The Sudden Feeling

"I'm really intrigued: these disasters, these decisions that are wrong from the start, these dead ends that constitute the story of my life, are repeated over and over again. A passionate vocation for happiness, always betrayed and misdirected, ends in a need for total defeat, it is completely foreign to what, in my heart of hearts, I've always known could be mine if it weren't for this constant desire to fail. Who can understand it? We're about to reenter the green tunnel of the menacing, watchful jungle. The stink of wretchedness, of a miserable, indifferent grave, is already in my nostrils."*

             I'm almost twenty seven years old and I have to force myself to clean my room. My car sits dead in the drive way. My scooter has a flat tire. My space heater broke the week it finally got down into the 40s at night. Records are missing sleeves. Emails go unanswered. I made my bed today for the first time in weeks (it does look amazing, highly recommend, filed under simple steps to make you feel better about yourself). I don't know why it's so difficult for me to undergo these easy, little things that are a part of being an adult. That part of my life, the physical part, being a mess doesn't really make me lose sleep at night. It's the avoidance of everything else that's the problem. I've been afraid to make decisions, since I've lost faith in myself over the summer, and I haven't been writing, because I'm afraid to get too close to what's been just below the surface for awhile now. 

"I know where these tortured musings on the irremediable can lead. There's a dryness inside us we shouldn't get too close to. It's better not to know how much of our soul it occupies."*

             I've been looking back on the past few years and realized I waited much too long to do some things and rushed in or completely fucked up most of the others. Anyone that's ever swung out over a river on a rope swing knows that too much hesitation is never a good thing. I've always let go in the last second, before smashing into the black water of the Santa Fe river, but that seems to be the only time I have any guts. This past year I failed to get into grad school and I was too chicken shit to apply to any others. I took it way too personally and now I'm staring down another academic year without credentials. I'm not saying you have to be in school to be somebody, absolutely the fucking contrary. I work in a bar where MFA students repeatedly don't tip me, and personally I think they look way too clean to be actual poets. Most of them, I'm sure, have never seen a rope swing in real life.

            The other thing that deserves a lot of personal literary attention on my part is my total failure of having a healthy relationship. I don't mean that the relationship was a failure, but more to the point that I failed at it. I thought that by this point in my life I would have shut that door and been moving on to the next part of my life, but here I am, back at square one, and it's really no one's fault. I wanted to write an epic tale of woe, all about the miseries of summer and lost love and all of the stuff that's pretty easy to write about honestly, but I didn't. Looking back I'm glad I didn't. I've mostly just felt really confused, about everything. Drinking served its purpose of numbing out a lot of those feelings, and I've been on quite a roll of forgetting and evading, and might still be. I finally came to terms with the fact that it's hard to write when you're afraid of what you might unsettle in yourself. I've crossed that boundary at least. I'll still gladly check out mentally with my friends, because it's fun to be miserable together, even though we call it a party, even though it feels good, but I can wake up in the morning and sit down and deal with it finally. 

 

"I felt the gradual return of my old loyalties to life, to the world that holds endless surprises, to the three or four beings whose voices reach me despite time and my incurable wanderlust."*

           The weather changing has everything to do with everything. Summer's long misery is behind us! Everyone feels something new in the air, and it's both real and imagined. A lot of people, it seems, are ready to do something new. The next step. I feel comforted in the fact that by this time next year, I will be in a new place, doing something mostly different than what I'm doing now. Al Burian writes a lot about fall, and I've been flipping through a lot of Burn Collector lately. It's not a coincidence. Fall has a loneliness that summer doesn't, summer has a melancholy but fall is the time for remembering. The voices that reach me are the voices that I've always looked to my whole life, books I read before I had any friends, and books I bring with me when I travel, and books that will keep me company through our sunny, beautiful winter. 

        This book that I'm reading now (see below) has already effected me more than anything I've read this year. I did finish the Dark Tower series, and fell in love with the characters and story, but I consumed it, I devoured it so fast and just wanted to continue the story. In Mutis' book every sentence is a pleasure. The story is amusing and also at times strangely dark, and the main characters and the often doomed characters around him have insights into true melancholy. Reading it has reminded me of unidentifiable aches, weird pains, and the language of nostalgia. Travel, dreaming, and failure. The articulated, tangible feelings I've been searching for since summer ended. 

