ericboy's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Do you miss me, Miss Misery, like you say you do? Another day in the books; long and exhausting. I woke up at a decent hour and did laundry; four loads. I had more to do but I realized that I was holding up my neighbors and it wasn't their fault that I waited until every scrap of clothing that I owned was dirty to think to wash them. I made a tape for my bassist, and that was a treat. I'd almost forgotten about the calming effects of the lost art of tape-making. So much freedom; so much room for expression. I read three poems at The Otherside tonight, despite their pleas for positive work with no profanity. I censor myself for no one. This isn't a malicious position; this is me and my personal take on art as identity. Work tonight at Hollywood was actually pretty decent. I think it's merely because I had some accomplishments under my belt before arriving. Returns were crazy out the ass, but Becki called me and I talked to her for over half an hour. It was really nice to hear her voice. I miss her so very much these days. She's the only person that ever really seemed to understand, whether I was waxing faux-philosophic or drowning in my own self-crafted misery. She understood, or at least nodded accordingly at all the right moments. Either way, she will always have a place in my heart and her name will be on my lips until the day that I die. Now examine yourself; how many people can you say that about? Really? How many people will be important to you forever, or at least as much of forever as is allotted to you? It's a tough question, with an elusive answer. On second thought, don't examine yourself. Your life is hard enough. Elliott Smith is dead. He committed suicide at the age of 34. If you've ever heard his music, you might understand why. He was very in touch with the deeper, darker side of himself. Those moments when you look around and nothing seems right or even familiar; when the world around you is a menacing Scorpion with you in its claw and its tail poised to strike; you: alone, small, just trying to find reasons to breathe. Smith's music was about this lonely view of the world and it drove him to take his own life. This world will kill you. All of you. Don't worry about outrunning it; just live. Just breathe. And, if at all possible, try not to think too often. It will only get you into trouble. I strapped on devil horns made of clay that looked ridiculous, even in the mask of darkness. I stood like an idiot, smoking cigarettes and refraining from speech. I stand that way still today, only no one can see the horns. A vicious cycle. The barista here at the coffeeshop asked me what I did for last Halloween. "Hell, man; I don't know. That was, like, a year ago." I really don't remember. I guess I worked. This year, however, I have the night off for band practice, but I learned earlier this week that band practice has been cancelled in observance of this holiday, so sacred to rock-n-rollers. So, with dread and horror, I realize that I have Halloween night off and no fucking plans. Knowing how ridiculous and asocial I am, I'll probably try to pick up a shift at work. What an idiot! Does any of this seem familiar or right? 4:27 a.m. - 2003-10-30 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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