a nearly decomposable system. as defined by m. hofstadter in (hereafter "GEB") Godel, Escher & Bach. that is what work is. that is what a lot of things are.
a nearly decomposable system whose constituent parts, at their most individual, speak entirely different languages. yet speak english.
mu.
cold labyrinth: leaves
tossed around the entrance -
a few dare inside,
then hurry out again.
his girlfriend is walking
around the labyrinth,
in slow, determined strides.
she wishes
she had her iPod with her.
she makes do with
his cigarettes
from one pocket of his jacket
and a book of matches from the other
he forgot the damned ball of string,
left the hardware store
without it. he was distracted by her
walking by the window. ran out -
(she was on her way there, too - )
the wind cries where are you
through the anonymous halls.
he lights the corridors
with his cell phone's
weak blue light.
at the center, there is nothing
sitting,
waiting,
fangs bared,
silently.
Saturday, March 22, 2008
i need better words for some of these things
sometimes, he said to me, the words don't come out right and it's all a jumble.
i think that happens to a lot of us, i said and trailed off like i always do. i don't know if he heard the last part.
today: windy. cold. momentary reassessments; i feel good, though i only say good because i don't have a better word for it. i don't feel 'bad.' so, necessarily, i must feel the opposite. i feel somewhere in between the two. then i run up against quality and what it means to be either of them. what is the context of these so often-used words? how the fuck are you supposed to answer the ubiquitous question: "how are you?" without them? although, to be fair, how many people do you know that answer with "bad"?
when i think about this, i begin to feel less "good" than i did before. does that mean i feel "bad" or "worse"? momentary reassessment: if thinking about this makes me feel differently than i did when i started, then i should stop thinking about this.
<<
today: windy, cold. leaves in brittle piles on the sidewalk. woke up with yeasayer in my head. strange how that happens. one day it's this, the next day, that. fleet foxes happened a day or so ago. before that, apes & androids. for a long, long time, bon iver. i think i can say that my favourite music is the music which repeats itself, silently, in my dreams. perhaps even informs them, as a rivers do oceans.
described my ideal world to myself yesterday. i am approaching some semblance of it, some settlement. i am writing, if not every day, every other day. journal entries, or coffeeshop notebook entries. from time to time, a burst of a story or a scribbled-out poem. peristaltic at best. i am now into part II of godel, escher & bach. i hope there is less number theory in this part. after that, i have a book on the development of the english language. interspersed, i have a book of zen koans, and some early zen writing.
{i used to curse Kerouac for 'the dharma bums'. i said it was when his light changed. it's the one where he starts Buddhaing all over the place. i felt that the energy he exuded, which i identified with so strongly, was unnameable before, and that gave him a sort of mysticism. but then suddenly, he found a label for it.}
suddenly i find myself thirsting for routine, for regularity, for schedule. i want to wake up early and go to the gym, or for a run or something, or DO something, then go to the coffeeshop and sit. and read and write. to study physical movement, the basic mechanics of the body. to meditate, to be conscious. to be present. to inspire trust. to be able to emit in a healthy way. to exist with my own energy and not need others' for the sake of basic maintenance.
suddenly. i'll be 25 next thursday. quarterlife crisis. i put such emphasis on birthdays, yet i've never really celebrated one. i've been drunk, but i've never felt ... completed. this year, i want to really celebrate the fact that i got myself where i am. i also want to celebrate that i have a long way yet to go.
i should end there, but there's something else i have to say: something i've been reading in these Zen books. talking about enlightenment as being non-enlightened, talking about realizing that once everything is simply everything that you are enlightened. i feel like i, myself, am aware of this fact and that it exists, but i am completely disconnected from it. there is too much emphasis on the future. i feel as though my next challenge is patience; patience & modulating that future-consciousness down a few nodes. future-mindfulness.
perhaps i truly can change for the better.
(you're all going: DUH)
sometimes, he said to me, the words don't come out right and it's all a jumble. i can never say what i mean.
you can never say what you mean, i said, almost automatically.
lately i sleep on my back.
i think that happens to a lot of us, i said and trailed off like i always do. i don't know if he heard the last part.
today: windy. cold. momentary reassessments; i feel good, though i only say good because i don't have a better word for it. i don't feel 'bad.' so, necessarily, i must feel the opposite. i feel somewhere in between the two. then i run up against quality and what it means to be either of them. what is the context of these so often-used words? how the fuck are you supposed to answer the ubiquitous question: "how are you?" without them? although, to be fair, how many people do you know that answer with "bad"?
when i think about this, i begin to feel less "good" than i did before. does that mean i feel "bad" or "worse"? momentary reassessment: if thinking about this makes me feel differently than i did when i started, then i should stop thinking about this.
