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Monday, September 6th, 2004
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I have this great new pen that I just want to test out to see how absolutely astonishing it is.
I feel like I've been sitting here for days. Honestly, days where I've had nothing to do but sit on this bed and stare at my suitcase, aching to get out again, but wanting identity even more.
A few people I know, myself included, are going through some sort of identity crisis at the moment. I have been in this phase for what seems like epochs, but is closer to a year. The most depressing part of this coming-of-age fiction I have thrown myself into is that it will mean nothing once I have found some earth-shattering answer.
Choose from millions...
...to name a few:
-Life is so short. Nothing matters, so live life and enjoy every moment.
-You can change the world.
-You are unique.
-What's life without love?
-"There's more to life than lovers and chores and an office on the top floor"
There are many more, so don't let this discourage you from finding your answer!
...but honestly.
It makes no difference which pseudo-pathway we choose, because no matter what, we will all end up in the same place.
No, not "Dead," but yeah, we'll end up dead, too.
Married. With. Children. etc.
Unhappily married is more like it.
Adulthood, responsibilities, age, maturity, loss of childhood ideals and innocence.
Knowingly taking a dive into the world of raising children who will grow up and become us all over again, identity issues on the cusp of adulthood and all.
It's more than just a bit disheartening to think we are a generation who think we are "Old Souls." Every generation prior to ours was the same at this point. Salinger did not document Holden's life because he saw it in a dream. He knew it was real, and that was in the early 1900s, so it's not as if we have some new groundbreaking ideals that people did not have 50 or 100 years ago.
Salinger wrote it to represent his awareness of nonexistance. Our bitter unimportance, confusion. Being lost in a world full of "founds," when in actuality everyone is just as lost as we feel.
No one knows how to fill the void we've had since birth. I'll tell you straight up, just get married, procreate, grow old with someone. It will save you a whole lot of thinking time.
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Intergers and ionic bonds will get you nowhere if you can't feel.
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I've yet to find it so I can leave this place and tuck all of these idealisms into the folds of my skirt. Me, I'm done for, I'm certain of it, but I had enlightened you twice over with the bit about the lines jets left behind and how they reminded me all too much of sines and cosines and fucking functions, and you told me I was smart.
I had to write it down so that I would remember every word.
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Tuesday, February 24th, 2004
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gueesss i'm a fuckingnggn iedididot because i'm not verly smart, right//? welk;;p shiet, i might as well just bow down to everyone, i am not as good as you! god, look at mee! i'm a fuckinjgng mess!
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Wednesday, February 11th, 2004
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because yes, sadly, I've let everyone take over my life and, weave into it, some modern tranquilizer which allows me to settle for average. I'm letting the cars race past while I reluctantly lift my foot from the pedal and I glide into the shoulder (the Doors, I'm sure, are playing something... light my fire, maybe, with lots of sound and rhyming. Lou Reed would be perfect, though--Men of Good Fortune climaxes as I decelerate into the gravel and my forehead nods off on to the horn; cleverly fits in with the song, the droning of a horn, the fuzziness of a life wasting, the artist unintentionally blends the chalk right into the paper, the features fade out and everything is just one blur of nothing, which symbolizes everything, but it's really just nothing. No one knows anything, anyhow.
What is art?
People drawn out of leaves with frog-like grins on their inept and overwrought faces? Fuck white chalk, I need conté. I'm sick of being a watercolour thrown into the cardboard box of stupid work to be fancied by professors and the people I'm meant to look up to. The ones I'm meant to fancy, meant to befriend, meant to relate to [but whoever made that up must be impossible, since relating to anything right now is a chore. A feat, even, since the paint never mixes evenly and the colour is always off and I thought it always was imperfect, making it better than carefully-worded prose and thought-out themed works, which just shows up mine, right? This horn just bombinates throughout my skull, penetrates my consciousness, leaves me with this eight pound thing synonymous with a perpetually unfocused (perhaps digital) SLR], they are busy with inspiration while I'm off to the side,
doors locked, head down, arms broken, feet frozen, radio on and up. This. is. about. volume.).
I'm sick of average, I need some spontaneity. I want to not have to explain every pluck of my vocal chord and every flick of my wrist to every last goddamned psuedo-bohemian loser slash artist slash musician slash self-proclaimed-individual-yet-somehow-denied-as-to-sound-even-more-unique-because-dubbing-yourself-as-unoriginal-automatically-means-you-are slash peer. rr. r.
I want to not have to be an exemplar of whatever it is that they call me a role model for, because I jjjjust don't want that, I don't want him with the stupid blonde shag neo-hardcore haircut or her or anyone listening in and tapping my telephones with wires of copper covered in black insulation and lifting their trembling hands to press firmly their ridiculously sized headphones to their ears, and lean in close to each other,
because I need to do something with reason, without validity-- ...
oh, hell. i'm done for.
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Monday, February 9th, 2004
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I caught all the green lights on the way home, all at just the exact moment to where you needn't stop, you can just continue driving.
And Donovan was on the radio.
