fresh blood

i've been mentally preparing for a weekend of strange, mind-bending fun; consequently i've been wandering around the vaults of erowid again for the first time in a long while. check them out if you've got an hour or two - there's something fun for everyone - promise!

reading the trip reports really brought me back - suddenly i became a strange, morbid teenage girl again, trapped in my parent's stuffy den. a boring box of a room decorated with bits and pieces of riffraff too out-of-fashion for the public rooms, the den was where the computer was. hence, the den was where, i suppose, a great deal of myself was born, strangely enough... born in that ugly box of a room looking out directly into the stucco of my neighbor's house, in with my dad's guitars and my ugly debate trophies and my grandmother's huge, pumpkin-coloured velveteen armchair.

i would spend hours late at night, straining to hear any movement from the direction of my parent's bedroom, reading trip reports written by unstable chemists who could only reference what they were taking by long chemical names dotted picturesquely with numbers and hyphens. i had friends who smoked pot, who drank, and these, at the time, held little interest for me. they frightened me somewhat, because they seemed to me to... muddy the mind. and this was frightening, unclear, nebulous.... muddying. exactly.

the hallucinogens, however - ahhh, the hallucinogens. from those early days i would read on and on, listening to that ugly clock tick into the dark, devoted like a lover, tingling and sweating with desire, with anticipation. DMT was always my favourite... the one drug i've always wanted to do and never gotten to do.... it held some aura for me, some potent, palpable mystery of initiation, brotherhood, transitivity and (subsequent) abandonment. i read, i researched, i bought the yage letters from the upstairs room of city lights, and when my favourite band (probably still, too) put out an album devoted to hallucinogens and time exploration i was beside myself; the original pressing came with six stickers and of course, the 5-meo-dmt sticker was the one i put on my c.d. player and prayed that someone would notice. no one did, of course, but that is more than likely for the best. i was, after all, seventeen. i was seventeen and i was looking forward to pulling my mind apart. still am, honestly. suppose that's why i'm a philosopher, an analyst, a proctologist of the soul, if you will.



today my therapist and i had an interesting discussion; we always do.

"maybe it's time for you and sorrow to... break up...?" she posited, hesitating, yet speaking with decision.

i laughed. i laugh a lot in therapy. then i sighed. i also sigh a lot in therapy. (i'd like to think i was an amusing analysand, but then everyone does i suppose.)

often going forward means going backwards and vice versa.

vice versa and vice. vice, indeed.

curious,


curious.

OMG! turns out M.I.A. and i have the same birthday! ROCK.

this makes me feel much less bad about a good section of my thesis being inspired by a lyric of hers from 20 dollar...

and it'll collapse/when there's nothing in it

(language, intentionality, etc.)




that is all.

haaaaappy birthday toooo meeeeeeeee! (or masturbatory celebratory post)

today (thurs) is my birthday. tomorrow (fri) is the full moon, and i'm taking the day off to go to the beach. i have a cupcake to eat for breakfast (cake for breakfast is a bday tradition in my world) and have leftovers from my favorite diner dinner to eat for lunch (and i didn't even have to pay for it!) today i got no less than ten - count 'em, ten - compliments on my shutter shades. (fav one - italian guy at eighth ave: "hey!!!! i like-a you glass!!!!!!)

happy birthday to you, kid...

another lap around the sun - run on your own terms.

(there is always a way to squint your eyes, warp your brain, so that you can see the positives. they're there, they're as real as shit... just as real as depression. true dat, yo!)

so maybe, if you have a second tomorrow, watch the clouds, pick up a leaf, scrutinize some graffiti art, think about what's important to you, or listen to the presets...

this is my life, darlings, and i'm happy to have it and happy to share it with you.

and now, the thrilling conclusion! or - i'm going to blog about something positive for once!

i realized that i have a tendency to blog about things that are going on and then never discuss their resolution. why discuss resolution, really? usually once it has been reached, for me, it is enough. (discussion is only for confusion. with knowledge and surety comes silence. interesting.)

but then i was re-reading my old posts and was like, um, maybe i should just let everyone know i'm okay and doing fine again. i mean, i pretty much admitted to flirting with alcoholism (however briefly) and being dangerously depressed. so - no worries! i'm back and better than ever. i did some serious thinking and some serious drinking and spent time outside with good friends - all positives! i revisited the magic that is the to-go margarita from the turkey's nest, referred to myself in mixed company as a post-post-modernist, and then wore my sunglasses home in the dark (it seemed like the right thing to do at the time... sorry, but that's all i've got as for a rationale. it really just seemed right. strange.)

