get to feeling really old. I zone out of conversations emotionally while simultaneously investing myself in them factually. I listen and communicate during moments of human interaction the same way I would to a TV when I'm by myself. People are just soap operas anyways. The good peoples are sitcoms. Every now and then, I get a sci-fi drama (that intersperses moments of its content with T&A comic relief).
Blah blah blah. Same ol', same ol'. What's new, Grandpa Victor? Contrary to what you might think, Future Self, I don't have much to do though. It's that restless exhaustion, that do-nothing-until-you're-tired-all-day exhaustion. I spend all day in bed. Even when I'm with people, I spend all day in bed. An intangible weight lingers about my shoulders, mocking everything about me. Its presence haunts me into thinking I have to do something, but dammit, I'm on a break right now. I know what the weight is too. We both know what it is.
I accepted the-idea-that-must-not-be-named as objective fact a long time ago, but I thought I was fighting a winning battle in not accepting it as the ultimatum that powers my being.
It's a very, very familiar feeling--the weight of weightlessness...Of empty despair. I love it the only way I know how to love. (Someone say "through hate!" Say it! Say it. We both know how I like people to, inevitably, say things they don't want to say.)
Summer worries me. I'm going to be a busy little bee.
Lately, I've been making dimes into dollars. Hard-ons go soft though, and sometimes, even when you jerk it far, even if it's farther than the last time, even if it's farther than any other time you've ever gone, it doesn't really feel the same.
Here's a poem I'm going to write, on the spot, by just letting my thoughts go how they go.
(P.S. That is the title of the poem.)
I need sunlight, but I don't like to go outside.
I shouldn't've thrown away my light bulb, if you catch my drift.
I smell like a different person every day. It's nice, but,
it'd be much better if I could find some olfactory consistency.
These are things I like:
Ladies, being empowered by celibacy, being empowered by sex, connection with the universe
These are things I love (in the way that I love, not the way that love is loved):
Ladies, being empowered by celibacy, being empowered by sex, disconnection with the universe, things that I like
These are things I don't like:
Penises, pointless/forced celibacy, pointless/forced sex, the universe, things that I like, things that I love
These are things I hate (in the way that I hate, not the way hate is hated):
Penises, pointless/forced celibacy, pointless/forced sex, oblivion, things that I like, things that I love, things that I don't like
I know what I'm saying when I say this: Freddy Got Fingered was a good film. One day, it will be considered a great film. I await that day with open arms. Tom Green is a very smart man. It is a vastly misunderstood work of art. I will die by these statements. You may put them on my tombstone(s).
When I get on Xanga, it means I'm either horribly depressed, or horribly nostalgic. Every now and then, it means I'm horribly bored. This time, it's not so. ("It isn't so" is what I'd usually use. Let's go for a change. Hmm. It is not so. It's not so. It isn't so. Inglish is weird. Inglish so weird.)
This time though, I miss people. I miss some nigger (Did he just say that? Did he just say that ?!) people getting shot at (I decided to go specific so if either one of them ever sees this, and I think they probably will, they'll know what I'm talkin' 'bout) because they're in a gang (the strongest gang in the world, though), and I miss people who ams my best fronds out of stateses. (Both Columbias!), I miss people who might get into some bad shit (Again. Ugh. But please don't.), I miss my siblings (brothers and sisters!), I miss certain girlies who I'll never see again. I even miss girlies I see every day! But they'll disappear forever, and I won't think of them as them but Them (not the band Van Morrison was in though), the mass collective of people in my life defined by their vaginas.
That's not a good way to be remembered. I try to take something from each. Future Self, never interpret these things literally. You'll be walking the wrong path.
By the way, if I don't get ED ever again, it'll be too late. (What does that mean?) Figure it out.
