Back (I'm back)

10.18.09

me: david wojnarowicz has me thinking about my mortality so insanely

8 minutes

8:00 PM Joe: In what direction? Insane mortality can take you to a lot of places...

8:02 PM me: his ability to articulate how meaningful it all is and how conversely and simultaneously meaningless is pretty unbelivable

plus watching the progression from a cavalier highly sexualized young person to a dying individual is profound

8:03 PM your journals are important joe

i always thought they were over the top

but they're not

8:04 PM
Joe: ...which ones are you referring to? Over the top?

8:05 PM me: like, i always thought it was extreme how intent you were upon documenting your life through your journals

but it's not

Joe: I feel like I do a pretty pathetic job of actually writing in my journal - but in theory I think it's very, very important

8:10 PM me: there's this great passage in teh book where one of david's friends dies and after the memorial they go back to his house and david lies out all the photos of the man who dies on the floor and he's with kiki smith and they try to put on this albumand waltz to dance for the dead but david keeps tripping over her feet so they seperate for a second and then kiki puts her hands in the air and they start spinning and spinning and spinning

and laughing and falling

8:11 PM Joe: Is it making you want to write?

8:12 PM Edit the arc of your narrative?

me: of course

it makes me want to pin down experiences

and hold them to something

8:13 PM some plateau of meaning

and then at the same time just not hold anything to any idea of truth or sigifigance but just spin around alot and see what happens

8:14 PM it makes me feel alone

and it's good

2.15-2.22 (Various Excerpts from my CA Journal)

It's really hot here and I'm scared I'm going to get fried alive. If my feet get sunburned it'll be bad.

I tried to eat an orange but it had too many seeds.

Sunday was Valentine's Day. I think I'm getting pretty good at exorcising drama from my life. Didn't call any of my ex's or any of the guys I'm currently fucking.

I guess if sex stops being about this mutual knowledge it becomes as perfunctory as procreation and that's boring.

I think my parents are shrinking. Which in and of itself is sort of strange.

Things I could do with my Life:

1. Become a Professor

2.Start a music publicity company

3. Organize Events

4. Move to the middle of nowhere and become a recluse

5.Do art advising

Day 2: 9:30am

Awaiting toothpaste. Didn't get too sunburned. Phone is perpetually dying. Managed to sneak around smoking cigs when I woke up. Took a shit and a shower. Sitting outside, super warm. I think my allergies are bothering me. Dreamt of y last night. Super weird. Maybe I'm dreaming of a domesticity I don't know how to access. I think I'll write alot today.

2.21

Kind of cold to write but I will. Sitting on the corner of 21st and Valencia in SF. It's raining, listening to Magnetic Fields. Have been trying to see Meg for 3 days, she's totally mia. I dunno, I don't want to care, but I do. Had a pretty nice day walking around. Didn't eat anything, wasn't really hungry. Went out for a super expensive dinner last night. Won't have any money when I get back.

Money and food are boring.

It's pretty moody here- cold and rainy. The city feels real but lacks. Can't explain it? I could but that's boring too. I bought Alaina an old man zine, spying on senior citizens or something.

Is my writing becoming akin to one long awful text message?

chrewths

I read this thing L.A wrote the other day about how she's never content writing about anything but her own waxes and wanes. Which I felt pretty hard when I was reading it. I REALLY want to write about this Josh Smith show. And I REALLY want to write about alot of the music I've been listening to. And I REALLY want to write about how my great grandmother died.

But I can't. Or at least, I don't really want to. I guess it's just not really as interesting to me as the often morose, sometimes hilarious, always intense permutations of my own brain. Like the status of my period, and which guy I'm seeing, and how dirty my sheets are and what my cat's shit smells like, and how often I shit, who said what to who is often more facinating then the deconstruction of painting through repitition and forced deaestheticazation. Although I do like the show and Josh a lot. Possibly because I think he realizes that his body and life are greater than the sum of any number of paintings he could create.

Maybe I just took too much benadryl today and I can't think about anything. I ate some sweet potatoes. I'd like to think that the mundane details of my life would be eclipsed by some grand sweeping overarching concepts. Maybe I'm completely neurotic and anxious, true enough, but I think the option to let go of my ideas about what people should think about all day all night might be an altogether freeing one. Which is not to say I'm unintelligent- possibly self-indulgent, but more just interested in the "mundane" human functions of myself and those that surround me as an idea of life. Being alive doesn't have to involve a meta inquisition into other peoples thoughts and outputs- but can be the practice of involving yourself in the action of living to those that surround you.

I guess that's altogether meta in and of itself.

I'm losing my job. The gallery is closing. Maybe I'm completely numb right now but I really have little to say about that. I was ready. I will be ready?

9.5.09

Maybe I'm not partaking in the right substances. I used to be pretty good at procuring a wide selection before I got old and pussied out. Maybe that's the key. Choose your outlets of asphyxiation wisely. The wrong ones will only serve to worsen your mood- and not dull the edges quite as potently as is necessary for long grey periods. I'm not even capable of black anymore. Ah, 24.

In actuality, I would like to start keeping time. Preserving the month of 17 when I ran on my dad's treadmill every night for an hour and a half and then chain smoked outside after my parents went to sleep. The afternoon I was 21 when I read Rules of Attraction straight thru because I was trying intently to figure out which character was my 40 year old bosses best friend. It was snowing. The weeks Joe and I were on Greyhound. The first cigarette I smoked with Jen. Two nights ago when I ate weed cornbread and went to Victor's at 3am.

These are some pretty disconnected periods of time to pinpoint. However, not all time is the same size. Most of it is shaped quite differently in fact. All of it should bear some sort of evidence but mostly it gets lost and untethered.

I would like to keep all this time in the same box I keep my substances and swallow them when I wanted to go back to these moments. Time is addictive and altogether holy.

This post, while vague, was written after reading about an upcoming show at Canada called Spaced Out/On Time. It opens the 11th.

Different Levels of Exhaustion

1. I just ate lots of food and now my stomach is working to digest it and I'm pretty cold and drowsy. I'm sitting back and thinking about when I will shit.
2. I did lots of speed last night and the back of my eyes hurt because I had that kind of sleep that never comes.
3. I have not slept in over 3 days and my brain has gotten really loose and it's sort of weird and difficult to form sentences because I think about where the words should go alot. I am cold.
4. I took some sort of various substance to help me sleep valium tylenol pm xanax and now I am that hungover on sleep. My body feels so heavy.
5. I just woke up from a nap in the middle of the day in the sun and I feel really warm and I reach around for my cat and all my sheets are clean and there's a back facing my lips and I kiss some random area that is not an erogenous zone nor do I want it to be.

the winter of my lazy discontent

I have been mildly discontented lately, or possibly just bored. most likely the latter, i'm sort of happy these days. maybe i'm just hungover. if you don't expect something big huge and exciting- well-

I don't know how I get bored- sometimes i just can't DO anything. So, I'm sitting at my desk and the breeze is passing through my window, tons of new yorkers and a tauba book and some acorns and a couple pens, a d.a.p catalogue, some cards meg sent me a while ago about aderall, a bard curatorial studies master's brochure, con ed bills i haven't paid for a while. everything's just Piling Up. sometimes i wish everything happens the way it does in cartoons- when you run, dust would kick up behind you, when you think something, a lightbulb appears over your head. small moments would become more interesting if they were accompanied by overt physical manifestations. my passport is there. i should use my passport in january. i should run away for a minute. a zine joe made this summer at the ben jones sunday school at deitch. when i move again i'll pack up the stuff up and it will arrange itself differently in a new location without my approval. i wonder when i'll stop moving for good.