I've got a white weasel in my lap. Albino, to be more precise. The little dude's name is Tim Finnegan. He is not mine, nor did I name him. That honor goes to a fellow by the name of Dave Smith, whose reputation reaches a lot farther than mine. So if anyone has a shout out to the infamous Smith and Tim Finnegan, scream it to the moon.
Life dawdles, life dwindles. Some hodgepodge random thoughts from past and present all rolled up not so neat and tidy, for y'all to figure out for yourselves.
October 5th
Speaking of nights without meaning. Transitioning to the absence of any real sort of ambition or motiviation to actually commit to course of action, a destination of the spirit. I'm stuck in the limbo of other people and other people's work. I wind down at a particularily bad place at a particularily bad time. The energy runs out of me and I hate myself for not being the sort of person to find his own means, to find his own end to the evening. I hate myself for running out on another person. I packed up that life in so many boxes and distrubted it across the lower case americas. I paid more to ship my shit to my new life, than I did paying for it in my old life. I expect the bullshit police to come knocking at the door, accept them dragging me away in the night. The total falseness of self, the total constipated way I examine my needs and desires, it all rings ill like some third grade recital of Beethoven's fifth. The truth is a sick thing, a mad, thirsty monster. I lied for years. It feels good to stop it. Feels absolutely wonderful. The decision to resume old habits will kick back in if I'm not careful. Mellow intoxication fuels some inate repressed third wall to crumble down on the audience who watch me me and wonder, just what the fuck. My family is smaller than it used to be. I cannot ever speak again to my father. Well, in the very least, he cannot ever speak again to me. The total absence of communucation. The pathethic way I try to include him into small thoughts and decisions I make. Like I'm straining to hear his voice, my conscience, answer back. I don't know what to say to myself sometimes. The silence I live in, the total lack of everything I withold, it fucking tears me up. Because I'm just some pathetic leech who siphons off others, without giving back. What does that make me. Beyond that. What do I add to the lives of others. What value does my continued existence provide for this new family of mine. I am not the best person here by far. I know I'm the most immature. I know my knowledge is so rooted in myself, it makes me a fucking enigma in all the wrong ways. I believe the total lack of personality will one day destroy me. How hollow will I become, I don't really want to live to find out. The space I occupy is too fucking large for what I really am on the inside. This self pity is pathetic. This bullshit is nothing but a jerk off release, which compounds the wasted sentiment. I want for the day when I am a better person, when I can make make people laugh and smile and breathe relief just for recognizing how much it all matters. But I don't have that in me right now. Where the fuck did I lose it. What am I feeling right now, besides bitter disappointment in myself. I see weakness of spirit. I feel morally ambiguous and totally ill with the possible future threads that are open to me. Goddamn crossroads. I want to make my family proud. I want to do something to honor the dead. Instead I just make a fuck of myself. And want to wash it all away in excess. I have to live. I have to love. But I feel I don't matter. Why is that? It's gotta just be in my head. What am I looking for? An anchor? Some ideal to tether myself to? Some other person? Work that confuses me, a life I have to force myself into, to somehow be a part of? I guess it's acceptance. I guess it's the gut feeling that's been gone for so long. So very fucking long. Knowing I want that back. Knowing I want some emotion I can't name, some euphoric 'this is it' transcendence that only comes in the third act, not somewhere near the start of the second. Maybe that's it. This impending sense of disaster. Maybe that's what I live for. Self-destruction. Hurting those I care about just to get that rush of forgiveness. Fuck that. I've been living a high since the day dad died. I gotta fucking come down sometime. When will that day be. Should I just fucking run with it, like some mad marathon man, until I collapse in the surf, exhausted and brutalized by my over-reached ambition. I don't feel the calm yet. I can't stop yet. I can't. My fingers are still tense. My mind is still racing. Goddamn it why do I do this. No purpose in this. No reason to continue. Get it out motherfucker. Just fucking write like there's no purpose. Write about dreams. Write about them. You can't go that route. Can't destroy other people to fill some need in yourself. Not like you ever have, or ever could. How did my mother do this to me? What exactly did she say to make this so difficult. It must have been before high school. Because you made some stupid promise to yourself way back then. What was it that made you do that? I can remember being