| |
|
|
| 01:34pm 20/04/2007 |
| |
Oil painting is a procrastinator's medium. "Shit, looks like I used a little too much linseed oil. This thing will never dry. My colors will just get muddier and muddier if I attempt to work any more on this painting today. Really, I'm at a standstill. There is nothing more I can do. Guess I'll have a beer?" Oil painting is a procrastinatior's medium if you allow it to be one.
Some things I like lately:
Greek salads
Shearwater
tracing paper
the return of honeysuckle
re-learning how to drive stick
DVDs about anti-depressants |
|
| |
|
(make pretty speeches) |
| |
| As if I'm not already alienated enough from the general populace. |
|
|
| 10:32pm 31/03/2007 |
| |
I've noticed a disturbing trend in my interactions and general feelings about other women. While normally I am not one to explain such things in neither detail or decipherable coherence, I feel I must. For I am drunk.
For every woman I encounter on a daily basis, there is a series of scrutinizing and compromising assessments. While this has almost always been true, I feel the scrutiny and aggression has escalated recently. When I am confronted with women ages 20 to maybe 37, I ask myself a series of questions, "How is she better than me?" being the most frequent. What results are feelings of displacement, irrelevance, inadequacy, and sometimes, rage. Naturally, I ask myself why the comparisons have escalated and why I am reacting to them in such a way. I am not quick to place blame, but rather consider this "phenomenon" as a bi-product of other elements in my life. Never before have I found myself in a relationship where I was not needed. Whatever that means. Perhaps it means disposability. How easily I can be replaced. How irrelevant I am. How ultimately unnecessary. I am very likely a burden and must ask myself what I contribute, what I can show for it. Secondly, in the grand tradition of art fags and sensitive types, I have never dated, much less loved, a man so vocal about his attraction/admiration of other women. I know that this is present in all men (and women as well) and I graciously accept this fact. I would much rather have an open dialouge about porn, sex, and the new Gap ad featuring Claire Danes than have it be an undiscussed given. Honesty truly is an excellent thing and I am grateful for it. However, it is an adjustment. It perhaps forces me to analyze women in a different way and assess what they have that I do not. It is no secret that I hate myself deeply, nor is it a secret that I am insecure, so such feelings should be of no surprise to me or to anyone else. Still, I cannot help but be baffled at the intensity of them or the resonance they have in my everyday life. The whole scenario makes me want to listen to Riotgrrl tunes and feel some false sense of empowerment, but then of course I would find myself poring over the liner notes and comparing my breasts to those of the band members. I suppose I'm just a bitter and jealous person, really, and that's a shame. |
|
| |
|
(5 spinning plates | make pretty speeches) |
| |
| heavy metal dreams. |
|
|
| 01:54pm 19/03/2007 |
| |
My father has become a loyal fan of M. Ward in recent months. After receiving Post War for Christmas, he might be Ward's biggest fan outside of the typical indie rock circles. As a result of his fandom, he asked Claire to copy Post War so he could give it to his father. Now my grandfather never takes M. Ward's third album out of the CD player. He listens to his radio programs, but at the end of the night sits on his couch facing sliding glass doors, drinking Scotch, listening to "Rollercoaster" with his eyes closed. It is likely that at the same time, in another suburb, my father is drinking a beer, wearing bifocals and tinkering with the model trains he inherited after the death of his uncle. Trains he spoke about and coveted even while the uncle was still alive. Trains so old specialty stores no longer sell parts compatible with them. It is likely that he too is listening to "Rollercoaster" as he wields tiny tools to restore the trains to working order.
If ever I feel that my life's components are ugly and without poetry, I need only think of these scenes. I need only allow myself the pleasure of knowing such quiet, depressive beauty exists very, very nearby. And remember to not beat myself up for revelling in it for a few moments. Corny, yes, but also immensely comforting. |
|
| |
|
(1 spinning plate | make pretty speeches) |
| |
| |
|
|
| 03:10pm 05/03/2007 |
| |
|
music: Silver fucking Jews
|
All the CDs in my car are utterly uncool. But I suppose that can't be helped. All Things Must Pass, American Water, Sketches for My Sweetheart the Drunk. The same songs. They are similar to a morsel of a familiar meal in my mouth, one consumed in the search for comfort hundreds of times over. Leaving a sickly sweet taste on my tongue and fondling my gag reflex. I grudgingly accept the sensation of acid in my jaws. I am no longer trying to extricate the masochism from the comfort, though I probably should. Cut the crap, right?