(side note - i am also realizing that, more and more, i am that girl on the subway. you know, the girl not only bopping her head to her ipod, but usually tapping her foot along as well. and... god.... i am embarrassed to admit it.... usually singing along, silently, con spirito. sunday night this was certainly the case:

"i am aware.....that i don't fit riiiiiiiight.... i get lost.... doo doo doo..... and you feel the same... never older, always the same.... like the man who.... diiiiiiiiiiiies everyday...doooo."

a long time ago i came up with this theory that why new york natives seemed to be so profoundly uninterested in such things as moving from the middle of sidewalks or modulating their voices while discussing intimate personal details is because in a space such as this, where no one has any private personal space, once simply creates it by distancing oneself from it, ignoring it. i think this is what i do when i listen to my ipod. it's really not about looking cool (HA!) or anything like that - it's quite the opposite. i think it's how i make myself feel comfortable, at home, in this delightful nightmare.)

i went to alphabeta, a silly new graffiti shop in greenpoint and treated myself to some excellent new krink... and found a delightfully tiny shack by my local park that specializes in hot dogs and hot sausages with homemade chili and sharp cheddar cheese. (transcendent!) i came up with a lot of crazy goals for myself and am challenging myself to work on accomplishing one each day, even though they are the best and worst kind of goals - serious goals - terrifying goals - goals that make your stomach clench with determination and fear, because you just want it to go well so badly, and you're so terrified that it might go badly and you're equally terrified that it might go well.

oh! and last, but certainly not least, i bought some orange shutter shades.


[street vendor guy: those look really good on you!
me: (laugh)
street vendor guy: no, really, i'm not kidding!
me: (laughs again) well, actually, i think they look pretty stupid... but i'm going to get them anyway!]

feel free to ridicule me as i pass. (no, not really. i guess all i'm saying is that i realize full well that they are fucking ridiculous and terribly ugly. but then, we all know that i go in for that sort of thing.)

OMG!!!!

(more)

relativity's a bitch

overheard on a south williamsburg roof deck:

1. are you brown? you look brown. have you been to france?
2. yes, yes, i've been to france. just the other week! lovely, etc, etc.

overheard in a north bushwick loft:

1. ack! (cough, cough, sputter.) um... i think, i think it's more of a... back-of-the-palate wine. you know, like, if you taste it with the back of your palate, it isn't so.... horrible.
2. um, (x), ha! you mean like, if you just gulp it down your throat without tasting it? like, chug it?
1. um, yeah, i suppose that's exactly what i mean. hmmm... cheers!

don't read this. really.

i don't know how you people do it. i've drank half a bottle of liquor, quite a bit for me, and i don't feel anywhere near better. i feel worse, actually, much worse. in spite of my intoxication, i feel naked, i have absolutely no illusions. love is a lie, life is a lie, truth is a lie, all of it. there's really nothing, nothing at all. nothing at all. god, how awful. i have no idea why i am here typing about it, it feels fucking indescribably lonely. just terrible, especially as i don't really have a real relationship with 9/10ths of the people who read this shit. i want to make it private, my blog that is, but i just can't bring myself to do such a thing. it goes against my principles.

i mean, as per usual, i really shouldn't complain. for everything that's raped my soul, i have a friend or a token of affection that the situation enabled to rise to the occasion or bestow upon me. i know grammatically that sentence makes no sense, but you know what i mean. how can i be on the point of vomiting up my soul and yet still feel so sober? everyone else i know is asleep. everyone else is happy. of course it looks like that on the outside but i know full well that the inside is much, much different.

the problem of the other. what do you do when someone takes the power they have over you and pretty much fucks you with it (and i don't mean in the good way)? i know i am supposed to remain quiet, i know i am supposed to die quietly, i know i am supposed to fade away without a peep, with a dying fall, yet i protest. i will take the risk of drunk dialing just to spread the truth. as i said on my drunk dial, "the truth is the truth, and you obviously don't understand that." true. very true. or as i always used to say in french class, vraiment vrai. i will not keep silent about these embarrassing things, situations, fears, hopes. whatever. i don't understand. i don't understand. unfortunately the act of not understanding does not lead to understanding; at any rate, it illustrates, much as alan bass would say, that there is no relationship between the word "cat" and a four-legged domestic animal. things that seem to follow one another are not necessarily related at all, as much as they may seem to be or as much as we may like them to be.

i went to a private party tonight and had hors-d'oeuvres for dinner. hors-d'oeuvres and beer and vodka. a well-balanced meal, featuring both the brewed and distilled variety of alcohol. and i inhaled a lot of paint - i mean, not recreationally, but because i was helping friend and friend with a fashion shoot planned for sunday and they were painting shit. i, because i was steadily getting drunk because of events that befell me, was the supervisor. this means that i shouted a lot of inspirational slogans and sighed heavily and cried into the couch. i guess it is true that sadness shows you who your true friends are; it also shows you who the dumb fucks in your life are. unfortunately, i'm more hung up on the dumb fucks than the friends at this point.

how shameful. how despicable. how juvenile.

am i talking about him or myself? good question.

good fucking question.

