It's never the someone your hoping to recognize. It could be because you never knew them anyways, or it could be they never existed. The trifling works of fiction we put into people embrace the greatest denials, because the only times we tell our truths we tell them to complete lies.
I wanted a moment, just one, and I've had hundreds, and its not that it ended or lasted too long, it's just it was a moment. I needed A marked course of evolution, but thought it should fit my designs.
Some point I started drawing things out, from the first formative breakup to the endless repition of that moment, there's just been a greater depth to the fiction of the real life events based upon it. I only want people I know, or know enough of to be curious, and given that, there's enough premise, someone starts some stupid plot of putting two people together (I'm lazy and don't write enough, so look elsewhere.) I never get my lines right, and I can't believe in my part because someone wrote it incorrectly. Not that I've ever given any fact freely, I'd just sort of hoped it would be pryed away, that we'd have a long pause then keep talking, and when the self declarations ended there wouldn't be silence and I'd be known.
Well I'm not. Not. not. not. Right now I'm the following, "this won't make it easier on you," and a little manic narrative, a lot of, "holy fuck, its just never going work!" a lot of it should be fun, but a lot of, "well fuck it, it so rarely is." the gentrification has come, in retrospective, ladies and gentlemen I've taken back the slums, I've taken in the highs and lows and made them the picture I've always wanted to show. Its amazingly hard to try to project myself onto someone else, because I get sick of the fucker too.
This last last one, didn't happen. I forgot it was supposed to be good and not determined. I was determined. I wouldn't give up and give away the belief of her and me, but I never believed it would be fun - she hated my record collection, and I pretended to like hers, she thought I wasn't funny, and I just knew she had no sense of humour. What was I thinking? That we'd become confortable when we never tried being? That we'd start talking with so much establishment of quiet?
Theres a time when its time to pick a fight. I've been a dedicated pacifist sinking deeper into the cutting routine of silence for years, and I'm fucking sick of it. The little smirk, and wrench of my guts knowing I tried to make things easier at my expensive never works anyways. I thought being self absorbed was flawless, but apparently, if you notice that your exactly that you just absorb a self concious guilt.
Oh well. All relative. I want my faith reinvented, a good crush to get over the first bit of uphill, and maybe things'll make more sense. I know its bullshit, my entire dating life of the past eight months has been based on nick hornby, and his methods don't help. Especailly considering how this is so easily applied to existential-lonely-cochrane-is-miles-too-far-just had-a-ridiculous-split-that-was-so-funny-and-
-no-one-cared-what-does-it-all-mean-dating philosophy.
While I hate that I'm doing it, I'd like to declare she did the splitting. After I hadn't called her for two weeks. Seemed redundant really.
we're not meant to be together(is anyone?) we should see other people, if the feelings gone you should hold her, if you leave now you'll regret it forever, I want to be friends, we're going to be friends, get fucked, go to hell, thanks for your honesty, its okay, we're busy anyways...
I had intended to go on (for artistic purposes of course... all failed artists do not live thier art, because my failed art is way more honest than I am.)
Fiction is good to acquaint oneself with, good to fall into, and has and will always be the basis of every good relationship. Honey if you could see the way I've read you off the page, oh how proud you'd be. Now I'm just trying to be vaguely clever. I'm not you know. Cleverness never really has suited me. A little to dazed when not in myself or a monitor, where I feel sharper, yet know I'm just as blurred.
Well I suppose if nothing else, I'll toast to not overcoming desire with a song. John K. Sampson really is a clever man.
I always used to think that if all things are truly in ones grasp (they are, we're just good at finding ways to cut off fingers.) then beliving in things with a downtrodden hope is certain suicide. Hope might very well be the most literal death I'll ever know. Sure you can put a bullet in my head, but to be honest, not sure if that'd change much, granted I'd be dead but I wouldn't care - I've consoled my automation to sheer bullshit anyways. Wreckless abandon with sinews. Anyways off topic, as I was saying its more or less granting yourself the ability to condemn yourself to a fate which surely you'd live until something broke it, but in thinking that would happen, you never actually believed in the fate, just the end - so then you live the fate so the end can exist, but the fucker can't exist because what you've been living is entirely made up so that something that can't happen will.
I'll stay my course thank you. Remain so hopelessly hopeful. I'm already ready to fuck things up once more, and in preperation, you know what - get fucked Mr. Hornby. I'm sick of thinking this line in context, "when will it fucking end!" Stop being so fatalistic Garrett, when did it fucking start? Did it? Really? I might have, but never really know till you see it through.
I dunno. I'm bad for trying to live in the cars passing by. I'd like to know what its like to sit down with a different family. Trade up for a better one. Cut and paste all the component pieces that have made friends, family and love good, until its all beyond anything, beyond even suggestings there's something to be surpassed. Its so stupid! the more I experience, the more its going to become hard to like simplicity? Thats a horrible thing to do.
Today I didn't phone the tattoo parlour where a girl I like works. There'll be no literal scars at this rate. Just more process. I should run a beuaracracy I sort of do actually.
Well I'm going to bed.
