But appaarantly not for Bobby McGee.
Lasts post’s poem was hint enough.
I’m so far to the left of normal I don’t remember when I left it behind. My dearest sacrifice is of course sleep. Isn’t it interesting how creative sleep disturbance can be in manifesting?
Always a new twist on an old story. A few days where time and again I refuse to wake up, avoid being awake as much as possible. Next, three days on a total of three hours of assorted dozing, trying to get away with as little shut eye as possible.
Eyes burning temper flaring, I am so on edge. Tired but I don’t want to sleep and I don’t know why. Certainly not out of affection for the way the lack of sleep makes me feel.
Angry and resentful and so fucking sad. Me, junk food, Ms. Joplin and Ms. Stone.
I’m craving a book, a good piece of fiction that will hold me hostage. For some reason people’s recommendations keep falling flat. Something that will hold my increasingly fickle attention.
As usual my concentration is shot to hell. I can’t focus and my senses are feeling the strain of my deficiencies. At this point I’m not entirely certain that I am adhering to the rules of grammar and spelling.
Even my vocabulary seems to be cracking under the pressure. It feels like I’m experiencing some kind of aphasia, words that once came easily are dancing teasingly out of reach.
My feet were too dirty so I gave them a lavender soak with the works, bath salts and bath oils, essence and cream.
I think I’m going to bed now even though part of me doesn’t want to give in to reason.
I think Tarantino is only halfway a hack but I hate the arrogance of his pronouncing the Italian cinema dead. What a prick.
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
Sunday, June 10, 2007
Running on Fumes
I have a secret. It’s big bad and tearing me apart. I’ve been living with it for so long and I am so fucking tired of hiding it away. It’s not shame that’s making me hide it; choice was mine I’d shout it from the roof tops. It’s just so powerful; it has the power to ruin everything. I’d rather have it eat away at me than destroy the people I love and the life I’ve built. I wish people wouldn’t give it the power they do. Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to live as myself, no lies no pretence no apologies. What would feel like to just let go, stop clenching my teeth and blurt it out. I love my family, love my people, but sometimes I hate them so fucking much. The anger, the resentment, the fear, it just builds and sometimes I feel like I’m going to burst. I have a secret and it’s tearing me apart.
Insomniac by Sylvia Plath
The night is only a sort of carbon paper,
Blueblack, with the much-poked periods of stars
Letting in the light, peephole after peephole . . .
A bonewhite light, like death, behind all things.
Under the eyes of the stars and the moon's rictus
He suffers his desert pillow, sleeplessness
Stretching its fine, irritating sand in all directions.
Over and over the old, granular movie
Exposes embarrassments--the mizzling days
Of childhood and adolescence, sticky with dreams,
Parental faces on tall stalks, alternately stern and tearful,
A garden of buggy rose that made him cry.
His forehead is bumpy as a sack of rocks.
Memories jostle each other for face-room like obsolete film stars.
He is immune to pills: red, purple, blue . . .
How they lit the tedium of the protracted evening!
Those sugary planets whose influence won for him
A life baptized in no-life for a while,
And the sweet, drugged waking of a forgetful baby.
Now the pills are worn-out and silly, like classical gods.
Their poppy-sleepy colors do him no good.
His head is a little interior of grey mirrors.
Each gesture flees immediately down an alley
Of diminishing perspectives, and its significance
Drains like water out the hole at the far end.
He lives without privacy in a lidless room,
The bald slots of his eyes stiffened wide-open
On the incessant heat-lightning flicker of situations.
Nightlong, in the granite yard, invisible cats
Have been howling like women, or damaged instruments.
Already he can feel daylight, his white disease,
Creeping up with her hatful of trivial repetitions.
The city is a map of cheerful twitters now,
And everywhere people, eyes mica-silver and blank,
Are riding to work in rows, as if recently brainwashed.
Insomniac by Sylvia Plath
The night is only a sort of carbon paper,
Blueblack, with the much-poked periods of stars
Letting in the light, peephole after peephole . . .
A bonewhite light, like death, behind all things.
Under the eyes of the stars and the moon's rictus
He suffers his desert pillow, sleeplessness
Stretching its fine, irritating sand in all directions.
Over and over the old, granular movie
Exposes embarrassments--the mizzling days
Of childhood and adolescence, sticky with dreams,
Parental faces on tall stalks, alternately stern and tearful,
A garden of buggy rose that made him cry.
His forehead is bumpy as a sack of rocks.
Memories jostle each other for face-room like obsolete film stars.
He is immune to pills: red, purple, blue . . .
How they lit the tedium of the protracted evening!
Those sugary planets whose influence won for him
A life baptized in no-life for a while,
And the sweet, drugged waking of a forgetful baby.
Now the pills are worn-out and silly, like classical gods.
Their poppy-sleepy colors do him no good.
His head is a little interior of grey mirrors.
Each gesture flees immediately down an alley
Of diminishing perspectives, and its significance
Drains like water out the hole at the far end.
He lives without privacy in a lidless room,
The bald slots of his eyes stiffened wide-open
On the incessant heat-lightning flicker of situations.
Nightlong, in the granite yard, invisible cats
Have been howling like women, or damaged instruments.
Already he can feel daylight, his white disease,
Creeping up with her hatful of trivial repetitions.
The city is a map of cheerful twitters now,
And everywhere people, eyes mica-silver and blank,
Are riding to work in rows, as if recently brainwashed.
Friday, June 01, 2007
I'm Just Saying
I hate that I’m 22 and still afraid of growing up. I hate that I still refer to being an adult as growing up. I hate that I have absolutely how to be an adult.
I dislike that it’s very hard for me to end things with a friend I no longer trust and with whom I have a cycle of growing and waning resentment. I dislike the fact that I feel a lot of unresolved and unspecified anxiety. I dislike that I don’t photograph well.
I like that I am probably not a stereotype. I like that I am intellectually curious. I like that I am not narrow minded. I like that I am probably not boring.
I don’t know that I love anything about myself.
Please, no pep talk, just… yeah. I don't need anything positive or supportive, just stating things.
In other news, watching Life on Mars, and enjoying it immensely. A police officer is involved in an accident, and wakes up in 1973. He has no idea what’s going on, no one else seems to think that anything is going on. I admit my favorite parts are the music and the protagonist’s emotional and psychological deterioration.
Also, can you believe that a year has passed since this post?
I dislike that it’s very hard for me to end things with a friend I no longer trust and with whom I have a cycle of growing and waning resentment. I dislike the fact that I feel a lot of unresolved and unspecified anxiety. I dislike that I don’t photograph well.
I like that I am probably not a stereotype. I like that I am intellectually curious. I like that I am not narrow minded. I like that I am probably not boring.
I don’t know that I love anything about myself.
Please, no pep talk, just… yeah. I don't need anything positive or supportive, just stating things.
In other news, watching Life on Mars, and enjoying it immensely. A police officer is involved in an accident, and wakes up in 1973. He has no idea what’s going on, no one else seems to think that anything is going on. I admit my favorite parts are the music and the protagonist’s emotional and psychological deterioration.
Also, can you believe that a year has passed since this post?
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