<<
today: windy, cold. leaves in brittle piles on the sidewalk. woke up with yeasayer in my head. strange how that happens. one day it's this, the next day, that. fleet foxes happened a day or so ago. before that, apes & androids. for a long, long time, bon iver. i think i can say that my favourite music is the music which repeats itself, silently, in my dreams. perhaps even informs them, as a rivers do oceans.
described my ideal world to myself yesterday. i am approaching some semblance of it, some settlement. i am writing, if not every day, every other day. journal entries, or coffeeshop notebook entries. from time to time, a burst of a story or a scribbled-out poem. peristaltic at best. i am now into part II of godel, escher & bach. i hope there is less number theory in this part. after that, i have a book on the development of the english language. interspersed, i have a book of zen koans, and some early zen writing.
{i used to curse Kerouac for 'the dharma bums'. i said it was when his light changed. it's the one where he starts Buddhaing all over the place. i felt that the energy he exuded, which i identified with so strongly, was unnameable before, and that gave him a sort of mysticism. but then suddenly, he found a label for it.}
suddenly i find myself thirsting for routine, for regularity, for schedule. i want to wake up early and go to the gym, or for a run or something, or DO something, then go to the coffeeshop and sit. and read and write. to study physical movement, the basic mechanics of the body. to meditate, to be conscious. to be present. to inspire trust. to be able to emit in a healthy way. to exist with my own energy and not need others' for the sake of basic maintenance.
suddenly. i'll be 25 next thursday. quarterlife crisis. i put such emphasis on birthdays, yet i've never really celebrated one. i've been drunk, but i've never felt ... completed. this year, i want to really celebrate the fact that i got myself where i am. i also want to celebrate that i have a long way yet to go.
i should end there, but there's something else i have to say: something i've been reading in these Zen books. talking about enlightenment as being non-enlightened, talking about realizing that once everything is simply everything that you are enlightened. i feel like i, myself, am aware of this fact and that it exists, but i am completely disconnected from it. there is too much emphasis on the future. i feel as though my next challenge is patience; patience & modulating that future-consciousness down a few nodes. future-mindfulness.
perhaps i truly can change for the better.
(you're all going: DUH)
sometimes, he said to me, the words don't come out right and it's all a jumble. i can never say what i mean.
you can never say what you mean, i said, almost automatically.
lately i sleep on my back.
Friday, March 21, 2008
the apparatus.
i woke up in an apartment with four white walls & a red door. there was a lightbulb and a refrigerator. one electrical outlet on the wall, which i plugged into and hummed in harmony with the fridge to while away the night. i discovered alcohol and bent my head into many bottles. the walls were stained in weird places. i had four boxes with my belongings, which i had labelled EAST, WEST, NORTH and SOUTH. in the NORTH, i had my meagre library. in the WEST, i had my clothing. in the EAST, records and notebooks. in the SOUTH - miscellaneous, odds and ends. screwdrivers.
i stayed there for many years, blinking in the blue light of the neon from the restaurant i lived above. it sizzled & hummed, a bug-zapper determined to lure airplane-sized insects. cars on the street. a bare mattress. a typewriter, which i never used.
time passed, and the books i had disappeared through the influence of ghosts. i never noticed until i was searching for it. a mild sense of disappointment settled on me, grew on me like moss. idleness became a trenchant disease, solitude an unbearable prison. as we age, us shadows start to thin, and we need to seek out others of our kind so as to be reassured.
i constructed an apparatus of language in an attempt to contact, to seek out, those others of my kind. first, the schematic for such an endeavour took years. i am only now half-way through the plans of it. by the time i am old and paper-thin, i will have put the final attachment on the machine. my one wish is to be able to press "CALL" before i expire.
i stayed there for many years, blinking in the blue light of the neon from the restaurant i lived above. it sizzled & hummed, a bug-zapper determined to lure airplane-sized insects. cars on the street. a bare mattress. a typewriter, which i never used.
time passed, and the books i had disappeared through the influence of ghosts. i never noticed until i was searching for it. a mild sense of disappointment settled on me, grew on me like moss. idleness became a trenchant disease, solitude an unbearable prison. as we age, us shadows start to thin, and we need to seek out others of our kind so as to be reassured.
i constructed an apparatus of language in an attempt to contact, to seek out, those others of my kind. first, the schematic for such an endeavour took years. i am only now half-way through the plans of it. by the time i am old and paper-thin, i will have put the final attachment on the machine. my one wish is to be able to press "CALL" before i expire.
