We’re all just fumbling in the dark — for a heart of hearts
October 2009
The Archives
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10.29.09omfg. aptbs.
Saw A Place To Bury Strangers tonight.
omfg.
Amazing show.
The good opening band, All the Saints:
There was a shitty opening band, it lasted for fucking ever. Then APTBS came on! He went fucking nuts, playing his guitar on the ground, throwing it all around the stage. I was srsly cumming in my pants.
Guitar shot-put:
Playing himself: at the end of the show after his guitar came unplugged, he put the cable in his mouth and used effects pedals to make music out of his ambient bioelectricity. Did I mention I’m in love?
I also recorded my favorite song, “To Fix The Gash In Your Head.” It’s on YouTube in HD. Unfortunately, the sound didn’t really come through very well.
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10.26.09woman in the bell jar
I haven’t been writing very often this week. I wanted to very much, but my family is starting to fall apart.
On Friday last week my uncle went absolutely nuts and screamed at my mother for about an hour.
My roomate just came in, so I can’t finish this post.
But basically, my mom isn’t going to take care of my uncle any more. He has to either get a home health aide or go to a home. He will not treat my mother like shit, and he will not send my grandmother to an early grave.
Next weekend is going to be totally awesome though. I’m going to see A Place To Bury Strangers and Junior Boys (<3!).
Some days, I'm glad my dad was an electrician. I have a good handyman side. in preparation for having a home health aide, my mom and I went to Lowe's and bought locking door knobs for every door upstairs.
I spent the entire weekend (no, seriously) working on my Spanish workbook that was due on Monday. I literally finished the last page at 9 PM on Sunday.
I had no time to do any work that I get paid for this weekend, so I'm trying to do it in between classes. It's not working well. I'll have all Thursday and Friday to work though.
This week I've mostly been listening to Juventud En Éxtasis and this fantastic song from the new Simian Mobile Disco album, Bad Blood. I think it’s the ultimate breakup song.
say I’m what I seem to be
and we left with something torn between
a moment’s love can be forgot
but a moment’s pain stains our cuffSay what you will about SMD, they have excellent lyrics.
Also, I ran a seven minute mile today at the gym. I rock. I was blasting The Presets so loud that everyone must have heard it, but I was in the fucking zone.
My ultimate in-the-zone song set is Discotraxx (such a beautiful and sad song, I listen to it all the time) to warm up, then the killer combo of This Boy’s in Love, and Together.
There’s always a moment during Together that I think I’m literally going to run so fast I leave my body behind. The song builds to a crescendo, and then the love of my life shouts:
Who do we think we are?
Running ’round all sweaty?
Baby I will wait for you
If we could be togetherSuch a lovely face
Such an ugly city
Baby I will wait for you
If we could be together foreverThat is my ultimate workout moment, and I had it today.
I guess running on the treadmills isn’t bad for my knees, ’cause they feel fine so far.
So the fallout from my uncle’s meltdown is that my mom moved downstairs. So no more blog posting, no more privacy. Basically, in three letters, FML.
I’m going to go distract myself with okcupid.
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10.21.09Inferno, Purgatorio, Paradiso: An Eternal Golden Braid
No Midnight Juggernauts tonight, it’s sold out. Which, I suppose, is better. I would have gotten home very late and I have to work on Thursday. I’m hanging in the library briefly, my class is in 17 minutes but it’s right across the way.
I’m still in a bit of a foul mood this week. Coming back to the city always puts me in better spirits though.
It was a beautiful day today, I ran 3/4 of a mile and then went to the gym to run two more miles. My knees feel ok, I guess.
I am barely treading water financially. I absolutely cannot buy anything this weekend. That damn Spanish workbook broke the bank, bringing the total cost of books and materials this class to an even $240. I will never. Never. Never. Get out of debt. Unless I work full-time during breaks. Which is probably what I’m going to end up doing.
Two minutes until class. Trying not to look at the smokin’ hot librarian at the reference desk. I can has librarian? He’s even in a cardigan.
I really don’t want to go to this class. I despise my teacher—he endlessly rants on about irrelevant personal garbage, like his support of capital punishment and his pedophiliac obsession with this child actor, Peggy Ann Garner. He’s the kind of person that the phrase “kiddie porn dungeon” was invented for.
Next week will be better. Next week will be A Place to Bury Strangers and Junior Boys.
I’m ditching class Nov. 23rd to see Royksopp. The semester will be nearly over by then. Fuck. I need to get this damn class over with.
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10.20.09we have always lived in the cocaine nights
I’m sorry
I haven’t felt like writing
Or rather I’ve felt like it
But wasn’t sure what to say.
