We use a variety of different terms to describe one thing. At least when it has to do with common discourse we all know what it means. I'm manic, bipolar, schizophrenic in thought. I'm scattered. That's what that means. Nothing more or less.
I'm scattered, stuck between planes yet in both places at once, and I am tired of neat packages, tired phrases and meaningless crutches along the road. I guess this means I embrace this mania. Because the only antidote is delusion, and that's the disease. Insane! Insane! Lol. Excuse me, I've lost my mind for a minute.
I'm tired of quick answers to questions that serve to soothe and never turn out, and I'm tired of formulaic relationships. I'm tired of cycles and I'm tired of paths, and I'm tired of a future that seems overwhelmingly lack lustre. I'm tired of living in a world that requires me to act constantly and I'm tired of living in a mind that allows compliance. I am tired tired tired of everything being so shitty and somehow always being broke with nothing to show for it.Lol.
But I guess I'm thrilled to be here. It's the only place to be.
I wonder if I have any peers. What groups can I belong to, to make this empty space sparkle?
What answers can I mine from these reserves?
Pray and think positive.
Get out and vote.
Love yourself.
Eat Healthy.
Experiment.
Whatever.
I'm tired of thinking in these manic circles, but I'd find comfort in them if I had a happy peer. Meh.
Off to apply myself to studies and seem less crazy.
Sometimes I wonder if everything isn't delusion.
Thursday, November 29, 2007
Friday, November 23, 2007
Black Friday
It's Black Friday, one of the most superficial and empty days of the year- at a glance. But then, what really makes it different from the rest of the year? The sales. That's it. The rest is the same. American culture obsessed with mostly useless meaningless shit, because there's nothing else. And there really isn't. Entire communities, vast stretches of the American landscape are littered with malls and shops, built around them, in fact.
They say everyone gets depressed around the holidays. Is it that we all realize we can't afford all of this shit we buy to fill the void, or is it the really depressing part the realization that that's what we're doing- buying to fill an empty space? The holidays bring to light both the richness and the lack. It's enough to make one sick to be so rich with material crap in one of the richest countries in the world, and yet utterly vacant- spiritually, psychologically, whatever you want to say.
I try and keep positive about the holidays. No money and the realization that that doesn't even touch real poverty, another year in pathetic, fearful solitude, etc etc...well, it makes some parts of it hard. All one can do is close one's eyes and jump into the current. This holiday beast is bigger than I am. I'm along for the ride, and it isn't so bad with your eyes closed- over in a jiff, and leaving you wondering what the big deal was at all. I'll be coughing up tinsel til May, picking things up off the dresser wondering who in hell buys things like that when it was probably me in the first place, wondering when the last time was that I talked to family, wondering who even cares anyway.
I'm swimming dangerously near the shores of apathy. Shit, I'm probably there and don't even know. I don't care enough to look closely. My thoughts are dim gray and thinly spread over everything, dilluted, essentially nothing. I'm thinking I've got life set up alright at the moment, but right now I don't care much for it. I'm doing what I am doing because it's what there is in front of me to do. There doesn't even seem to be much choice involved. I look at that long stretch of life in front of me and wonder how in hell I'll even manage to fill it up.
Technically I like it though. I mean. It's working ok, so no complaints. No major ones. Nothing to get one off one's ass.
I've been thinking a lot about death lately, or maybe just non existence. I get so tired of nothing I wonder what it would be like to sleep THAT deep. Just vague wonder. It's obvious that those sorts of things don't cure the desire to escape nothing. Deepest sleep, death. That's nothing, and that's what I'm tired of.
Oh,my, the circles.
Lol.
Anyway.
Off to think of something plastic I'll be needing this December.
They say everyone gets depressed around the holidays. Is it that we all realize we can't afford all of this shit we buy to fill the void, or is it the really depressing part the realization that that's what we're doing- buying to fill an empty space? The holidays bring to light both the richness and the lack. It's enough to make one sick to be so rich with material crap in one of the richest countries in the world, and yet utterly vacant- spiritually, psychologically, whatever you want to say.