Music
1. Black Tambourines – Complete Recordings (Requirement for any Velocity Girl)
2. Brown, James – Live at the Apollo
3. Dylan, Bob – The Bootleg Series, Vol. 7: No Direction Home – The Soundtrack
4. Holly, Buddy & the Crickets – The "Chirping" Crickets
5. House, Son – Heroes of the Blues: The Very Best of Son House
6. Hurt, Mississippi John – Avalon Blues: The Complete 1928 Okeh Recordings
7. Jefferson Airplane – Surrealistic Pillow (Requirement for Michael Wadleigh – Woodstock)
8. Jesus and Mary Chain, The – Psychocandy (1)
9. Jobim, Antonio Carlos – Wave
10. Kraftwerk – Trans-Europe Express
11. Lewis, Jerry Lee – Last Man Standing
12. Marley, Bob & the Wailers – Soul Rebels
13. Moby Grape – Moby Grape
14. Monroe, Bill – 16 Gems
15. Nirvana – MTV Unplugged in New York
16. Perry, Lee “Scratch” & the Upsetters – Super Ape
17. Scott-Heron, Gil – Small Talk at 125th and Lenox (1)
18. Simon & Garfunkel – Sounds of Silence (Get this before starting Paul Simon's solo career)
19. Smith, Patti – Radio Ethiopia
20. Talk Talk – Spirit of Eden
21. Talking Heads – Remain in Light (1)
22. Waits, Tom – Closing Time
23. Winehouse, Amy – Frank
24. Wire – Chairs Missing
25. Wynette, Tammy – Stand by Your Man
Film
Look at that, I watched all the films from last time! 1. Bergman, Ingmar – Wild Strawberries (1)
2. Cameron, James – The Terminator (1)
3. Coppola, Francis Ford – The Conversation
4. Eisenstein, Sergei – Strike
5. Ford, John – My Darling Clementine (1)
6. Herzog, Werner – Stroszek
7. Kazan, Elia – On the Waterfront
8. Linklater, Richard – Slacker (1)
9. Murnau, F.W. – The Last Laugh (1)
10. Ray, Satyajit – Pather Panchali (1)
Literature 1. Bradbury, Ray – Fahrenheit 451
2. Cervantes, Miguel de – El Ingenioso Hidalgo Don Quijote de la Mancha
3. Coetzee, J.M. – Life & Times of Michael K (PCL – PR 9369.3 C58 L5 1998)
4. Díaz, Junot – The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao
5. Faulkner, William – The Sound and the Fury
6. Forster, E.M. – Where Angels Fear to Tread (1)
7. Ginsberg, Allen – Howl and Other Poems
8. Joyce, James – A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man
9. Morrison, Toni – Beloved
10. Woolf, Virginia – Mrs Dalloway (1 – Requirement for Michael Cunningham – The Hours) | | |
| Seems every Spring Break starts with a winter chill. I love it.
There's things you grow out of loving and then there's things you grow into loving.
There's also things you've always loved but you never realized just how much.
I want something known--I'm not very much myself when there's too many people asking me to be me. My face feels out of shape. I have an essay to write. It's due very soon, but before it's due, there's a test. After the test, I have a little assignment to do. So many little things. So many little people.
After this I'm free for about ten days, and, honestly, I kinda wanna just spend those days by myself watching Bergman and basketball--Just need to fulfill every possible stimulation on the whole spectrum of brain straining.
I'm not misanthropically tired yet, but I can feel the inevitability of its coming if I don't retreat from the universe. I probably won't retreat enough (for me anyways), but not seeing anyone for about four days would be nice.
Don't really have that many problems right now. Just very busy. Too busy for that stuff.
Sometimes though, when I'm waiting for the bus, I feel as if my heart's coming back into existence. When I stay in bed a little too long. It's not that great of a feeling. At the same time, the only thing I can do to avoid misery is to just keep running.
Coke fiends and liver failure, heartbreak and tamed domesticity, wife-swapping, combat training, misguided martyrdom, the arrogance of success, succumbing to the depths of superficiality--it all feels behind me. I shrug my shoulders to shake their prying hands off and most times I'm very, very successful.