Thursday, March 20, 2008
shadow tells his story.
i know it has something to do with my dad. at the core of it, i know in my twisting, febrile gut, that it has everything to do with that man. i feel like entropy, like the negative side of someone else, and in so birthing me he saw his own shadow slide out of his wife's womb. my mother tried to love me like a three-dimensional kid, but i was just too elusive. at nighttime, i would disappear entirely, into my room behind a locked door, staring at a bright light, wishing myself to exist.
i spent most of my time thinking about Love, love and what it means. my mother said "i love you" to me and i discovered i did not, in fact, Love her back. i did not feel about her as i did my departed father, who had himself turned into a shadow and fled. i reasoned in the sheets that love opened the door to reciprocation; in fact, demanded it, and so my mother was eagerly knocking by Loving, but i was disgusted by the urgent rhythm of her rapping, chose to remain silent inside. eventually, she'd go away.
winter came, and i nearly froze to death.
i came to know a ghost who had the same name as me, but i cannot say we were ever friends. eventually, the ghost left and another came. sometimes two at a time. they never stayed for long, although whether i drove them off or if they left of their own accord i have never discovered. i took to reading, a passive, greedy voyeur of the lives of others. i had to stop to go to school and dinner. i started choking on the food during dinner because i chewed so rapidly. this, of course, in order to escape the thick silence of the dinner table. agonizing. it was high noon for a shadow like me, squirming and agonizing in a black puddle directly under their feet.
one night the house burned down and i was set free. i wandered like a dust devil on the sides of highways. travelled. saw nothing.
i never tried to find my father. he existed, out there, somewhere. i pictured him old and balding, ugly. aviators, since that's all he ever wore in every Polaroid i ever saw of him. a goofy, doughy face. the unpleasant roundness of having let-himself-go around the middle. caved-in shoulders. a hole in the side of his head. for a time, he moved into his parents' house, which happened to be the house next to my family's house, distant only for a small swath of pine and birch trees. in the winter: small flashes of the siding through the bare boughs. that was as close as he got to my memories. i pictured small, run-down apartments, everything always dingy, dull, drab. off-yellow walls. a beaten, defeated refrigerator. maybe an old pack of cigarettes - where else do i get this filthy habit? - maybe a typewriter. the curtains are pulled - heavy, yellow muslin. the sunlight barely filters through it. dust in the air, mixed with small dots that glint or gleam.
i came to a small harbour town just past the millenium and decided to hunker down, head against the blast. winter came, and i almost froze to death again. summer was a kind thaw - even the spring, though blustery and brusque in its manner, was a relief against the unforgiving chills of winter. i found some more ghosts hidden in the corners of this town. they were so talkative i could barely stand it. sometimes they talked when their mouths weren't moving - but i could still hear them.
then, one day, the streets filled up with them - everywhere, passing to and fro - so many that i thought i was the one in the wrong.
i still am not convinced.
i spent most of my time thinking about Love, love and what it means. my mother said "i love you" to me and i discovered i did not, in fact, Love her back. i did not feel about her as i did my departed father, who had himself turned into a shadow and fled. i reasoned in the sheets that love opened the door to reciprocation; in fact, demanded it, and so my mother was eagerly knocking by Loving, but i was disgusted by the urgent rhythm of her rapping, chose to remain silent inside. eventually, she'd go away.
winter came, and i nearly froze to death.
i came to know a ghost who had the same name as me, but i cannot say we were ever friends. eventually, the ghost left and another came. sometimes two at a time. they never stayed for long, although whether i drove them off or if they left of their own accord i have never discovered. i took to reading, a passive, greedy voyeur of the lives of others. i had to stop to go to school and dinner. i started choking on the food during dinner because i chewed so rapidly. this, of course, in order to escape the thick silence of the dinner table. agonizing. it was high noon for a shadow like me, squirming and agonizing in a black puddle directly under their feet.
