everything is just alright.
i worry too much.
the end.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Saturday, December 26, 2009
December 26th. Thought gonna be around for a while.
She left for two and a half weeks in Paris and the French alps Thursday night.
It's been 41 and a half hours since I last heard from her, which I think is the probably the longest we've gone since July or maybe even June. I keep on over-thinking everything about everything (this letter, that letter, the third letter, the goodbye, the return, the time in between, for her and for me), which I'd forgotten about my tendency to do in the absence of actual contact. That may be the most dangerous aspect, like the cold of the water which kills you long before your legs give out. But I've been trying to keep tabs and caps on my thinking. So I'll just leave it at the dull lull of loneliness and try to focus on other things.
I should be getting more done, for instance. I told her if I didn't feel like I'd made enough of a change by the time she'd gotten back I'd call up my therapist again. I don't want to have to do that. And yet the reason I am the way I am is because it's what's easiest for me.
There's the protein issue, there's the Olympics issue, there's the job issue (no magazine puns, please) and also my new phone is a near constant-disappointment. Strange that something so much newer could be such a step back in terms of functionality in so many regards. But it looks nice, right? The struggles can be private. That's what I always look for in things: can it make me appear problem-free? Because I'm always better at solving problems when nobody's looking. I just need to be able to concentrate. That's why I turn my music off when I'm doing new things out in public, even though I keep my headphones on. I just need to be able to think.
Ironic.
It's been 41 and a half hours since I last heard from her, which I think is the probably the longest we've gone since July or maybe even June. I keep on over-thinking everything about everything (this letter, that letter, the third letter, the goodbye, the return, the time in between, for her and for me), which I'd forgotten about my tendency to do in the absence of actual contact. That may be the most dangerous aspect, like the cold of the water which kills you long before your legs give out. But I've been trying to keep tabs and caps on my thinking. So I'll just leave it at the dull lull of loneliness and try to focus on other things.
I should be getting more done, for instance. I told her if I didn't feel like I'd made enough of a change by the time she'd gotten back I'd call up my therapist again. I don't want to have to do that. And yet the reason I am the way I am is because it's what's easiest for me.
There's the protein issue, there's the Olympics issue, there's the job issue (no magazine puns, please) and also my new phone is a near constant-disappointment. Strange that something so much newer could be such a step back in terms of functionality in so many regards. But it looks nice, right? The struggles can be private. That's what I always look for in things: can it make me appear problem-free? Because I'm always better at solving problems when nobody's looking. I just need to be able to concentrate. That's why I turn my music off when I'm doing new things out in public, even though I keep my headphones on. I just need to be able to think.
Ironic.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
October 15th: Cashmere Thoughts
I think it's a pretty good thing that I haven't gotten around to posting anything in 6 weeks or so. Don't you? I'm too in the thick of it, and not getting sick of it. It's nice. I think I'll stay, border disputes and all. Maybe it's just the music talking, but I feel like I can do this. Bring it on, if you think you can rock. Confidence is a strange mistress. Like "Happiness is a warm gun," you know. Same sorta sentence structure. Okay, enough for today. I've got a life I can live.
Thursday, September 03, 2009
the September issue
Two weeks from now I'll be contemplating life from the other side of 21. Circumstances being what they are, I s'pose I'll be thinking more about age and time and maturity this 9/16 than usual. Hopefully I'll be too aged and time-worn and mature to condense them into simple equations and straightforward answers, à la Wiesel, though.
Things have been going really well, though. My worry-muscles are atrophying. Slowly. But—
surely.
I'm not thinking too much about school yet. I'm not working too much. I'm not writing but it doesn't bother me too much. There'll be time for that, to write and to un-write, for visions and revisions which a minute will, etc.
A few weeks ago I was hit for the first time by a fear of death. Those that know me know that I can be an uncommonly morbid person at times, but for some reason, the idea of dying never scared me that much, though. Perhaps my morbidity springs from a lack of fear. Perhaps the lack of fear springs from the morbidity. Who knows.
Anyway, I was riding the train home from Oshawa, and wondering what it would be like to be 70. I've never expected to live that long, but it's my grandmother's 70th birthday two days from now. It must be scary to know you're so much closer to death than birth. The mouth looming, the issue but a distant memory. And the inevitability of it. Like the open ocean.
I guess that's why I always wanted to be able to take my own life. It strips much of the fear and powerlessness from it. It becomes more a personal decision than the end of all that you are. You can even half-trick yourself into believing it won't kill you. (The mind knows nothing of death; it never can. The whole of it is life.) And then it does. Rien de plus simple.
And yet I don't think I've ever wanted to kill myself less. Life's balance-like once again. The more precious living, the more feared dying. Like lyrics in a Conor Oberst song.
Anyway. I have stuff to do. This thing isn't going to live itself for me.
Adios, muchachos.
Things have been going really well, though. My worry-muscles are atrophying. Slowly. But—
surely.
I'm not thinking too much about school yet. I'm not working too much. I'm not writing but it doesn't bother me too much. There'll be time for that, to write and to un-write, for visions and revisions which a minute will, etc.
A few weeks ago I was hit for the first time by a fear of death. Those that know me know that I can be an uncommonly morbid person at times, but for some reason, the idea of dying never scared me that much, though. Perhaps my morbidity springs from a lack of fear. Perhaps the lack of fear springs from the morbidity. Who knows.
Anyway, I was riding the train home from Oshawa, and wondering what it would be like to be 70. I've never expected to live that long, but it's my grandmother's 70th birthday two days from now. It must be scary to know you're so much closer to death than birth. The mouth looming, the issue but a distant memory. And the inevitability of it. Like the open ocean.
