BRN-haird, GRY-eyed,
With injury and blessing sharpness-
the ability to surprise.
More intelligent than kind,
That’s fine. Not something I would mind,
as long as “we”
could agree
to conspire
mutually.
Considering:
We already know Everything;
It is when we talk to each other that we remember
I feel like doing some creative writing again, but, my livejournal isn’t a good outlet for that. Not sure why. I feel like my LJ is more some kind of bulletin board where I posted up simple bullets about big things that have happened to me, or small things. Like a diary of significant moments, and thoughts.
But what about all the unimportant ones? What about rants and musings, plain old garbage?
Why do I feel like I need a seperate journal for that shit, anyway?
I think I enjoy a good verbal purge once in a while, but I regret and grow ashamed of certain things I write and do, so I create new journals and new personas as a way to spirituality (or, literally) exfoliate and feel renewed. I’m too nutty about keeping good archives and cataloging to delete entries or journals completely.
If the internet crashed and livejournal erased everything I ever wrote since I was 14, I think I would be uh.. well, devastated, in a way. But it would also be a good thing, to burn all that excess baggage. I have like, way too many screen-names and passwords memorized.
What is my style? Do I have one? Why, or why not?
I feel like… I’m not a good enough artist… and I’m not a good enough writer. I’m somewhere above average, but still, mediocre.
I want to be… the best. Or of.
I’m starting Nanowrimo, today? So it’s the end of Writer’s Workshop for me, for now. November will be my month to write a novel. Maybe it’ll kick, maybe it’ll bite. I can’t limit myself to fighting boys who won’t hit me back.
Halloween was too epic, I feel like I’m experiencing an ecstasy come-down, as in, what could be better, how could it ever be as good again? My serotonin’s low.
Bigger, bigger, I’m going to come back up
Br R T Y U G The Mystifying Oracle
“These aint no ordinary lyrics man, this is your Obituary”
O-bitch-uary
Elliot’s not dead, he’s in Pawtucket, and he’s recovering, he is, or at least the internet says so. “Master El.” The internet says so. I know we remember the things we say, the things the other person says. I know you remember me because you ask questions later on that show you still remember, and it means you still think about me, when I’m not there.
I know Adam loves me because he tells me so, but also I know this because he tries to cheer me up when I’m obviously mad [at him], and he says my name in a sing-songy voice when he nuzzles me [while i'm still mad]. I am not sure what it means that I think about other people sometimes. It might be normal. Normal, that is, it might be acceptable for a healthy romantic relationship. Romantic? Scratch that, it doesn’t have to be romantic to be healthy and beneficial.
I need my paycheck; I hope it’s A) paid with the proper wage rate, and B) padded with the amount missing from last time. Don’t rip me off. I work.
Sometimes I want to be a “foxy lady” again. For the fun of it, for the fun in it. I’ve almost forgotten the fun of it, and what it’s like, and I can’t believe I don’t remember, because it hasn’t been very long. I haven’t called Sydney yet. I’m the worst when it comes to “keeping in touch” and “calling.”
People should not keep in touch. People should go with the flow.
I just got a text message and I think it’s from Adam, and the suspense is too strong to keep me away any longer.
I wish Mike Mullet were home because he’s the only person downstairs I comfortably enjoy being around. I’d ask him if I could borrow his bike. Mine caught a flat two days ago, and I haven’t been able to fix it.
You know that scene where the person’s walking down the sidewalk, some asshole car drives by, right through a HUGE deep puddle, and the victim on the sidewalk gets SPRAYED in dirty water, leaves, and urban debris?
Yeah, that was me about ten minutes ago.
At first I was mad that the radio was on when I walked upstairs, because Sinnae’s always leaving all the lights on and the front door wide open when she goes to work, and I don’t think I should pay half of the electricity bill for that reason. But I’ve been listening to the radio for a while now, and it’s actually quite comforting, to have these voices, static, murmuring all around me.
Also, that stupid party is in two days and I’m so nervous, the board’s not ready, and our place is still a wreck.
i am working, working on cleaning, clearing our space, for the halloween pre-party, painting the giant ouija board, i need to make my horse-helmet, and rest of the costume, bike class is finished, slipcasting class is halfway, but i need to decide on my final product, i need to reschedule my radio sit-ins because i blew both, i need to call American Payroll, and i need to do 2007 taxes because i need to do my FAFSA because im supposed to go back to “school” next year.
i’m annoyed that sinnae is going to WORK at the AVON for HALLOWEEN because this thing the two of us are hosting, i’m going to be the only one now, great, me, crowd control, yeah right
Yes
Yes.
Yes, I am alone right now.
Yes
Yes I am sure
No
No I am not sure
Am I not sure? I am not sure. Someone could be here with me. Technically. But-
No
I am sure.
Yes, I am alone.
No
No I am not cold.
What? If I were drowning? What if I were drowning?
Well then-
-then yes, I would be cold. I would be drowning in the living room, I would be alone, and I would be cold.
Yes, I am sure.
Unless the water is warm- possibly dirty- I’m not sure, then- it could be warm. I might be drowning, and I might be warm.
So,
No.
No, I’m not sure.
I might be alone. I’m not cold, though I’m not sure whether or not I might be cold if I were drowning, right here, right now, possibly alone.
“Sometimes, I look at those salary slaves… imagining I could have easily ended up that way, living such a life.”
A minor line in “Ichi the Killer”, spoken by a minor yakuza character, I pondered it over on my bike ride home tonight. Salary slave…
Are you a salary slave? Are you bound to your wages, dependent on your next paycheck? Have you ended up this way, living such a life? Even if I’ve freed myself from the fear of social stigmatization, the symbols, the signals, the boundaries, the desire to scale the pyramid…
Am I still a slave to my own MONETARY NEEDS?! Food?! and shelter?!
No, but… I am still a slave to money-earning method, that is, hours-and-wages, or, money as value. To be traded for labor or else.
What if I said, “FUCK THAT?!” What if I said, “I WILL JUST HAVE MONEY.” As in, I will just have it, I am not trading you anything, you, give me your money, and the money, now, appropriated, hahah ha ha ha!
The variable= the will
The equation ???? = the way
The answer= end result! $$$$ profit $$$
me+ ???= $PROFIT$$
Also:
-I am telling Sinnae about how I will start a website in which we document our artistic explorations of internet memes.
-Pop Art: Instead of what it is, what it will be.. that is, tacky.
I am very serious about this.
You respond curtly, as if to mean, “How dull,” “How unamusing,” but I wonder if it takes a dull and unamusing person to interpret such simple and open statements as dull and unamusing.
///
I ordered the Hunan chicken.
They served it to me on the same “ming”-style plates that I recognize from home. Except this time, what lay on the plate failed to titillate. Every dish they make involve the same defrosted vegetables, same rubbery meats, same sauce-from-the-cans. The only thing that makes it Hunan, Szechaun, or Sukiyaki, are the various ingredient sequences, and permutations of arrangement- that is, on the “ming” plate.
The fuschia bits in the egg rolls bother me the most. It contradicts my biological instincts, to ingest things that glow fluorescent under UV lights. Though I usually eat everything clean off my plate, I leave the fuschia behind
I hear him wheezing and I know how it feels. How can I help? I’d put him out of his misery, if I could come up with a solution.. the least miserable.
God, I’m sorry. I’m sorry.
What else can I say to my pets? I’m sorry!