Despite everything, I sometimes catch myself longing for that kind of sick, innocent love that can really only be experienced once. Surprising the other person with bubble gum when you return from paying for gas, the notion that it is you two against the world. It is in these moments that I know I am unfairly idealizing the past. It is in these moments that I know I am still a child. |
|
| |
|
(4 spinning plates | make pretty speeches) |
| |
| |
|
|
| 10:18pm 23/12/2006 |
| |
|
music: Elvis Costello - "Two Little Hitlers"
|
As the year comes to a close, all I can think about is all the people I've wronged. |
|
| |
|
(6 spinning plates | make pretty speeches) |
| |
| I really missed the ship. |
|
|
| 11:50pm 23/11/2006 |
| |
"Immersion in Zimmerman-philosophical-scoundrel-old time-Robert Johnson-Columbia Records world. I have to get back in touch with the now and the real, but, like the unwilling and unwitting prophet said, the old news is the most tangible and the most fascinating.
Time spent by the sea was shaky and volatile."
Above from summer. When my pants fit better because maybe I was more sad. Or more in control? |
|
| |
|
(make pretty speeches) |
| |
| guts knotted up |
|
|
| 04:50pm 06/07/2006 |
| |
I know it's time to check the alignment on my tires when it looks like I'm having a nervous breakdown every time I begin to brake. The shaking. The same shaking also makes me acutely aware of every unnecessary ounce of flesh on my body. Fatso! My car makes me self-conscious and spurs body image issues. IDIOT GIRL. As was the style that year!
Also, Tom Waits. |
|
| |
|
(2 spinning plates | make pretty speeches) |
| |
| I'd go down on a tiger but they're way too tame. |
|
|
| 11:16pm 20/06/2006 |
| |
Shaking like a leaf. Too quaint a term for what happens now at the most inappropriate times. The X-Games. The clenching in the chest and migrating to the left shoulder is probably just my heart trying to kill me. I say all systems go can't blame it for shit.
Former lover asking about cancer mom and walking somewhere to be moving.
A woman is not a girl. I could show you a thing or two.
Still concerns about being the Box Office Poison Dorothy in the social scheme. Sex jokes founded in Sinatra, cynical instead of sympathetic, the too much too much too much, irresponsible slob drunk. Again, vowing to embrace it, but not without a shrug and a last look down at my feet. Wrestling with my perceived self. Sort of like a rock star might, but sadder!
I love the neutrality of television!
Don't glamorize the cryptic shit!
The sheets are clean, but I'd rather take it to the mat. Battle it out!
Such shit!
Almost fainted during a fucking pap smear. When did I become such a fucking pussy? Uterine and cervical and god, how IS your mother?
You're going to have to ask yourself: what do you think my girl wants? |
|
| |
|
(2 spinning plates | make pretty speeches) |
| |
| the Nice Nice up in blazes? |
|
|
| 11:03am 25/05/2006 |
| |
Drunky.
Said the kindest affirmation, but didn't realize because it was in the midst of "yes yes yes but see no yes! because the nature of...!!!!!" Still the nicest turn of phrase yet. I've vowed not to say anything like that to you for the duration, because you just laugh.
I got in and fucked the old songs up from the inside. They all had to start carrying other implications.
I'm a slave to Camel, to Lucky Strike, to Folgers, to two espresso shots no sugar, to a Cool Coors Sixteen Ouncer. Once it all wells up like that, all one can do is revel in the filth and the poor health. Or that could easily just be my approach. |
|
| |
|
(make pretty speeches) |
| |
| I was hospitalized for approaching perfection. |
|
|
| 10:40am 26/04/2006 |
| |
I feel like a cripple, but there are no physical manifestations to prove it. Therefore, I am a hypochondriac. Therefore, I am quietly deranged.
This why Lisa wants so badly to break her arm, I think. I want facial disfigurement.
The front porch of our house is glorious. I'm hoping it will provide solace in the advent of no constants. I don't think even our chain-smoking has the power to cloud the overpowering scent of honeysuckle and blackberry blossoms, and, sad as it may be, I take immense comfort in that.
I don't admire my heroes as much as I resent them. The enjoyment my favorite literature and art is laced with twinges of shame. This is the time when I should be feverishly working on enigmatic, esoteric, and ephemeral works of passion! The "3 E" triple threat! But then I remember/rationalize: Whiskey and cancer mom do not a well-balanced person make.
Love,
The Funnny One! |
|
| |
|
(2 spinning plates | make pretty speeches) |
| |
| the clear spot |
|
|
| 12:34pm 05/01/2006 |
| |
|
music: "Our Secret" by Beat Happening
|
Like an animal, I've sent up every predictable distress signal. Clutching childhood pets to my chest against their will, their geriatric limbs wiggling in futile attempts to get as far away from me as possible. Taking aimless drives, blasting the Smiths, the usual twinge of shame absent. Smoking instead of meals. Sulking in public, pretending to look at the comic book with the soft folded edges I've read more times than anyone should . Every thought I have that doesn't pertain to him, to my weak character, or to the relevance of my simple line drawings I cling to with an intensity usually reserved for lip synching to "Yer Blues" alone in my room. I try to ride out the unrelated thoughts as long as possible. Thoughts about how much I should ration my reading material, about out to recreate the texture of my chewed up inner lips with synthetic materials, about Gouda cheese.