I guess that's why I always wanted to be able to take my own life. It strips much of the fear and powerlessness from it. It becomes more a personal decision than the end of all that you are. You can even half-trick yourself into believing it won't kill you. (The mind knows nothing of death; it never can. The whole of it is life.) And then it does. Rien de plus simple.
And yet I don't think I've ever wanted to kill myself less. Life's balance-like once again. The more precious living, the more feared dying. Like lyrics in a Conor Oberst song.
Anyway. I have stuff to do. This thing isn't going to live itself for me.
Adios, muchachos.
Sunday, August 16, 2009
the September opening
Well Jesus Christ, I'm alone again. So what did you do those three days you were dead? 'Cause this problem's gonna last more than the weekend.
Slowing pains, growing pains. Miss, miss. I'm trying to quell the familiar melodrama sharkcircling in the dark, peachpit spots in my heart. You know, the poisonous ones. It's been a long time since I've been so emotional day-in day-out. We all know why I'm listening to so much A Wilhelm Scream; to so much Brand New. Why I keep trying to write poetry. Why the novel's on hold again. Why I hang too close to the wrong couples.
Et après un moment de silence—le déluge. Now give me a second to choose between a sweater and a dorky raincoat. Think, think.
Slowing pains, growing pains. Miss, miss. I'm trying to quell the familiar melodrama sharkcircling in the dark, peachpit spots in my heart. You know, the poisonous ones. It's been a long time since I've been so emotional day-in day-out. We all know why I'm listening to so much A Wilhelm Scream; to so much Brand New. Why I keep trying to write poetry. Why the novel's on hold again. Why I hang too close to the wrong couples.
Et après un moment de silence—le déluge. Now give me a second to choose between a sweater and a dorky raincoat. Think, think.
Sunday, July 12, 2009
July 12th. Thought like a wire.
"I was happier then. Or was that I? Or am I now I? Twentyeight I was. She twentythree when we left Lombard street west something changed. Could never like it again after Rudy. Can't bring back time. Like holding water in your hand. Would you go back to then? Just beginning then. Would you? Are you not happy in your home, you poor little naughty boy? Wants to sew on buttons for me. I must answer. Write it in the library."
How do you argue with this? How is it possible to say so much in so few words? Out of context this barely even makes sense. Reading it in the context of the story to that point, it made me want to cry. Two words—"Rudy" and "naughty"—and you're done for. Some things are nobody's fault. Little tragedies. We move on like so.
How do you argue with this? How is it possible to say so much in so few words? Out of context this barely even makes sense. Reading it in the context of the story to that point, it made me want to cry. Two words—"Rudy" and "naughty"—and you're done for. Some things are nobody's fault. Little tragedies. We move on like so.
Sunday, July 05, 2009
July 5th. Asleep in your thought.
Writing Windswept has taught me a thing or two about novelry. It's amazing how working on a 2-years-plus project will erect a framework for interpreting the world around the parts of you that collect and analyze sense data. What I mean to say is, stuff that might previously have occurred to you as a charming, if quaint, curiosity, can, under the influence of a novel, suddenly become the seed for something enormous without any warning whatsoever. Case in point, this little segment from one of the chapters near the end, which grew from a play on words on a strange two-word combo—"carrion dawn"—I stumbled across in Mark Z. Danielewski's mind-eatingly good House of Leaves into a paragraph about certain beautiful aspects of nature, and then into a bit about the early stages of hard drug use; sort of a Requiem for a Dream split-second montage in word form. Lemme think what you know.
~~~~
He let the heroin, the miracle drug of it, into him. It was ice cream childhoods all over again. He was on another plane, another plane of mind, he was crossing state lines, he whipped through insanity and unconsciousness and Florida and grace and landed in play, in playful dreams of artless theatre, in lines of dialogue he had memorized in the womb, all those summer moons ago. All the universe's thoughts were laid bare to him, stripped without tease, naked without shame, clear and plain as all the faces he knew in the floating darknesses he was privy to when he closed his eyes to blink. He had the floor-plans, the blue-print, the key-ring to everything.
He smiled, lunar landing, in celebration of things; he gloried the way the guitar's six-stringed theory made madmen and madwomen of us audience all. The way every atom waited for the fall of Troy, for the rise of day. The way we kept inculcating the buzzes we felt in our veins not to stop. The way the highest starkest snows were fragmented yet unimpeachable. The way we loved. The way water ran and jumped when it was asked politely. The way the sky opened up like a breaking origami at the first fold of sun.
So carry on, dawn. Carry on.
~~~~
He let the heroin, the miracle drug of it, into him. It was ice cream childhoods all over again. He was on another plane, another plane of mind, he was crossing state lines, he whipped through insanity and unconsciousness and Florida and grace and landed in play, in playful dreams of artless theatre, in lines of dialogue he had memorized in the womb, all those summer moons ago. All the universe's thoughts were laid bare to him, stripped without tease, naked without shame, clear and plain as all the faces he knew in the floating darknesses he was privy to when he closed his eyes to blink. He had the floor-plans, the blue-print, the key-ring to everything.
He smiled, lunar landing, in celebration of things; he gloried the way the guitar's six-stringed theory made madmen and madwomen of us audience all. The way every atom waited for the fall of Troy, for the rise of day. The way we kept inculcating the buzzes we felt in our veins not to stop. The way the highest starkest snows were fragmented yet unimpeachable. The way we loved. The way water ran and jumped when it was asked politely. The way the sky opened up like a breaking origami at the first fold of sun.
So carry on, dawn. Carry on.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
