Plathological

"Does 'Fuck You' Sound Simple Enough?"

School. I swear to god. It's bumming me out, you guys. In an: I'm so dark, fuck you. Hemmingway. kind of way.

It’s interesting to note that as soon as school gets going all my hyper interest in text, the same one I had been nourishing, page after page, all summer, dissipates entirely. For some reason: I am suddenly reading nothing. I have no urge to go to the library. Aren’t we getting a bit old for this? I mean: Group work? Final exams? Motherfucking Midterms?? Just take me down to your slum quarters and I’ll more than happily do your laundry there. Rearrange our wine glasses for off-putting symmetry. I'll hum to myself the entire time. I'll work on making that outgoing message sound a bit more cordial this time.

(I’m not including workshops in the above qualifications. Writing workshops are a different and much appreciated animal. Other departments should catch on to this method. Otherwise, I sit in class and think: this is what you have to offer me? This isn’t good enough. This is mono.)

Applications? Passports? Submissions? Textbooks? LATE FEES? Fuck me. Once again life is back and forth-- I’m starting to feel like a ping-pong ball. Again. School. Home. School. Home. School. Home. Where does walking down the freeway fit into all of this? Stupidly endless cycle of existential crisis. Where are we again? How am I still doing this? Is this it? And, strangely enough: how can things get any better if they're already This Good? Strange. I know. I'm not exactly bitching, so much as expressing Utter Confusion at My . . .Life? . . .LEAF? . . ."one day a big wind will come and . . ."

So. I’m moving in with the boyfriend. We’re looking for a new place for November first. I’m starting to think that living with The Boyfriend will be a Very Good Idea, for me. I think he’s starting to see how utterly useless I am at organizing/planning anything at all, so he seems more than happy to take care of the searching and phoning around for me. The thing about me: I’m a control freak who just can’t handle it, apparently. It’s my excuse for everything. My main sources of inspiration are quite the little binary. If I didn't have my friends right now I would probably lose it. If I didn't have solitary time right now I would lose it even more. I need someone to put my name at the start of every sentence. It's one of the few ways remaining that will get me to listen because it's something I really need to hear right now. It has nothing to do with phoning at the appointed time.

"Fear of intimacy," Xavier says. And he’s right. Is that the faucet dripping? I wonder what my parents truly think of me. My father seems so proud. Why? How? I think it's his only saving grace. Sometimes I honestly think that and I want to apologise for every time I hated him for being so drunk and terrifying (to me) before I knew what being that drunk meant-- because it all worked out, didn't it? I mean didn't it work out anyway? I mean, did he or did he not take me on a special trip to the liquorstore when he was visiting Victoria in July just to buy me some strong, imported beer? I think he did. I think he told me to go home and get drunk. And I listened to him for once. The irony. I think my father's fucking incredible. I would have no appreciation of what it means to be this working class, this trashy without him. I mean, sometimes I pluck my eyebrows in public. Without his influence, I would be boring, moderate, have no concept of excess, blacking out, endurance. I would just experience a situation and not have the ability to think about it as it's happening. I wouldn't be able to experience a situation and stand outside it, analysing it at the same time. There would be no duality to me. I wouldn’t know what it means to survive. -----(Photo of him behind the link below).-----

Posted by caroline at September 27, 2005 12:31 AM