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Below are the most recent 25 friends' journal entries.
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| Thursday, November 12th, 2009 |
allhailwest
|
10:37a |
“The artist Hannah Wilke was born Arlene Butter in 1940 and grew up in Manhattan and Long Island. She died of cancer at the age of 52. Wilke’s output was prolific and consistent. Through constant effort she maintained a visible career. At a certain point, perhaps the early 70’s, her work began addressing the following question: If women have failed to make “universal” art because we’re trapped within the “personal,” why not universalize the “personal” and make it the subject of our art? To ask this question, to be willing to live through it, is still so bold. In 1974, after producing drawings, ceramics, and sculptural wall pieces—many of which involved a “tough, ambiguous depiction of traditional female imagery” (Douglas Crimp, 1972) for 11 years, Hannah started to insert her own image into her art. I don’t know what experiences or conditions in her life precipitated this. Was she pushed towards it by critics such as Phyllis Derfner, who wrote responding to her show of cunts fashioned out of washing material lint at Feldman in 1972: “There is some wit in this but it is swamped by aggressive ideology...The ideology is that of women’s liberation. Females bodies have been shown, but only in an oppressive, ‘sexist’ manner. Wilke’s forthright repetitious presentation of the most intimate image of female sexuality is intended to be a cure for all this. I don’t see how it is supposed to work. It is boring and superficial.” Unlike Judy Chicago and her bloated vaginal renditions of Great Cunts In History—a show that every mother in the world could take her daughters to—Hannah never was afraid to be undignified, to trash herself, to call a cunt a cunt. “I wanted to throw back to the audience everything the world throws at me” (Penny Arcade, 1982). Hannah later told the Soho Weekly News how she’d collected ‘material’ for this work over several years by doing laundry for Claes Oldenburg, her companion at that time.” --Chris Kraus, I Love Dick |
| Wednesday, November 11th, 2009 |
misera
|
10:52p |
what I do when I should be being productive:
 |
shishi
|
10:44p |
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agraphia
|
6:29p |
until further notice.
in the throes of liberating myself from the xanthic stink otherwise known as nicotine |
|
agraphia
|
6:20p |
predominant mood: i wish i knew someone who knew me |
agraphia
|
6:04p |
days are insane and sleepless, nights, nightmares
anyone who endeavors to understand my state of mind these days must immerse themselves in this record http://www.invisible-movement.net/download/audio/internet-albumif you listen over and over and over: you'll understand. the answer -- my message -- is in there, if you can crack the code. fatuous it is not. (the opening track so would have i, admittedly, is a bit of a climate changer, an acquired taste. it repelled me at first blush but now i understand.) your lucky numbers are: 2, 8, 10, 12, 14, 16, 19, 21, though the album is palpably meant to experienced as a serial of linear progression, so i don't want to prejudice tracks.
but hey it is almost a poem:
three thoughts; (2)
the battle of time i will always ((8)
be beat down, penetrate time ((10, 12)
nature falls (14)
cut myself out ((16)
leaving you ((19)
a place to drive (21)
Current Mood: stoned. |
|
symbolism
|
10:03p |
"we never sleep, cause sleep is the cousin of death."written on a train that passed by me today. there is truth in that, if you see sleep as ignorance and death the disconnection between the soul/heart/mind/body. things are more simple though, somehow, somewhere. as nothing ever really is disconnected. beyond the drama of this life, we are always smiling. |
fullgora
|
3:46p |
I told you from the beginning that I was trouble!! |
| Tuesday, November 10th, 2009 |
misera
|
10:46p |
I guess these things have passed, though I'm still trying to grasp onto what I knew when I was twenty. when was the last time I wore (red) lipstick? my four-inch heels are somewhere in the back of the closet, I think I wobbled around at work in them once. now it's jeans & tshirt, messy hair pinned away from my brow, otherwise trying to hide, hide, hide - this body, this deadlook in eyes. cannot create - thoughts asunder, mostly I try to focus them in attempt to get through the day.
