Sunday March 28, 2010

Don't Panic 38/i365

Sunday March 28, 2010 (I love nothing today)

I am tired in this picture. I am feeling tired and sad. I feel sad right now as I'm writing this. Joanna Newsom is on the record player, and I'm in an apartment full of people. I'm going to be sleeping on the floor, and a beautiful girl will be sleeping on the couch, and its a sleepover even though we're too old for sleepovers. I was going to stay over in the multimedia lab tonight, but I decided to come here. I feel drawn into myself. I don't know what I'm doing here. I don't mean right here, I mean here. Not here here, not right here, but here.

Now it is quiet, and everyone is headed to bed. I'm still typing, working on nothing. Working through my thoughts. I've been gone all day. I left where I live at 10:30am, and never came back. I don't want to go back, I just want to live in other places for the rest of my life. I don't like my body. I don't like my head. I don't like living in both my head and my body all the time. I can get out of both, but its not something you do if there's people around. Not that thing, my thing. Why does my mind always wander that way first?

I wrote a song once that went, "It's been about a week since I have fell in like with you. I really like your smile, I like the colour of your shoes." I erased the song from my head because it sounded too much like a Kimya Dawson song when I sang it. It's been about a week since I've last hurt myself.

Does it mean anything? Really it doesn't. Nobody gets to see my scars. Nobody really knows. The people who do know don't care. I remember that Miranda July short story I read. A boy gives a woman he doesn't know a flower or a toy or something, and then she throws it out the next day because she doesn't have room for it in her life. At first I thought that was really tragic and sad, and we should have room for everything and everyone in our lives, but I'm starting to realize that people don't have room for me. It's not really tragic or sad, its just the fact of life that my stories, my scars, my thoughts, my ideas are disposable.

I have room for a lot of things in my life because I am always so lonely. Woman's lost earrings. I found one today in the rain, and I felt relieved. I've needed to find one for about two weeks but have always turned up buttons or hair elastics. But now I have a woman. I have her earring. I own her. A little bit of her. I can put her in my pocket. I consume her. I can take photographs of her. I can hold her, touch her, break her, lose her. I own her. I own five women now, and I want to own seven hundred.

Everyday I write a sentence or two on my ipod. They are the text messages people in my life don't have room for anymore. When I have enough, I am going to write them onto pieces of paper, stick them in little brown bags. Each little brown bag will be two dollars. I think then people will appreciate my thoughts more because they are worth money. They have an arbitrary value attached to them. I am not going to give away things anymore if they aren't appreciated.

I make signs. I put them up in the multimedia lab. I put one up the other day that said, "You will finish your project." I know people read them, and they'll talk about them. It makes me feel wanted, or like I'm an unknown, but known person. My next sign will say, "Don't Panic", but I don't know if I will make it until next year, or if I'll just put it somewhere random at school.

I suppose I should stop writing and really do work. I am tired in a way where I could stay up for twenty three hours more hours, but trudge around and feel like someone is pressing their hands down on my shoulders.

Up against the wall 55/365

Sunday March 28, 2010

When I am writing songs, I write them into notecards, and then carry them around and sing them to myself.