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Sunday, February 1st, 2004
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I must say,
all I want right now is for Lou Reed (ca 1965, of course) to bone me. And for me to continue eating this blueberry yogurt, because it's damn good. Then we can just do a few lines of coke in some gay bar somewhere and I can watch everything happen around me, because Lou would be really "hot". Then everyone's best friend, Andy, shows up, and he can take a picture of me because I'm famous, and he takes pictures of famous people and uses it for his art, and he can just scribble on it. Maybe something hastily on a napkin too, because I just said something funny. He says I'm always saying things like that. Then we can do some more drugs, but not with Andy, just in the Chelsea or something, Lou and I.
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Thursday, January 22nd, 2004
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Wednesday, January 21st, 2004
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Find the words in there, if you can. I've found two so far.
Can you believe I made this with little to no effort?
I know. Me either. I kill me.
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Monday, January 12th, 2004
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It must be something in the water supply that is making everyone weak in the knees.
It must be something in the air that is making the lovers come out to play with each other,
because I don't breathe. Or drink.
Everyone is falling in love; count me out, lover, because I just don't get it. It isn't even spring yet. It is, on average, 9 degrees outside.
I just don't get it.
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Wednesday, December 31st, 2003
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The skies are still gray at night. I take this sweater, lover; button it three times and call it love. This is what we call love.
He stands on the porch, open the door and it slams with the metal hitting metal and green meeting blue and look at the ground shoes dirt hands anything but eyes. The glare from the frosted lampshade and setting sun is overridden by the psalms rewinding and repeating in the back of his head. (Nothing is in focus, so turn the lens three to the right). Finish her sentences before she parts her lips. Smile at the table because looking at him would mean you knew he would. (and would it have meant anything after all?) He just looks at your goddamned ear while you try so hard to not be bashful.
[and he did mind, after all. all of the talks of frozen fucking dinners and ashtrays and children like they actually mattered. as if they did. as if it does matter.]
This is mine, my love.
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Saturday, December 27th, 2003
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TODAY'S FORTUNE
by MMM
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Sunday, December 21st, 2003
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The reds and blues and flourescent yellows that dot the night skyline blend into a mess of takeoffs and landings and hellos and goodbyes and tears and teeth.
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Tuesday, December 9th, 2003
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If something is valuable, don't put it in a list. Don't even say the words.
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Friday, December 5th, 2003
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This is a plea;
This is a contract. This is a novel, written in third person; prose verbs, nouns, semicolon. This is a slab of clay, moulded into your melting body which lies subjective on the floor. This is a statement. This is a theory.
This is another black shirt that blends in with the crowd.
This is the frost on the grass that you see when you wake up in the morning. This is the key that is used most often. This is the red marker that you would write on the cornflower blue walls as a child, but now compose only "mourir" and "avoir" into carefully worded conjugations that exemplify your arcanum;
This is an evaluation.
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Tuesday, December 2nd, 2003
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My life is nothing more than a list of axiomatic and irrational fears taped to the front of a clipboard.
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Friday, November 28th, 2003
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I said
"He told me that I'm pretty."
Wait.
"He thinks I'm pretty."
She said
she said nothing.
"Well," and she chewed her lettuce, "maybe if you washed your hair."
more chewing
"but I mean," chew chew chew, "I don't know...," shrug.
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Monday, November 24th, 2003
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this is where i am supposed to state the obvious--
the snow falling onto the rooftops of happy homes throughout the day signifies the commencement of the holiday season.
the mistletoe will make you want to sing.
the dusting along Biddle ave. will make you want to hold hands with your lover.
the white lights surrounding the branches will make you want to drink hot fucking chocolate and taste candy canes on the lips of the same lucid person you held hands with.
needless to say,
i am not impressed.
or ready.
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Tuesday, November 18th, 2003
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Take the book off the shelf and forget about dusting it. It's time to toss it into the pile of used and obscure, tainted and unlisted.
Put on your coat and forget about buttoning it. It's time for you to see straight, feel warm, eyes closed.
Put this book where the old one used to be.
Rub your eyes, it will be okay.
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Friday, September 26th, 2003
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The selfish will wash over me and soon I will understand. He will encourage her, and everything will turn out to be marvelous. It's all in the glass ball, right here. He won't let her tell him that he's wrong. She puts up with it and listens to her heart, not her head. It's the smartest thing. The megaphone is lifted, and they shout into it. Spinning around and upside-down and over and around, the hurricaines fall back onto the bed and laugh. Smiling geniune smiles.
But me, I sit here on my floor. My heart will dance to the beat of the chords, skipping a few as my pencil tangles in my curls, like when our bodies tangled as we dreamt of one another. The dreams are on paper now for everyone to see, ending up as a run-on sentence and everywhere and nowhere.
The mercury will fall, and she'll know it's coming to the season that she loves to hate. He hates to love it, but will do it anyways. I disregard it until the fences rust over and steal the warmth from my palms as I close the gates.
And to turn and look at the ground as it passes underneath them,
I will forever be the first to finish
and the last to realize that my faith in fiction is a fucking waste of my time.
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