Snow: I'm going to have to get all nautical on your ass.
Sometimes having a good chunk of your music library can be a tricky, dangerous, weird thing. On the drive home I went from the exhalation of being 16 and discovering the light underbelly of the pop world - anything on Sub Pop, really - via Throwing Muses. Then somehow, quickly I was dragged into a slurry of conflicting emotions by the multi-topical and compelling "Let's Not Shit Ourselves (To Love And Be Loved)" by Bright Eyes.
I haven't listened to Bright Eyes in a really long time. It's not because it's "emo" (please) or depressing, I just think I sort of grew out of it.
Anyway, it made me want to write about a lot of different things - how politics had almost driven me crazy. artistic frustration, suicide, driving drunk... but I think instead of that, I'll talk about Sergio.
Sergio is this guy I worked with for a while, when I worked night shifts at a quasi-porn company, doing sysadmin work. It was boring and stressful at the same time. Even though I didn't smoke, I took up smoking just to get out of the place a few times a night, and soon enough we were all hanging out across the street from the place most of the night, smoking or listening to music from a car stereo.
There was also drinking. But I'll get back to that.
Anyway, somehow Sergio and I found we both liked Bright Eyes, and we both mocked ourselves for it. We'd mime wrist-slashing movements while singing along. "Red blooded, White skinned oh and the Blues. Oh and the Blues, I got the Blues! That's me! That's me!
We figured out after a short while that having a drink or two before work at the dive bar across the way helped ease the night along. Soon we developed that knowledge into a certainty that staying there until closing was the only way to survive.
I don't really even remember what we'd talk about. I just remember drinking a lot of beers, a lot of whiskey and coke, and laughing a lot. We were comrades-in-arms - drunk, sleep-deprived, depressed and laughing.
So now I try to keep up, I've been exchanging my currency.
While a million objects pass through my periphery.
Now I'm rubbing my eyes 'cause they're starting to bother me.
I've been staring too long at the screen.
But where was it when I first heard a sweet sound of humility?
It came to my ears in the goddamn loveliest melody.
How grateful I was then to be part of the mystery,
to love and to be loved. Let's just hope that is enough.
Pulling bits of stickers, plastic off of everything. It should be clean and sterile here - but no. Everything has it's own litter, and a vessel in space is no exception. In fact, worse than Earth - nothing ever stops. Everything just spins and spins, colliding with itself, becoming great tumbleweeds of meaningless material. Shiny and transparent, sticky and alternately unavoidable and impossible to catch. Fucking space debris.
And that's just inside. Outside, that's where you can really get fucked. A mote of dust at speed can create a dent that will breach a hull. A pebble can destroy the entire thing, smash it into little tiny pieces, which will in turn smash other things. It's an endless game, avoiding garbage of our own creation. A game without any good end.
And if our garbage should someday be sucked down into the gravity of Earth, or in time, another planet, chaos would ensue. Oceans surging across dry lands, craters throwing dust into the sky. Fires that burn everything in their path. All for a speck of rock, a candy wrapper. The flotsam and jetsum that continually follows the human race.
I slept really... not. I woke up at 5:30 and went to the gym. Updated my iPod. My network is all fucked. I was getting 50% packet loss for a while.
--- xxx.xxx.xxx.1 ping statistics ---
231 packets transmitted, 132 packets received, 42% packet loss
round-trip min/avg/max/stddev = 1.214/1.792/29.794/2.531 ms
Locally! Seems okay after power cycling everything and swapping the cable. When in doubt, swap the cable out. Ah, the things I learned at Netcom...
--- xxx.xxx.xxx.1 ping statistics ---
77 packets transmitted, 73 packets received, 5% packet loss
round-trip min/avg/max/stddev = 1.344/3.096/6.689/1.111 ms
5% is still totally unacceptable on a local network, but I'll take it.
New Wall Animation by blublu
This is so amazing. This is pure creativity at work - novel, beautiful, surprising, public. It's the kind of art that is shocking because it is so surprisingly new.
But it's not just novelty. It's art, and damned good art. Watch the video, already.
Walked down to Starving Musician and picked up this cool little nylon stringed guitar. It's small, so it won't take up much room (as opposed to my giant Seagull) and it doesn't project too much so it's good for an apartment. Nice practice guitar to get up to speed again.