It’s an auspicious day for technology.
A new e-book reader. A new multi-touch mouse. Quad-core processors in the new iMacs.
And yet, I’ve been watching Deep Space Nine nonstop.
Jadzia and Miles seem more real to me than anything.
I started reading the first few pages of Cocaine Nights. Ballard’s world is terrible and wonderful, the seductive underbellies of Cadiz and Riyadh.
I’d like to be anywhere but here right now.
Going to see the new Lars Von Trier movie on Friday. Antichrist. With Yevgeny. That’s pretty much the only thing getting me through this week.
I want de facto, not de jure, monogamy. Maybe I don’t even want that.
I want a lasting and meaningful relationship with someone.
The problem seems to be, that there are guys I want to fuck, and guys I could fall in love with.
They are rarely in the same body. Sex, for me, has to have a devious element. A subversive element. A dirty element. There has to be an element of sleaze to it.
Guys I’m in love with, I don’t want to fuck them. The thought of fucking the hell out of them—anal sex—is revolting to me. I feel like I’ve reached a point in my life where I wouldn’t give a shit if I never gave or received anal sex again, I wouldn’t mind at all. It’s just so—revolting. I mean, I could suck dick all day long, but anal is just—weird.
I just had a beer, maybe that’s why this has become so scatological. I suppose it’s better than my occasional maudlin burpings.
I can feel my heart breaking when I’m naked with a guy and he just doesn’t really turn me on the way he should, and I know I have feelings for him, and I know that it’s going to end. Some guys turn me on endlessly—even after I finish I’m ready for more. It would probably be indecent to name names, but you know who you are. I just wish I could couple my emotional responses to my sexual responses.
There are guys that I can have great sex with but that a relationship is out of the question, and there are guys that I feel like I could easily fall in love with (or have already fallen for) that I don’t click with sexually. I find it difficult to decode the calculus of desire, but it doesn’t have much to do with attractiveness—it’s many variables that I don’t understand myself.
A guy showing a tender side of himself—reading an old love letter—something to that effect, can endear himself to me in ways that are ordinarily impossible.
I don’t know what I’m trying to get at here. I’m feeling unhappy this week, although I’m doing much better at my studies (I finally logged into the Spanish supersite for that $160 book and have been doing a bunch of the exercises). But still, no good concerts this week. I’m probably going to miss Midnight Juggernauts on Wednesday, since I have Spanish until late. The earliest I can get to the city is 9:30. There’s four opening bands, but doors open super-early at 6pm. I can’t imagine it would all be over at 10 though, I’m going to try my hardest to make it. I adore Midnight Juggernauts, and I didn’t ask anyone to go with me.
Oh, weird, this is the first show I’ve gone alone to in a long time. It will be therapeutic.
I wish I was as good a writer as J.G. Ballard. All I need to do is be put in an internment camp for my childhood. Well, I guess you could call Crescent City an internment camp. You can burn that fucking place to the ground.
I am an only child.
I have no friends from primary school that I still talk to.
I have no friends from high school that I still talk to.
I have no friends from community college that I still talk to.If my experience with Jon taught me anything, it’s that I have a hard time empathizing with those that have strong connections with classmates and siblings.
Shit, I think I just broke my macbook’s power cord. I had it tangled up in my blankets and it was very hot, now it won’t charge my computer. Shit. It’d better work when it cools down. Or something.
I’ve been reflecting the past few weeks about how important it is to my personal mythos to be the outsider. I’m not sure if I’m really trying to be Meursault, but a large part of my identity is reflected in my aloofness, my inability to enjoy or understand the value place in things like the endless discussion of sports, network TV, etc.
It’s just the the feelies, the orgy porgy, and the centrifugal bumblepuppy. We all have our mindless distractions, but when we have nothing to talk about but distractions, I think there’s something seriously wrong with our society.
If I ever base my life around network television, kill me. I’m serious. I do not want to live a life where I can’t wait until the next episode of Dexter.
Cut my head off and stick it on a pike as a warning to the next ten generations that stupidity comes with too high a price. Look up into my lifeless eyes and wave. *waavvee*
Nearly everything that other people do, I put in the category of “distraction.” Distractions from the immense power of the rich, distractions from how much every aspect of our lives gives more control and power to those who have money.
I want to live to see the day where we storm the Lower East Side and kill every single hedge-fund manager.
I get my story back tomorrow. I hope I got a good grade, but I doubt it. I despise that story now.
I feel gross, I’m going to take a shower.
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10.16.09so many to give and give in
I feel lost in a maze of status, consumer goods, PR, drugs, and desire. I don’t want to wake up alone tonight. But I fear I will. They’re playing Le Tigre at Mondo.