*The Adventures and Misadventures of Maqroll, Alvaro Mutis. 

that life that is slowly waking

"In the depths on your green eyes, you loafer, I can clearly see the land of laziness. I can see golden hills where you will bask. I can see the sofas of your many-houred snoozes. I can see heaps of notebooks you will never cover with writing. I can see the thousand peaceful cities where you will live from day to day, a thousand peaceful white cities of phlegmatic architecture and friendly climate. Torrid heat reigns from early morning. A streetcar, open on both sides, is making its way through green pastures. Oh, how sweet it will be, to live in the heart of that life that is slowly waking but always nodding off again before final awakening. Open windows, dark apartments, the somnolent dramas of the residents, an oval table covered with a cloth, the remains of banquets that never end, hammocks, easy chairs, old architecture, a thousand gentle rivers under a thousand old bridges, lazy girls going for walks along grassy shores...I'm afraid it's already too late. If you have the misfortune to chance upon a lazy body at the very beginning of your youth, you'll be lost for life. Your innate tendency toward laziness will be awakened and set for all time, and you'll spend your entire life searching for the promised land of laziness. You'll pass through a thousand peaceful cities. All your life you'll hunger for lazy arms. You won't live, you'll sleep instead."*

Be patient with me. Nothing I'd ever say out loud, in the real world. In the real world I'm always tapping my fingers, ready to move on, always rushing around. Inside though, alone in my room, I beg the world for patience. I have to have the exact right amount of time to write. The exact right amount of uneasiness and unhappiness, but not too much, because then I'll be busy taking care of it. There's always something to take care of, but it's hard taking care of ones own self.

I thought that lately I'd been happy. I was wrong. I'm not even sure I deserve to be happy, but really I think I was just being lazy. When it's easy to sleep past noon and stay up with someone, one on one, why wouldn't you? I realized that I need a break from being self-indulgent. This weekend I drank a lot, ran around with old friends and caused some trouble. It was fun, but I got sick and had to lay in bed for the past three days thinking. I mean really Thinking. Maybe that made me even more sick. I realized I still have a lot of work to do before I can be really happy, and that does seem like the point, to me anyway, just to be happy in the end. I saw my friend Charlie this weekend and he said he missed reading my blog, he asked why I'd been so busy, why I haven't been writing, and over beers I realized I didn't have a good excuse. So here you go Charlie, this ones for you.

Rose Cross has one song about partying. The gist is "turn off my brain" and I hop up and down and pogo and it sounds happy but it isn't. I spend a lot of time wondering why I have to be the one to think so goddamn hard. Everyone else seems ok most of the time, like nine out of ten people can walk into a messy room and feel fine and I'm the tenth person that walks in and completely looses it. Going into work and fixing other peoples mistakes, cleaning up after people, putting things back in their place...where does that bone in my body come from? Why can't I coast along, doing the bare minimum, smiling dumbly and dutifully? I get frustrated at everyone's lack of interest with the problems around them, and am worn out always trying to fix them. I often feel like I don't have much to show for it either. Sure, I work a lot, but I'd have rather been at that Halloween party than standing behind the bar for eight hours. I had a really amazing boyfriend for about five months but then I freaked out, thought I was doing everything wrong, felt depressed and ended it (that is the very, very short version of the story). If I could let things go...wouldn't I be happier?

Well fuck that. I'm not going to let New Years sneak up on me. I'm making my resolution now. No more sleeping in, no more comfort, no more easy living. I'm going to be writing more, updating this more, and trying to fix all the goddamn problems, and I don't care how unhappy it makes me. In the end it'll probably be worth it. Probably.

