Currently Debussy for Daydreaming see related

fuck me. (part 57) (a year and a half late)

            My mind is a slab of rock that is not moving. It’s crushing the rest of my body under its fierce pressure of black plague like thoughts. It is not moving. It is shifting very slowly, grinding itself into slush. And muck.  And a bowl of soppy cereal. Fruit loops. My brain is full of loops and loop holes from trying to avoid the circumstances I currently reside in. I will jump through these hoops to avoid consequences, to avoid confrontations, to avoid sadness, until it is slush, and then I cant, then I step on this icy muddy milky sludge in my head and feel it under my feet. Surfacing through the space between my toes, making my socks wet, making me feel drenched in a heavy concentration of dirty water. That I drink, that I bathe in, that is in the air, in the sweat on my bed, the side of the sink, the mirror, my spit, and the dampness in my hair. I can feel myself spiraling into a messy version of something I used to be a long time ago. I can see myself flickering, I can see static, I can see my own hands turning into a seven year olds, I can see it stretching itself out on trees and under pipes, through dust on benches and the ledge of a balcony. I don’t know.

I am so scared of what I can and cannot do. I am so terrified of the way I am. I havnt felt this hopeless and confounded in probz 21 months. So what is the dEEEEEl, what do I gotta DOOO? Get on my kneeszzzz and pray to ZUESYY on mighty Olympus. Do a sun dance? A rain ritual? meditate? Mediate? Take up hip hop? Cancel out all these negative emotions using Buddha boards and wishing pots while taking on another way of life? Believe in karma again? Write a letter to god? Write a letter to George carlin (god, again actually) ? write a letter to my mom? To rosanna? Drink tea with paprika in it? put flower leaves under my pillow to achieve beautiful fragrant sleep? Sleep? I sleep. Im tired of my fingers and my toes and my skin and my hair and my eyes and how my throat is always dry. I feel like an overdrawn belle and Sebastian song without a good melody, but just the broken down splutter of someone incapable and under nourished of something worthwhile.

          i hate gay music, i hate repetitive routine. i hateeofkdvmfvklmkmo koplsdp[fl;c=3power09fu4 yrg fbhvnkclc;][d;fckmr kjcxngjofc[][e'wl;fsdf]

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Currently Bommarillu see related

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=etzoGPkjbp4

What i have done, what i have felt, and what i want to be a part of again.

***

I dont remember a time where i didnt know how to read, i forget when i learnt to do it, i forget who taught me, the only thing i remember was not knowing how to spell my own name, and not knowing how to spell the word 'could' for a classroom assignment. my roomates are watching serendipity, i am watching myself on a video, and my eyes are entirley unfocused. im drinking a bottle of coke and it looks like im downing ink, but im not, its just pure sugar and caramel colored phosphoric acid thats so so sweet.

* * *

    at 1:23 pm on the next day you return from an open house. the cielings were low, it was dark, the kitchen was small, it was cosy, you pictured yourself living there, your indoor slippers beside your bed, your body scrubs on the side of the tub, a mug, green, on the table. and you thought, for  asplit second how wondrous it would be to have a house of your very own, with each room smelling of different things. one room would smell like lavender and the curtains would be light light purple, the chairs and plates would be white, the flowers would have violet petals and you would drink your taro bubble tea and taro cakes on a cafe stool next to the window.

Yesterday night when i was drifting off to sleep (and i actually drifted for real. sleep just came. WOWZA), i was thinking of the uncle i never had that my mother told me in the midst of yell-sob fest 2 years ago. The conclusion i have reached is he fell in love with a woman that my grandparents didnt agree with and then he ranaway with her. provoking them to disown him and pretend they never had a 3rd son. THAT, or he could be gay? thats a big possiblity. my mom mentioned that he was a model. I dont think it had to do with alcoholism, because thats too mild. Drug use perhaps? hmm. perhaps. perhaps. perhaps. I dont know if he killed himself, i remember vaguely my mother touching upon it, but this could also lead to a 'we dont have a son' attitude amongst a brown family. But again what could have led him to off himself? being unallowed to marry? my mom said i reminded her of him. And at the time i was a horribley pathetic version of myself that jumped from 'ecstatic' to 'severely sad' on a daily basis. So im guessing this man was really depressed. DJFSADFGDSGDS FUCK i want to know SO bad. it will be my mission this summer to find background information about this man. i think the most terrifying conclusion i have reached though is what if he's still alive? PERHAPS, perhapsio. tammy told me to ask my grandma, but i think thats going overboard. what if she was the reason he's gone now? i dont know anything. this entire topic is actually invalid to anyones life, probably even mine, as it doesnt help my current situation.

im thinking i might pray or something. i dont know. last resortish things out of my control type of desperation. reading 'eat, love, pray'  may also be hugely influencial in this method of 'saving oneself'.

i have no money whatsoever now except for 50 cents in my 'change bucket'. i have used it all up on tim hortons coffee. my debit cards lost. i have to go get a new one. i need to write a letter to my mother about switching out of journalism. i have to watch a brown movie that will distract me from my own life. i dont know how to sort out these priorities. i dont know anything. i am a useless incapable fool. i know how to sleep soundlessley. i know how to smell good. i know how to touch peoples hair gentley. i know how to read stories. i dont think i know anything usefull.