at Jamie's, sitting in a hot tub at age 14, spelling out my life philosophy, and damn it all, it's as true today as it was then. How the fuck did that happen. You said it all. You spoke of sex, drugs and rock in roll. You spelled out your whole life in a dirty hot tub with people you never met before, never knew, and never wished to see again in a lifetime. They were good people, but they weren't important at that exact moment. Because you remember the silence as you spoke. It was like you were fucking making the future happen, and it did. So what the fuck now? You reached that point. Where you going now lazy bum. You looked up the words in the dictionary to somehow detract from their sting. Because that was the worst thing your father ever said to you, and it was nothing. You made a big deal out of it. You weeped because you saw your failure as a human being for the first time. Over something so insignificant, yet at the same time, something so defining. Something that'd haunt you, some character flaw that would wound you time and time again. Because it was true. The absolute truth. Like your letter to Christine. When you spilled your heart out. Your lonely, confused, stupid heart. And when you fucked her for the first time, that was also the truth. You fucking knew it was never meant to be. But you didn't want to hurt her. Because you couldn't ever hurt her. You didn't want to be the selfish male. Didn't want to use her and leave her. This is the first time you've run from something this big, and you - I'm so lost. You can't face yourself, let along the rest of the world. How can you stop running when everyday you get further and further away from the problem. This aint becoming of you, Andy. What sort of hope does the future hold? You want what you want. Is that it? The law of undiminished wants and needs. You want too much. You can't ever have enough. Your old act was to lock yourself up. Hide from the world and your fever pitch dreams. It worked pretty damn well, didn't it. Made things a whole fuck of a lot easier. And now, you can't fucking cope. You can't walk on even ground, because you stunted yourself, you hobbled your legs with the weight of two people, two lives spinning hopelessly out of control. No wonder it crushed you, left you broken. You were never strong to begin with. I can see that now. So long, so well. Your heart was always too big, and never ever in the right place. Greedy fuck, hopeless romantic. Because you can't hate women, you can only hate yourself. Momma's boy, spineless whelp. Grow some backbone, grow some balls.
November 28th
Back to the now. Present time, present day. Music from another room in the house, bleeding through the walls. Downstairs people watch television and I write on my dead father's lap top that I could have sold for... one... million... dollars. But they wiped it, and I now write it clean with something worth far less than that.
Story time. Things I've contemplated in the last twelve hours. My clothes hang and dry from odd corners and juts in my room, because the gas powered dryer downstairs is on the fritz and we don't want it to explode.Because someone noticed their warm and tosty clothes smelling a lot like rotten fart. In other words, my room is a mess. Cramped with boxes and books and underwear hanging from door knobs and overhead fan blades. I have too many cups that have been sitting here for far too long. I took a swig on a doctor pepper can only to realize I haven't actually had any doctor pepper in the house for over two weeks. What I spit out looked like crystallized mold. So now I clean. What do I find buried beneath the layers? More things I don't want to be reminded of. More distractions than I know what to do with. I change the music to something less bombastic, a little more healing.
We all do things we are stuck doing, not things we'd rather be doing. The routine, however small mine is right now, however formless and embryonic it is, is still routine. Fear routine because it's a comfortable hell to acclimate to. There is ferret shit on the floor because a ferret shit on my floor and I have yet to clean it up. Luckily, it doesn't stick. The consistency ranges from hard and dried up, which is easy to pick up, to mushy like frosting, to oily like some bad drunken accident at a friend's house. Just so you know.
The walls are a very disturbing yellow orange green color. Electric and just a little ill looking. I have posted pictures of my family to the walls in a square. I have storyboards, sketches and drunken rants also tacked to the wall in front of me. My bed is a mattress and a box spring without a frame, because exposing the bottom of the bed to a ferret is inviting disaster.
The music in the speakers is right now face a la mer, and will soon be jets to brazil.
I'm not sure what I'm into listening right now. I'd really like to find some my education to listen to. Great live.
Things that disturb me: The Patriot Act.
Things that make me cry: Reading through my dad's old emails, reopening fresh wounds.
Things that need to be fixed: I need to get better. I need to be happy again. Fantastic. Easier said than done.