*Jerzy Pilch, A Thousand Peaceful Cities

2666

"While we must search for the antidote or the medicine to cure us, the new, that which can only be found in the unknown, we must continue to turn to sex, books, and travel, even knowing they will lead us into the abyss, which, as it happens, is the only place we can find the cure."*

I can tell what kind of day I'm going to have by what kind of country song I wake up with in my head. The other morning I woke up signing a song I hated, something really banal, one of those songs that people mean when they say "modern country music." I can't believe I even live that sort of life anyway, that I have to hear anyone use that phrase, but it's worse than that of course because not only do I know what they mean but I know the songs too. That morning, I woke up with that song and I rode my bike to work and someone almost ran me over and I know that the people I'm giving my shit eating grin to over the counter are the same ones that are trying to kill me on my way there.

This morning though I woke up with a better one. Sort of tender, or at least trying to be romantic. I mean, nothing next to George Jones of course but it could be a lot worse, especially in 2010. So I woke up with this song and as I rode my bike across University Avenue someone yelled out "I love you Keri!" and I don't know who it was but it helped me a lot, later, with the shit eating grin.

Anyway, I'm kind of "back on track" and finally, after a good day of work I sat down to write about it. I've been drinking way, way less. This all started a few weeks ago.

My mom read my blog, just as I hinted might happen in earlier posts, and here's the rub, I actually give a shit what my mom thinks of me. She has always been horrified by my drinking habits, and trying to explain to my mom what poppers are was sort of a low point for me. We had a very serious conversation, where we talked about my life and where it was going, and I cried a lot, and tried to tell her I was a good person, and I think I half-way believe that, but she fully believes that and it amazes me. Then, I took a trip to Mexico with my straight-edge-ex-boyfriend-from-high school and a really cool thing happened, I didn't get drunk for ten days.

I had so much to do in Mexico, with waking up early and hiking ruins and swimming and getting a truly stunning tan, that I didn't really have time to get drunk. I think I just needed to know I could do it. Since I've been back I've been reading a lot more, drinking less, and finally writing and getting my applications together for graduate school. So I don't have a lot to write about it, because I'm not doing anything that fucked up or embarrassing. Actually, the other day I told someone to "suck it" in a pool hall but that's about it. Summer is starting, there's lots of anticipation all around, and maybe that's all I needed. Warm weather and something to look forward to.

* "literature + illness = illness" speech by Roberto Bolano

Chaos fuck day / Chaos fuck nights

"Gentlemen...we are a very special breed...we possess a vast capacity for reasoning, understanding, and similar forms of mental activity...a keen perception of those connections between ideas which awaken amusement and pleasure, and an hysterical willingness to fuck up!"*

I could do this one or two ways, the first to tell you exactly what I did and how awful I felt in the morning (both emotionally and physically) or I could just expound upon my shortcomings and antics in a philosophical manner, lean dangerously close to sentimentality, and still feel uneasy about the whole thing. Listen, I have no idea what the fuck I'm doing. It was a long weekend.
Everything started ok, I was so ready for my Black Metal Master Cleanse that I set myself on the dangerous course of Drinking Binge 2010 (my first, this year). I got off work Friday, had a couple of beers, finished the Kingsolver book (it was great, seriously) but then around 10:30 I started drinking again, this time with real intent, and ended up doing a drug that I can't talk about on the off chance that my mom will ever, ever read this blog (yes it was that bad, or funny, depending on your perspective). I am sure that I had fun, and while I would never be embarrassed about dancing (on stage) to 2 Live Crew, I am about hitting on someone I've had a crush on for a couple weeks (still went home alone, don't worry Mom).
I ended up walking home with Adrien and Alexis (Anna said she heard us outside her house on 6th place, me in the street screaming about boys) and then getting into bed with my friend Max Parker. Max and I are just friends, so it seemed like the safest place to be at 4 in the morning, high on my secret drug and after drinking an orange Four Loco (gross). Max told me in the morning that I wouldn't leave the bed, let alone his room, and we stayed up talking until 7 in the morning about punk rock, which is actually really sweet, and made the rest of the night seem worth it. In fact, being so scared and freaked out seems worth it just to have my friends calm me down at the end of it, I don't know if that counts in a if-a-tree-doesn't-do-drugs-in-the-forest kind of way but it seemed nice to me in the morning. No apologies no hangovers, that ought to be my new motto, and I swear I'm halfway there.
Saturday I worked, stayed sober, and crawled into bed around 5 in the morning after getting stoned and reading several chapters of Moby Dick. Max and Robbie wanted to have Chaos Fuck Day, sponsored by the band Screaming Noise, but it had to wait for Sunday, when I really harnessed my self loathing and misanthropy into a singular idea, complete with catch phrase.
Sunday I started drinking by 4. I can safely say I was drunk by the time I went to Gator Beverage at 8, bought more beer (and poppers from next door), and went into my work to get shots. Our little troop of fuck ups went to Wayward Council, I think I dismissed the show in the interest of tuning out of reality, ate a weed cookie, and walked home (at some hour, unremembered by me).
Monday, I felt so hungover all day that I had to drink 3 beers at work just to make it until 2:30am, which is exactly when I passed out, fully clothed, before sleeping for 12 hours.

