rage, riot, rile, rrrrr

i'm not actually mad about anything right now, i just like getting revved up about stuff. rrrrs = action, seems like.

we're starting a girl band. we're going to call ourselves 'bag of hair.' when i told will i said it's a name kind of like feminist art and he brought up the exact adrian piper piece i was thinking about. what will become of me?

ghosts!! existentially, that is what i think. i will become (am) an idea in other peoples' minds, memories, consciousnesses (is there a better way to pluralize that?) and i'll ghost around, linger. until i don't. maybe i'll have a gravestone and some kid will run a crayon over some paper over my name and that will be me, a ghost ghost ghost.

i don't know entirely what we'll sound like, but i want our band to sound like a genre that doesn't exist: feathercore.
(i work for that company now, btb.)

one time for work i had to strap a male underwear model into a pair of black costume wings and while i did we talked about ghosts. so now we're kind of chummy. after the wings were placed correctly i moved away and bopped his shoulder in a chummy way, but then he wasn't wearing a shirt so it was skin-to-skin. that was kind of weird because i hardly ever knock people on the shoulder in a chummy way and i've never chummily punched a shirtless person. but i don't really want to be chummy with models. i just want to hear about spirits and radio noise and brownstones.

[ Fundación Rara Avis on flickr ]

There’s probably something annoying and redundant about some guy in 2009 talkin’ on a literature blog about how Ulysses changed his life, but here we are: after reading Ulysses, every trite minutiae of my days seemed veiled in an empathetic sheen, like, even though [my] life still sucked, at least it sucked while quivering in its own beauty — that we are empowered to edit our perception on things, and that our petty micro is philosophically macro. Joyce taught me (D.F. Wallace does this too) that the heart and mind can be friends, and just now and then, such good friends they are.

When I started reading these Ulysses excerpts I was getting pretty frustrated (bored). When Jimmy Chen wrote a bit about why he quoted those passages, though, they became so much more relevant. That's a lot of what I want in life--tell me why this is relevant; what will this do for us? what have I overlooked?

"...we are empowered to edit our perception on things...our petty micro is philosophically macro."

God, I dig that.

please return undamaged but not unchanged

i'm thinking about jumping ship.

wordpress or maybe even just tumblr from here on out.
i'm tired of everything! i resent everything!
ahahahaha, that is not true at all.

pastimes, summer drives, dams and dogs, enchanting hands, and long letters.
i resent none of these things.

i wish i would have thought about medium a lot more while i was in school.
there is still a lot of time. there are a few less possibilities, but there are many more, many other, possibilities.

oblique bellies

'Fill every beat with something'

oblique strategies twitter
(one of the few redeeming things about twitter)

**

Bellies are funny. Penguins can slide around on them. I think that's great.

Fabienne: I was looking at myself in the mirror.
Butch: Uh-huh?
Fabienne: I wish I had a pot.
Butch: You were lookin' in the mirror and you wish you had some pot?
Fabienne: A pot. A pot belly. Pot bellies are sexy.
Butch: Well you should be happy, 'cause you do.
Fabienne: Shut up, Fatso! I don't have a pot! I have a bit of a tummy, like Madonna when she did "Lucky Star," it's not the same thing.
Butch: I didn't realize there was a difference between a tummy and a pot belly.
Fabienne: The difference is huge.
Butch: You want me to have a pot?
Fabienne: No. Pot bellies make a man look either oafish, or like a gorilla. But on a woman, a pot belly is very sexy. The rest of you is normal. Normal face, normal legs, normal hips, normal ass, but with a big, perfectly round pot belly. If I had one, I'd wear a tee-shirt two sizes too small to accentuate it.
Butch: You think guys would find that attractive?
Fabienne: I don't give a damn what men find attractive. It's unfortunate what we find pleasing to the touch and pleasing to the eye is seldom the same.

**

One of the best things about having friends is that they boost you up. Agreeing to boost each other up, that's a big deal.

restless

less rest less rest

Lately I have been sleeping very poorly. I am trying to self-diagnose but I don't know how useful that is because I just change small physical things haphazardly and can't tell if anything's helping.

I think I still get jazzed about some things but lately I feel weary. I wish I could tell people when I think they are lousing things up and I wish I could be honest more often. I've been trying in small doses and mostly it goes over alright. Sometimes I think I think too much but most of the time I think I don't think enough at all. Not in the right ways, anyhow.

I wish that things could surprise me. I don't know if anything has for a long time. People are horrible and that's not surprising and people are kindhearted and that's not too surprising. Life is disappointing and I can't be surprised by that because I'm always preparing myself for life to be disappointing. And sometimes life sparkles and that's not surprising because I expect that, too. I read once that parents should quit telling their kids they are special. I'm wondering if my sort of constantly unfazed state is the culmination of years of being told/thinking I'm the shit while simultaneously hating myself a lot. Over the last couple years I have worked hard on letting things blow over, on calming down and appreciating everything. So I freaked out a lot and didn't expect it or know what to do and now I freak out a lot less and nothing is surprising. I sit around for lengthy periods of time, wander, flounder, think about feelings, laugh with people, cry at commercials, and I face more of the same for years and years. And that is not surprising. Self-diagnosis.

I could do anything.
I could do nothing.
That is not surprising.
That is not surprising.



When we go north to visit my family I sleep on a twin bed in a room with twin twin beds. My twin aunts slept on these mattresses thirty years ago. The beds sink with any pressure, but they are permanently curved, worn into a curve, anyways. The sheets are seventies and the blankets are seventies and everything is a little faded and a little soft.