one night the house burned down and i was set free. i wandered like a dust devil on the sides of highways. travelled. saw nothing.
i never tried to find my father. he existed, out there, somewhere. i pictured him old and balding, ugly. aviators, since that's all he ever wore in every Polaroid i ever saw of him. a goofy, doughy face. the unpleasant roundness of having let-himself-go around the middle. caved-in shoulders. a hole in the side of his head. for a time, he moved into his parents' house, which happened to be the house next to my family's house, distant only for a small swath of pine and birch trees. in the winter: small flashes of the siding through the bare boughs. that was as close as he got to my memories. i pictured small, run-down apartments, everything always dingy, dull, drab. off-yellow walls. a beaten, defeated refrigerator. maybe an old pack of cigarettes - where else do i get this filthy habit? - maybe a typewriter. the curtains are pulled - heavy, yellow muslin. the sunlight barely filters through it. dust in the air, mixed with small dots that glint or gleam.
i came to a small harbour town just past the millenium and decided to hunker down, head against the blast. winter came, and i almost froze to death again. summer was a kind thaw - even the spring, though blustery and brusque in its manner, was a relief against the unforgiving chills of winter. i found some more ghosts hidden in the corners of this town. they were so talkative i could barely stand it. sometimes they talked when their mouths weren't moving - but i could still hear them.
then, one day, the streets filled up with them - everywhere, passing to and fro - so many that i thought i was the one in the wrong.
i still am not convinced.
Monday, March 17, 2008
the hetrarchical hagiography
revisited my novel yesterday. touched lightly on the meta-worlds of sorry and claudia and moe pelican and edwin oak. it's this damn hofstadter and his authorship triangles, and his axiom schemas.
last night: tentative plans, breached in the glassy brown light of bourbon & beer. maybe some hiking, in the woods, said james. new york city, in the fall, said johnny and ryan. and all the while it's cold in the summer city, and the wind makes the dead leaves skitter all around on the sidewalk. this town, one street in particular, is full of ghosts. i have got to get out of here. i've been having panic attacks, for no particular reason. especially at work. last night i had one at johnny's house: it gets hard to breathe, suddenly, and i lose my balance, all sense of orientation. it's like the universe is paying back for faking epilepsy in fourth grade.
it never fucking stops, you know. you think you've got it by the balls, but it turns out the only balls you're grabbing are your own, and don't you look like a fucking moron then.
and every girl has the same face. and every moment has millions of possibilities linking it to the next one, which is really only one of many possible outcomes, and the bifurcations are driving me insane. i better figure out that there is only now and deal with it, or else succumb to some kind of insanity; be shot through the heart by Zeno's arrow as it flies from point A to point C on its way to point B (on its way to point D, (on its way to point E....))
and so i drink again. bourbon is better than beer is better than being sober. and if i end up like Papa Hemingway, insane, owning many cats, and a shotgun, oh well. people tell me not to talk like that. but i do. and then they get mad at me, because it never fucking stops.
my therapist wants to put me on anti-anxiety meds. to stop the "hum" underneath it all.
johnny says the hum is what makes me make things.
it's like locusts.
last night: tentative plans, breached in the glassy brown light of bourbon & beer. maybe some hiking, in the woods, said james. new york city, in the fall, said johnny and ryan. and all the while it's cold in the summer city, and the wind makes the dead leaves skitter all around on the sidewalk. this town, one street in particular, is full of ghosts. i have got to get out of here. i've been having panic attacks, for no particular reason. especially at work. last night i had one at johnny's house: it gets hard to breathe, suddenly, and i lose my balance, all sense of orientation. it's like the universe is paying back for faking epilepsy in fourth grade.
it never fucking stops, you know. you think you've got it by the balls, but it turns out the only balls you're grabbing are your own, and don't you look like a fucking moron then.
and every girl has the same face. and every moment has millions of possibilities linking it to the next one, which is really only one of many possible outcomes, and the bifurcations are driving me insane. i better figure out that there is only now and deal with it, or else succumb to some kind of insanity; be shot through the heart by Zeno's arrow as it flies from point A to point C on its way to point B (on its way to point D, (on its way to point E....))
and so i drink again. bourbon is better than beer is better than being sober. and if i end up like Papa Hemingway, insane, owning many cats, and a shotgun, oh well. people tell me not to talk like that. but i do. and then they get mad at me, because it never fucking stops.
my therapist wants to put me on anti-anxiety meds. to stop the "hum" underneath it all.
johnny says the hum is what makes me make things.
it's like locusts.