Ok, time to assess. I had fun with my friends (good) and also did a lot of weird drugs (also good, in my book) but I also drank so much that I barely remember it (that's the part I'm trying to avoid). I think what went wrong is that I got so fucked up on Friday, that I felt like I had something to hide and/or bury deep into the fantasy world of drinking and it sent me into some kind of problem spiral for the rest of the weekend, which has lasted until today. I ought to be editing this post over the next several hours so that I can connect more dots, and erase some inaccuracies. Chaos fuck day gives way to pathetic mornings, that's what we learned this weekend.
As of tomorrow, it ends. I somehow managed in the course of this weekend to get a 2nd job (stoked, and needed) and also to sign up for a volunteer program helping special needs children ride horses. My days will start filling up, and my nights will become less empty.

*from Maakies w/ Drinky Crow by Tony Millionaire

Life of Crime

"And then he lost his memory, as during the times of forgetfulness, and he recovered it on a strange dawn and in a room that was completely foreign."*

I groaned to myself a little when I woke up in Athens, Georgia, without my pants on the kitchen floor. I know I didn't do anything bad, or otherwise inappropriate, but I certainly lost some hours on Monday night. I remember the show, which wasn't as good as Friday's but still worth the drive, and I remember thinking I had to drink as much as I could before the bar closed at 2, but being handed more beer at Jill's house. I think I would have liked to remain coherent but everyone assured me I was funny. The car ride home was miserable, I curled up in a ball in the back seat under my leather jacket and felt kind of awful for six hours. Back in Gainesville I tried going to the Chronic Youth/Diet Cokeheads show at the Atlantic but couldn't get past two drinks and walked home, cold, tired and sad.

Today I had a margarita and a PBR, convinced myself everything could get better, and walked Kaysie home from the Top.

*One Hundred Years of Solitude pg. 69

01/04/10 and 01/05/10

"One has a great time rocking out to a band drunk but in the end can't remember if they were all that good. Same goes with girls. There were lots of them but it wasn't like other first kisses. They were fun and sloppy but lacked real feeling, lacked depth and nuances, lacked subtlety and restraint; some of the best things about kissing."*

It occurs to me that I haven't had a first kiss sober in a really long time. Maybe that should have been one of my goals for 2010, but I think I threw out kissing people with the whole bread basket of drinking less (don't throw away the bread with the basket, is that how that anecdote goes?). Not that it would work out though, my bed has been full lately with two cats and a very lonely roommate.

Monday night I tried to drink a Miller Lite that was left on a table while I was working. Totally disgusting. I didn't even finish it. Afterwork I drank a Jameson and gingerale and I think it may have made me feel a little extra warm for the bike ride home, but then I spent a few hours trying to fall asleep thinking about (what else?) kissing people.

Yesterday I broke my limit again. I had a Yuengling with Kaysie at the bar around 6, and then watched some action movies with 2 High Lifes. Then I had band practice, and when there's band practice there will be drinking, in this case 2 shots of some generic Whiskey and a Busch. I didn't get drunk though, which helped since it was our first practice. I know last time I was in a band I was drunk about the whole time, and I still feel uncomfortable when I think about our sometimes sloppy shows, and how dismissive I was toward other people when I was more concerned with entertaining myself. If I get a chance to be different in this band I will.

*from the zine Blurt No. 1