(no subject)
I'm going to close my eyes and make this post. Today is one of those days where i feel like everything that i normally love is, for some reason, devoid of it's usual meaning. The diversions, the games and litttle ways i busy myself throughout this wonderfully strange Thursday are really getting on my nerves, and i can't imagine its from lack of sleep or stress. Maybe just the fear of not knowing. While i regained some optemism some time ago that I could get control over my life and establish a new dynasty of my own design, I'm finding it hard to get started. I need an excuse to find people that I can share myself with. There are no Hatches, Rodriguez', no families that will take me in under their wing, and two whom I can divulge my own insecurities. That is a frightening prospect. For though i have a few good friends, and am trying to make more, there is a machismo among us that we cannot entirely dispelll that i must nonetheless lament. Sometimes its good to be able to just sit and say what you want to say, not be afraid of immasculating yourself. I know Richard must be jumping for joy to hear me say this, but I could really use a good , manly, fucking hardcore hug.
Today in class i had a very strange feeling of loss-- Professor Newton, as terrifying as he was at the eginning of the semester, was certainly someone I admired a lot, and having someone else teach me piles and piles of literary thought will be a change, for sure. Maybe its the fact taht he said he was going to retire next fall, so that i wont get a chance to take another of his classes. He seems like the kind of person that would retire for three days, wake up, and realize that he couldnt stand to no longer have books and pipols surrounding him. The dynamic of the classroom was very odd too, i felt like i knew most of them, despite the fact taht i had very rarely talked to any of them. There was the one girl in front of me, Irina, who always seemed to intrigue me even if i never really acknowledged it, and it'll be sad to see her go. What else do i have to say?
My Journalism professor took the whole class out ot eat after our last class, up to Spider House, which is normmally scenester heaven, but during midday it's fairly endurable. She really is a nice woman, and though i hated he rclass, I kind of wished i hadn't.
Kind of like i wish i didn't hate journalism in general. Kind of like I'm afraid that all my aspirations for writing will not pay off in the slightest, and i'll be stuck reading my manuscripts to myself in a small apartment, twitching every third page and spilling a few valuavle drips of cheap coffee (which i will have learned to drink by then_ and feel that overwhelming sense of loneliness that you get when you look at a piece of self-written poetry. A strange yearning to have it read, but an intense fear that whatever you poured yourself into, a poem about a small boy unable to find his way home in the rain, lost among pillars made of ship masts, theater props, banisters to old staircases, and industrial girders. The boy, lost among these things, will not know his way, and in his hand he will find a single quill pen and a piece of paper. Will he be able to map his way out? Will anyone care if he dies among those pillars of thought that seem so foreign to the boy?
Will I find my way home?
you have this feartthat when someone else reads your work they will dismiss it, like a poorly written article in a barely-read newspaper. all of your aspirations will amount to nighting, and the entire soul that you have forced into the work, that you have watered daily with metaphors and dialogue picked up from smells you experienced outside a cafe down the street from your apartment on cold winter days, and no one will care. No one will care.
I can't wait for this weekend, I'm having a party that should be fun, quite a few peopel are coming, even if they aren't the people that i'd most like to be there. I still hope that I will go out side to not smoke a cigarette with al lthe people hwho are, and passing by will be a girl, also not smoking a cigarette and looking dejectedly at the beercans at the bottom of the pool from the third floor across the way. I will smile at her, she'll smile back, and she will walk away.
That would b ea successful party. Because hope is more valuable than modest realities. Now, I will look at the keyboard and finish this entry, I will watch my hands sculpt the page, the word, the letter, the final. final.
okay, i'm going to look.
Here it is.
The period.
Now reacquainted with my tools of the trade, I feel like editing the above part would be a violation, and so it shall remain, typos and all, because it was written with a blind eye to the world and a glance towards the heavens, and nothing more.
(Anything that doesn't make sense is explained by the fact that it is really really hard to work through a metaphorical digression and come back to the original thought without looking at what you've already written. Such is life.)
Today in class i had a very strange feeling of loss-- Professor Newton, as terrifying as he was at the eginning of the semester, was certainly someone I admired a lot, and having someone else teach me piles and piles of literary thought will be a change, for sure. Maybe its the fact taht he said he was going to retire next fall, so that i wont get a chance to take another of his classes. He seems like the kind of person that would retire for three days, wake up, and realize that he couldnt stand to no longer have books and pipols surrounding him. The dynamic of the classroom was very odd too, i felt like i knew most of them, despite the fact taht i had very rarely talked to any of them. There was the one girl in front of me, Irina, who always seemed to intrigue me even if i never really acknowledged it, and it'll be sad to see her go. What else do i have to say?
My Journalism professor took the whole class out ot eat after our last class, up to Spider House, which is normmally scenester heaven, but during midday it's fairly endurable. She really is a nice woman, and though i hated he rclass, I kind of wished i hadn't.
Kind of like i wish i didn't hate journalism in general. Kind of like I'm afraid that all my aspirations for writing will not pay off in the slightest, and i'll be stuck reading my manuscripts to myself in a small apartment, twitching every third page and spilling a few valuavle drips of cheap coffee (which i will have learned to drink by then_ and feel that overwhelming sense of loneliness that you get when you look at a piece of self-written poetry. A strange yearning to have it read, but an intense fear that whatever you poured yourself into, a poem about a small boy unable to find his way home in the rain, lost among pillars made of ship masts, theater props, banisters to old staircases, and industrial girders. The boy, lost among these things, will not know his way, and in his hand he will find a single quill pen and a piece of paper. Will he be able to map his way out? Will anyone care if he dies among those pillars of thought that seem so foreign to the boy?
Will I find my way home?
you have this feartthat when someone else reads your work they will dismiss it, like a poorly written article in a barely-read newspaper. all of your aspirations will amount to nighting, and the entire soul that you have forced into the work, that you have watered daily with metaphors and dialogue picked up from smells you experienced outside a cafe down the street from your apartment on cold winter days, and no one will care. No one will care.
I can't wait for this weekend, I'm having a party that should be fun, quite a few peopel are coming, even if they aren't the people that i'd most like to be there. I still hope that I will go out side to not smoke a cigarette with al lthe people hwho are, and passing by will be a girl, also not smoking a cigarette and looking dejectedly at the beercans at the bottom of the pool from the third floor across the way. I will smile at her, she'll smile back, and she will walk away.
That would b ea successful party. Because hope is more valuable than modest realities. Now, I will look at the keyboard and finish this entry, I will watch my hands sculpt the page, the word, the letter, the final. final.
okay, i'm going to look.
Here it is.
The period.
Now reacquainted with my tools of the trade, I feel like editing the above part would be a violation, and so it shall remain, typos and all, because it was written with a blind eye to the world and a glance towards the heavens, and nothing more.
(Anything that doesn't make sense is explained by the fact that it is really really hard to work through a metaphorical digression and come back to the original thought without looking at what you've already written. Such is life.)