|Wednesday, September 1st, 2004|
11:16a - A Summer With Passion, A Fatal Attraction, What's Left Of The Magic We Felt In The Springtime?
Love in December
(I will always love you)
I will always remember
A summer with passion
A fatal attraction
(I will always love you)
Colours are fading like the leaves in November
What's left of the magic
We felt in the springtime?
The ultimate disgust is proven, in the end, when people vomit on their shoes. My wounds speak to me this way-- little moist mouths telling me the secrets of all the world followed by a lecture of how I may as well have gotten stitches and offers to use superglue. I like that when no one else is awake there's still something I can pretend is interested enough in me to talk all night.
( it's only when I lose myself in someone elseCollapse )
Isn't it odd when you realise that you can't tell what you feel? I find these days it is hard to get excited about little else than bug-spray and air freshener. Reminds me a bit of Babyland. That stout little man in his football helmet, screaming and spraying aerosol just because he's as neurotic as the rest of us.
A strange quiet has settled over the house since I returned home. Absence of roommates, or guests, but tonight my music seems a little bit louder. Part of me likes it, but the other part of me is reminded why things are quiet. In the day time, in Disneyland, at the New Orleans train station, you can barely hear the automated conductor. At night, when it is cool and the trees are alight with all of the fake fireflies, you can hear everything. When it's calming down and drawing to a close, it's all crystal-clear. Just like the way I wandered away from everyone else to be alone and experience this sort of solace in the magic kingdom. That's how it feels tonight. Pull my collar up and focus on the quick taps of my heels on the cobblestones as I rush to the exit. This may very well be closing time.
For my twentieth birthday, I was given a book by Plath. Collection of short stories and such, and when I first read it, I hated it because it seemed so common, and they seemed like a collection of scraps that might have been something if given the proper time and attention. Most of it still makes me want to beat someone's face, but there are a couple of stories (aren't there always?) that I have grown to really like, read over at least a hundred times since May.
Everything I have ever really loved always begun as something I despised in the most particular and malicious fashion.
A lot of the time when people have convictions, and they honestly desire to be something that they didn't begin as, they are talked about as such: "She fancies herself a [designer, satan worshipper, poet]." That said... what sort of sense does that make, or does it make the most sense of all? She fancies herself? She likes herself as a [designer, satan worshipper, poet]? Is that the only way she likes herself? If so, why poke fun by saying something so condescending as that? Sometimes the only things people have are their dreams, and if they are able to [fancy, appreciate, love] themselves when they are trying to live out whatever meager dream they have, why must everyone else be so spiteful in the beginning stages? It could bloom to be something wonderful.
This month's frog is on a skateboard, and the Wiggles are in full swing for September, all four of them. I don't know what's going on with the downstairs calendar (or even if it is still there, for that matter) but I'm sure that one of the Hindu gods is looking mighty fine in print.
( it's out of styleCollapse )
When I came home today, Sydney told me about the roommates. She said she felt really bad and that she was sorry-- but she can't control it or them. She also said she wanted to help me clean my room (which I will not let her, or anyone else, do, because I am a paranoid freak and obsessed with my things and privacy) but she went on to say, 'And we'll clean the downstairs, too.' I told her that wasn't necessary, but she is here all the time, and she likes me and she loves her boyfriend and she wants our house to be pretty and nice. She is a rare gem, and I wish there were some way I could communicate this to her. Damon, too. He cleans a lot. He's also really bent on sticking around. I feel bad, because while it is not my mess that he cleans, I feel like I should clean, too. My parents ruined me that way-- they were so bent on making me clean up my brother's mistakes that I want to wash my hands of any mess ever, and keep my own mess to myself, which is what I have done. When was the last time I used the kitchen or a single dish without washing it? That's the point. In the real world, you have to clean up other peoples' messes unless you want to be stuck in squalor.
I feel like I am in the way, and I would rather not be. I would rather just say goodbye. That's cold. I am cold, I guess.
Oh, injury. What a nasty wound... here, let me see?
I miss the days of headphones and boomboxes, the days where my father would throw socks at my door because I was so absorbed in all of the music I listened to that I didn't realise how loud I got. Now, loud isn't even a question because I was never the loud one in this place. Not since I came back-- and it just goes to show that nothing will ever be the same if you leave it for long enough. Five years have made me humble and quiet, and now I find that I barely have the strength to shout the way I used to. I used to burn with the fire of Inferno and now I am mere kindling. It's funny-- when people say 'eat my dust', it turns literal. We all begin with a fire inside, and the more peoples' 'dust' we 'eat', the quicker our fire is suffocated. I must have eaten a lot of dust in my time. I could name them, but I have reconciled with some, and that would only make me feel bad later-- to badmouth them now.
This is what makes me so thankful for music-- they scream so I don't have to. I can just sit back, mouth closed, and feel. This is why I hate that people are so awful to each other. If you can listen to a song written by a complete stranger and feel as though it was something you had written, or was meant to write, your feelings are universal in a sense, and it feels wrong to be alone, because no one ever really is.
