the wheels of change only grind by force for me
I was going to echo the acute anxiety about the walls of the apocalypse caving in in the form of the ashy orange sky today, but that would be what everyone else is doing. We didn't have a daytime today, and we're dulled by the 300 stories per rotation about scandals at the top. I am wrapped in cotton compared to everyone else. If it ever comes down to it, my last sustenance will be the archives of sentiments in my unpacked cardboard boxes, rather than desiccated remains from the back of my freezer.
In my cyclical blaze of desperately clinging to old emails, I wrote to one person who's the closest thing to "the one who got away", and he replied. He had dangerous manic energy and disappeared on me years ago, and I keep thinking that he's all healthy and balanced and crap now and I'm the one who's left behind.
And regarding those emphatic bursts, I question whether the general youthful curiosity and beautiful recklessness (up to a low limit) in my tiny circle of friends has melted in to the belly fat of middle age -- have we given up? Are we resigned? Do we really just care about TV and food now?
And so, in my vintage arrested development, I find myself again like an angsty 17-year-old whose "I'm getting out of this town!" flies in the face of the local friend who's right there, right there the whole time. Except I never actually do it. I'm applying to jobs in Germany and Canada (no, I'm not knowledgeable and I'm not doing great research) because I am desperately sick of the modern American hamster wheel of our empty-headed, self-punishing engagement with life, family, accountability, survival.
I used to be a freak magnet, and boy did I love it. These-a-days it takes me really pushing the boundaries and being embarrassingly vulnerable to get anyone to reveal anything. From the confines of my apartment and in the virtual space is not where it's at. I've got to get to the high land of curious adventurers once again. It ain't college, it ain't a national identity, it might be tied to specific art, it might be a dead possibility. So while I've got to make my own magic, I'm also fucked.
The last most recent "somewhat closer" friend I've made who doesn't really listen to the connections and questions I posit back to our childhoods and such announced today that she's all patched up and ready to move forward after a week of anti-psychotic medication and getting her Romanian almost-boyfriend to come over and tell her if she really is a hoarder. She's thinking of working two jobs at the same time, using her gambling winnings on IPOs, and is trying to coerce me in to co-hosting a radio show with her. It's painfully obvious what the diagnosis is, but we're only "somewhat" close.
But I'm glad that I'm starting to have memorable dreams again. Whether it's the painfully unfulfilled connection with a person who doesn't actually exist (which is fascinating -- that my mind can create a chimera of people I secretly love), or, I hope, those labyrinths of school halls that go to infinity, at least the dread is acute and exciting, versus the nothingness I wake to, sky on fire and all.
In my cyclical blaze of desperately clinging to old emails, I wrote to one person who's the closest thing to "the one who got away", and he replied. He had dangerous manic energy and disappeared on me years ago, and I keep thinking that he's all healthy and balanced and crap now and I'm the one who's left behind.
And regarding those emphatic bursts, I question whether the general youthful curiosity and beautiful recklessness (up to a low limit) in my tiny circle of friends has melted in to the belly fat of middle age -- have we given up? Are we resigned? Do we really just care about TV and food now?
And so, in my vintage arrested development, I find myself again like an angsty 17-year-old whose "I'm getting out of this town!" flies in the face of the local friend who's right there, right there the whole time. Except I never actually do it. I'm applying to jobs in Germany and Canada (no, I'm not knowledgeable and I'm not doing great research) because I am desperately sick of the modern American hamster wheel of our empty-headed, self-punishing engagement with life, family, accountability, survival.
I used to be a freak magnet, and boy did I love it. These-a-days it takes me really pushing the boundaries and being embarrassingly vulnerable to get anyone to reveal anything. From the confines of my apartment and in the virtual space is not where it's at. I've got to get to the high land of curious adventurers once again. It ain't college, it ain't a national identity, it might be tied to specific art, it might be a dead possibility. So while I've got to make my own magic, I'm also fucked.
The last most recent "somewhat closer" friend I've made who doesn't really listen to the connections and questions I posit back to our childhoods and such announced today that she's all patched up and ready to move forward after a week of anti-psychotic medication and getting her Romanian almost-boyfriend to come over and tell her if she really is a hoarder. She's thinking of working two jobs at the same time, using her gambling winnings on IPOs, and is trying to coerce me in to co-hosting a radio show with her. It's painfully obvious what the diagnosis is, but we're only "somewhat" close.
But I'm glad that I'm starting to have memorable dreams again. Whether it's the painfully unfulfilled connection with a person who doesn't actually exist (which is fascinating -- that my mind can create a chimera of people I secretly love), or, I hope, those labyrinths of school halls that go to infinity, at least the dread is acute and exciting, versus the nothingness I wake to, sky on fire and all.