I try and keep positive about the holidays. No money and the realization that that doesn't even touch real poverty, another year in pathetic, fearful solitude, etc etc...well, it makes some parts of it hard. All one can do is close one's eyes and jump into the current. This holiday beast is bigger than I am. I'm along for the ride, and it isn't so bad with your eyes closed- over in a jiff, and leaving you wondering what the big deal was at all. I'll be coughing up tinsel til May, picking things up off the dresser wondering who in hell buys things like that when it was probably me in the first place, wondering when the last time was that I talked to family, wondering who even cares anyway.
I'm swimming dangerously near the shores of apathy. Shit, I'm probably there and don't even know. I don't care enough to look closely. My thoughts are dim gray and thinly spread over everything, dilluted, essentially nothing. I'm thinking I've got life set up alright at the moment, but right now I don't care much for it. I'm doing what I am doing because it's what there is in front of me to do. There doesn't even seem to be much choice involved. I look at that long stretch of life in front of me and wonder how in hell I'll even manage to fill it up.
Technically I like it though. I mean. It's working ok, so no complaints. No major ones. Nothing to get one off one's ass.
I've been thinking a lot about death lately, or maybe just non existence. I get so tired of nothing I wonder what it would be like to sleep THAT deep. Just vague wonder. It's obvious that those sorts of things don't cure the desire to escape nothing. Deepest sleep, death. That's nothing, and that's what I'm tired of.
Oh,my, the circles.
Lol.
Anyway.
Off to think of something plastic I'll be needing this December.
Thursday, November 22, 2007
Tool
I went to the Tool concert in Denver yesterday, and it was amazing. the best show I have ever been to, and I came out with a completely new perspective. I am now a fast fan. I'll be greatly disappointed if I miss one of their shows if they are in my general area.
They didn't play this song yesterday. They did play Stinkfist which has a similar idea behind it.
The finale was Vicarious.
They didn't play this song yesterday. They did play Stinkfist which has a similar idea behind it.
The finale was Vicarious.
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
Cardigans
Best known here int he states for their too popular pop songs in every tween movie imaginable, I wasn't so fond of The Cardigans in the beginning. Their videos make the songs more easily absorbed, and listenable. They are a very fun band. Digging on this song...
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
The Taming of the Shrew
I wonder if I am slowly becoming an old bitch who yells at children and sneers at passersby, holding so much hate in her heart she can't bear to be around people, so much cowardice she wouldn't just off herself.
Formality
Let us begin by addressing the complete dissonance with reality overly formal speech creates in life, in writing, in fiction.
If the end is to be taken seriously, I think we may have missed the mark.
You and I.
The vacant us of literature.
Me, I guess.
Ha.
If the end is to be taken seriously, I think we may have missed the mark.
You and I.
The vacant us of literature.
Me, I guess.
Ha.
Monday, November 19, 2007
Resignation
Is it a coincidence that resignation means both to leave something behind and to live with more of the same?
Submission
Is it a coincidence the word submission means both to bow down to another's will, and to give something to another? Either way it isn't in your hands anymore.
Sunday, November 18, 2007
Recurring Realizations
I've been having a manic week. I've been having a manic life. Up and down and up and down and up. At least there's hope the end will be up. That'd be a nice surprise.
The recurring theme and realization of my life has been brought forth once again this past week- that I'm almost hopelessly fucking strange, and that the problems I face will undoubtedly become more- more in volume and more complex. OR. I will simply stay in this place I am now, and the problems I face won't be more but life will be empty and rarely worth living.
This past week has been strange in that while it was pretty fucking depressing, I sat there in contemplation of the whole thing- detached and slightly amused. I would wonder how I came to be this person, but I hate that mental trip into the twisted space of my memory- it's too vague and distorted. My life's sort of a joke, but it's not a funny joke.
