10:09 pm

Disenchantment came out with season two. I’ve been watching an episode a day after finishing my rewatch of all three seasons of Rick and Morty. Big Mouth comes out next Thursday, and Bojack Horseman is released on October 25th. Rick and Morty Season 4 supposed to be released some time in November. If you can’t tell, I love irreverent adult cartoon shows. This will be a fine Fall for funny cartoons.

I’m tired. I don’t like this sense of floating. I feel like I’m floating from one state to another, between certainty and uncertainty, motivation and laziness, meaningfulness and meaninglessness. It’s not a marked issue–I’m not plagued with a consistent emotion, and there are no external conflicts. It’s just mild turbulence, and I wish I could shake it off. But it seems like one of those things I’ve known of since I was very little, this sense of floating.

This weekend I’ll make sweaters. It’s still hot outside, which irritates me oh so gently. The Halloween decorations tickle my memories of thick jackets and heavy sweaters. I’m prepared for the cold, I think, as I think happily back to winters. I plan to design and print a sweater this weekend. Oh, I am so excited for Christmas. For lights. Black dresses. Big coats.

My writing is kind of shitty, in my humble opinion, but I’m too tired to care. It was all this stuntin’ back in 2016 when I was taking dopey stupid writing classes and writing poetry. I no longer feel that anymore. Everything has carved into something much more literal lately. I yawn myself back into yesterday. I remember those days. I remember those dreams. And I’m too tired to care.

This blog will morph into just my little journaling outlet, where I can publicly, semi-anonymously just write about the mundane. And I’m sick of hearing girls’ snarky judgements behind my back, echoing in my ear.

I’ll share my film photography soon. Later. Sometime. I promise.

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Weekend Trip

This past weekend was a good one.

We roll in after five and a half hours on the road. For the first half, I immerse myself in the bloated dialogue of Altered Carbon, pausing every now and then to contemplate the soothing country road.

Do you want to make a stop? Why not? We take our bathroom break in the crowded & glorified stop. It glitters and shimmers with clamoring families and fake lashes and bustling bodies. The last time we came here, about two summers back, the bathrooms were cleaner.

A few hours in, we find ourselves trapped in miles of stagnant traffic. We drive onto the parallel local road, cruise up a few miles, then stopped again, snail-crawling our way around a closed highway. On a Friday night. Afterwards, it’s dark. I don’t pay attention to the tolls on tolls, just the small screen in front of me.

Eat, sleep, wake. There’s a stork by the lake, a spider on the window. We down some coffee, eat fried rice, drive over to GameStop, then the grocery store, and then back. Video games, dreariness, chattiness, and then the FunPlace, with the slightly overpriced roller skating arena. We glide on the cold cream concrete floor. Except for one. I am terrified watching him hobble his way dangerously on skates. He leans forward, like he’s about to topple over, and every push is a tense one. After two hours, we go home, sweaty and tired.

Another grocery run. Barbecue. DJing and grilling by the lake. Time passes. Around dinner, we pop in for food and the match. It’s a nervous match, and we’re on the edge of our seats the whole time. Good bye. Good night. You are the king, and I am the queen. I am the king.

Next day’s one spent with small people. Dolls. Fashion show. Hide and go seek. I, the dedicated hider, decide to hide for 36 minutes under a box in the garage. I send riddles with hints buried in them. We resort to more and more desperate measures. Fence hopping. Backyard sneaking. But still, the other games go by relatively quickly.

We call it a night, and half play games, while the other half plays music. Eventually, I conk out, tired, until early the next morning, when we leave.

Warp

I often feel like the same exact person with the same exact tendencies and same exact thoughts and same exact desires and same exact confusions as I was years and years ago, just with different memories.

All those experiences imploded into themselves, became wisps of recollection. When I revisit them, they’re light and intangible. It’s the strangest f’ing thing, circling around constantly to who I was before.

As we ate ramen yesterday and I scrambled to find words, that expression rang true: it’s as if everything that happened in between condenses like nothing’s ever changed.

I feel myself sinking into the cushion, wondering how the mind warps time so well.

