February 11, 2012

I just finished watching Goldie Hawn’s episode of Master’s Class. It got me thinking about halves. This is going to be an entry in half thoughts.

  • I have currently developed a fondness for Library Music of the 60’s-80’s. (Think DeVol, who scored the Brady Bunch.) I’ve always liked it, it usually has a really lush string section, and is purposefully atmospheric. The kind of dramatic swell you imagine in your brain before you make a big decision. Often, it’s cheesy as fuck. Hollyridge Strings and similar bands tried to bring rock and roll to the Geritol generation and failed pretty miserably at it. See what I mean?   Sometimes I’m like, whatthefuckamIdoing, and then I hear something gorgeous like Percy Faith’s cover of “Laura.” (Unfortunately all the audio I can find is horrendous. Apologies.)
  • The sad thing about making that last paragraph, is that the delightful dreaminess of Goldie’s pathos has drifted from my system. I figured it was too good to last anyway…

That’s what I’ve been thinking about.
Sometimes I switch gears and it sneaks up on me.

I love Goldie Hawn.

The first time I read her book I was a junior in high school and didn’t understand the value of narrative license. (As in, one can tell a complete story, but have it not be in a complete order. Or, perhaps the completeness of it, is in each vignette rather than taking place within a larger act structure as one would expect.) I didn’t  know who she was really, the book made no sense, I thought it was pretentious drivel and went back to my business. (Analyzing Mamet, and generally touting my douchery.) I forget when I found it again, but it changed my life. The concept of spirituality over religion was new to me, I enjoyed that she valued having an enriched spiritual experience in her day to day life while her feet were on the ground.

Sometimes I view myself like a person wrapped in a comfy, old sweater in desperate need for a wash playing life at a game of chess. Life makes a move, then I place my sickly, sticky sweatered, solipsistic finger on a piece wondering when my eyeballs got so hollowed out and I became a huge cuntbag. Perhaps this has only been a thing as of late. I can’t say. I can say that I’m a huge commitment-phobe which has served me well recently. I have yet to “commit” to being depressed. I am depressed some days, as is everyone; but I’m 22, I live with my mother, (who’s constantly the victim of everything) I sleep on an air mattress, (which was a step up from an uninsulated shack in the back yard) and I have zero perspective on life. A lot of my entries have been either dreary, or a futile attempt to hold onto fleeting joy. I. Don’t. Know.

I know that people keep telling me what I need and what I want. This makes me feel like vomiting. They tell me what I should do, place their hand on my shriveled finger and try to get me to make my next move before I’m ready. My mom thinks I’m an ungrateful brat. I don’t know what I am, because I am here. I am my aggregate experience. People can tell me whether or not I’m amply taking advantage of certain situations, but if I don’t feel it, I can’t force myself to.

My bony old cuntbag finger is on a piece. I haven’t decided where to place it yet.

Life may come at me and knock my queen over. Life may come at me, and I’ll be able to steal its bishops. (Those sneaky bastards!)

It’s weird to be 22 and feel like your next move will be surefire check mate. I don’t like this. I feel like I am too young for it.

Then again, keeping with halves, I could be through half my life already and not taken an interesting risk in the last 9 months. The riskiest thing I’ve done in the last week is try out two new coffee shops and watch a few movies I’ve never seen. My bus pass expired today, and it’s making me cranky that now I won’t even be able to go anywhere because I’m so fucking broke. 

“Well, get a job.” You say, “Anything.”

Sometimes I feel like I should get KISMET tattooed on my ass.

On a good day, library music makes me want to punch someone in the face.

On a bad day, someone will actually get punched in the face.

What do I want? (The question of the ages.)

Moving forward is hard.

Especially when you’re in an atmospheric environment that captures all of your senses. Something that’s enrapturingly dreamy and makes you forget that you’re probably going to wake up at 2pm tomorrow with a massive boxer-wedgie then try to muster the strength to make a cup of coffee and go do something. ANYTHING. GET OUT OF THE HOUSE. FRESH AIR.

Library Music was a bad idea tonight.

I regret it.

EDIT: I stopped wallowing long enough to read Laurel Masse’s blog, and it was just what I needed.Perhaps you’ll enjoy it as well?


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