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Yeah, I quoted an Alanis Morrissette song. And one from the second album, b!tches. What's up, you wanna rumble? I'm just well-rounded, mtherfcker.
Before I go any further, time for more narcissitic pimping. See, I have a new default userpic (which is essentially the only userpic I use cause I rarely change it up anymore), and it's courtesy of this filthy and gorgeous (and talented) photographer visiting the states from France and he has a website and you should go. It's called xxboys and when I was asked to participate and I saw what the results could be, I was giddy. So yeah, now a couple of the pics of me are up.
Ok, so I've had this thing for awhile, like years, where if I start to feel sleep, usually just before midnight, and I don't go to bed and do something somehwat energetic, like sit on the couch and have a thorough and animated and intimate and informative conversation with DYA, then I'm suddenly wide wide awake. But lately it's been kinda insane my manic energy. And yeah, it's cause I'm writing, but y'all knew that cause it's all I damn well post about and I was lying in bed and thinking, damn, I want to write some other stuff in this journal. Some inane everyday isht. Some boring journal diary observational isht.
I blame Christopher Isherwood.
Which means really I must blame MFA-Husband who's a huge Christopher Isherwood fan and talks about him and wrote his whole critical paper on him and even was led to his spiritual practice because of him and so finally I'm like ok, ok, who is this guy and why should I care? His being gay and living L.A. for awhile could only help. So I've picked up a book or two in used stores (my weakness and addiction) and I went to feed a craving a few days ago (my favorite joint is on the corner of Clark and Wellington) and they had volume one of his diaries for all of six bucks, which isn't bad considering that it's hardback, 1000 pages long, and that's the price of a pack of smokes. I vowed to quit right then, at least for that day, if it meant feeding the book addiction.
So I wasn't planning on buying his diaries, because I wasn't sure I would READ his diaries, because diaries and journals aren't always that compelling in large doses, especially since I haven't even read any of his fiction, but I did my test of books I don't know, where I open them up to any page and read and if I'm compelled, I take it. And damn, I ran this test 3 times on this book and each time I got that excitment in my gut, that chill on my skin, that sign of loving a book, so I got it.
And they were simple. He rode his bike to Beverly Hills to meet a guy with a new bike and they rode around Beverly Hills and smoked a cigarette and then his friend said, hey, let's visit Lena Horne so they rang her bell and went in and chatted and she was still in bed even though it was the middle of the day and didn't care at all that they saw her without her hair fixed up, probably because they were homosexuals.
Love it.
I did not ride my bike or talk to Lena Horne today, but I smoked a cigarette. I went to a birthday/graduation afternoon garden party and ate barbeque brisket and cole slaw and beans and watermelon and left before Popcorn the Hip Hop Clown arrived, which made me a little sad, but no major regrets.
I wrote. Not a lot, but more than yesterday which was more than the day before. I also wrote up my annotation of The House of Mirth which made me feel smart and that I learned something while reading it. Oh wait, I'm not supposed to be talking about writing in this entry. Yeah, I know, Isherwood, but that didn't count.
While lying in bed, before getting up and deciding to type through the insomnia, I had those moments of perfect clarity where everything in life made absolute and perfect sense, every moment of my life prior to this I understood from every conceivable angle. Random conclusions and insights on all sorts of topics, like about how in the Humboldt Park apartment, I never really every felt comfortable or safe or that I was actually living there, and that clouded and heightened every experience and feeling I had, which is not to say I didn't have some good moments and memories, but for the most part, it was like living outside of my own skin for 9 months. I remember hating being sick, because I felt completely trapped and paralyzed and isolated. Compared to my home now, which even in my recent moments of wanting to completely purge and/or redecorate, I still relax as soon as I walk in the door.
Tangent.
But yeah, clarity. What was I talking about? It's gone. But man, those moments still feel good even though they fade. Sleep is starting to creep up on me. The rest of my inane life, including such things as meals eaten, reviews of movies watched, and my obsession with outlined images of baby chicks and power lines, will have to wait.
