Dammit. Someone spammed my guestbook. Can’t go right anywhere.
Tonight starts the drunken weekend. Thought I don’t know how drunk I’ll get. Probably not that bad. More than anything, I’ll end up having one or two drinks and then I’ll just give up.
Yes. Writing. Must be done.
I hate that one feeling, like you’ve done so much work, but it’s hardly anything at all.
But I did finish a short story that I’ve been working on for quite a long time (cough, years). That might be why I feel so tired. The story had just gotten to a point where the characters weren’t speaking to me for awhile, and then tonight I told them I was taking over and I finished it. Straight up hostage situation. I’m going to revise it soon, but I’d like to just get moving on with the novel and get that towards the finish line first before I feel like concentrating on anything else.
(is 30 pages too long for a short story? I don’t think it is. but then I’m one of those people who actually reads for the enjoyment.)
Been writing a lot of poems lately, mostly to relieve extraneous crap (aka drama I don’t really care about) out of my head. That and fill up the rest of these pages in this notebook so I can start another one.
I wrote this last week.
crayons
i could write wishes down in space,
make material whatever balances
decided to fall or fly.
I could put the truth down,
like how I wish you were here,
but I don’t even know
if that’s possible.
I don’t even know the back of my hand,
let alone you,
so how could I tell the universe what to do?
Too many words like stars,
just pick a few in a pattern,
make some kind of sense.
We just make too much, you know?
I could be thinking of anything.
I could have a face, a name,
a wish in mind,
and even if I want to hear you,
it doesn’t mean you’ll speak.
What do you want to know?
How fast can I explain it all,
when the stars get stuffed in my mouth,
and we can’t get back
what we can’t ever have.
Drawing a circle like attentions,
and intentions are contextual;
I won’t know what to do with this
when I’m done,
some throw-out thoughts
and I’m a child with a new toy.
I used to wish for acknowledgement,
and after being so exposed
all I want is some fucking quiet.
Someone who’ll fill in the gaps
in the silences I send.
I get so red, so full of earthquakes
I don’t even know why I do things,
like wish I could talk to you again.
I’m trying too hard,
being too obvious,
and you probably just see me in a blink,
I’m just barely there,
just a pale color in the background.
Maybe I’m flushed pink,
a thing hidden and noiseless.
You don’t even think about me, do you?
It’s centralized, the world,
the way we all just give in,
the way we all color within the lines.
It’s strange how you can become such good friends with people after you’ve slept with them, and then it seems that months later, that after all the allegations and silence and melodrama that there’s this strange sense of sickening detatchment to things. There’s this karma surrounding you and it’s so specific you know there was nothing you could’ve done on purpose to make it happen. It just happens.
Today I feel very strange. In some ways I’m sad for things that could’ve been. In other ways I’m totally indifferent. In other ways I’m completely apathetic.
Have you ever gotten to the point where things feel like they’re starting to fit together and all you can do is just stop thinking and just say and act however you were going to say or act?
For me, I’m trying to get everything I need in place, take the days as they come, be productive and re-affirm what I want to do with myself. And for the first time in a few months, I don’t feel guilty about that. It’s more empowering than you think, that word no.
I’ve been a rubber wall, I know that. I’ve been used. I’ve been ignored. That’s okay. I’ve got people watching over me, and I keep myself out of the places I insinctually know are going to be trouble. And I’ll be a bitch about it, too.
Sorry about the psychobabble. It’s one of those days where I’m trying to stay out of drama that, under everything, isn’t really any of my business.
A nice, quiet, productive evening.
I get the feeling this weekend’s going to be ruined somehow. Call it a premonition, if you will. There are a number of things simmering right now, and basically one of them’s going to creep over into my hands.
I’ve never really looked forward to birthdays anyway.
Thought I’d try something new with the layout. Not that it’s going to matter in a couple of months.
The last time I saw Tool was back in 1997, when the Melvins opened up. This year, I saw the Melvins with about 50 other people in a tiny little place, and have floor tickets for Tool, and I finally get to see Mike Patton’s new band. Should be interesting.
So last night I had this debate about “street cred.” Basically it had started with talking about Ani DiFranco and how she’s gotten a larger fanbase over the past 5 years, and how she’s maintained her credibility because she does everything on her own label. And then it turned into a debate over why this whole street cred thing seems to be just another group of people who want to be hip.
I just happen to like Ani because when I first heard her music when I was in college, she moved me. And I still like her now, even in a marginal way, because she’s grown as an artist, and despite her growing popularity she still puts on a good show. She still interests me as an artist. I don’t believe she can do no wrong, like a lot of fangirls like to think, she’s only human underneath everything. Just because she marries a man doesn’t mean she can’t still make good records.
And I had to admit my total respect but lack of aural knowledge of Bob Dylan. I’m trying. Really, I am. Actually today I should take a trip to the store and pick up Blonde on Blonde. I’ll get there, I promise.
Although you’re a big fan of polished work, today you like things raw and immediate. In a philosophical moment, even optimists have to agree that the hole is sometimes more interesting than the doughnut. Yes, there are limits to your knowledge. That’s why discovery is so exciting. Your educated guess is proof enough that there’s a brilliant mind behind that eager face. As you rush ahead, don’t ignore what’s happening in your peripheral vision. Certain people are trying to get your attention. Chances are good that you’ll like what they have to offer.
I like conversations. The sentence “it’s like a joyous frustration” actually came out of my mouth today. I guess I’m just a masochist after all.
This is my grandfather, Robert O’Connor. He served in WWII. He didn’t die in battle, but he passed before I could remember him. If he was still around, I would ask him to tell me a story or two.
Did this earlier this evening.
dichotomies
sometimes I miss you
and sometimes I wish you luck.
it’s always the color
of the walls
dictating spacial structure:
corners telling lies,
ceilings whispering cuts
where the blood is clear
like revelation. rooms
are just emotions,
whims,
this voices hanging
memories on the wall.
the faces always stare
and the linen flowers keep reaching
for you. all of last year
is buried in the backyard
where it’s not buried in fills,
or buried in corners.
sometimes I wonder why
I arrange things in kind
when they only anger me later.
I’ve been late
for making amends
forever,
forging ahead
only because it’s forced habit.
I rearrange things
only to force change somewhere
and spare everyone else the agony.
one minute it’s you
and the next it’s not
and I’m still making up
for 6 years ago:
the ground is hard
for all of us.