Thursday, March 13, 2008
resolve
so today is the first day i'm going to the gym. i have signed up at the Y, and i am going to the gym.
it's one of those things, you know. you set yourself up. "this is a terrifying thing." "i am scared." can you legitimately say: "i am not scared. this isn't terrifying. why is this terrifying?"
yes. of course you can.
although i admit to being slightly fatigued. i believe i got enough sleep last night. i performed normal calisthenics this morning. it is slightly colder out than i would like it to be. turned the heat up a little. the cat rubbed up against me as i was making breakfast, meowing quite urgently. climbed up my leg and stretched at me, claws extended, eyes eager. hungry cat. i smoked a cigarette, showered, and now i am idle. the plan for today: gym for a half-hour, perhaps an hour. it'll be a wandering sort of orientation, the worst kind, since i don't know what i need to do and i don't have any idea how to go about doing it (not true: i know some of what i need to do and how to do it, i just don't have a routine yet) which means i'll either have to rely on my roommate for guidance or one of those helpful trainers who are provided gratis. i don't like asking for help. after the gym i am going to come home and watch a movie. perhaps some television. i might even take a nap or meditate. if i get antsy, i will go to the coffeeshop with my book & my notebook. in fact, i think i'll probably do that anyway. hard to read at home: distractions. nowhere is ideal.
i could fall asleep again right now. i continue to yawn. this morning, 9AM, alarm goes off, and my eyes snap open. i am telling myself, forcefully, disengage from the dream, fling yourself into awake. and i did, though it was somewhat painful, and certainly not comfortable.
i have decided, just now, not to plan the day, but to listen to my body and allow it to tell me what i need the most. chances are, even if i watch something, i'll end up conking out right on the couch.
good thing no-one reads this. what pointless drivel.
it's one of those things, you know. you set yourself up. "this is a terrifying thing." "i am scared." can you legitimately say: "i am not scared. this isn't terrifying. why is this terrifying?"
yes. of course you can.
although i admit to being slightly fatigued. i believe i got enough sleep last night. i performed normal calisthenics this morning. it is slightly colder out than i would like it to be. turned the heat up a little. the cat rubbed up against me as i was making breakfast, meowing quite urgently. climbed up my leg and stretched at me, claws extended, eyes eager. hungry cat. i smoked a cigarette, showered, and now i am idle. the plan for today: gym for a half-hour, perhaps an hour. it'll be a wandering sort of orientation, the worst kind, since i don't know what i need to do and i don't have any idea how to go about doing it (not true: i know some of what i need to do and how to do it, i just don't have a routine yet) which means i'll either have to rely on my roommate for guidance or one of those helpful trainers who are provided gratis. i don't like asking for help. after the gym i am going to come home and watch a movie. perhaps some television. i might even take a nap or meditate. if i get antsy, i will go to the coffeeshop with my book & my notebook. in fact, i think i'll probably do that anyway. hard to read at home: distractions. nowhere is ideal.
i could fall asleep again right now. i continue to yawn. this morning, 9AM, alarm goes off, and my eyes snap open. i am telling myself, forcefully, disengage from the dream, fling yourself into awake. and i did, though it was somewhat painful, and certainly not comfortable.
i have decided, just now, not to plan the day, but to listen to my body and allow it to tell me what i need the most. chances are, even if i watch something, i'll end up conking out right on the couch.
good thing no-one reads this. what pointless drivel.
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
brouhaha
the linguistic theory of dissimilation, wherein a consonant sound becomes more like another - (i.e., the latin for 'midday' being, first, 'medio-dies' then 'meri-dies')
the linguistic theory of phonetic shift, changing the phoneme of a word - (i.e., "don't be sorry" becoming "dombe sorry")
... thoughts on the formation of a New English.