So this week I have been having fun with a bit of self hatred, and a bit of plain old illness, and a bit of who gives a shit.
Things do get old, huh? Old and reused and recycled and recurring, and blah. Who cares?
The recurring theme and realization of my life has been brought forth once again this past week- that I'm almost hopelessly fucking strange, and that the problems I face will undoubtedly become more- more in volume and more complex. OR. I will simply stay in this place I am now, and the problems I face won't be more but life will be empty and rarely worth living.
This past week has been strange in that while it was pretty fucking depressing, I sat there in contemplation of the whole thing- detached and slightly amused. I would wonder how I came to be this person, but I hate that mental trip into the twisted space of my memory- it's too vague and distorted. My life's sort of a joke, but it's not a funny joke.
So this week I have been having fun with a bit of self hatred, and a bit of plain old illness, and a bit of who gives a shit.
Things do get old, huh? Old and reused and recycled and recurring, and blah. Who cares?
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
Still becoming...
Wondering what to take seriously in my own widespread enthusiasms and depressions.
I feel passionately that I would like to focus my energies into art: writing and music. There is a part of me loud, protesting- who do I think I am to devote myself to anything? You're no writer, you're no musician. Just a sometimes loveable fuck up.
It's still hard for me to figure what when where why I want to write. I look at my unimpressive collection of work for the past year and wonder if I have what it takes. You need a level of discipline, unforgiving scrutiny of the self and motivation. You need to actually put pen to paper, and looking back on this year, I have much less than I thought I did, much less than I would like to have accomplished- to point at and validate my own search and craving- but is this just an ego game? Maybe. Writing massive piles of stuff, or a half notebook full- I feel writing must be a part of my identity, a part of my humanity, a part of my sanity. All in one. With this in front of me I have only one choice, whether to nurture this or not. Either way it is there. I have been writing since I knew how, collecting little scraps and notebooks- developing plots. It seems useless and self defeating to fight, so my answer is to really think about this and to dive in. Don't hold anything back. Write about the most mundane moment. Write about the most abstract and intangible. Just write. Daily. And I have been failing myself here, but I can't allow that to continue.
Music is beginning to enter this realm. Not a day goes by where I do not sing. I crave it as a part of my daily life, feel fractured and stunted without music in my day. I would one day like to take a stab at song writing.
This is just musing, maybe re-prioritizing.
I'm fucking hungry now, so maybe I'll eat! :) Food should also be included with these other essentials!
I feel passionately that I would like to focus my energies into art: writing and music. There is a part of me loud, protesting- who do I think I am to devote myself to anything? You're no writer, you're no musician. Just a sometimes loveable fuck up.
It's still hard for me to figure what when where why I want to write. I look at my unimpressive collection of work for the past year and wonder if I have what it takes. You need a level of discipline, unforgiving scrutiny of the self and motivation. You need to actually put pen to paper, and looking back on this year, I have much less than I thought I did, much less than I would like to have accomplished- to point at and validate my own search and craving- but is this just an ego game? Maybe. Writing massive piles of stuff, or a half notebook full- I feel writing must be a part of my identity, a part of my humanity, a part of my sanity. All in one. With this in front of me I have only one choice, whether to nurture this or not. Either way it is there. I have been writing since I knew how, collecting little scraps and notebooks- developing plots. It seems useless and self defeating to fight, so my answer is to really think about this and to dive in. Don't hold anything back. Write about the most mundane moment. Write about the most abstract and intangible. Just write. Daily. And I have been failing myself here, but I can't allow that to continue.
Music is beginning to enter this realm. Not a day goes by where I do not sing. I crave it as a part of my daily life, feel fractured and stunted without music in my day. I would one day like to take a stab at song writing.
This is just musing, maybe re-prioritizing.
I'm fucking hungry now, so maybe I'll eat! :) Food should also be included with these other essentials!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
