somuchrain

I've reached fever pitch panic about moving. The fifteenth of November is the day Theis and I picked to bugger off down south and I'll have about $1000 ... most likely slightly more. Ilana is bringing me back to New York on the 10th , and I'm going to see the Most Importants (I should write a comic book - The Most Importants: A proofreader artist, a stripper, and a confused 23 year old! Watch their adventures in urban poverty and directionless malaise). I really fucking miss them all. There's this bit in Freud, somewhere, where he talks about technology. His basic point is that yes, with the telephone one can hear the voice of one's loved one while they are miles away, but without technology one's loved one would not have been able to so easily leave. I think I'm just bitter because I'm terrible at telephones.



The romance of giving all up and running to the south has worn off, somewhat, and become just the banal terror of moving house. I'm very irresponsible, especially with money and whatnot, and all the more so when Theis is involved, so I'm trying to be a good boy. I want very much to have a place where I am comfortable, not quite home, as that involves so much permanence, but somewhere Theis and I can make things together and watch movies without worrying too much about money, and where Nadja can be happy and where I can fix some shit in my head and my credit. I just want somewhere to stop for a while.



My dado used smoke his cigarettes 'down to the cork', so I'm told, by my mother. This as a way of telling me not to smoke, without having to admit or speak about the fact that I smoke at all. All my life I've known that smoking is my mother's least favorite thing (well, baring, you know, rape and genocide and whatnot). I often bring orange peels with me when I got out to smoke so my mother will think I've just been eating fruit. I miss my mother so much. You know the stuff that's all subtext in conversations with parents? I miss the 'sub'. I'm not sure if I know what that even means. We seem to talk about everything, my moving, various people I miss, without ever talking about the emotion behind it. It's like a badly written novel. When I was woeful over Marykate I'd talk about it endlessly, needing, more than air, to get back to her, all that pseudo-romantic bullshit, and she'd give me advice without ever talking about Marykate. One day we went for a walk and my mother asked me directly about being so sad all the time, about not being able to sleep. It's fucking painful to be honest to one's mother, I'm so worried she'll blame something on herself I told her the truth that as a kid, as she could remember, I was terrified of her and my father dieing so I had to sleep on the floor next to their bed, and then in 94 (honestly, I don't think it's related, it's just how I remember the year) when Kurt Cobain died and I went to Italy with my dad, I got sad. Really fucking sad. I haven't particularly gotten over it. I blame all Italians for my sadness. No, really.
well not really.



I miss there's nothing I do, really, that I can't imagine disappointing her a little bit. She keeps talking about grad school with me, and I'm going to go, just not for a few years. I want to be stupid and structureless for a while before going and getting a career I want to write stupid papers on slasher movies as libratory and on gay metaphor in Irish lit without any schedule and I wanna be able to stay up all night watching the L Word or Deadwood and not care about the text I've got to have done by the morning. Hell, I wanna upend all and fuck off to North Carolina on a whim my mother keeps telling me perfectly rational things about planning one's life out and doing things that will secure your future as soon as you can, and then fucking off once you've got something to fall back upon it just doesn't matter to me. It's so blatant that reason isn't the most significant.

I have a panic feeling when I'm reading novels. I feel like I have to finish them as fast as possible so I can get the whole narrative in and, tangentially, move on to the next. Doing this allows me basically no time for reflection or actual enjoyment. Generally I read novels twice, right away, in order to take my time the second reading. Thus: I just finished my second reading of David Mitchell's <i>Cloud Atlas</i> which I thought was quite good, gripping, in parts, and beautiful. The structure didn't exactly grip me. I've got sort of high standards for experimental structure in books, and just having the stories stop and start again in the second half of the book didn't really do it. It added to the overall point of the book, sure, but rather a bigger deal is being made of it than I think it warranted. Still, it's definitely damn good, and I'm going to look for <i>Ghostwritten</i> as soon as I've got the cash. Also, I saw Winterbottom's Tristram Shandy and wasn't exactly disappointed but it was just shorter than I thought it would be. I'm not sure at all how I feel about it well that's not entirely true. I thought it was good, for sure, and funny as all hell, well acted, the filming was good it was clever. I think it did everything that can be expected of it. It was 'postmodern' in all the right ways, I'm just not sure the emotional bits pulled themselves off. Steve Coogan's cute as hell.

The guy across the street: bye bye, bye BYE, bye bye. There's a movie where someone says that ... um fuck, it sounds JUST THE SAME, I can't remember it. I want to say The Fifth Element but it's not
I can't remember.