All this knitting is making my head spin. MMMMMmm.
but when you said
but when you said she hated me
it stung like a slap
and
left 8 shades of bruised regret
blossoming on my astounded cheek
no surprise.
i woke up knowing
that though flies see
with many eyes
cling to any old thing
fly straight to the stars
they are maggot-born
and trash-bred
and even i would
smash them dead.
fuck that shit it's disgusting.
found random thing i wrote when i was very young.
"when they kiss, it is like an eclipse--slow but inevitably sure."
i like that sentence somehow. i wrote some fucked up things as a kid. geeeezzzz.
until we go the way of all flesh
My commie heart explodes with guilt.
You ever come across stuff, and once you touch them or hold them or place them upon your guilty crown you realise "this is gonna be with me until I die?"
Hats, ladies and gentlemen. Since I've shorn off my locks, I've realised how much I loved them.
What better invention was there for the human head? Fuck helmets, I want a bowler derby.
I've been getting musicks nonstop for the past few days now. Insomnia begets progress.
Mostly Nujabes stuff, and Black Rebel Motorcycle Club.
Also some misc. Lady Gaga shit, because I'm crushing hard.
I set my laptop to UK spelling sometime in Hong Kong because I was paranoid about spelling errors in class, but now I'm afraid I'll have to switch back and I can't recall how. Huh.
Thinking the Other Day
Was thinking the other day about this stuck up OC hipster crowd.
I mean, it seems like if you wanna talk to somebody or do anything or get in anywhere you gotta know somebody first. And I don't get it.
I used to get it, before I went to HK. Now, HK was my first experience being on my own and really, I mean really, socialising with people and experiencing all those various consequences and benefits.
Little did I know that my jaunt to HK might well have been a jaunt to the moon. As on the moon, nothing in HK fell with quite the same gravity. People seemed to talk to each other with little introduction, to bond, to connect, to kiss and to fuck and break up all in the same breath. As if none of the usual shit mattered.
And I wonder, as many do, why can't we bring that home? What's wrong with that? I was watching Transformers today, and it's such a typical "boy too lame to get into girl's pants" story. But I wonder if it's outdated in the here and now. I mean, are we still playing by those rules? Perhaps in Buttfuck, Wyoming, but here, really?
Do we still chain ourselves to those same systems of consequences? Do we still judge each other by those same rudimentary and superficial guidelines? Must we still judge?
What are we, animals?
People tell me all the time that race is a social construct. Sex is a social construct. Social classes, tribes, cliques, groups, socially constructed to divide, to unify, to group, to classify. Therefore null and void, therefore unimportant.
But we cannot extricate ourselves from these systems, from these myriad networks. We participate in them wholeheartedly, whether academic or wholly ignorant. To even participate in the argument is to subscribe to a network which believes that anyone who willingly participates in these "socially constructed" systems is a bigot or something.
Roberts criticised me for thinking that sterile hypothetical academic debates were useless. He told me to get out of politics then.
Well, maybe that's what's wrong with teaching kids politics in the first place. We study all kinds of perspectives and ideologies with which to view the world, as if it were a painting or a book.
But the 6 billion people on earth do not typically view the world from these viewpoints. They exist within social constructs, they live and breath sex and race and sexism and racism and hate and love and all that mess, all together.
To try to place yourself somewhere outside of that is to study something else entirely, to devote yourself to serving the Utopian instead of the dystopian, the devolving, the degrading society in which we were born today.
To ignore that some people are actually alright with being ignorant is to be just as ignorant. To criticise the Crusades with bladed tongue is to be yourself some kind of Crusader.
Sorry for the rant. In other news, gonna try and cop my girly's moves. She can dance so well. I dreamed about volcanoes last night and swore I felt the burn of those flying rocks like lava on my fingertips.
What does it mean when your dreams are more real than your reality? I was raped the other night in my head. It was just as traumatising.
Where do these terrifying thoughts come from? Is there a dark place inside my consciousness that wishes to do me in? I have never been more hurt than by my own self.
Rapture
After about a week, I finally finished the first 20 rows of this bitch. This ain't some bitch's regular stockinette knit shit. It's got all kinds of directions in it, all kinds of holes, all kinds of shapes. This is the kind of stuff you look at while you're knitting and cry softly into the wool.
I'm going to take a break from it and work on my beanie now. Two beanies perhaps. Even a turtle. A brainless fucking turtle.
In other news, my mother is still insane. It's a hot day, and the woman is obsessed with cooking a masterpiece for dinner tonight.
I'm a simple kind of person. I don't expect a lot of food, really. I like boiled spinach and some fish. I like roast garlic and a toast baguette. I eat some yoghurt for brekkie.
My mother tells me I'm putting on weight and then yells at me if I don't eat. She cooks for ten people at a time for a family of three very picky and light eaters. We end up throwing the food out every week. It's absolutely ridiculous. She throws tantrums if we don't eat, telling us we're wasting food, or that we eat out too much.
Truth is mum, when I'm out I really don't eat that much. Geez.
ermine furs adorn imperious
I've been knitting the same three inches of scarf for the past week. I keep on ripping out rows. It's always the little things I fuck up on. A yarnover here, a missed stitch there. 2 knit stitches instead of 3, so on. so on. It's a complicated checkerboard lace pattern, and I'm knitting with very fine dark blue yarn. If I can just focus it would be beautiful.
I saw my girly today. I can't wait to go out tomorrow night to Pistol. It will be my first time clubbing since Cassie's last night in HK. It will not be as mad, as drunken, as disappointing, but I shall enjoy it.
Lately I have been thinking only of material things, and the thought is depressing. I think day in and day out about clothes and shoes and makeup and it frightens me. My head is empty, empty, empty.
Last night I saw Memo and find myself more and more comfortable with him, able to open up, talk about more than pleasantries, reveal the throbbing sadness and disappointment I always feel just below the surface, groundwater in the blistering sand. I don't know what exactly it is I want out of this besides sex and attention. Maybe that's it. It's such a new feeling. I've never been indifferent about dating anyone. I've always been head over heels. Since HK I've been seeing relationships and love in an entirely new light. I used to think that I couldn't have sex with someone if I wasn't in love. And then that whole thing with Roberts happened.
What had happened, I think, was that I had talked myself out of falling for him. These days I think I can talk myself into and out of anything.
I believe what makes me a great actor is that in my life I am acting every single moment, that I possess no genuine feeling or emotion that motivates my actions or words. Yea, my words motivate my emotion. It's ludicrous and ludicrously complicated to describe.
I often wonder if I wasn't really in love with Emmanuel; I wonder if he was just there at the right time and had fit relatively well into that vague man-shape I needed. If, by mistaking my lust and my neediness and my excitement, I created something like love, maybe even love itself, for him.
If I quelled all the temptations, those numerous temptations, because I felt my increasing boredom was my own fault and not his.
When I spoke to him I broke out in tears, but as soon as I hung up they would cease, I would be silent and empty. Was it real? It scares me to think on it. Was any of it real?
Am I real? I mean my personality and my words, my traits, my reactions, are they really and truly mine or am I like some preposterous mirror or parrot.
Uggghhh. I have lost so many words since coming back. Right now, I've got such an anger inside I can't seem to find the words to describe it, and that maddens me further. I just want to punch somebody. I want to hit myself. I want to steep myself in violence and smoulder into smoke.