i know i will wake up tomorrow and regret posting this. i know i will wake up tomorrow and be like, "why the hell did you write all of that dumb shit and put it out in public for other people to read, to know?"

well, i put it out there because it is the truth. and the truth is the fucking truth, no arguing with that. even i, a drunken, love-sick fool can see that and immediately recognize it.

i am so over life. how frightening. no, don't worry, i wont do anything rash. but i wonder what i will come up with to go on. my graffiti - yes, it helps. but so little. no one believes in altruism anymore, what's the goddamned point?

a week or so ago there was an article that swept nyc about a hospital in brooklyn that allowed an ambulatory patient to die in the waiting room, ignored by hospital staff and security guards. on the website where i read about such a thing, tens of people had posted comments about the article. these comments expressed rage, disgust, anger, sympathy - all normal human responses to the human tragedy (dare i say truth?) of dying alone, forsaken, unsupervised. (and there was a video posted of security cameras who captured the whole ordeal. i couldn't bring myself to watch it. the reality of such footage is simply too staggering for my mind to comprehend. absolutely terrifying. how can one watch this sort of thing? oddly enough, in my mind, it taints one to view it thus, makes one slightly complicit in the ordeal at hand.) at any rate, i scrolled through these comments and as much as i related to each and everyone of them, i became disgusted. as they went on, more and more people began to elaborate on the current state of the world, describing it's miserableness, it's hopelessness, it's hell-in-a-handbasketness. i swear to god, i was seemingly the only person who read that fucking article and was like, i want to volunteer, i want to be a candy striper there. i won't let another person die alone, i swear it. i will, in my small way, do what i can to make sure no one else will suffer like this. (i once, in high school, sat on my front porch for an hour with a wounded mouse because i couldn't stand the idea of it dying alone.) why will no one else think like this, respond like this?

boys' hearts are fickle, i said to him, on his chest, his smooth, hairless chest. beautiful tattoos, beautiful face. that's why i say it, i said, because boys' hearts' are fickle. he laughed, can you believe it - he laughed. and now we come to this. now we come to this.

hearts are fickle.
hearts are fickle.

but not mine. i remain steadfast. i can do naught else.

today i am the most depressed i've been in weeks, goddamn it. judging from friends' blogs, 'tis the season. what a fuck. i have absolutely nothing at all edifying or meaningful to contribute to the world at large via this entry. yet i'm here anyway... mostly because it is SO SLOW at work i am going out of my mind. i have things to be happy about, sure. but... whatever.

i find myself driven to express myself, even if it is only in the form of a scream, or through verbal diarrhea on this dusty blog outpost. why is this? plenty of people i know create magic out of their worst moments; i myself as a teen worked this shit to the sky. yet now, even though i feel the same drive to create, i feel much less of the creative aspect of such an act. sadly, desperation is more of what i feel as i type, speak, act in this state. ugh. motherfucker. there is no swear word yet to describe the state a depressed person is in. oh wait, yes there is - depressed. got it. like something crushed, something that used to be full and is now empty. something lower than normal, less than zero. right. all been said before.

oh my god, wait! i have a leftover chocolate chip cookie from lunch. the nice guys at lenny's bagels gave me an extra one for free. ahhh, something to live for! and karma.... maybe it's out there, somewhere, working for me. i'd like to think so. this is why i will never call myself an atheist - because i do think there is much more to life beyond humanity. that there are things external to, outside of, humanity. (cue single tears, world's smallest violins, etc, etc, etc.)

oh joy! three 71 lb boxes were just delivered to work. guess i have something to do now... and it's nice and mindless. usually i revel in this sort of thing but today i'd rather not be left alone with my thoughts. at least yesterday when i was carrying heavy things around i was wearing a wifebeater (part of my birthday week fun times celebration, more on that to come) and each time i walked past one of the many mirrors at work (funny, there are a lot of them) i could be like, "oooh! look at you, you sexy, sexy beast! grrrr!" today i am not wearing a wifebeater although i look nice; consequently when i look in the mirrors today i will be all like "look at how cute you look! why the fuck won't (x.) text you back then?!" (this is not a happy thought, this is wellspring of the current depression.) i swear to fucking god, there is some kind of cellphone gnome that has programmed a signature into my text messages - but only certain text messages. (bear with me here.) it totally makes sense! it could be based off of sweat levels on the key pad. anytime the level went above a certain number (as my hands tend to sweat when i am particularly nervous and insecure and daring) a little signature would be added to the outgoing text. it would read something like this:

"it was extremely difficult for suzanne to send this text to you and she spent a long time worrying over it and being excited about it and working up the courage to send it, so all in all it's probably best if you don't respond to her. once again, DON'T REPLY TO THIS TEXT. I'M NOT KIDDING HERE. CHILDREN WILL DIE."

i'm telling you, that's the only rational explanation. i'm going to go kill that fucking gnome now.