Emboldened by a pleasant phone call home, I feel wholly confident in my decision to take the longest route possible. Them longest route possible being the polite way of saying I just wanted to drive by the apartment, see his car, see if the lights are on. I'm too numbed out to acknowledge how creepy I'm being. Rolling past, the mental pictures of five seconds prior are replaced by an almost deafening feeling of jealousy. My plan's been thwarted...I can't even see the car because there are others parked behind it. Driving stone-faced in the dark, I'm no longer hearing the music crackling out of my shitty car stereo, but the dramatized and imagined conversations that must be taking place back there. But then I remember that I instigated the sanctions. I remember how invalid my feelings about all this are supposed to be. I have selfish and manipulative thoughts. I want to call, force him to be reminded of me while participating in idea synthesis with friends, to ensure that my presence is there even if I am not.
I'm wondering if always being deeply emotionally invested in someone else is crippling me. I wonder if it's a sign of weak character.
Phrases related to combing hair always conjure up images of perfect, immaculate people for me.
I invent people to be intimidated by. Girls who, while classically beautiful and shy, are inexplicably perverse. Women with quirks that are almost painfully fascinating who, despite modest means, always seem to be dressed to the nines in vintage blouses and wool A-line skirts...the way I wish I could afford to dress in my most shallow and pathetic hours.
Luckily I received a couple of new CDs for Christmas, so now I'm forced to listen to something besides "Good Woman", "He War", and Halfway to a Threeway on repeat. I'm seeking out neutral music with which I have little or no history. |
|
| |
|
(3 spinning plates | make pretty speeches) |
| |
| December 26th. |
|
|
| 07:08pm 26/12/2004 |
| |
|
mood: dark squiggle over my head
|
"I can't remember, because I'd had too much to drink, but did I tell you I wanted to have you evaluated again the other night?"
No...I don't remember anything of the sort.
"Yeah, you mentioned it."
I'm glad my mental fate seems to lie in the hands of someone who makes their decisions after having too much to drink.
And so it begins. |
|
| |
|
(make pretty speeches) |
| |
| |
|
|
| 12:22pm 24/12/2004 |
| |
|
mood: fine music: Devendra Banhart - "This is the way"
|
My first semester of college is over.
My first semester of college is over....and now I'm sitting at my family's computer, picking at my chapped lips and wiping my sweaty hands on my t-shirt because I don't know what to say about my first semester of college. Or rather, I don't know quite where to begin talking about the past five months. I'm even more at a loss when I try to think of a valid reason why I should bother documenting this stuff, but I've begun already...so...self-indulgent shit ahoy!
I got through illegal drug summer camp adventure. Won a merit badge for my ability to lose myself within a two week span. I never did earn the award for possessing courage under fire and the ability to be perpetually cool and in control. School hadn't even started yet.
I went down the street to buy $70 worth of art supplies that I hoped I would use. They were mostly a total waste since I didn't think to buy 800 sheets of plain white bristol board, black ink, and a t-square...the only supplies I really ended up needing. That was my first mistake of 500,000 I would later make.
Despite feeling like I didn't deserve to, I started to meet some genuine and interesting people. Initially everyone was so social; smoking in the student life piazza and talking and driving around and making dinners. Maybe everyone still is social and I've just gotten really withdrawn. Either way, I've been fortunate enough to retain some kind of friendship with a few people...even though I've probably been a lousy friend. I've come to really cherish Liz's candor and interest in people. And I'm realizing how eternally grateful I am to have met someone with as much honesty and intelligence as Lisa. I feel like I've wasted a lot of time not appreciating people...or...not making them feel as appreciated as they are.
I can't really recall exactly how I arrived here. Here being the state of mind I'm in now...which is disillusioned, perpetually tired, and generally afriad. I keep the television on for comfort because its all banal and unrelatable and forces me to think about other things...what will Britney spend her fortune on next? What if Darlene doesn't get a date to the dance? What if this is the one person who doesn't like how their pimped car turned out?. Music on the other hand is entirely laced with nostalgia that I can't bear. Galleries and openings are just alienating now, as the extent of my contributions to the art community as of late consist only of some sketchbook pages I gessoed yesterday. I've never really experienced this much intimidation in regards to creating before. The fact that this is something of a universal feeling does nothing to assuage my concerns. I miss my niche and my music and my scraps of paper and odds and ends that were mine. Not much is really mine these days except my own little self righteous identity crisis.
I know I have love. And that's pretty remarkable. Even more remarkable is my unwavering willingness to acknowlege it. I guess this is the most certain of it I've felt in a while. It'd be a lot better if I could come to terms with me, though. |
|
| |
|
(8 spinning plates | make pretty speeches) |
| |
|
|
|
![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small}
jump_little_em's journal