String of Thoughts

IMG_5514.jpg

A string of thoughts, in no particular order:

  • The mind is the strangest thing. One of my favorite books reminds me that we’re all stuck in our heads, projecting our own distorted notions of reality onto the screen of our minds. It’s all constructed, pieced together by attention, a weird believable 3D fabrication that we call reality. Like Rorshach blots. We see what we choose to see. And the things I see make me panicky. But then I’ll become aware of this, that we’re all making this shit up, and feel calmer at the thought.
  • Thoughts are what brought me here: October, February, July–have you ever felt so listless you wanted to die? Moments like that. Sprawled on some surface by a window pouring sunlight and periodic existential crises. Then I’ll just want to watch comedy shows at hotel lobbies in Florida, where I can moan about how much I hate traveling, god, just take me home.
  • Even so, I miss New York so much. I couldn’t tell you why. Everyone gets so excited when they visit New York, inundate their social media feeds in it–look, the Empire State of motherfucking dreams. For a moment I thought New York became less sparkly–it’d lost its glitz and glam, become drizzly and cold (stuffed in a cab full of chatty ambitious strangers). Evidently it hasn’t. I miss the wide streets, the energy, the movement, the noise. It’s overwhelming, but remove the source for a while and I start to miss it.
  • A stranger in the city with a giant bouquet flowers once told me that we’re all looking for somebody to listen, that strangers just want to be listened to. I believe her. Half a year later I emailed her saying hello, and she said that she sometimes looked for me in the city. Isn’t that odd? To be looked for, even if only briefly? I became so accustomed to searching in the sea of moving faces that it never occurred to me that somebody would ever look for mine.

January 2017

Pieces

These girls, they drift in and out bleating some language I don’t understand. Eight year old me understood. Twelve year old me understood. Years later, I still don’t understand.

— — — —

Time’s weird.

It feels like the weekend although the weekend hasn’t started. It’s because I feel slow, slow and relaxed and languid, like maybe a sloth or maybe a koala. I see flashes of Tampa, Florida in my mind as I consider my slothiness. I see flashes of blue and sea as we’re on the highway. I’m trying to get the sun positioned right behind my hair. No, not like this. Like that. From that angle. I see a tiger sweatshirt and wild cats that’ll never be free. In the pictures my hair’s even more untamed than the felines prowling the space.

— — — —

being-is-strange

I have an art crush. This is my art crush, @elesq. I wormhole through art blogs on tumblr every so often and stumble upon styles/artists I really like and this is one. Simple poignant stuff. I’d emulate it, but I feel like my style is kind of heavy–I go and try to fill in every space possible. When I attempt minimalism I’m inclined to fill in the spaces. But you’re supposed to let the space speak for itself. Like silences used for effect in plays. In conversations. In speeches where you think people have dropped off from listening so when you’re quiet they’re jarred back to attention: why aren’t you droning on anymore?

Mango Poppers

img_4760Lately, I’ve been flooded with memories. Vignettes. The sight of a person early morning, blue polo, by the coffee machine. Sunday runs with friends and pastel chalk we’d line ourselves with. Fifth grade secrets about love once unrequited, reversed, now going unrequited. Hallway hugs and devious plans, being called on our shit by the guy who got expelled. These images, vivid and clear, are like bursts of yellow mango poppers. Syrupy and strange. Abrupt and angry. And then they fade, quickly, only to make way for another.

Droning

we found a quiet hobbit nook the other day
a cozy woodish book-decked space
with rich spanish lattes
and oil paintings abound

(and I think I feel strange because I ate something strange
but regardless
I think that a bit of stream of consciousness
will make things better)

the rain is pouring
pouring pouring
oh! the thunder sounds like angry popcorn
crackling in the skies
and they are splitting
in half, drowning in their grief

(did anybody really go anywhere?
i don’t know. nor do i think so.
is it mostly a matter of show
or objectivity?
and does it behoove me
to be so mentally tied to it all?
after talking to my best friend
it seemed to dissipate–finally–
mud hardened by disgust
eventually hosed down by understanding

nowadays i am
too tired
to care)

i’ve been thinking of a wordpress i started in 2015
the summer of 2015, to be exact
it was a small, honest space
and even though i would add tags, it was relatively private
it felt more candid
more open
more cringey

i think i just miss word-vomiting with that sort of
lost careless sadness
when it felt like roads would extend forever
in that lazy summertime way
when time would stretch like
putty and i’d wrap
myself in it, contemplating nabokov
or whatever-his-name–
the metamorphosis guy, that one–
and i thought life couldn’t be more
paradoxical

what a luxury it was
the droning contemplation