Now old Wicked Dickie is dead
Wicked Dickie done died
I wrote a bunch of lyrics on the plane ride from Houston to Oakland and I am really satisfied with all of them. Somehow, they all flow so well, and I wrote a very Abhez-esque small chorus. I could recite it over and over and it still seems like it is too good to be my own. That sounds really arrogant, but I have not been satisfied with my own writing in a long time. It's been modified, edited, beaten to match for so long that something that truly comes from within as an expression seems a treasure to me even if no one can agree. Perhaps because what springs from the heart as my own, as uninhibited, intrigues me because my casings have told me it is not in fashion wearing heartache on one's sleeve.
So I am back from Jersey. It feels strange. I took on a life there that is not mine, and now I am back to plain old Katie and I feel just as lame as ever. Stephen was nice enough to pick me up from the airport and then I changed into glam clothes in the back of his car, and off we went to Death Guild. I wasn't feeling it. No one was. Whatever.
James came out and everyone had a funny conversation with a less-than-sober Lars. That trip made me realise how fucking out of the loop I am. Priorities? What a joke. I'm just the worst friend on the face of the planet, and sometimes I can't even tell I am being that way. The evil puppeteer. So many little things that people say and do that make me feel like I am not worth living. P.L.U.R.
I killed a bunch of ants when I got home and it made me feel so satisfied. It reminds me of that story about the boy who got the shit beaten out of him by bullies, his father, could never please his mother-- so he burned a spider and he had never felt better. I wouldn't burn a spider to death, but it's respect. It's the shady details and inside jokes. It's the way I feel like damaging myself because I was too idiotic to write down the wonders of my trip that my mind will swallow for all time.
Leif told me a secret about something he recently purchased and it made me feel like the queen of the world. A comment was made around noon Monday morning about nostalgia-- about sentimentality. Involved parties said that they were not much for nostalgia, and it made me think of how I am a junkie for it. Rae gave me .75 cents in quarters and I put them in a baggie with the hoop earring case I bought there and I have every intention of turning it into a locket as soon as I get a chance because I am obsessed with nostalgia and sentimentality, which explains the museum of my room. Stickers from bands I saw at shows when I was 12 where we would have to juggle which moms would drop us off and pick us up. I can't imagine how anyone throws out anything with sentimental value. I suppose it just means that others are stronger than I am, or maybe just less sappy.
"I'm not really in the mood to 'crank it.'"
I got these sunglasses for a dollar. A dollar at a strip-mall that is just like a strip-mall anywhere except that it was everywhere to me. Slut shoes and tacky clothing and diners and vom and glam and hella and beer and concoctions. Not falling asleep in hoop earrings. Burning in sleep, so hot you sweat, but so comfortable that it doesn't matter. Melding and melting. Cat In The Hat pillowcases and comforters. Arm-warmers and walking and New York and Philly and stupid clubs and livejournal. Dead cows and fat people and pickles and fake cheese. Thinking and burning, working and earning, living and yearning.
I fear witty people because the witty ones are the dangerous ones. Their words, so witty, so well-timed... they seem false and it makes me want to scream. I want to believe, but I want to scream. Rae impressed the fucking hell out of me because she is so smart and well-rounded. My being there and listening to her among all of her friends was merely a testament to how I am a hick. My whole family lineage is that way-- all they care about is booze and winning horseshoe competitions and she is so smart and well-spoken and though things often regressed to jokes about fat people and the word 'dick' it was still clear.
The first time in ten days.
The first time in ten days.
The first time in ten days... and I am unhinged.
The gun show. Are you going to the gun show? Let me tell you about the gun show. Basically, one time, I was watching this show called Singled Out that used to be on MTV, and one of the male candidates was trying to win the affections of the more or less 'blindfolded' female contestants, and he asked her if she was going to the gun show. He then flexed [his 'guns']* and said, "Because it's RIGHT HERE."
I thought that was funny and never had an opportunity to use it until I was in Jersey. Along with "Will someone be my mother?" and "I need a slut." References that I didn't [and maybe still don't] get. I loved being a part of it, though. I loved being something that I wasn't-- perhaps something I was not meant to be. Not that it mattered-- my shrimp scampi was eaten and I laughed. Water ice and scrapple and traffic circles. It was honestly everything to me. Every detail.
This trip was something I could never live again, would never live again. My age, my years, the days, they passed by as if they were mere and they were priceless and yet they passed. And here I am now looking back upon faded photographs of jewels and trying to tell anyone who will listen about my adventures. They were few and many all at once. They sent vibrations along the strings of my heart that I feared were long since broken-- no-- my chords were just played in the same sequence for so long that certain strings were neglected and now that I know the beauty of those strings... it is hard for me to imagine a tune of life without them.
It was all maybes and nevers and now that it is now has-beens, and yeah-rights, I feel like tragedy. I may be inappropriate, but we pay attention. We know the red flags and while caution reduces passion I would rather be less passionate than cause a load of trouble. It's all over too fast. Everything is.
I hate myself. I am a sentimental cock-head.