24/12/04
Slept two hours last night. Three the night before. I hate packing and I look about 600 years old right now, but the show last night was amazing.
I'm listening to a Mountain Goats mp3 and really now wishing I owned the album so I could listen to it in computerless New Brunswick.
The show really was amazing.
Well, I'm off. Happy tidings or however it goes. Don't have any good parties without me.
Oh, and hey, who wants mixCDs when I get back?
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I'm listening to a Mountain Goats mp3 and really now wishing I owned the album so I could listen to it in computerless New Brunswick.
The show really was amazing.
Well, I'm off. Happy tidings or however it goes. Don't have any good parties without me.
Oh, and hey, who wants mixCDs when I get back?
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22/12/04
Judd Nelson's flaring nostrils! Judd Nelson's flaring nostrils!
AAAAAAAA! It's driving me crazy! Who the fuck IS that?
All I want for Christmas this year is to see all kinds of hipster buttcrack:
One time only, hosers.
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AAAAAAAA! It's driving me crazy! Who the fuck IS that?
All I want for Christmas this year is to see all kinds of hipster buttcrack:
One time only, hosers.
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18/12/04
I do an awful lot of soul searching. I never really find much.
I think the trick is to think about something like it's that speck in the corner of yr vision. You'll never see it straight, so just be cool. Stop trying to look at it directly because yr just making google eyes and you look like that crazy drooling guy on the bus. Chill out. Learn to see it in the periphery. Care about it just the right amount of not-enough. Sorta like that thing where you try not to think about a pink-and-purple polkadot elephant for a whole minute. You have to deal with the fact that it's sitting there in the corner of yr mind before you can properly ignore it, before you can make it disappear altogether, before you can dress it up in a pleather jumpsuit and unleash it on the rest of the world. It's a precarious balance. I think this is how alcohol fermentation works.
I think some days you wake up and yr in love with the past, and some days you wake up and yr in love with the future, and every once in awhile you wake up and yr in love with right fucking now. Important! Life isn't a trick question.
Y'know how, after a certain period of negligence, everything on yr desk sorts itself into these little independent pockets of organized chaos? And how none of that organization is even remotely relevant or up-to-date? You could spend yr whole lifetime preserving those little arbitrary happenstances, trying to place whatever fleeting meaning they might have once had, or might newly present you with, if you could just figure out the right way to fit them in.
Fuck that. It's hard to forego those little bits of comforting sense, I guess, but they really don't make any useful kind of sense anyway. It's just a bunch of old reciepts and bounced cheques and dubbed tapes. It's not all garbage, but you'll never really know what's what until you get it all out of those useless contexts.
Just sweep it all onto the fucking floor. That's what I'm gonna do. Everything looks like exactly what it's supposed to be on the floor.
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I think the trick is to think about something like it's that speck in the corner of yr vision. You'll never see it straight, so just be cool. Stop trying to look at it directly because yr just making google eyes and you look like that crazy drooling guy on the bus. Chill out. Learn to see it in the periphery. Care about it just the right amount of not-enough. Sorta like that thing where you try not to think about a pink-and-purple polkadot elephant for a whole minute. You have to deal with the fact that it's sitting there in the corner of yr mind before you can properly ignore it, before you can make it disappear altogether, before you can dress it up in a pleather jumpsuit and unleash it on the rest of the world. It's a precarious balance. I think this is how alcohol fermentation works.
I think some days you wake up and yr in love with the past, and some days you wake up and yr in love with the future, and every once in awhile you wake up and yr in love with right fucking now. Important! Life isn't a trick question.
Y'know how, after a certain period of negligence, everything on yr desk sorts itself into these little independent pockets of organized chaos? And how none of that organization is even remotely relevant or up-to-date? You could spend yr whole lifetime preserving those little arbitrary happenstances, trying to place whatever fleeting meaning they might have once had, or might newly present you with, if you could just figure out the right way to fit them in.
Fuck that. It's hard to forego those little bits of comforting sense, I guess, but they really don't make any useful kind of sense anyway. It's just a bunch of old reciepts and bounced cheques and dubbed tapes. It's not all garbage, but you'll never really know what's what until you get it all out of those useless contexts.
Just sweep it all onto the fucking floor. That's what I'm gonna do. Everything looks like exactly what it's supposed to be on the floor.
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02/12/04
Well, I went a month or so there without any major anxiety. I guess that's something.
It's always something though, isn't it? One way or the other. The worst thing is feeling like I deserve this somehow. Maybe it's penance for almost letting myself feel like I deserved that new freedom from myself. For that brief whatever.
Is it just self-sabotage? Is my psyche that diseased?
Am I just speaking in cliches? Am I a fucking infomercial? Am I making something out of nothing, or is it the other way around? I think I'm trying to do both in the hope that both angles will intersect on some exact spot of unexaggerated simple truth. But I guess that's both the point and the danger of always mining all the most extreme possibilities; you only ever see the maybes, the far-fetched who-really-gives-a-shits. It sounds nice in theory, but those lines never really cross in any sensible way. Unless yr famous or fictional or God or something.
I'm reading something into everything right now. Secret meanings. I'm complicating everything, and I swear whatever hidden program within me that does this is doing so without my permission. What happened to me, that I've lost the ability to just embrace the simple, fleeting crescendos in life without twisting them into some farcical display of my ineptitude?
I hate my mind, and I hate what it does to me. Anxiety is the only truly physical emotion I've ever felt, aside from lust. Metaphysical irony is some cruel shit.
I'm going back to bed. I'm safe with the covers over my head. It's like pressing "pause" on life.
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It's always something though, isn't it? One way or the other. The worst thing is feeling like I deserve this somehow. Maybe it's penance for almost letting myself feel like I deserved that new freedom from myself. For that brief whatever.
Is it just self-sabotage? Is my psyche that diseased?
Am I just speaking in cliches? Am I a fucking infomercial? Am I making something out of nothing, or is it the other way around? I think I'm trying to do both in the hope that both angles will intersect on some exact spot of unexaggerated simple truth. But I guess that's both the point and the danger of always mining all the most extreme possibilities; you only ever see the maybes, the far-fetched who-really-gives-a-shits. It sounds nice in theory, but those lines never really cross in any sensible way. Unless yr famous or fictional or God or something.
I'm reading something into everything right now. Secret meanings. I'm complicating everything, and I swear whatever hidden program within me that does this is doing so without my permission. What happened to me, that I've lost the ability to just embrace the simple, fleeting crescendos in life without twisting them into some farcical display of my ineptitude?
I hate my mind, and I hate what it does to me. Anxiety is the only truly physical emotion I've ever felt, aside from lust. Metaphysical irony is some cruel shit.
I'm going back to bed. I'm safe with the covers over my head. It's like pressing "pause" on life.
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