Returns

I feel terribly contrived sometimes, and I wonder if it is because I cannot be bothered with thinking more on certain things--I am too tired, too pleased, or else too displeased; either way, I am too much of something, and to try earnestly to write that away seems so silly. So the most I can do is offer up a bit of contrivance, an over used (and perhaps a bit roughed up for it) symbol; this is somehow, sometimes better than trying give a tired thing a paper ceremony, for it needs none--the ache, that fine pulled pleasure, is itself the ceremony to the pleasure or displeasure that preceded it, that caused it.

There is a distinct line between being tired and being jaded, and the former always pleases me on some level.

I have been thinking a lot about the idea of waking up, and I am still not sure if this is something the parasite has to (or wants to) do. Or must do, rather.


It is not Isaac's intention to lie--it is not explicitly part of the rules of his game. But that is what the parasite must do when annexed, pushed out into the open, into a spot of discomfort. Lie. Make a sound to cover, to excuse away your presence. It does not mean to lie; it means only to make enough noise to allow it to creep back into the woodwork. It is not saying "go away," only "turn the lamp off, I can't see so good with all that musty light."

I am the English major of my family, and in my family, that reads deviant. Which I suspect is not so far from the truth, but it is that they make the truth seem so far (miles away, really), so Other, that miffs me a bit. My sister took one look at the book I was reading when she came home and pshaw'd--"that's such an English-y title," she said. And it was kinda true, akshully.
The first ten minutes of the drive home were spent arguing (and by arguing, I mean in the dissolving-into-lols-but-still-trying-to-be-12%-serious sort of way) over the definition of philosophy with my mum. I'd like her to know that not all philosophers are arrogant dick heads; I'd like her to know that not all college kids are shit faced crazy; I'd like it to be known that I am a bit arrogant, and a bit crazy. But more than this, I want her to be happy, and grow pretty plants, because she deserves this more than anything.
I have been all three (two?) of the cards I made for my TE at some point; but I have been known to linger in that first position.
So when I come home, I become my own secret; I slip into the screenname, the karma I've saved here.

I just saw a movie with my sister; afterwards, we talked about what we liked and what we didn't. Her overall opinion was positive; thumbs up, if she were Ebert. I did enjoy it, but there were several things that made me very...uncomfortable?
Namely the main dichotomy, and how it ceased to exist by the end. Well, I suppose it did still exist--but nullified. Neutralized. Dracula's teeth filed down to little nubs; Spartans with cake swords.
Also, it made entirely too much sense. And that was startling. And nude. And therefore, uninteresting.

Fiction, though sometimes nonsensical, does not erase what existed before it, in the same way that clothes do not erase the body below them. To leave a story so scantly clothed is to say, "I do not trust you to know where the shoulders, hips and bum are, so I will show them to you plainly now."
And the same with lies; that is, if you wear a barrel, it may hide the fact that you are wearing nothing underneath, or that you are wearing a nice pair of jeans. But it does not keep what is already there, skin or skin and jeans, from existing. It does not denature; it cannot denature, not at that level, but it can at the point of my tongue, and that is why that movie made me uncomfortable.
Movies have become very strange for me recently; I feel as if I am intentionally pulling myself out of the experience sometimes, which is not at all what I go there for.

~

I don't like the dreams I dream here. And I am aware that I'm dreaming different dreams. Stale dreams--more difficult to remember than the ones I've had squeezed in my little dorm room. I am aware of those ones being shorter, brighter...warmer? Can I say that? Does that make sense? The difference is one of room temperature, but it gets into the dream itself, too. There, I will call them dreams; here, I have...thoughts-while-I-sleep. I suspect they are more difficult to remember because I am not interested in remembering them.

I miss missing sleep.
Two days into my break, and yes--I miss town. I miss people.
I miss drawing--I've become artistically lazy to the max since I got here. I still owe Thunderwood a picture. I still owe several characters forms. I want to draw Unlikely Shapes. I--I think I'm gonna go to bed. Like Birdie. So much mud before the dawn--but that does not keep it from coming.