how to be very
Friday November 25th 2011, 12:17 am
Filed under: Boozy,HelLA,holidays,tired Tags:

me, that is. Unsober (I can barely type. deal). Overfed (it is fuckingl Thanksgiving. deal). Re-watching the adult sequel to a movie I’ve watched too many times, a movie I’ve watched too many times, and imminently to bed (see entry under drunk,overfed.) And, you know what? I’m very me, at the moment. That balance of agonizingly sharp desire, my inability to enjoy what I have and my impossible keen enjoyment of what is to come, that delicate balance between hating humanity and enjoying the possibility of what might come next? Yeah, that’s me. Fuck all y’all, I want my life back. I want not just the quiet between the deadlines, but the peace at the bottom of a deep, deep, amber-filled glass.

Saturday November 05th 2011, 11:18 pm
Filed under: Boozy,seasonal Tags:

Narratives colliding, intersecting, entangling, disentangling. Simplicity from the wrong side of it looks empty rather than the foundation of possibility. Disentangling unimaginable, even as twenty years of time suddenly becomes something else entirely. And it’s not him, the strangest thing, the man who was guaranteed to go first. Baggage is the popular euphemism, but narrative trajectory might be a better frame. I once promised it wouldn’t be, that I didn’t do, tragedy. And it wasn’t and I didn’t, with all of the Proustian horror that accompanies loving once, loving again. I didn’t even bring something to write in up to the Bay the other week. It wasn’t a trip that was going to be conducive for that, really, but I used to live my life _around_ writing, whereas now it’s something I avoid except when I can’t any longer, something I try to remember to dig deep to find the time to do in the few, pathetically few, moments where I allow myself to be allowed to want again. I don’t think I would have found the time, or made it, or had it, or verbed it, though it was observed that I verbed her, all those years ago, until a second opinion over hipster coffee suggested it wasn’t her but him, a manic splenetic once-idol lying deeply buried at the bottom of the drip castle story. An unusual, boozy evening, the rhythms of (this) writing quite alien to the regimented and footnoted agonizing march of prose, finally off my desk (though it will return again). But this isn’t about work, and isn’t about that writing, and isn’t about who I didn’t know I might once have thought I wanted to be while becoming the person (man!) I’ve become, am, am wondering about. The bony shoulder was strong, at first, as I could always listen and find something to say, but didn’t have a voice. And then I found my voice and the shoulder diminished, because, voice, songs, bodies. But the helplessness of the ignorance, the innocence, that was the shoulder – it hovers on the horizon, not so distant, not so detached. Timing is everything, with the words that say nothing.