Places I need to go: Places far far away.
What my body needs to be doing right now, instead of sitting here: Dancing.
Life dawdles, life dwindles. Some hodgepodge random thoughts from past and present all rolled up not so neat and tidy, for y'all to figure out for yourselves.
October 5th
Speaking of nights without meaning. Transitioning to the absence of any real sort of ambition or motiviation to actually commit to course of action, a destination of the spirit. I'm stuck in the limbo of other people and other people's work. I wind down at a particularily bad place at a particularily bad time. The energy runs out of me and I hate myself for not being the sort of person to find his own means, to find his own end to the evening. I hate myself for running out on another person. I packed up that life in so many boxes and distrubted it across the lower case americas. I paid more to ship my shit to my new life, than I did paying for it in my old life. I expect the bullshit police to come knocking at the door, accept them dragging me away in the night. The total falseness of self, the total constipated way I examine my needs and desires, it all rings ill like some third grade recital of Beethoven's fifth. The truth is a sick thing, a mad, thirsty monster. I lied for years. It feels good to stop it. Feels absolutely wonderful. The decision to resume old habits will kick back in if I'm not careful. Mellow intoxication fuels some inate repressed third wall to crumble down on the audience who watch me me and wonder, just what the fuck. My family is smaller than it used to be. I cannot ever speak again to my father. Well, in the very least, he cannot ever speak again to me. The total absence of communucation. The pathethic way I try to include him into small thoughts and decisions I make. Like I'm straining to hear his voice, my conscience, answer back. I don't know what to say to myself sometimes. The silence I live in, the total lack of everything I withold, it fucking tears me up. Because I'm just some pathetic leech who siphons off others, without giving back. What does that make me. Beyond that. What do I add to the lives of others. What value does my continued existence provide for this new family of mine. I am not the best person here by far. I know I'm the most immature. I know my knowledge is so rooted in myself, it makes me a fucking enigma in all the wrong ways. I believe the total lack of personality will one day destroy me. How hollow will I become, I don't really want to live to find out. The space I occupy is too fucking large for what I really am on the inside. This self pity is pathetic. This bullshit is nothing but a jerk off release, which compounds the wasted sentiment. I want for the day when I am a better person, when I can make make people laugh and smile and breathe relief just for recognizing how much it all matters. But I don't have that in me right now. Where the fuck did I lose it. What am I feeling right now, besides bitter disappointment in myself. I see weakness of spirit. I feel morally ambiguous and totally ill with the possible future threads that are open to me. Goddamn crossroads. I want to make my family proud. I want to do something to honor the dead. Instead I just make a fuck of myself. And want to wash it all away in excess. I have to live. I have to love. But I feel I don't matter. Why is that? It's gotta just be in my head. What am I looking for? An anchor? Some ideal to tether myself to? Some other person? Work that confuses me, a life I have to force myself into, to somehow be a part of? I guess it's acceptance. I guess it's the gut feeling that's been gone for so long. So very fucking long. Knowing I want that back. Knowing I want some emotion I can't name, some euphoric 'this is it' transcendence that only comes in the third act, not somewhere near the start of the second. Maybe that's it. This impending sense of disaster. Maybe that's what I live for. Self-destruction. Hurting those I care about just to get that rush of forgiveness. Fuck that. I've been living a high since the day dad died. I gotta fucking come down sometime. When will that day be. Should I just fucking run with it, like some mad marathon man, until I collapse in the surf, exhausted and brutalized by my over-reached ambition. I don't feel the calm yet. I can't stop yet. I can't. My fingers are still tense. My mind is still racing. Goddamn it why do I do this. No purpose in this. No reason to continue. Get it out motherfucker. Just fucking write like there's no purpose. Write about dreams. Write about them. You can't go that route. Can't destroy other people to fill some need in yourself. Not like you ever have, or ever could. How did my mother do this to me? What exactly did she say to make this so difficult. It must have been before high school. Because you made some stupid promise to yourself way back then. What was it that made you do that? I can remember being at Jamie's, sitting in a hot tub at age 14, spelling out my life philosophy, and damn it all, it's as true today as it was then. How the fuck did that happen. You said it all. You spoke of sex, drugs and rock