damn
a nap overcame me as i was reading pat barker's "another world" - for modern british novel class - which is ok but god damn how disgusting and miserable are all those people and their disgusting miserable meaningless lives - where the hell is any beauty?
anyway i'd been reading and note-plotting my own fiction, in bed, for a while... wow. i can't even. i just fell asleep for so long, and my dream had no control, it would just not stop or reign in. it was all cities i lived in but never had lived in, rides i'd taken but never had taken, biking on busy streets, precarious turns, shifting lanes into masses of other cars, inches apart, all moving and moving and blinding headlights everywhere, how did i keep managing to squeeze myself in? and then weird happenings at an ice cream place, an enigmatic waitress, an escalation almost into a fight, between people i knew but had never known... and my uberstr8 roomie kept piling stupid white trash shit in our apartment, and he knocked out the walls of our bathroom, so that now when i showered there was nothing to shield me from weird paths outside that existed but had never existed.
there was so much more, it was all hustling bustling fragmented like people say our postmodern world is - i've woken up deeply disturbed/disconcerted, very thankful to have regained control of my imagination, my plots, my life, my existence - or at least an illusion of control. but for some reason i'm also melancholy as hell, feeling like i've been alone all day - which is true but not, i've been talking to people today, and laughing with them, i just feel very needy and alone right now - and at one point of the nap i awoke from the dreams, realized it was night, and in fright pulled my bedroom window and blinds shut, then lapsed back into sleep...
gah, reading contemporary fiction can really gross me out sometimes - i'm talking even if it's written well, as pat barker is defintely able to do - there's just something so ugly, base, paranoid, hounded, harried, restless, fragmented, distracted, and most of all, beautyless - not even an attempt at beauty, and it's not the author's fault - it's the goddamned characters. she's painting them with good art and honesty, and they're just pathetic wastes so far.
i need someone.
anyway i'd been reading and note-plotting my own fiction, in bed, for a while... wow. i can't even. i just fell asleep for so long, and my dream had no control, it would just not stop or reign in. it was all cities i lived in but never had lived in, rides i'd taken but never had taken, biking on busy streets, precarious turns, shifting lanes into masses of other cars, inches apart, all moving and moving and blinding headlights everywhere, how did i keep managing to squeeze myself in? and then weird happenings at an ice cream place, an enigmatic waitress, an escalation almost into a fight, between people i knew but had never known... and my uberstr8 roomie kept piling stupid white trash shit in our apartment, and he knocked out the walls of our bathroom, so that now when i showered there was nothing to shield me from weird paths outside that existed but had never existed.
there was so much more, it was all hustling bustling fragmented like people say our postmodern world is - i've woken up deeply disturbed/disconcerted, very thankful to have regained control of my imagination, my plots, my life, my existence - or at least an illusion of control. but for some reason i'm also melancholy as hell, feeling like i've been alone all day - which is true but not, i've been talking to people today, and laughing with them, i just feel very needy and alone right now - and at one point of the nap i awoke from the dreams, realized it was night, and in fright pulled my bedroom window and blinds shut, then lapsed back into sleep...
gah, reading contemporary fiction can really gross me out sometimes - i'm talking even if it's written well, as pat barker is defintely able to do - there's just something so ugly, base, paranoid, hounded, harried, restless, fragmented, distracted, and most of all, beautyless - not even an attempt at beauty, and it's not the author's fault - it's the goddamned characters. she's painting them with good art and honesty, and they're just pathetic wastes so far.
i need someone.