the other night embarrassed myself several times, could not work the clock, the recliner. this is what I've become? I read books to say I've read them, rush through them because I don't have time to enjoy them. this is not living but if I allow myself to contemplate it I won't be able to get through it and when you're working the ol' 9-to-5 (or 8:30-to-5:30 as the case may be), it's not about the journey, it's about getting to 6 o' clock (home) and having those few hours of freedom that I inevitably waste, hating myself for not Doing Something Important. I understand Virginia Woolf saying that to be a woman writer you need an allotment of money for the year so you can be unencumbered, with no duties save creating, but I am not a trust-fund kid. my parents were lower middle class - teachers: not making the big bucks. so to get my money, I've got to work for it. by work for it, I mean sell my soul - the very thing I need to create. and it's not just writing or music, but as I said, creating a person I want to be. now I'm: boring. I've never been exciting, I've never been wild, but I had stories. all I've got is water-cooler gossip and bitching about customers who bitch about me - my petty victory, my pitiful attempt at exacting justice one shitty customer at a time.
how do I find the balance? why am I even seeking the balance? when I was younger, I felt the pull towards craziness and I let myself go. oh the things I saw and felt and did! the freedoms, the colors! such red splattered there on the cold, white tiles. such sweetness, an orange after days without food. now I'm robotic, automatous. alarm clock, shower, rush out the door, breakfast at desk, work, work, work, covertly trying to sneak in brief moments of self, of soul, of self-betterment, lunch in car while running errands, work, work - repeat ad infinitum. when did it get like this?
in order to achieve certain dreams, I must give up on others but is the price worth it? is the dream I'm "getting" really being gotten?
I rue my naivete, my blinding idealism - the moment when I decided, "yes, I'll write. I'll do that!" even though I've never shown any true capacity for writing - who doesn't, in their aspirations at fourteen of being sylvia plath, write hundreds upon hundreds of poems and force them on their friends (such a tenuous term!) who, in their apathy mutter an appeasing "that's good" before returning to talking about boys? enjoying writing is not the same thing as being talented at writing but again, in the idealism of youth, I took the one to mean the other and set upon my path, which has led me absolutely nowhere. what have I published? what have I attempted to publish? the answer to both: nothing. I should have listened to my mom when she said, "why do you want to be a writer? you refuse to allow anyone to read anything you've written." (this stated after realizing, at fifteen, that aforementioned friends didn't care about my writing, and that I had been stupid to share and have been wary of sharing since). the sirens should have gone off: "warning - true statement! reanalysis of life's goals necessary!" an english degree - what good will this ever do me? I don't want to freelance, I don't want to be an editor, I don't want to be a journalist. I don't want to write for magazines, I don't want to write for manuals. stupid quixotism! stupid, stupid me.
so now I'm closer to 30 than to 20, stuck in this back alley, shifting my dream slightly to something with an equally ludicrous and unlikely success rate - music. I'm in a band! another one of those "who doesn't, in their aspirations at sixteen of being bob dylan, buy an acoustic guitar, write hundreds of unlistenable songs and force them upon random people on the internet" moments. will I never learn?
I should return to school, get a degree in computer science or business. I should start accepting the cold, harsh reality of life, instead of (in the words of st. kerouac) "running from one falling star to another till I drop."
but this is the life with which I've been cursed (blessed?). my solace and strength ("solace" and "strength") come in knowing that even if my fighting is futile, I am, ultimately, fighting the good fight - or at least my fight. sort of. |
allhailwest
|
5:22p |
"It's weird, I never really wondered whether I'm 'your type.' But maybe action's all that really matters now. What people do together overshadows Who They Are. If I can't make you fall in love with me for who I am, maybe I can interest you with what I understand. So instead of wondering 'Would he like me?' I wonder 'Is he game?' --Chris Kraus, I Love Dick |
shishi
|
3:21p |
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| Monday, November 9th, 2009 |
kdollarsign
|
10:18p |
I can't wait to see Levi Johnston's wang. |
shishi
|
8:24p |
i finally found my charger & put some juice in my camera for the first time in a few months. it turns out i do i have a picture of him smiling. i scrolled back into it unexpectedly and reeled. literally lost my center of gravity, backward, slowly. i hadn't felt it this hard in a couple of weeks. i thought i was going to throw up. it roared up in the bottom of me suddenly static & i'm trying to ride it cramped like pins & needles. it's like panic but no fight & no flight. just a thick thick wet electric blanket of it. i miss the shit out of him. i miss the shit out of him. |
|
agraphia
|
5:20p |
bhopal.