in roll. You spelled out your whole life in a dirty hot tub with people you never met before, never knew, and never wished to see again in a lifetime. They were good people, but they weren't important at that exact moment. Because you remember the silence as you spoke. It was like you were fucking making the future happen, and it did. So what the fuck now? You reached that point. Where you going now lazy bum. You looked up the words in the dictionary to somehow detract from their sting. Because that was the worst thing your father ever said to you, and it was nothing. You made a big deal out of it. You weeped because you saw your failure as a human being for the first time. Over something so insignificant, yet at the same time, something so defining. Something that'd haunt you, some character flaw that would wound you time and time again. Because it was true. The absolute truth. Like your letter to Christine. When you spilled your heart out. Your lonely, confused, stupid heart. And when you fucked her for the first time, that was also the truth. You fucking knew it was never meant to be. But you didn't want to hurt her. Because you couldn't ever hurt her. You didn't want to be the selfish male. Didn't want to use her and leave her. This is the first time you've run from something this big, and you - I'm so lost. You can't face yourself, let along the rest of the world. How can you stop running when everyday you get further and further away from the problem. This aint becoming of you, Andy. What sort of hope does the future hold? You want what you want. Is that it? The law of undiminished wants and needs. You want too much. You can't ever have enough. Your old act was to lock yourself up. Hide from the world and your fever pitch dreams. It worked pretty damn well, didn't it. Made things a whole fuck of a lot easier. And now, you can't fucking cope. You can't walk on even ground, because you stunted yourself, you hobbled your legs with the weight of two people, two lives spinning hopelessly out of control. No wonder it crushed you, left you broken. You were never strong to begin with. I can see that now. So long, so well. Your heart was always too big, and never ever in the right place. Greedy fuck, hopeless romantic. Because you can't hate women, you can only hate yourself. Momma's boy, spineless whelp. Grow some backbone, grow some balls.
November 28th
Back to the now. Present time, present day. Music from another room in the house, bleeding through the walls. Downstairs people watch television and I write on my dead father's lap top that I could have sold for... one... million... dollars. But they wiped it, and I now write it clean with something worth far less than that.
Story time. Things I've contemplated in the last twelve hours. My clothes hang and dry from odd corners and juts in my room, because the gas powered dryer downstairs is on the fritz and we don't want it to explode.Because someone noticed their warm and tosty clothes smelling a lot like rotten fart. In other words, my room is a mess. Cramped with boxes and books and underwear hanging from door knobs and overhead fan blades. I have too many cups that have been sitting here for far too long. I took a swig on a doctor pepper can only to realize I haven't actually had any doctor pepper in the house for over two weeks. What I spit out looked like crystallized mold. So now I clean. What do I find buried beneath the layers? More things I don't want to be reminded of. More distractions than I know what to do with. I change the music to something less bombastic, a little more healing.
We all do things we are stuck doing, not things we'd rather be doing. The routine, however small mine is right now, however formless and embryonic it is, is still routine. Fear routine because it's a comfortable hell to acclimate to. There is ferret shit on the floor because a ferret shit on my floor and I have yet to clean it up. Luckily, it doesn't stick. The consistency ranges from hard and dried up, which is easy to pick up, to mushy like frosting, to oily like some bad drunken accident at a friend's house. Just so you know.
The walls are a very disturbing yellow orange green color. Electric and just a little ill looking. I have posted pictures of my family to the walls in a square. I have storyboards, sketches and drunken rants also tacked to the wall in front of me. My bed is a mattress and a box spring without a frame, because exposing the bottom of the bed to a ferret is inviting disaster.
The music in the speakers is right now face a la mer, and will soon be jets to brazil.
I'm not sure what I'm into listening right now. I'd really like to find some my education to listen to. Great live.
Things that disturb me: The Patriot Act.
Things that make me cry: Reading through my dad's old emails, reopening fresh wounds.
Things that need to be fixed: I need to get better. I need to be happy again. Fantastic. Easier said than done.
Places I need to go: Places far far away.
What my body needs to be doing right now, instead of sitting here: Dancing.
if you won an elura, this is clearly a sign:
time for you to make video art madness