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2001-10-30 - 2:36 p.m.
Friday, June 22, 2001
tragic. static. tragic. static. tragically funny. static. shakespearian tragedy. postmodern static. tragedy. static cling. tragic air of self-defiance. tragic. static. tragic trajectory. static stasis. trajectory static. tragic stasis. trajic. statsis. system static. system stasis. system tragic. static. tra gic. sta tic. ticgic. statra. gictraticsta. st t c. tr g c. a i . a i . s c. t c. tati . ragi . static. tragic. static tragic. statictragic.
6:08 PM
Thursday, June 21, 2001
i'm in love. with what?
11:16 PM
ok, my last blog is driving me crazy but i am going to force myself to leave it alone so that i can record my idiosyncracies (spelling?). my recent obsession is cockroaches. i was sitting at a sidewalk cafe ( i inadvertantly typed sidewalk "cage", freudian slip?) last night and watched a substantial cockroach crawl about with a confidence that can only be described as "cockiness", no pun intended. of course the egotistical roach's glory was short-lived as an inconsiderate patron of the coffee shop promptly crushed half of it's body with a boot while slurping up luscious creamy latte foam. because only half of it's body was crushed, our hero was now doing a leg-flailing tango with death that was neither seductive nor graceful. as witnesses to this macabre incident my companion and i discussed the merits of extinguishing the now frail existence of our hero. (as i type this a friend is instant messaging me about urinating in a wetsuit to which i want to reply "i have more pressing matters at hand!") my friend then concluded that we should "do the right thing" and promptly smashed her chunky sandal onto the writhing body and causing the roach's insides to shoot in a yellow-ish green foamy (circle back to latte foam) geyser across the pavement. now we see the scene of the murder: splattered and oozing roach guts and an empty exoskeleton. my companion and i survey the scene for a while. we HAVE to...it is directly in our view. we then see a ponderous man in Teva TM sandals approach (appROACH) and unknowingly step on the exoskeleton which then becomes one with his rugged-terrain sole. you must understand that the roach's skeleton actually merged with the fat man's shoe. we watched him walk around and the shell never re-surfaced. the roach is probably now an integral part of an olive green shag rug in our rotund friend's apartment. such is the circle of life.
as fate and my obsessive compulsive habits would have it i then became convinced that there were roaches everywhere.
when i returned home i emptied my purse and checked my clothing for infestations. i checked my sheets. i washed my hands and feet. repeatedly. i checked my purse again. my skin felt itchy. i became convinced that roaches were crawling on me. i told myself how ridiculous it was to worry about this. i felt infected/infested. i began to worry about my visibility. i wrote all of this down, and then inexplicably felt fast asleep. and did not dream of bugs.
1:33 AM
ugh, people drive me crazy. they just peck peck peck at my brain until they've had enough. and they are so lonely and desperate for love (as if i'm not). i want to be fed for once...which i suppose makes me one of the people that pecks...how disgusting. i want to be completely self-sufficient and i know that will never happen. i am dreaming of 4 white walls again. me. alone. slow decay. but at the same time i am furious at the whole idea of slow decay now. idontknowwhatiwantand i am so very tired oftryingtofindout. shut up jenny shut up.
12:47 AM
Monday, June 18, 2001
clark says he will buy me a tongue from safeway so that i don't have to cut out my own. i like this idea for about 30 seconds until i realize that i don't know what to do with a tongue. clark says make sandwiches. but i will start to wonder if the tongue i am eating can taste me. like a bizarre french kiss. me chewing on the tastebuds of another animal, letting my saliva break down the flesh. lengue, lengua, langue. the guilt of sucking the juices out of someone else's tongue. epitome of a vicarious experience...i want to taste what you taste, speak what you speak...dissolve into another experience/language. the space between language and the tongue is divided by synapses, grey cells, and an immense rift of disconnection. as if my words and my body could ever be the same thing. language exists in a realm not beyond above below or removed from reality but in a state of complete seperation. so close that they can not be polar, so initmate that the distinction is discernably (indiscernably) forever and always too close to be the same/different. i want to speak; there is nothing to say. "Language is not truth. It is the way we exist in the world" ~ Paul Auster. but is the truth in my tongue? in my body? in impermanent and faulty structures. my brain is an impermanent and failing structure as well and perhaps eventually it too will be in a pink styrofoam package at Safeway, next to my tongue, macerating in it's own juices, waiting to be devoured by another hungry mouth. $2.99/lb.
12:58 PM
you know what i forgot about? sweetness. i FORGOT about it. eradicated it from my head. sweetness. it exists. why don't i let it happen anymore? how is it possible to forget about something so simple? have i become cruel? i must be cruel. or i would have remembered that the sunlight hits the water like thousands of diamonds. and known that the old woman in the green pants in the washroom can still smile at me, even though her skin is so transparent that i can see her heart beat through the curve of her wrist. i would have understood that the waiter who gave me his phone number really was shy and not spitting in the beaujolais. why can i not remember these things? why do i wake up each morning gasping for air? sweetness.
