3 a.m.

i am enraged at my own futility and anger. they feed off each other in a perverse symbiotic relationship that will not be reckoned. sometimes after absurd emotional outbursts i want to rip out my own vocal cords, scratch out my eyes, and sew my flaring nostrils shut. i feel so animalistic, in the scariest way possible. like a god damned bull, blinded by anger and ready to mame everyone in my path.
-from my journal

why why why do i think horrible things like this? these are real thoughts. exxagerated? a little. but only by analogy. these thoughts aren't generated by one-time feelings either. these are that-crazy-ass-bitch-needs-a-psych-consult-if-she-hasn't-had-one-yet thoughts. and that scares the fucking shit out of me.

worse still, is that while i'm terrified -- and i mean terrified -- there is a part of me that wants to share every skeleton with someone. i am fucked up. i should remain alone.

my biggest downfall is that i really am like clem.

"you don't tell me things, joel. i'm an open book. i tell you everything, every damn, embarrassing thing."

i'm always drawn to the (sometimes strong) silent types. i cling desperately to the hope and excitement that there is some treasure lodged deep, something they yearn to share. it ends one of two ways: a decision is made clearly indicating they'd rather reveal their mysterious dark and twisty poetic selves to someone else. or, i am swiftly driven mad at their silence, aloofness, and seeming lifelessness. the only thing slow and eventual about the process is my acceptance of my own unhappiness, utter restlessness, and desire to run as fast as i can in the opposite direction. sometimes i am the last one to hear me screaming on the inside. i am amanda's wasted emotion. blablabla.

i know these men aren't lifeless. i would never deny anyone their humanity, i'm not that fucked up. i like what greg kinnear's character said in as good as it gets: "if you stare at someone long enough, you discover their humanity." but back to the bullshit rant i started with...

in lieu of the anvils laden with dispicable deed demons being lunged in my direction from some unknowable location where the (karmic?) powers that be conspire to choose a most unfavorable fate for me, i wonder... how will it all end?

venom = passion.

i will use all of this. i will use all of this. i will use all of this.

maybe rock bottom is the place to start. sometimes i convince myself i've hit rock bottom before. why? because i'm a pussy. i know what real rock bottom is, and i haven't come close. i'm too scared to go there. does that mean i have a brain in my head, or i'm weak? i'm so damned detached from reality anymore, i can't even answer that. though, i'm clinging on enough to know the answer deep down.

anything has to be better than limbo. right?

but a new addiction has me wondering if my situation could immediately improve.

¿cuantos años tienes tú?

i usually hate birthdays. well, my birthday. i guess it makes sense, especially after that mid- mid-life crisis crap.

but no more. this year holds promise for self-sufficiency and a toy that i've been waiting on for a long time... a digital slr. here's hoping.

not to mention the best early birthday present i could've asked for... a brand new president. i love my new obama.

it should be a good birthday. t-minus 8 days.

hasta.

p.s. if you haven't yet, see man on wire.
it's breathtaking.even if philippe petit had never infamously walked the tight rope between the twin towers, i would still say
that the way he lived his life when he was young was beautiful.
it's as if he lived and breathed art, effortlessly. a walking exhibition of inspiration to his friends.

but i'm grateful he did, for all the emotion and appreciation he evoked from that lucky crowd of witnesses.

capturing moods.

i can't. fierce and fast approaching, each mood is a fleeting aftershock of a previous one. feeding on alternating states of self-loathing and frantic recklessness disguised as ecstasy, these moods seem to have more vitality than i. they suck the lifeforce out of me until i am drained, leaving me with less energy than required to properly self-destruct or ride the peak of a manic high.

(for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction... einstein was so bi-polar.)

fuck. even as i write this, my mood shifts. i'm not in it anymore. how am i expected to get it down, read it back and make sense of it, let alone explain myself to anyone? therein lies the problem. forget it. i choose apathy.


change of subject.

i've been feeling uninspired. everything i produce seems lacklustre. maybe i need to let the art seep out on its own. i need to treat art like a man or woman. i shouldn't smother, but i can't simply walk away. trying to seductively provoke life and beauty from within won't work. i have to remember what drew me in in the beginning because taking a photo is like a simulation of the spark felt at the beginning of a new romance, however brief (if only an exchange of glances). making it art is like trying to recreate what i saw, evoke how i felt in that first moment and make it last. a breakthrough? nah. reading over it now, it all sounds like bull. maybe i should try a new approach... like channeling every insane impulse and throwing it against the wall to see what comes out. yeah, that sounds spontaneous and organic.

sometimes i feel like a fraud. i have this sinking feeling others would jump at the chance to say, "you are. we've all been laughing at you." but that isn't really me talking, that's the mood. (the mood? why have i given my moods the power to be self- thinking and free-will possessing entitities?)

god this is depressing. i guess i'm still in a funk from the nightmare i had last night. hours of tossing and turning, jerking awake every half hour, only to return to the same damn nightmare in realtime when sleep would come again. the dream was too real. i can't think of anything more terrifying than a lucid nightmare that feels real even after you wake up. still, everything about it was too obvious; every element was a manifestation of the thoughts, fears, and antagonists that have been on my mind lately. i'm not ready to delve into any of it. i prefer to remain detached from reality for a short while longer.

sometimes we delay the inevitable because it's all we can do to see a few brighter days. but i dare not whisper the name of my villain for fear of spoiling the blissful ignorance i'm desperately clinging to.


i'm still not ready,

but i do want to go back here.




and soon.








the destitution of this place in winter is oddly invigorating.

a strange creature, am i.