P.S: bommarillu is so good.

               i wont miss the last train home, im riding through the ice that froze and packed suitcases to go back to my blue bed, my blue room and how the cieling fan brings more comfort than anything i could find.

* * *

This is the thing (part 34)

             This is the thing, coming here changed me, but nothing about my situation. i want to be a part of Jake and Amir's gang, seeing as they sparked a change in how i look at everything in a mere 34  minutes before my mcomm exam. I bombed that. i was sitting writing it, dreaming of plum tree's and such things, and i kept doodling on my scantron things like 'nigga soda' and the lyrics to 'badd' by the ying yang twins. Then i blinked and an hour had passed, so i used a guess method to fill in the rest of the scantron forming the shape of a christmas tree. thus implying, i either fail, or i either fail and feel like shit. Right now though, im happy that im heading back home, i cant wait to do this. im more excited momentarily to drink a green tea latte (which now i apparently only save for airports and walks down bank street (once)) before boarding the plane. last time they didnt let me board because i didnt have I.D. with me, but then i begged them to let me, and so they did. isnt that wierd? Like i could have had a bomb in my pocket man.

           Its going to be really odd sleeping without erin beside me, and i know to everyone reading this this may sound overwhelmingly lesbian, but i swear to god its not. i dont know how im going to function without tammy and erin's social influence on my living environment. Its come to my understanding that after about 3 months in this godforsaken room in Carleton, i've become a dorm creature. getting out of bed minimally, mostly for just water (unless tammy is coveniently located near the sink with a cup near her), peeing, showering, reaching over the fridge to get my laptop, or opening the curtains a crack to check if its snowing. Eventually, you start blending into your bed, and your walls, and the people you surround yourself with. It become a support system, that functions largley based on everyone being present at all times with no actual common goal. Comatosing on a bed. There are so many conversations that i remember that i dont know if they were dreams, of if i was laying in my sheets right before sleep mumbling things on love and purpose and making a magazine (which will happen).

    Apparently Beirut's going to come to Canada, if this is le true then things are gonna CHAY-AYNGE mofugga. its wierd when things like predictions from almost a year ago start grinding out as something valid. i will fly to fucking mexico to see zach condon sing his heart out and make mine explode. I feel like if i saw zach singing about canals and bunkers and tramways i might be overwhelmed to the extent of heart failure. like, why not man. why the fuck not. So yesterday i was in bed and then i thought my brain gears were churning and that i'd get up and do something useful, but then i got up and watched parody video's on youtube and downloaded Rogue Wave music. this seems to be happening a lot.

Currently Nothing Personal By Matt Marque see related

snowfight in the city center

25 days before Christmas I sit here, listening to Chris Martin’s rendition of ‘have yourself a merry little Christmas’ that was recovered, established and played on an old cd in 2006. I’m nothing but an empty bottle of fizz and air, smoking weed, watching 4 Christmas’s and downloading techno. Waking up at11 pm and staying in the sheets till 2, orangina, playboy peppermints, making my bed, licking sweetener crystals off the table, dusting the space between the perfumes and sink

Moisturize, energize, I want to commit, expose and be crimes.

I’m a fucking burn out, I have no excuses, I eat gravol at night to get me to bed and dream of being an assassin with clickety click heels and whip like scarves and long thing strips of new attitude and crippling blows lining my pocket. Like that Gen De Mode art project, you stop being a bad imitation of yourself and order Philippe Version 2.6, Amelia Version 5.3, and with a click, a fix and a mailed order, there you are, a box full of fantasia light cigarettes Vodka and lime, a new hat, a new sweater, 400 new parts of your new self.

                Just like Unknown flowers on your dress, it spreads, like maps of Venice through the lines on your palms, sweaty and stitched like a patchwork quilt. You lower your thoughts, from those dreams of silver and leather and metal, into peach trees on a field, the ocean, how the rain glows against the streetlights.

But EVERYTHING! IS! HAPPENIN! SO! FAST! , you said, making that cut on the car, scraping your heels against the pavement as you turned the corner to the mall, you destroyed your own spare change by throwing it through the window of a cab, and wore your sleeves pulled down, the tips of your fingers were the only things that felt the air, that finally, finally got so cold. Your hair was swirled into itself at the top of your head, blended like cappuccino’s and no fat latte’s soaking in the smell of damp air and sugar, so it smelt like a small half and half TCYB that you got at the theatre the night before.  You kept rhythm with your ball point pen clicking the surface of your cell phone, your head shaking in  repetitive motions, you pretended you were an MGMT music video, you pretended you were the kid in the GAP commercial. The things you’re feeling now, you swore you’ve felt them before. And then-

You saw your reflection. All haggard and unconscious that you walked that way. With your hand in one pocket, the other on your lips, your eyes open enough to see the top of the skyscrapers. And you never felt the same again.

Currently Time to Pretend see related

Re-inactment. Stage 14.

  Im going home in 13 days.

I'll miss the playgrounds and the animals and digging up worms
I'll miss the comfort of my mother and the weight of the world
I'll miss my sister, miss my father, miss my dog and my home
Yeah, I'll miss the boredom and the freedom and the time spent alone.

 -MGMT