1:57 AM
Sunday, June 17, 2001
i am such a pillow queen. i just want to lie down and have someone cater to me. eat soft cheeses and complain about things that are really of no consequence. i think it's a sickness. too much luxury. like des Esseintes in Against Nature...jaded by excess. maybe i should wear burlap and flog myself, smear myself in gruel (that would be excessive wouldn't it? see? i can't even purify myself properly...i'd end up doing some sort of pornographic oatmeal dance in my habit, robes over my face.) i think i will revert back to drowning in desire. submerged in art and music and food and sex and oceans and oceans of scizophrenic thoughts. ugh, it's so fucking tangible, i can taste it on the tip of my tongue...sitting here and typing this into space is all i can do to prevent myself from running outside and licking the concrete. the best question at this point is why i feel the need to prevent myself from having a passionate affair with the sidewalk. (elapsed time: 2 seconds of thought) instead i just licked my monitor which tastes oddly bitter and is now covered in iridescent streaks of my saliva...i like how it distorts my words and adds a gorgeous rainbow of scum to the otherwise pristine screen. i will now spend much of my time making out with my Vivitron monitor...please, leave us alone.
10:43 PM
Saturday, June 16, 2001
it's really not as miserable as i make it seem, it's really all in my head, it's really a lot like velveeta.
i find it necessary...in order to drive myself insane...that i discuss my recent obsession with cutting out my tongue. i pierced a hole in it a few years ago because i thought it would stop something. it didn't. i'm not sure what it will stop...other than complete impairment of speech. but i want it to stop something...i want it to be gone. i think about it sitting there all pink and pimply...succulently soft , inert and shapeless (at the moment) ....but then frighteningly alive. lashing at the roof of my mouth, struggling with my brain to articulate some ridiculous reality. i have no control over this. my tongue has got to go. i sit and stare at it in the mirror. will it be hard to slice through? will i need a razor? scissors? a hacksaw? obviously i want it to hurt. but i don't want the sharp, bloody, metallic pain...i want the pain of absence.
i am so angry suddenly because i can not express what i want to do with my tongue.
i want to hold it in my hand. feel the weight of it. the weight of words. i am suspicious that it is heavier than i think. i want a clean cut, no resistance. a straight razor through liver. i want it to undulate in my hand, fight me for claim of my thoughts. i know that in this fight i will not win. ugh...this is still not what i mean. it's like paging someone who is dead...dialing the number, punching in the return digits, hanging up, and WAITING. some endless tragic comedy. obviously i'm insane.
2:26 AM
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA
2:09 AM
i really think i am a liar. i don't tell anyone the truth. obviously not myself. i have all these amazing friends...they DO things. kristy is going on a 2 month sailing adventure as crew on a 100 foot ship. laz is somewhere in europe, drunk as hell and absorbing unbearably exquisite art. jolene is off to israel to stand in streams and let history wash her feet. adam heads to scotland for a rebirth. milla is in NYC reconnecting with a past. i want to live a life that is so tangible, raw, that i no longer have the opportunity to slip through the cracks. i am tired of the flaneur. voyuerism is only kinky when you have somewhere to return to. i want to watch my own life for a change. On that note, I am tired of being told to "just do it"...this is not a Nike ad folks. As much as i would love to please the masses and reach some sort of creative/socially appropriate pinnacle of success the whole idea of it just bores the crap out of me. I am completely seduced by the idea of rotting. Just sitting and rotting. Not wasting myself away on lust, passion, addiction or envy. Just utter decay. Decomposing slowly and purely. No toxins, no preservatives, no rehab programs or self-help. No career counselors, kleenex, shoulders to cry on, hopes, dreams, manifest destinies or goals. Just me. 4 white walls. Liquefying. i want it to start in my toes. or maybe my liver. i don't want to talk to anyone. i don't want to see anything. 4 white walls. the spaces between my toes merging, puddling, pooling, dripping, falling into themselves and becoming indistinguishable from the floor, the walls, my liver and my brain. eventually, i fantasize, the primordial ooze of my organs will leave no space for differences between my thoughts, my feelings, my body and the world.
blah blah blah. i am sad because i lost my last blog...due to operator error of course. it was all about how i am a liar and omnipotent about haircolor (which is a lie) vicious cycle i tell you. but now i am viciously viscous...yes, viscous as in ooey, gooey, thick, pus-like, slow-moving and sap-ish. my world is moving viciously slow. can not get it to move any faster. i can watch myself ooze. it sounds succulent, i know, but i really am failing to enjoy it. i find it rather nightmarish and sweaty actually...like perhaps i will wake up and my life will have progressed and this was all just a frightening fever dream induced by too much Thera-Flu TM. i do desperately want to wake up.
Friday, June 15, 2001
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