Before I go any further, time for more narcissitic pimping. See, I have a new default userpic (which is essentially the only userpic I use cause I rarely change it up anymore), and it's courtesy of this filthy and gorgeous (and talented) photographer visiting the states from France and he has a website and you should go. It's called xxboys and when I was asked to participate and I saw what the results could be, I was giddy. So yeah, now a couple of the pics of me are up.
Ok, so I've had this thing for awhile, like years, where if I start to feel sleep, usually just before midnight, and I don't go to bed and do something somehwat energetic, like sit on the couch and have a thorough and animated and intimate and informative conversation with DYA, then I'm suddenly wide wide awake. But lately it's been kinda insane my manic energy. And yeah, it's cause I'm writing, but y'all knew that cause it's all I damn well post about and I was lying in bed and thinking, damn, I want to write some other stuff in this journal. Some inane everyday isht. Some boring journal diary observational isht.
I blame Christopher Isherwood.
Which means really I must blame MFA-Husband who's a huge Christopher Isherwood fan and talks about him and wrote his whole critical paper on him and even was led to his spiritual practice because of him and so finally I'm like ok, ok, who is this guy and why should I care? His being gay and living L.A. for awhile could only help. So I've picked up a book or two in used stores (my weakness and addiction) and I went to feed a craving a few days ago (my favorite joint is on the corner of Clark and Wellington) and they had volume one of his diaries for all of six bucks, which isn't bad considering that it's hardback, 1000 pages long, and that's the price of a pack of smokes. I vowed to quit right then, at least for that day, if it meant feeding the book addiction.
So I wasn't planning on buying his diaries, because I wasn't sure I would READ his diaries, because diaries and journals aren't always that compelling in large doses, especially since I haven't even read any of his fiction, but I did my test of books I don't know, where I open them up to any page and read and if I'm compelled, I take it. And damn, I ran this test 3 times on this book and each time I got that excitment in my gut, that chill on my skin, that sign of loving a book, so I got it.
And they were simple. He rode his bike to Beverly Hills to meet a guy with a new bike and they rode around Beverly Hills and smoked a cigarette and then his friend said, hey, let's visit Lena Horne so they rang her bell and went in and chatted and she was still in bed even though it was the middle of the day and didn't care at all that they saw her without her hair fixed up, probably because they were homosexuals.
Love it.
I did not ride my bike or talk to Lena Horne today, but I smoked a cigarette. I went to a birthday/graduation afternoon garden party and ate barbeque brisket and cole slaw and beans and watermelon and left before Popcorn the Hip Hop Clown arrived, which made me a little sad, but no major regrets.
I wrote. Not a lot, but more than yesterday which was more than the day before. I also wrote up my annotation of The House of Mirth which made me feel smart and that I learned something while reading it. Oh wait, I'm not supposed to be talking about writing in this entry. Yeah, I know, Isherwood, but that didn't count.
While lying in bed, before getting up and deciding to type through the insomnia, I had those moments of perfect clarity where everything in life made absolute and perfect sense, every moment of my life prior to this I understood from every conceivable angle. Random conclusions and insights on all sorts of topics, like about how in the Humboldt Park apartment, I never really every felt comfortable or safe or that I was actually living there, and that clouded and heightened every experience and feeling I had, which is not to say I didn't have some good moments and memories, but for the most part, it was like living outside of my own skin for 9 months. I remember hating being sick, because I felt completely trapped and paralyzed and isolated. Compared to my home now, which even in my recent moments of wanting to completely purge and/or redecorate, I still relax as soon as I walk in the door.
Tangent.
But yeah, clarity. What was I talking about? It's gone. But man, those moments still feel good even though they fade. Sleep is starting to creep up on me. The rest of my inane life, including such things as meals eaten, reviews of movies watched, and my obsession with outlined images of baby chicks and power lines, will have to wait.