When I open my mouth, I'm so brutally honest
And I can't expect that kind of love from you
When you open your mouth, your teeth are beautifully polished
And I can't extract the pain you're going through
No, I can't explain the pain you're going through
...I thought that you were wise
But you were otherwise
I always felt so beautiful and justified when I turned certain melodies up past noise-ordinance volume, particularly when I was still working at the bookstore. I rarely got home shy of one am, and all I wanted to do was listen to the music that freed me from my bonds and somehow worked the kinks out of my shoulders by allowing me release. This is why I feel guilty about what I am doing now. So, I am writing lyrics, so I am singing... do I play? No. Do I do much of anything? No. I still like to feel as though my singing means something even if it doesn't, and why? Other peoples' voices have always been important to me, maybe. I knew I wanted to get my very dry voice out there after I heard that Shirley Manson was picked up by people who thought her voice would 'fit well' with what they had already written. Eventually, she took it into her own hands, played her own things, and then got aggravated.
'I hate that everyone thinks [my bandmates] are these musical geniuses, and I am just some doltish trollop!' she said. That's paraphrased, but the message is clear-- she can play, she can hold her own, and I am that doltish trollop. Trollop, charity case, what have you. I hate it and I wish I had the nerve to actually play an instrument. I hate nerves though-- without them, I wouldn't wake shivering in the night after having felt a spider crawl over my face. Perhaps I should just get rid of all of my nerves and just admit to being a no-talent freeloader who is riding on the tailcoats of someone who can actually do things. It's futile, though. The temptation of being a part of something, even partially collaborative is too much for me. The fact that I can say, 'Yes, that is me' even if the vocals aren't anything special is exciting. A lot of vocals that weren't anything special were still special words in application, and I think that is what keeps me going, above all. That, and the fact that James has faith in me even though he shouldn't.
In the beginning, it was all strangers and now it is all people who have experienced me and it makes my head spin. I honestly cannot understand anyone who wants to associate with me or keep me in their life. I offer no answers, no solace, no help. It's confusing because I come from the school where, if you are considered a friend, it is because you have done something for someone else. My mother was talking to me about a week ago... "You know... for someone that's broke, you sure get around."
I wanted to die when she said that. It's true. These opportunities come from nowhere, and yet they still come, and why? Am I worth it? No. Perhaps it is morbid curiosity. I will forever regard it as completely strange that one tiny turn of events can turn peoples' lives upside down. If you had never done that, I would have never done this and what have you. It's all so very confusing.
I don't expect anything-- my faith is diminished, finally. I have learned not to expect, but merely to hope. Just to let you know, I think Keanu Reeves is great especially because he gets so much shit, and even so, he just keeps on doing his own thing. People love to make fun of him, but he just walks around all gawky and oblivious, and I love it. I hope that if I am ever famous, I will be the same way. Just all gawky and oblivious the way I am now-- ditzy even. That would satisfy me, I think.
With all of the things I ever felt might be productive, I can't help but not be surprised when it all amounts to nothing. Every stride, every breath, every meaningless thought directed at someone else. I can't even bring myself to be brave enough to say it but I think this time might be different. Why? Just for the simple reason that I am not where I need to be. The lines between want and need are often blurred, but I can finally tell the difference.
This sounds like everything I have ever said before but I don't care-- carrying one message may prove more normal in the end just because poets, and songwriters and everyone else has, at one point, had a primary message, and to me, if you can go through all of those motions with same unadulterated message, that is special.
I used to know all of the steps but now I am lonely. I am a child again. I could count all of them, knew my way in the dark but now it is alien, only proof that one can indeed adjust to anything.
Home, where love remains
Through all the years, through all the change
The sweetest dreams I've ever known
Are those of you, and those of home
I will always be at home around the wail of the electric guitar, it will always make me feel loved and wonderful and worthy of being cinematic. If it started when I was four, why should it stop? If ever I should become rich, I will hire someone to play electric guitar for me until I fall asleep. It will be a job, they may get tired, but if I am rich I will reward them and I will sleep like a child. So innocent and undisturbed and beautiful it will be. It will remain church bells and all of the other wonderful sounds offered in this world of nothing more, I will finally feel peace.
Who asked you?
Who wants you?
Who needs you?
Who cares about you?
Who talks to you?
Who hears you?
Who made you....
The king of my heart?
"Where did you get those earrings?" Sydney asked me.
"Oh... New York," I said. I felt like I would have a nervous breakdown.
"They're hella pretty," she said. She looked at them in detail.
They are, but now they are tarnished like everything else. I wish this could be a department store. I was on my way and I hate you for ruining it even though you weren't the guy-- you were the accomplice, you were just aiding and abetting, and yet you tore me away. Take me away. I have stopped wearing a bra because I am like a pirate's treasure-- sunken chest... or maybe I am bohemian. Either way, that is weird. I have never done that before. I never got it before, either. I never understood chicks that didn't wear them. I thought they had something wrong with them. This time something may be wrong with me. I look at the pictures and really have a hard time believing that yes I was on the East Coast and yes I was with Rae. Holy shit! That is so cool.
Rae is all hella beautiful and I still have a hard time believing I met her cos it seemed so natural... wow. I want to be beautiful, too. I have to learn what it takes.
I have had my share of heartbreak and at the moment it is staring me in the face with huge, goggly eyes. Why is it that love has to be oh so very complicated? It makes me sad.
You can say what you want,
But it won't change my mind
I feel the same about you
And you can tell me your reasons
But it won't change my feelings
I feel the same about you
I am wanted in Humboldt, and I am wanted here and in Sunnyvale and god knows where else. The preacher's like the crow, and he knows I'm gonna stay. In Californ-I-A, with Parrot Bay and all of that shit. I really have grown farther-- I HATE MY LIFE.
current mood: upsets
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