I had a nightmare in my head that Oregon was going to start carrying sales tax but it was immediately relieved by a joke to self brought on after another unreasonable shopping spree before class: “You could never kill ourself cuz you have too many cute outfits in your closet yet to be worn!” With all of the shit brewing in the world I feel like a selfish jerk (aka, Supercilious asshole-bastard, aka. Stalin-Palin devil baby). Do you know who would take the cake for selfish bastards? (but he is an android so therefore disqualified from any criticisms placed on human character)…my apartment complex owner. Here I have a beautiful studio, art deco, colored tiles in the kitchen and bathroom, a vintage, goth chandelier, and detailed windows, hard wood floors, but then the owner is probably a trust fund baby born into wealth with the brain of a PC computer chip, and the heart of a Sears appliance. I think he may actually be an android, but if he’s not, then the way he refused to shake my hand in our first acquiantance, and the way he rudely brushed off J when he once called to explain a starving kitten was deserted in the basement, not to mention the way he yelled at me over the phone the other day when I said it was his responsibility to fix the heater, and then hung up with I yelled back….well, because of all of these things he is a terrible, stodgy, plodding branding iron, and I want to toss him in a junkyard, and believe I might have to relinquish my home, (my handsome old lady home that won me honor through a DVD representation in my architecture class, and captivated friends with its classy, carnivalesque charms), for the sake of my sanity. Being ignored by coworker/exboyfriend whom I still masochistically pine for is bad enough, I am finding androidish behavior more prevalent these days, maybe I incite it with my unnatural naturalness, in which I say what’s on my mind, or maybe it’s the information age, and globalization making the world a hot bed of tech-dependent diapered dorks. I think if the Apocalypse is on its way, I have no other point in my ramblings then that I need to start getting laid more, listening to more hip-hop, and somehow get a car for Sunday trips to the coast and little Oregon towns with deserted barns and haunted hotels for photo projects. My other point was that selfish bastards suck, and I apologize for being one when I am one, because I know I sometimes am one.
Tag Archives: kill
people tend to weave in and out of our lives like crochet needles making more itchy knots
some people mean more to us than others, especially when we mean nothing to them
a JERK can command our deepest sympathies and respect, even a supercilious asshole bastard
a beautiful being can kill us with kindness, because we secretly want to be cultivated with sadist animosity
we love and hate ourselves, both so equally interchangeable we can’t decide if our friends are our enemies or our enemies are our allies
we understand more everyday and feel less
we feel more when we feel less, because we open up more and all we thought we felt was just nervous excitement
terrible it is to speak and we can’t shut up, especially when we have nothing to say, we want to be heard
misunderstood we feel and we continue to misunderstand others in turn
lonely we are and we continue to make walls to fall deeper and deeper into bitter enthronement
our cats want to shit on our beds when we ignore them (our kittens anyway, cats are too dignified)
happy and sad we can feel in a month, an hour, a minute
we can want to be with someone and yet fear it at the same time, because then we will be discovered, and we haven’t yet discovered ourselves
we hate our lives and yet never want to die or grow old, they just keep ticking away and all our dreams get fuzzy
age scares us in every moment, even if we’re not aware of it, because we still want to do something special
influential architecture and interior design are on a subconscious level, like film directors creating a set to spark the imagination and create feelings
the way one talks is often more important than what one talks about, and how we look into each other’s eyes
quickly romantic love morphs into resolute distaste, aversion to what we thought we knew and wanted, distaste for how it begins to want us back
blind self-hate is when it looks at itself in the mirror, and thinks it’s in love
clarifying a reunion can be with a friend, remembering thoughts you’ve had, and seeing a future boosted from the past
simple true love is, when recognized and nurtured, in balance with solitude and respect
complicated it all appears when we want drama, we cease to accept silence, we poke and burn and destroy
funny, sad, and odd to feel alive in this incomprehensible world, growing less comprehensible by the moment…
The King of Clubs straightened his miniature crown and said: “Everyone is free to fantasize about what he likes, but it is also his duty to make his fantasies aware of the fact that they are just fantasy. Otherwise he is making fun of them, and then they are entitled to kill him.”
“If you want to quit or even if you want to kill yourself, wait a week, because by then the whole world will be different, and you know it always is!” Colleen says.
This will be a calm spring return. If I can survive the commercial blaring pink frills of Valentines day, the most soul draining holiday about fabricated, candy love, then yes, this will be a peaceful winter term. J disappointed me for good….exed me from his life like a used kleenex. Maybe it’s a transient feeling and potentials aside because they’re not often realities, but where I saw art and passion, I now see computer chip and I also see maybe weakness, self-induced mind control, a very normal predicament to the average mollusk. And besides it’s not true, he’s an escape artist, and I’m an overanalyzing black biled indecisive vagrant…sometimes.
But forget all that! Be here now Ram Dass, or Ray LaMontagne would warble and croon. What is in this immediate moment? Well I have architecture tomorrow! And daydreams, morning coffee, a good book to finish, another good one to start. The Journals of Sylvia Plath. Getting into journals of writers I like, they seem like a peek inside the underwear drawer. A secret little corner rarely visited, where all of the stories are demystified, and discerned with the raw, aggressive emotions and deliberations behind the scenes of their plots. Maybe Sylvia’s life didn’t end pretty, but I relate to her, and I loved reading her over the past recent years. I am soooo disconnected sometimes. I am far away.
There are a few out there who feel similar parallels.
She writes: “I’m am too tired, too noble, in a perverse way.” and “no more knuckling under, groaning, moaning, one gets used to pain…” and the best words of tonight of all “O do not make an artificial stasis which is unbreakable; break and bend and grow again”
And so I will, and I hope you will do the same…