... thoughts on the devolution of language & communication. does telepathy render speech useless?
there's going to have to be a modality shift in the very nature of communication coming soon. how much language has changed already: co-opted slang from other culture sets, whether out of idolatry or irony. the dulling edge of interesting vocabulary - at least, for me, from an academic standpoint. 'dulling' is, of course, all perception. some might argue that english is being spiced up, added vigour. perhaps language is simply doing what it always does, evolving. whether in a physical sense (the laziness of jaw, the total lack of respect for diction), english is evolving. spiteful folk (and myself, admittedly) call it devolving. why, then, is diction so important? should we be on guard, rigorously, against the inexorable laziness of our own jaws? what about our new culture is causing us to have such disrespect for the way we communicate with one another? how can we not strive to find the words necessary to say exactly what it is that we are feeling.
there's an episode of the Sopranos. i paraphrase: "well, once we have taken care of food, and hunger, we can concentrate on other pains: like truth, and the search for self." perhaps, then, in this country, with its devolving language, most have not taken care of food, or hunger, or any of the pains which keep us from diving at the bigger things. like communication. being aware of how we convey our thoughts to others, and striving to be as precise as language will allow ...
anyway.
what was i blogging about? oh right. blog blog blog.
i am reading "Godel, Escher, Bach." leave me alone, i don't have an umlaut key. it's fascinating so far, but now i'm in "MEANING AND FORM IN MATHEMATICS" and i find myself having to constantly go back & figure out the formulas, which i assume i haven't understood and then realize it's much more basic than i thought when i finally do understand them. still takes awhile, though. math is not my forte. in fact, i can barely do simple addition. go figure. i compute it via the multiplication tables. doesn't always work, but then, what does.
wrote something yesterday. brand new yellow notebook. seems that even though i have this laptop, old habits die hard. can't just whip out a laptop in the bar from my backpack. nervous about carrying it around everywhere. i find that i rarely unplug it from the charger. hope that's not killing the battery. doesn't seem to be.
more woes, wit & wisdom: next time.
the linguistic theory of phonetic shift, changing the phoneme of a word - (i.e., "don't be sorry" becoming "dombe sorry")
... thoughts on the formation of a New English.
... thoughts on the devolution of language & communication. does telepathy render speech useless?
there's going to have to be a modality shift in the very nature of communication coming soon. how much language has changed already: co-opted slang from other culture sets, whether out of idolatry or irony. the dulling edge of interesting vocabulary - at least, for me, from an academic standpoint. 'dulling' is, of course, all perception. some might argue that english is being spiced up, added vigour. perhaps language is simply doing what it always does, evolving. whether in a physical sense (the laziness of jaw, the total lack of respect for diction), english is evolving. spiteful folk (and myself, admittedly) call it devolving. why, then, is diction so important? should we be on guard, rigorously, against the inexorable laziness of our own jaws? what about our new culture is causing us to have such disrespect for the way we communicate with one another? how can we not strive to find the words necessary to say exactly what it is that we are feeling.
there's an episode of the Sopranos. i paraphrase: "well, once we have taken care of food, and hunger, we can concentrate on other pains: like truth, and the search for self." perhaps, then, in this country, with its devolving language, most have not taken care of food, or hunger, or any of the pains which keep us from diving at the bigger things. like communication. being aware of how we convey our thoughts to others, and striving to be as precise as language will allow ...
anyway.
what was i blogging about? oh right. blog blog blog.
i am reading "Godel, Escher, Bach." leave me alone, i don't have an umlaut key. it's fascinating so far, but now i'm in "MEANING AND FORM IN MATHEMATICS" and i find myself having to constantly go back & figure out the formulas, which i assume i haven't understood and then realize it's much more basic than i thought when i finally do understand them. still takes awhile, though. math is not my forte. in fact, i can barely do simple addition. go figure. i compute it via the multiplication tables. doesn't always work, but then, what does.
wrote something yesterday. brand new yellow notebook. seems that even though i have this laptop, old habits die hard. can't just whip out a laptop in the bar from my backpack. nervous about carrying it around everywhere. i find that i rarely unplug it from the charger. hope that's not killing the battery. doesn't seem to be.
more woes, wit & wisdom: next time.