They ask me, "Are you a man?" and I say "No. I am not." They ask me, "What are you then?", and I say "I am what I am."
Then I add, "Coincidentally, I have a penis."
I feel really sore, but at least my knee's stopped acting up. BAD KNEE. TERRIBLE, TERRIBLE KNEE. BUT YA DONE GOOD LATELY. I could use some tenderness, but every time it's offered, I only take a little. Afterwards, I feel overwhelmed, and so I end up running again.
Can't run forever. | | |
| There are some yearbooks in a drawer of mine filled with kennels and some of the kennels have animals in them.
Some of these animals, I'm ashamed of owning, but some I love unconditionally. Very few though (for the latter).
I love the kennels too, but wouldn't mind if they died. And honestly, I could kill some of those I loved, and it would only hurt in that moment, or on the anniversary of the kennel's manufacturing date. Or maybe
even the birthday of the pet inside? Everyone knows I have a thing against birthdays anyways. (Quick. What's my birthday?
Few known. No knows. No one is of the knowing.)
Some pets, I am ashamed of having. Many of these shame pets? I am ashamed I am ashamed.
I shame my shame.
When things are sung-songed, they make more sense, but only to slooooooow readers. I'll say it sloooow.
Some pets, I never want to see again, but I love them how I love them.
Few of the pets I know are dead. I like that. One might die soon, but that's OK, because my daughter is a porn star.
Some of the pets are traitors, others I'm sick of, others I hate, MOST I HATE, some I don't care for, but I'm a collector
of pets, of people, of kennels (some are cages, but I don't like to say that word, because nostalgia's freer than that).
There are two pets I love, one has run away (it bit me), kennel and all. The other pet is now a kennel only. I miss this pet, but it did bite me once, and for that
I will not forgive it.
BUT.
It's just so damn cute it hurts sometimes. The kennel means nothing.
There are pets out there without kennels, cages, cares, or concerns, and these pets do things to me that I do not approve of,
but parts of me approve
And I cannot approve of this.
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| I have self-loathing. And cargo pants. More cargo pants though, but only by a little.
I have worry. And I am not a man to trust people. I also do not wear jeans.
I will steal many things from you but money will never be included in my getaway car. Also, you can count your dresses and stockings safe. I will take jewels, but they won't be the shiny kind. Sometimes I miss things. Other times I will miss things that have yet to be deserving of nostalgia. 7000 lira! Couldn't you make it a bit more?
They are used. Sad and starving, he offers another 500. 7500 lira. GRAZIE! They're so poor. I hate it when the only thing poor people have left is love. I hate them. I hate them I hate them I hate them. I let it be obvious! Things are so obvious when they're not said. That is why I say things. | | |
| When it's late at night, things that are mundane take on an odd, newfound niche uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhvv awesomeness. I'm involved in things I didn't think I'd ever be involved in. It's nice. It's scary.
Commitment's a chain, but sometimes it seems like the kind that comes lookin' like a furry handcuff attached to some bimbo clad in vinyl. Other times it comes in the form of the Holy Spirit delivering a glare of penance reminding me of all the sins I've committed, thought about committing, and will commit later on in life. I make the compromise. It's alright most days, but sometimes I freak out. I half expect to be greeted one day with ninjas wielding crosses like shuriken. I bet you having a chunk of a copper Jesus figurine embedded in my torso would make a sexy battle scar. I had an odd dream last night. It was uncomfortable. It was disturbing, and I think it said something about me that I know that I've purposefully repressed for sometime now. It was so disturbing, I didn't want to stop dreaming it. Knowledge correlates with discomfort (so profound disturbance would equal some epic epiphany) so I went back to sleep and missed my alarm clock (set for midnight...Not 12 PM. GAH!). Good news though--I managed to continue the same dream. But I ran out of time and was late for a meeting with a friend. I'm really grossed out. | | |
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