Also got a folding table for a work surface. Previously I was alternating between my eating table, my coffee table, and the floor with a sheet on it. So this is great. It inspired me to finish framing my first print and I'm totally fucking happy with it.
This is the result of my cleaning over the last few days. My work area has never looked so organized, believe it or not.
Mania. it's what's for dinner.
[Gir Voice] Practice framing, of course!
Screwdriver there for size reference, and 'cos I was using it. It's the wrong size. How can I have so many screwdrivers and ALL of them are the wrong size for any given project? The photo is a bit crooked because it's not actually mounted yet.
I bought six 16x22 frame kits from the awesome framedestination.com. They have this really nice setup where you can pick your art size, mat size/color/type, frame material/profile, etc - no guesing or calculating just a complete package. So far they seem to be of excellent quality. They cost me around $30 each with archival materials. Framing shops gave me a quote of $175 a piece. Fuck you, system! This girl is doing it for herself!
Why make big framed prints? Entering a juried fair/expo/show. Hoping to have one or two accepted and maybe sold. If not, I have something solid to trot around to local coffee shops.
Girls, they just want to have frames.
I am not normal.
I got a fish.
I am too tired to take pictures, which makes this post pointless, but he is a beta, and he is pretty.
His name is Major Romo Lampkin Motoko Murakami, Esuire.
Do not fuck with Romo. He will leap out of his little plastic bowl and fuck you up.
I've been having a nice time over at Whitechapel this evening. It is remarkably dickhead free.
This is my evening photobooth vanity shot:
Hey, now, hey now now. Sing this corrosion to me. Hey, now. Hey now now.
I think you get the motherfucking idea. Get on it, kids.
Leave a cremated corpse. All ashes, none of the flesh to revere. The sins in which we lived - unlived - sins committed, forgiven, never forgotten.with the body we can finally lend that last blow to the slights, harms, embarrassments and tragedies of the past.
But the hurt never stops. If there is an afterlife, it will consister of me pressed into ashes, regretting every moment I ever lived wrong, every hurtful thing I said, every heart I broke. That is life in ashes. I can't imagine life undergrons
There is no afterlife. Live every day the best you can. Give a fuck. Try. Nobody is too good.
And don't spill nailpolish on your laptop. Trust me. It's the suckums.
It doesn't feel like my mind softens, exactly. That's what it's supposed to, to e a muscle relaxant for the mind. To ease the edges, to smoothe things down.
As I walk around though, smells are more detailed. The cars zipping by seem full of people on their way to places. I'm on my way to places.
I wander the aisles of stores, never finding exactly what I'm lookng for. I found incense though, and it is lovely. Smells set a theme, a context for calm.
I've had problems lately - call them memory associations. A song or a phase in a commercial or the sight of a car bring unpleasant things roaring back, filling my mind. Lately I imagine blasting them to pieces with hight powered weapons, shattering into millions of pieces. But the pills help, too. They distrct me from the self-loathing to walk to the grocery, in futile pursuits. I come home with diet root beer and wooden spoons and multi-vitamin.
It's not what the pros would call coping. But with a full bottle of pills and thirt sticks of incenes, I think i'll survive.
(first posted on Whitechapel)
I live in a city of transience - of seasonality. It shows the slippage of time, to watch the waves of people in and out each year. Another graduating class, another year of my life. Here, a block from the school which I'll never attend, I watch.
I've learned a few things from living here. People really don't give a fuck what you do. They don't care how you dress, they don't care what you mumble, they don't care where you've been and they sure as fuck don't care where you're going. It's a liberating thing.
Sometimes in the evenings a low fog will settle across everything. The streetlight yellow diffuse glow is unearthly. The experimental gardens and their halogen lights look like a greenhouse spaceship.
I walk through the giant park that is the center of this city, among the temples to higher learning, and hear everyone on their cellphone. Snippets and pieces. Plans for evening, who will go home to their parents house. Who is failing. Who is concerned that thier girlfriend is cheating. The most serious of trivialities.
Yesterday a man was mugged at gunpoint outside of my boyfriend's house, a few blocks from me. I was surprised - and I don't know why. Only a few blocks South, it wouldn't have been anything to me. But this is my home, my turf. These are the blocks I wandered late at night, in various states of mental undress. In a word, I felt safe.
In the summer when it grows quiet and still, the heat of the day lifts the smell of grass everywhere. The clock tolls, even with so few to hear it. In Fall another pressing wave of humans, anxious for their future to arrive.