And well, anyways, because of my little archeological expedition into a suburban basement, I am now not tired at all - hyped up from downing espresso shots like water. But, caffeine does not keep me awake as my normal self. It keeps me awake as the anxious, unable to concentrate Charlie. This is a great effort – to write this – since I am off and away in a place called ZombieLand. Alternating between fits of itchiness - scratching my scalp, the spot right behind my armpit, and my belt line – and fits of near shivering, feeling so so cold, and being unable to decide if this is caused by my hyper self-awareness brought on by the caffeine or rather because it is in actuality, fucking cold as a polar bear’s testes. I thought about going jogging tonight, but quickly dra-dra-dropped that plan like it was hot. Yeah Lil’ Wayne – your one and only contribution to the American idiom. Dra-dra-drop it like’s it’s hot. And okay, Lil’ Wayne – I followed your advice and did just that. Feeling the way too cold air – the feeling of stepping into Hell – of pain and harshness and no sympathy quickly prick every exposed area of your skin, and air that punches even the areas that are bundled up, trying its best to seep its cold wickedness through the weak fabrics. I guess it’s good that nature can still prevail against man every now and then. That layers and layers are still not enough to defeat the cold air. Nature wins this battle. And, being the nature-loving boy that I am, I was fine with its victory, and turned up the heat before settling myself onto to the couch to watch some good old television.
My hot date, the television. Who else would I want for my Valentine? Okay, maybe Marky Mark. But other than that, who besides Television would I rather spend Valentine’s Day with? Okay, maybe Shane Riley, and maybe Jimmy Fallon, and maybe Drew Geer too – okay, maybe there are countless boys I could list that I would rather be with, but that is not to say anything against my date. He was as charming and courteous as could be. I was possibly maybe supposed to go to this indie club to a rock and roll dance party with Rebecca, but when the phone rang and I saw “Wood, Fred” appear on the caller ID, I decided not to pick up the phone. Lately, I have not desired anyone’s company. I am not depressed, at least I don’t think so, but psychologists always know best right (yeah, okay Nora, ha!). I am the happiest boy in the world doing things by myself, reading, writing, masturbating, driving around, and occasionally I feel like doing something with someone, but tonight was not one of those nights. Tonight, I was looking forward to just sitting around in my socks, reading bits and pieces of Infinite Jest, loosely outlining my artistic manifesto, and just being chill inside away from all things that are truly chill(y).
PBS is the best. I watched this really awesome, old documentary about Bob Marley tonight that I loved sooo much. I kept on being like yeah! right on, Bob, at so many parts, and kept on getting so excited about the spiritual properties of music, and the political potential of art. I kept on scribbling notes and ideas in my notebook, to be incorporated into my as of now incubating artistic manifesto. I am getting real excited about writing this – I’m real glad I decided to give myself a project. Projects give me great pleasure. Anyways, I got real into this documentary, and by the ending, when they showed his funeral, I was so wrapped up in his life and music, that when I heard “Redemption Song,” I started crying. The song is so beautiful and makes me want to cry anyways, but played over footage of his funeral, I could not help myself. And, the song was my redemption song – his lyrics were my own – and it felt so wonderful to feel this feeling of co-authorship. I have not felt it in so long – not since early high school, probably – the ability to relate so strongly with a piece of music. Chills right through me, and us apparently. Nothing else seems to matter. You croon and that is it. You speak for the two of us. We are a “we.” And that is what feels so good about it. My tears were not of happiness, but nor were they of sadness – the tears were the only method my body knew how to deal with the jumble of emotions – the only way to synthesize them all into something classifiable. A little drop of water is the synthesized product.
After that was over, I watched the end of Eve Ensler’s performance of “Vagina Monologues,” on HBO. I sort of really hated it. I’ve always secretly hated “VM,” but did not think this was okay until two years ago when I read Camille Paglia’s rant about how much she hates “VM.” And, then I thought it was okay to also hate it, if one of my favorite people also did. God, I want to kick Ensler in the fucking head, she’s so obnoxious and so everything I hate about theater and art. I’m not going to go into a rant about Ensler right now, because I’m not in the mood. I just want to state how annoyed I was that I did not just savor the enjoyment from the Marley documentary, rather than to be greedy and look for something else good on my date after it was over. You gave me a box of chocolates - now, I want another box. Gimmie.
Oh, today I had a job interview to work at Dale Photo, an independently owned film store, and it went real well, and I think I will probably be working there. I am going to find out for sure on Saturday, after she calls my references. And I am also trying to work at Borders. But, I do not seem to have the best of luck, so we (as with everything) shall see how that goes. That is the only way one can deal with anything in the future – I mean, that is, until they finally get all the kinks worked out of those time machines.
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