Saturday, March 8, 2008
petulance
warm today. on a cigarette break, staring up at the sky. clouds, eventually. rain.
it would be good to journal what happens every day. then i might remember what day something happened on.
so, friday: blank morning. hungover. intermittent sleep, groggy wakenings. one, two in the afternoon - then, work. didn't go out. friday: blank. a gap in the calendar of recountable occasions. some writing in the late afternoon, but nothing of any lustre.
the biggest change friday brought? the increasing dissatisfaction with my job. the terror of my inevitable severance from it. beginning to violently despise everyone - their tics, their predictable moods, their sarcasm & their abrasive remarks. then, knowing i'm the same - predictable and petulant - i am sucked deeper into the mire. the worn-down carnival of fakery to every patron at the door. super-smiles & obeisant laughter. i have my good nights & my bad. sometimes they treat me like i'm four years old. i think they can read me like an open book. i disgust myself. i'm a terrible worker. i'm snappish, disagreeable. i'm a sad drunk.
i should really read a book again. i need a re-up in the faith department.
tonight:
"are you not speaking tonight?" (with a weary resignment to the 'eccentricity')
"i wish i didn't have to." my response.
"oh."
i'm a child. i don't know how people put up with me.
it would be good to journal what happens every day. then i might remember what day something happened on.
so, friday: blank morning. hungover. intermittent sleep, groggy wakenings. one, two in the afternoon - then, work. didn't go out. friday: blank. a gap in the calendar of recountable occasions. some writing in the late afternoon, but nothing of any lustre.
the biggest change friday brought? the increasing dissatisfaction with my job. the terror of my inevitable severance from it. beginning to violently despise everyone - their tics, their predictable moods, their sarcasm & their abrasive remarks. then, knowing i'm the same - predictable and petulant - i am sucked deeper into the mire. the worn-down carnival of fakery to every patron at the door. super-smiles & obeisant laughter. i have my good nights & my bad. sometimes they treat me like i'm four years old. i think they can read me like an open book. i disgust myself. i'm a terrible worker. i'm snappish, disagreeable. i'm a sad drunk.
i should really read a book again. i need a re-up in the faith department.
tonight:
"are you not speaking tonight?" (with a weary resignment to the 'eccentricity')
"i wish i didn't have to." my response.
"oh."
i'm a child. i don't know how people put up with me.
Friday, March 7, 2008
last night, too much to drink
back to camel lights? marlboros make my lungs hurt. i need to quit smoking.
THERAPIST
...I think, I think that you're...searching for something, and ... whenever you don't find it, you get frustrated and turn to using. or abusing."
ME
... it's funny ...
THERAPIST
What's funny?
ME
the prefix "ab" on the word "using" is the only thing making the word negative. the prefix "ab" means, away from. Away from using? Ab-use. Use away from.
THERAPIST
What does "using" mean, then?
ME
When you ... damn, it really is one of those words. When you.. um, are acquiring? No. Taking... Using .. see? damn. When you ... are trying to achieve something, when you're ...okay. Let's say: When you need to get to a goal, and something aids you. No - see, that's not it either.
(pause)
I don't know.
THERAPIST
So when you "ab"-use something, you're taking that thing's function and using it away from the goal.
ME
But... what is the goal?
THERAPIST
It's something different for everyone, isn't it.
********static*********
my dreams last night: the color red, predominant. red tongues, red walls. red dress on the red-eyed woman. firestone jewelry, glittering white fire. fire leaping out of the totaled car, leaping licking flames against the black skin of night - the girl with blood sliding like a hand down her face, half in, half out of the metal wreck. her dress had fallen over her body and i could see her cunt, now just another gory slash in the company of so many others. like a child with a pair of scissors snipping idly at a piece of paper. you know, to make a snowflake.
a party, a veritable gala. huge chandelier. big old house with a lot of people crammed into its foyer. the wings lay empty, almost eerily so. what would it sound like if there had been no house built there. in the middle of the forest.
someone at the party jumps off a cliff and splashes soundlessly into the sea. then they all start doing it. from my view on the third floor: penguins, hustling themselves off of an ice floe. the house inches closer to the edge, picks itself up and shuffles towards them in ashamed lemming-fashion. i run out of the room and try to escape before it hurls itself to the pitch-dark sea. i am successful, though by only a stuttering toe-hold on the edge of the cliff as it plunges down to the waves behind me. it's one of those instances when i feel that logically, i should have plunged with it, but because it is a dream, i allow myself to suspend logic and continue on living. most of the time in dream, i am a camera behind my own head. i am a brilliant cinematographer in my dreams: i work all the angles.