there are some things so troubling you can't be troubled to trouble them any more. |
|
agraphia
|
5:13p |
i am out of harmony, i am out of key, i am out of place, i am out of context, i am out of mirrors, shattered gone from minds. Current Mood: sosein. |
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symbolism
|
12:21a |
everything vanishes in the light of the truth and yet everything remains because we think it is, it does, it will, it wont and it is all those things youre so far yet i feel you i see you every second i move up or down this lifeline is my attempt at getting closer to you me you Current Mood: 2 |
| Sunday, November 8th, 2009 | |
symbolism
|
6:32p |
"all thoughts vibrate eternally in the cosmos." |
| Friday, November 6th, 2009 |
kdollarsign
|
11:21a |
alert
posting your twitter feed is not the same as updating your blog. |
|
agraphia
|
3:59a |
it's fucking november.
the most persistently and excruciatingly elusive quality about Weltschmerz is its very lack of definite content. without presentiment, one can become totally preoccupied by an intuition virtually identical to grief; equivalent disabling effects, but no discernible object relation to puzzle over. that's why the chronic grief of depression is both absurd and demoralizing; absurd because life-dissatisfaction is intellectually gratuitous, and demoralizing because without a socially acceptable 'out' it is impossible to disguise your feelings. it is a plight without dignity. grief is also the price of looking into one's own heart Current Mood: it's fucking november. |
|
agraphia
|
3:27a |
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agraphia
|
3:26a |
a way of saying nothing, with my everything, with one unmistakable convulsive ache of my loaded symbolic being |
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agraphia
|
3:22a |
pessoa, 35 sonnets
XVIII
Indefinite space, which, by co-substance night,
In one black mystery two void mysteries blends;
The stray stars, whose innumerable light
Repeats one mystery till conjecture ends;
The stream of time, known by birth-bursting bubbles;
The gulf of silence, empty even of nought;
Thought's high-walled maze, which the outed owner troubles
Because the string's lost and the plan forgot:
When I think on this and that here I stand,
The thinker of these thoughts, emptily wise,
Holding up to my thinking my thing-hand
And looking at it with thought-alien eyes,
The prayer of my wonder looketh past
The universal darkness lone and vast.
|
| Thursday, November 5th, 2009 |
misera
|
11:16p |
after listening several times to the song I posted earlier tonight, I realize the full line in the chorus is "oh delia, don't go 'round when the devil's loose."
perfect, perfect. since it's calling out to me, I'd say this is advice I best heed. |
misera
|
8:02p |
elvis perkins and a.a. bondy are playing in orlando on saturday. a few weeks ago I heard of a.a. bondy and really took to his music, only to find out yesterday that he's playing this weekend. wild! I've been vacillating on whether or not I'm going to go, since I'd most likely have to make the trek alone (orlando is about an hour and a half away) but I've gone to shows alone before, and I kinda really want to go, so...we'll see.
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agraphia
|
5:56p |
i made a partial transcript of what john frusciante reads in STUFF.
shatter who you one way and head; to sally through their fake little back-black cloth, it's a-it's a passageway to drive, walk or run through, or the wind and water could carry you. i expect what didn't happen just now to have just happened (that lifted you up, part of the coin-sky's wine) embody the trail that's designed by the shadow never. forward or up or down, the climb: the top is the bottom -- so there's no rush, and you don't get tired. [unintelligible under guitar] you move like you do cause you do it for them; i've been followed around so long. mistakenly killed for being so thin. i get flipped inside-out. the song of Trash that could rise into fresh... new... food, is clothing, love, so it grew, i assume that whenever slides and roams around spending life; so you flip each day to the night, that holds yourself in condition./// folding pain tightly so it knows what it means: for its silent vows to be all that bleeds; like me it knows--the sides, or what it needs to keep trying... and it didn't mean to be 'n-i-a-p'. my body's light 'cause the weight of whatever's carrying me through the weak traps around the free... i've stepped anyway not falling like being on my way to be (sniffle), i'll never go empty, but thanks ... to 'f-e'. sitting around feels like running in clouds; dangle me (audibly turns page) from their thighs widening across where life is here; because my love is crying. i'll share the Where i've lost because i'm a pretend me, and i'm real because i can hit me softly, and bleed... blood... i can hear 'cause i'm near now and it's far from fallback into the ground: flip-dive through its holes. and through the whole thing landing is unimportant, so long as i'm giving the thing that swirls like selling dreams to cannabis, telling two to jump three.
Current Mood: stoned & starving. |
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