That was the beginning of a draft I wrote two weeks ago on my phone. I didn’t end up posting it. But sometimes, waking up with someone can feel even more lonely than waking up alone.
For your consideration: Reduce Your Emotional Involvement.
We’re not breaking up. Well, I suppose in a way we are. It’s just that at this point, you know, I’m really getting to know San Francisco well, you know?
Like—you know a good restaurant in every neighborhood?
It’s kind of like that—I mean—I’ve only lived here a year, you know, I want to be exploring the city and stuff and do it on my own.
So we’re not going to have sex any more?
Yes, we’ll still have sex, and do this, but just with less emotional involvement.
So you want me to…reduce my emotional involvement level?
I guess. That sounds so clinical.
Well, you are a geneticist.
Okay, fuck it. I’m done with this shit. It’s like I’m writing a detailed description of an emotional car-crash.
I thought that I would be okay with a relationship where we weren’t exclusive. I thought that I could be in a relationship where we could see other people if we wanted.
But now
We’ve gone to a FUCKING BRAVE NEW WORLD OF INSENSITIVE BULLSHIT
We’re going to continue to fuck, to hang out, to do everything, but we’re not—dating—any more.
No, no, it’s not just a matter of semantics. We’ll just be friends.
Friends? Really. Friends.
I can see “let’s not say we’re dating, let’s say we’re seeing each other, we’re involved, we’re going out, we’re romantically linked.”
But no. It’s just nothing. It’s an unseen ghost of a phenomenon. And the major reason it’s not seen? It’s because you’re the only one fucking seeing it. There is no relationship. If you can’t even fucking pretend that we’re going to still be seeing each other next month, what’s the fucking point?
WHAT IS THE FUCKING POINT?
And then that’s the perfect time to be thinking behind the carefully calculated mask of my smile “I think I’m in love with you.”
BECAUSE NO. BECAUSE THAT’S NOT WHAT YOU’RE FUCKING SUPPOSED TO BE THINKING GOD DAMN IT
What does that even mean? I don’t know what it means, but it means more than I’d rather not see you get hit by a bus. Maybe it means that I care what happens to you and I like spending time with you and I wish we could spend more time together
and maybe form some kind of important emotional bond
to grow together, to recognize what we love and hate about each other
but there’s that same old word
Far be it from me to be a closet romantic
BUT FUCK FUCK MOTHER FUCK I AM SICK OF THIS MOTHERFUCKING POMO BULLSHIT
JUST FUCKING SAY IT.
IF YOU’RE DEAD INSIDE AND THAT’S ALL YOU HAVE TO GIVE, JUST FUCKING OWN IT
IF YOU’RE AFRAID OF GETTING YOUR HEART BROKEN YOU’RE IN THE WRONG FUCKING BUSINESS
BECAUSE DATING FUCKS YOU UP.
It took me three years to get over Andrew. Did I ever really get over him? Hell fucking no. I’ll always be in love with Andrew, and that pain doesn’t get less over time, it gets bearable, more tolerable, like a backpack that’s so heavy when you put it on but after a few minutes you don’t even notice it.
But what does that make me think about him? That relationships are like a festively colored kite, that once you’re done just let slip slip of the finger and there it goes
I can barely see it up there
Like a cormorant, far far away—swallowed in the interstellar void
Never to return again.
But that’s not how human beings feel.
Note that last word? F-E-E-L.
It’s a fire that’s ignited in you that never goes out, it seethes and boils in zero-gravity and rolls all over everything.
I don’t know what love is, but I want someone that cares for me. Someone that I can count on. Someone who has a vested interest in the choices I make. Someone that I can know will be there.
Not this time-card-punching easy-come-easy-go kind of shit. I can see why Craigslist is so popular. It’s the be-all end-all of instant gratification.
Cock.
Suck.
Now.
42.
Daly City.
And you’re fucking there, your tongue roving around his disgusting asshole, and you’re wondering why you’re doing this. You’re wondering when he’s going to cum. You’re wondering why the fuck you’re here in the first place? And then you hear the Academy. The applause drifts on waves of lube-scented air as you plow your cock into him. You’re the best the world has ever seen. “Oh yeah. You want that cock don’t you. Oh yeah, oh fuck, I’m going to CUUUUUUUUUUUM” An elaborately-dressed woman from the third row throws a long-stemmed rose at you, Beyonce waves from the balcony.
A fantastic performance, Minnie Driver yells, uncomfortably close to you now. No one could have done it better.
You take your shower, you get it out of your head, and you go on.