**************
plaid shirt to work tonight? warmish weather. maybe rain tomorrow. wash away the dirty snow. ryan says: "one more blizzard before spring, i guarantee it." he "grew-up-around-here." i said we should put a wager on what date the huge snowdrift in front of the museum would melt by. i was joking. there was no bet. but now i'll be watching.
big band of green and pink coming westward, crawling in on the edges of the radar like moss, vanishing, and doing it all over again. i am watching for green grass. i am on the lookout for that first warm day. the sun and the birds. the surrender of winter, snow plunging heedlessly from roofs and impacting the ground in huge heavy splashes. the thaw's begun, i'm waiting for the capitulation.
sometimes i feel inordinately crazed, of a sudden, spasming with fury, frenzy, and desperation - like a dog that's been poked one too many times with a stick. then i settle down and realize it's nothing.
such big words from such a little mongrel.
such dramatics, such histrionics, from such a little man.
it's a wonder people like me. i am unable to see how.
cigarette.
THERAPIST
...I think, I think that you're...searching for something, and ... whenever you don't find it, you get frustrated and turn to using. or abusing."
ME
... it's funny ...
THERAPIST
What's funny?
ME
the prefix "ab" on the word "using" is the only thing making the word negative. the prefix "ab" means, away from. Away from using? Ab-use. Use away from.
THERAPIST
What does "using" mean, then?
ME
When you ... damn, it really is one of those words. When you.. um, are acquiring? No. Taking... Using .. see? damn. When you ... are trying to achieve something, when you're ...okay. Let's say: When you need to get to a goal, and something aids you. No - see, that's not it either.
(pause)
I don't know.
THERAPIST
So when you "ab"-use something, you're taking that thing's function and using it away from the goal.
ME
But... what is the goal?
THERAPIST
It's something different for everyone, isn't it.
********static*********
my dreams last night: the color red, predominant. red tongues, red walls. red dress on the red-eyed woman. firestone jewelry, glittering white fire. fire leaping out of the totaled car, leaping licking flames against the black skin of night - the girl with blood sliding like a hand down her face, half in, half out of the metal wreck. her dress had fallen over her body and i could see her cunt, now just another gory slash in the company of so many others. like a child with a pair of scissors snipping idly at a piece of paper. you know, to make a snowflake.
a party, a veritable gala. huge chandelier. big old house with a lot of people crammed into its foyer. the wings lay empty, almost eerily so. what would it sound like if there had been no house built there. in the middle of the forest.
someone at the party jumps off a cliff and splashes soundlessly into the sea. then they all start doing it. from my view on the third floor: penguins, hustling themselves off of an ice floe. the house inches closer to the edge, picks itself up and shuffles towards them in ashamed lemming-fashion. i run out of the room and try to escape before it hurls itself to the pitch-dark sea. i am successful, though by only a stuttering toe-hold on the edge of the cliff as it plunges down to the waves behind me. it's one of those instances when i feel that logically, i should have plunged with it, but because it is a dream, i allow myself to suspend logic and continue on living. most of the time in dream, i am a camera behind my own head. i am a brilliant cinematographer in my dreams: i work all the angles.
**************
plaid shirt to work tonight? warmish weather. maybe rain tomorrow. wash away the dirty snow. ryan says: "one more blizzard before spring, i guarantee it." he "grew-up-around-here." i said we should put a wager on what date the huge snowdrift in front of the museum would melt by. i was joking. there was no bet. but now i'll be watching.
big band of green and pink coming westward, crawling in on the edges of the radar like moss, vanishing, and doing it all over again. i am watching for green grass. i am on the lookout for that first warm day. the sun and the birds. the surrender of winter, snow plunging heedlessly from roofs and impacting the ground in huge heavy splashes. the thaw's begun, i'm waiting for the capitulation.
sometimes i feel inordinately crazed, of a sudden, spasming with fury, frenzy, and desperation - like a dog that's been poked one too many times with a stick. then i settle down and realize it's nothing.
such big words from such a little mongrel.
such dramatics, such histrionics, from such a little man.
it's a wonder people like me. i am unable to see how.
cigarette.
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