Bread and Bandages
11/13/2001
Ambien
11/13/01
I sweat the soundtrack I was going to stay up playing terrible games…obsessive word cubes squared. Tim refuses to stop until he wins, or absolutely loses, hits absolute zero. What game is this? What night is this? the air is not right to type a thing like this…it’s too stuffy, the air too full of stuff. Suddenly the creative potential with laptops hits me. I always thought they were for rich students and self-important business kids. But to be able to work on your creative output----the stuff you create….hereforeto be known as Swath, the stuff you create is swath. no matter what it is, it is swath if it is inspired by aesthetics, by imagination, by splendor. A sweater knit in some anonymous factory, in the blind dark, manipulated by machines, it is exponentially cloned. This is not swath. Skinny white girl crawling to the roof of her porch one night printing a t-shirt with paper adds from sidewalk trash. This is swath. And this music, Nick Drake, w/ a bit of Janice Joplin and Lady Day, it is swath-inducing music. And I want to swath. I want to create something so irrelevant as to require it’s own language. I want a roof hammock macramed of long strengthened strips of old pajama clothes. I want to smell salt-water again, and I think about keeping a jar of it on my desk to remind me….no damn beignets.
Dream weight forces my hand back towards games, dream sight relaxes my confidence. Perhaps I will win this tournament. I hear vodka as well, and I want to spiral down in a slinky cocoon. ¶ 10:17 PM 0 comments
I sweat the soundtrack I was going to stay up playing terrible games…obsessive word cubes squared. Tim refuses to stop until he wins, or absolutely loses, hits absolute zero. What game is this? What night is this? the air is not right to type a thing like this…it’s too stuffy, the air too full of stuff. Suddenly the creative potential with laptops hits me. I always thought they were for rich students and self-important business kids. But to be able to work on your creative output----the stuff you create….hereforeto be known as Swath, the stuff you create is swath. no matter what it is, it is swath if it is inspired by aesthetics, by imagination, by splendor. A sweater knit in some anonymous factory, in the blind dark, manipulated by machines, it is exponentially cloned. This is not swath. Skinny white girl crawling to the roof of her porch one night printing a t-shirt with paper adds from sidewalk trash. This is swath. And this music, Nick Drake, w/ a bit of Janice Joplin and Lady Day, it is swath-inducing music. And I want to swath. I want to create something so irrelevant as to require it’s own language. I want a roof hammock macramed of long strengthened strips of old pajama clothes. I want to smell salt-water again, and I think about keeping a jar of it on my desk to remind me….no damn beignets.
Dream weight forces my hand back towards games, dream sight relaxes my confidence. Perhaps I will win this tournament. I hear vodka as well, and I want to spiral down in a slinky cocoon. ¶ 10:17 PM 0 comments
11/05/2001
Another Vodka Moon and I Plead Insanity
11/05/01
1:36 AM
Another Vodka Moon
It is late, my ambien has kicked in, and I should go to bed, but, being me, I’m still up, typing. I feel wrong about this whole medical withdrawal thing, like I’m scamming someone, I’m just not sure who. Like, I’m not that bad, I’m not running naked through the streets or anything, I’m just……quietly waiting for death or a really long nap, whichever comes first. I’m not sure I’ve lost my goals so much as any desire or energy to obtain them. I know I won’t always feel this way. I know I won’t always feel this way, sometimes better or worse. That’s no great secret, but just as clearly I know that I’ll feel this way again too. And I hate it. And I know exactly why that singer jumped the window out because really, sometimes, what else is there to do? If you’re relatively successful with talent and a lover and it’s great except you hate every second of it….hate is much too intense a word….dread. I dread each second I have to keep living and also I am terrified of death, or at least my lack of control over it. The doctor asked if I’d ever had those panic attacks where you think you’re dying and go to the hospital and stuff. Of course I’ve had those, I just never cared. I spent my precociously morbid childhood actively seeking out death. My best friends were ghosts and my father his hands on his throat was he trying to kill me that time? What was the intent? I recall it as a single curiously calm moment.
How can I go to bed, how can I sleep with all this in my head, it scabbles me. Tell a story, tell one story you know well….
Dear Sir,
You never got to meet my boy-friend, Shane. I miss you, and the sense of discipline you loaned my life. That was something Dennis could not offer, something no-one else has ever offered, and perhaps that is what I found intolerable. ¶ 12:13 AM 0 comments
1:36 AM
Another Vodka Moon
It is late, my ambien has kicked in, and I should go to bed, but, being me, I’m still up, typing. I feel wrong about this whole medical withdrawal thing, like I’m scamming someone, I’m just not sure who. Like, I’m not that bad, I’m not running naked through the streets or anything, I’m just……quietly waiting for death or a really long nap, whichever comes first. I’m not sure I’ve lost my goals so much as any desire or energy to obtain them. I know I won’t always feel this way. I know I won’t always feel this way, sometimes better or worse. That’s no great secret, but just as clearly I know that I’ll feel this way again too. And I hate it. And I know exactly why that singer jumped the window out because really, sometimes, what else is there to do? If you’re relatively successful with talent and a lover and it’s great except you hate every second of it….hate is much too intense a word….dread. I dread each second I have to keep living and also I am terrified of death, or at least my lack of control over it. The doctor asked if I’d ever had those panic attacks where you think you’re dying and go to the hospital and stuff. Of course I’ve had those, I just never cared. I spent my precociously morbid childhood actively seeking out death. My best friends were ghosts and my father his hands on his throat was he trying to kill me that time? What was the intent? I recall it as a single curiously calm moment.
How can I go to bed, how can I sleep with all this in my head, it scabbles me. Tell a story, tell one story you know well….
Dear Sir,
You never got to meet my boy-friend, Shane. I miss you, and the sense of discipline you loaned my life. That was something Dennis could not offer, something no-one else has ever offered, and perhaps that is what I found intolerable. ¶ 12:13 AM 0 comments
