fantods
��������� �����i feel intensely erudite right now. and very, very in need of some sort of Substance.in the midst of the massive oeuvre "infinite jest" written by david foster wallace, hailed as both 'genius' and 'innovator of the century,' i find myself pausing to reflect on a particularly choice paragraph:
'...that 99% of compulsive thinkers' thinking is about themselves; that 99% of this self-directed thinking consists of imagining and then getting ready for things that are going to happen to them; and then, weirdly, that if they stop to think about it, that 100% of the things they spend 99% of their time and energy imagining and trying to prepare for all the contingencies and consequences of are never good. then that this connects interestingly with the early-sobriety urge to pray for the literal loss of one's mind. in short, that 99% of the head's thinking activity consists of trying to scare the everliving shit out of itself.'
and laughing. because it's ten-to-five in the a.m. and i'm watching the sun blemish the sky with a peculiar vodka-screwdriver tinge. i take it back. it's more of a pink-lady type tinge. needs more grenadine. make it a red russian, or a cape cod. stir in some bitters, or some campari. watch it become the most gloatingly alcoholic sunrise ever. you don't even need the pre-requisite of tequila anejo - curious.
i find myself tonight swinging through a few moods. a good day, overall, fraught with a late wake-up and no phone calls from any of the prospective employments i had lined up. tomorrow i mean today i think i'll take it into my own hands. the phone that is. i have this one peculiar bug bite on the corner of my jaw, and it's irritating the piss out of me. i was 'costumed' tonight for the show, and i'm in tails. so irritated by this fact. i am a bartender, at a speakeasy, in the 20s. during prohibition. e.g., the dinner club is upstairs. e.g., bartending is messy. e.g., I WOULD NOT BE WEARING TAILS. it screws with my character interpretation. and is very, very bothersome. i'll have to fix it. somehow. i refuse to wear that. guh. maybe i can convince them to nix the jacket, go with a white shirt, black pants, maybe an apron and a bow-tie or something. informal. GUH. i hate costumers who don't do research.
TAILS! anyway.
also, a highly enjoyable last-night with jason. apres harrypotter2. making fun of the jamaican girl who was a semi-finalist in the nat'l spelling bee of 2003. "thank you SIR." you had to be there, really. it never ceases to be funny. and then tonight, apres rehearsal, watching 'dazed & confused' and having this terrible urge to be Substance Abusing. (ah, there's more colour in the sky's face - a little blue curacao, it seems!) to be going off like roman candles at peculiar cockeyed angles. (and oh, in the book i'm reading. the word 'fantods' in place of 'heebie-jeebies' and i crack up inwardly every time i read it. fantods. HA.) through every empty parking lot. careening back and forth like pinballs loosed from their metallic labryinths - particularly enthralled with the way a word dribbles out of the mouth, (i need a job), and elsewhere likewise.
two days until that final payment of $430 is due, which i don't even nearly have. much irritation abounding. financial stress on my skeleton. hairline fractures in my general composure.
i wish i could be more personal about what i'm really thinking in here. but that continuance is impossible. all online journals are reduced to a certain level of vaguerie or dullness, simply because such open admissions about oneself become public domain and - sometimes premature, too, before the writer has a chance to fully puzzle through a choice or decision - therefore becomes more of a nuisance than anything. it's why we little-white-lie, i think. i know that if i were to be very open about everything (moreso than i am!) then this would become a rapidly degenerate place of hatred and confusion, neither helping nor benefiting me in any way.
but i will say this: things are odd inside my head, and the thoughts that doggypaddle in the murky waters under the gray sky of my skull are not altogether pleasant. often tangled up in seaweed or getting clocked with driftwood. very tenuous the circumstances are. but! one must endure and shove on, ehm? good old washington crossing the potomac, wot wot?
&so. dead leaves and moldy old tennis balls. some white wine to the horizon! bathtub gin! moonshine!
the moon's faded to a pale half-sphere in the increasingly azure firmament ... it's rather lonely, and saddened.
just like me!