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2002-02-16 - 11:13 p.m.
buzzkill.
i was sliding all over my subconscious on waves of seratonin finally feeling like my body was connected to my head (so rare these days)...
and then it stopped.
a combination of factors caused it, but dammit, i was there. i guess we all can't be on the same plane at the same times. i was hoping for inspiration and what i got was utterly, inexplicably average. now i sit here in my $10 chinese jacket amid piles of dusty papers, laundry, canvases and books trying to re-create the euphoria by drinking my third Wyder's Pear Cider of the evening. it's not really working. though i guess i was up pretty high to begin with: i woke up to sunshine and sheets that felt like warm, heavy silk. i awoke so euphoric that i immediately mastubated and fell asleep again for two hours. i love emerging from dreams, dripping with sleep, wanting to lick everything in sight after the sweet luxuriousness of resting well. i then dressed myself, deciding that it is not really the ass that others find hot but the signifier of the ass: tight pants. i then ate a gigantic plate of indian food, a coconut sundae with hot fudge, and drank a cup of tea with my pseudo brother and sister whom i had not seen since christmas. still feeling sexy, and now sated, i drove to a cafe and typed ridiculous things on my ibook while watching the rain and talking about music with a hairy and opinionated man. then i drove home to a dark house and irritable parents and decided to start drinking. i used my new mortar and pestle to make pesto and listened to jazz and ignored the fact that my father doused his portion of the meal with soy sauce to "enhance the flavor." i spent a lot of time ignoring my mother which is really unfair because she is sick and it is not her fault that she annoys me...only she is the same sick or healthy: wounded and unwilling to heal. i added extra garlic to the pesto to kill all her germs, but what she really wants is intimacy. i want to be able to give that to her, but now, more than ever, she judges me whenever i let her in. i am tired of hearing about my poor choices and wasted potential...it is my potential to waste, my beauty to destroy, my dreams to shatter and my hope to die. but when you create something, how can you sit and watch it destroy itself? wouldn't you rather destroy it first? wouldn't you tear away all the ugliness, even if you tear away part of the goodness too? wouldn't you make it what it once was, pure and small and staring at you with trusting eyes?
was it ever pure?