ericboy's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- \"Rest your trigger on my finger\" - Tool I suppose I should say something, but I have nothing. Atop this compose box is a banner that is electric; its motion and color nauseating. It doens't help at all with dispelling my lack of entity. I don't know what it is (the emptiness, not the banner) or where it comes from. Perhaps it's my overall lack of purpose, or maybe the general stir-craziness that I experience nightly, or maybe I miss Teresa or maybe I miss myself. I've been diving into books and music and movies and art and anything that will stir emotions in me and I think the problem is that they suck them out of me. The emotions are there and these outside influences wake them up and activate them, as if they were latent and waiting for a sign. That part of the exercise is effective. The fault in it is when I turn it off or turn the page, the emotions leave with it. When the CD stops spinning, what it had awoken goes back into the case with it and I'm left with less than I started with. Does this seem fair to anyone? We've pissed away all of our worthwhile moments with Sex & Bad Music and now we're running twice as fast to rebuild the sandcastle before the next wave comes. I feel like I'm busting my ass to clean the house up before Mom gets home, and the Cat-in-the-Hat, he doesn't give a fuck. He throws his muddy feet on the coffee table and smokes a stinky cigar while I sweat. That shit is not cool. Santa is an amalgam of Satan and Dr. Seuss' Cat-in-the-Hat is a liturgy for the oh-so-pleasing distractions of Lucifer. And I couldn't care less. I have a few retreats in this world: Teresa, Borders, my writing, my music. No, wait; scratch the music. I realized the other day as I listened to the CD with her in my room how far away from my intentions that crap is. That's not me on that stage, on that mic, on that CD. That's not me! That's convenient. I live my life that way only too often. Maybe I need a little hardship other than the fabricated hurdles that I erect in my head to make things "interesting." What an idiot! While in the restroom at work tonight, the guy in the stall next to me was cooing softly and then launched into a tirade of profanity and spat on the floor. Then he sang songs. Lurid, vulgar songs. He did all of this while shit slid noisily out of his ass and splashed in the porcelain bowl below him. It scared the other patrons, who would walk in, their hands on the clasp of their belt, readying themselves for the act, then wrinkle their nose, furrow their eyebrows, and walk out. I don't quite know what to say about that. My coffee is getting steadily colder; my head is getting steadily warmer, and my thoughts are growing steadily more centered. It's time to feed the Monster. I've always wanted to refer to the book that I'm working on as a "Monster". It's a writer's phrase, and, damnitall, I'm a writer! Finally. 12:40 a.m. - 2004-01-05 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
||||||
|
||||||