I wanted a moment, just one, and I've had hundreds, and its not that it ended or lasted too long, it's just it was a moment. I needed A marked course of evolution, but thought it should fit my designs.
Some point I started drawing things out, from the first formative breakup to the endless repition of that moment, there's just been a greater depth to the fiction of the real life events based upon it. I only want people I know, or know enough of to be curious, and given that, there's enough premise, someone starts some stupid plot of putting two people together (I'm lazy and don't write enough, so look elsewhere.) I never get my lines right, and I can't believe in my part because someone wrote it incorrectly. Not that I've ever given any fact freely, I'd just sort of hoped it would be pryed away, that we'd have a long pause then keep talking, and when the self declarations ended there wouldn't be silence and I'd be known.
Well I'm not. Not. not. not. Right now I'm the following, "this won't make it easier on you," and a little manic narrative, a lot of, "holy fuck, its just never going work!" a lot of it should be fun, but a lot of, "well fuck it, it so rarely is." the gentrification has come, in retrospective, ladies and gentlemen I've taken back the slums, I've taken in the highs and lows and made them the picture I've always wanted to show. Its amazingly hard to try to project myself onto someone else, because I get sick of the fucker too.
This last last one, didn't happen. I forgot it was supposed to be good and not determined. I was determined. I wouldn't give up and give away the belief of her and me, but I never believed it would be fun - she hated my record collection, and I pretended to like hers, she thought I wasn't funny, and I just knew she had no sense of humour. What was I thinking? That we'd become confortable when we never tried being? That we'd start talking with so much establishment of quiet?
Theres a time when its time to pick a fight. I've been a dedicated pacifist sinking deeper into the cutting routine of silence for years, and I'm fucking sick of it. The little smirk, and wrench of my guts knowing I tried to make things easier at my expensive never works anyways. I thought being self absorbed was flawless, but apparently, if you notice that your exactly that you just absorb a self concious guilt.
Oh well. All relative. I want my faith reinvented, a good crush to get over the first bit of uphill, and maybe things'll make more sense. I know its bullshit, my entire dating life of the past eight months has been based on nick hornby, and his methods don't help. Especailly considering how this is so easily applied to existential-lonely-cochrane-is-miles-too-far-just had-a-ridiculous-split-that-was-so-funny-and-
-no-one-cared-what-does-it-all-mean-dating philosophy.
While I hate that I'm doing it, I'd like to declare she did the splitting. After I hadn't called her for two weeks. Seemed redundant really.
we're not meant to be together(is anyone?) we should see other people, if the feelings gone you should hold her, if you leave now you'll regret it forever, I want to be friends, we're going to be friends, get fucked, go to hell, thanks for your honesty, its okay, we're busy anyways...
I had intended to go on (for artistic purposes of course... all failed artists do not live thier art, because my failed art is way more honest than I am.)
Fiction is good to acquaint oneself with, good to fall into, and has and will always be the basis of every good relationship. Honey if you could see the way I've read you off the page, oh how proud you'd be. Now I'm just trying to be vaguely clever. I'm not you know. Cleverness never really has suited me. A little to dazed when not in myself or a monitor, where I feel sharper, yet know I'm just as blurred.
Well I suppose if nothing else, I'll toast to not overcoming desire with a song. John K. Sampson really is a clever man.
I always used to think that if all things are truly in ones grasp (they are, we're just good at finding ways to cut off fingers.) then beliving in things with a downtrodden hope is certain suicide. Hope might very well be the most literal death I'll ever know. Sure you can put a bullet in my head, but to be honest, not sure if that'd change much, granted I'd be dead but I wouldn't care - I've consoled my automation to sheer bullshit anyways. Wreckless abandon with sinews. Anyways off topic, as I was saying its more or less granting yourself the ability to condemn yourself to a fate which surely you'd live until something broke it, but in thinking that would happen, you never actually believed in the fate, just the end - so then you live the fate so the end can exist, but the fucker can't exist because what you've been living is entirely made up so that something that can't happen will.
I'll stay my course thank you. Remain so hopelessly hopeful. I'm already ready to fuck things up once more, and in preperation, you know what - get fucked Mr. Hornby. I'm sick of thinking this line in context, "when will it fucking end!" Stop being so fatalistic Garrett, when did it fucking start? Did it? Really? I might have, but never really know till you see it through.
I dunno. I'm bad for trying to live in the cars passing by. I'd like to know what its like to sit down with a different family. Trade up for a better one. Cut and paste all the component pieces that have made friends, family and love good, until its all beyond anything, beyond even suggestings there's something to be surpassed. Its so stupid! the more I experience, the more its going to become hard to like simplicity? Thats a horrible thing to do.
Today I didn't phone the tattoo parlour where a girl I like works. There'll be no literal scars at this rate. Just more process. I should run a beuaracracy I sort of do actually.
Well I'm going to bed.
VIEW 4 of 4 COMMENTS
i like this:
The past grows gradually around one, like a placenta for dying.
John Berger
my mother has those vases on the first page of their web site. ack. that is overt collective unconscious understanding.