all good things

I'm getting published, whot whot. Prick of the Spindle has accepted two of my poems for their next print issue- i had to restrain myself from telling them they're my first and that it was so beautiful I very quietly died in front of my computer. I'm throwing a party for myself, but telling everyone its a back to school thing - the truth is a bit too silly. And I don't want to highlight my late-bloomness.

And i've just spent a fat load of cash on clothes at Anthropologie, which makes me feel swanky. That, in addition to the latest Bon Iver album, makes me the uberhipster. Take that, Nietzsche (references to whom upgrade me to a megahipster - ooo, i'm on fire).

Today is beautiful. It's rainy and almost too humid to be outside and I've lost my phone, but I've got that everything is awesome feeling (the surreal, awe-inspiring kind) that makes my chest expand and the sky get backlit by infinity.

Ben told me that everyone has a base emotion, one they recognize immediately. For him it's anger, and it's not that he enjoys being angry, but he's familiar with it, which is comfortable in a way. I feel guilty that the first thing I thought of when he asked for my base emotion was that inspired drunk feeling I get from twilit evenings. What an antisocial dope, ya? That what I recognize the most is a feeling I get when I'm alone, something I associate with art, something I think Emily Dickenson expresses perfectly - "inebriate of air am i." This does two things: reinforce my decision to get into the arts, and add to the pile of reasons for me to stay single.

Talking about this does something else: remind me how self-absorbed I am. se la vie, its still beautiful outside.

I'm so tired. I'm sOoOoOo tired. I wonder should i get up, and get myself a drink...i'm so tired-

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onion mouth

Good sandwiches have onions, but good kisses don't. This creates a problem for dinner daters. Why do we only get one?

In other news, i'm going to try and make homemade pizza tonight.

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6.3.2009

Something I’ve noticed- the birds behind my building are vampires. What trendsetters. This happened when I was conducting hammock experiment number one, which consists of me spending the night in my hammock on my porch. It was only after wondering casually but thoroughly which fat spiders were going to lay eggs under my tongue, and after being woken up to meet my neighbor for the first time and discuss upholstery, that I fell asleep. Right after this, the birds started chirping most giddily. Obviously, my education has been lacking. I was under the impression that the chirping started around the rise of the sun. After more thorough consideration, I decided that one of two things were happening. One: it’s mating season, and they just cant keep it in their pants long enough to sleep. Two: these particular lyricists got bit by a rabid owl, and now sleep in the nest version of a coffin during the day, and then sing the moon into rising while they hunt for blood prey.

Imagine fangs on bluejays. The logistics there seemed a little akward, but nevertheless, I decided to gather up my hammock and save my experiment until the little beasties had been caught and staked

Last night, today was turned by midnight into another today. Today, I saw people pass out without telling me, and then come back and decide not to bring their old selves back with them. I am wary of the new them because they weren’t here while they were out. But it’s okay, because today I passed out and didn’t tell them. Today, I will congratulate them for their unconsciousness, and say goodbye for the last time. Today, I will forget today, and welcome them back, because they have been out for so long.

After dinner, we played catch, and then watched Sir Scott’s Gladiator, but only the arena scenes. Try this: Lord of the Rings without Frodo. Just skip the scenes he’s in. It’s gratifying.

6.6.2009

Melancholy is setting in again, like that neighbor you keep inviting over, even though he always makes you feel …less. Had a Cooper’s Brewery Extra Stout tonight at The Globe with the guys. It was like eating a very wet pumpernickel soaked in coffee. Pretty good, for an Australian (says the American). Was also reminded that break-ups aren’t really break-ups unless you actually stop hooking up. Haha.

Kings of Leon tickets go on sale tomorrow morning–gonna have to jump that. This post sounds more like a to-do list than anything else. I guess I’m just uneasy with what I’m actually supposed to write.

I had a dream last night where we were below the floorboards of a church we were restoring. She did something that pissed me off. Second-guessed me, or just laughed me off. I got angry, and pushed a ladder that fell on her. I heard one of those cracks where you know before you see it that something sick happened. When I walked around the pylon, her skull was shattered all over the floor. The back of her head still had hair on it, and was resting flat against the wood like it had been there all along. What makes a person dream something like this? Guilt? Fear? It bothers me that someone I’ve known since grade school got under my skin to the point where it’s uncomfortable to be at home.

theory on friends: we idealize our friends, ignore their faults, have complete loyalty to them. get a little older, and we discover hormones. Then we betray our friends, but do it with gusto and passion. Get a little older, and then our friends turn into people. We start to see their faults, dislike their faults. Here’s the point where we all realize that there isn’t a single person out there who we think we really, really are friends with, in the hollywood sense of the word. Later, they’ll still piss you off, but you’ll understand why they piss you off. ipso facto, e pluribus unum, and the other way round as well.

The levees broke, and my brain flooded. It overwhelmed my foundations. Swirling muddy eddies stained the sofas in the waiting room of my mind, and when the water level got too high, I had to take refuge in my hair follicles. After it was all over, I had to wade through soggy memories and try to salvage the one’s whose blood red ink had not run.

God, what a pity party. But take it like this. I’m trying to log all the things that I need to hash out, not the good things in my life. The danger here is that by talking about it, I rile myself up, and encourage a self-involved, one-sided hyphen party.

But now for something delightful. I had my first Sour Apple Martini last night. Delicious. Thank you, Buddha (the bartender), and thank you, Coleman (who bought it). You might have converted a militant extra-stout drinker into a sometimes-something-fruity-isn’t-a-sin drinker. Because drinks that taste like lollipops and have cherries at the bottom don’t magically turn me into a ripe damsel in distress.