It is winter and my neighbors are moving mountains above me. I feel ‘neighbor’ is an unfair word for a person who lives above you and in the same house. I feel disdain for the footsteps as I hear them through my ceiling. I feel watched although I’m not even listened to but the presence I feel comes from the fact that the heat is blowing my air into their air and they can definitely smell what I’ve been cooking. I don’t know if I could write a fiction I feel too much like I write my thoughts and that my thoughts are a reality even though my thoughts are nothing of the sort and if everything is a fabrication I could think anything and I could write anything and it could be good because I wrote it and decided it would be good. I feel most things could be broken down into logical steps and so anyone could actually do anything at some point, if they followed the steps they would specifically have to do in order to accomplish what it was that they wanted to set out to accomplish.
I think if someone creates art successfully we ignore how crazy they must be to have created it. Because a lot of time while I sit here and I write, I feel a little bit like I am out of my body and have to get the words down on the paper. And it feels like it flows out of me because it does and I am trying to type to keep up with my thoughts. And I am not saying that this is art, but if it were to be called art I would have had a weird process to create it. If it were not to be called art I would have spent a lot of time being kind of weird and alone and at my apartment. I am listening to the least inspirational song, while learning how to be a human being. I skip over words and references in books that I don’t understand and I am sure most other people do as well. Except for those few exceptional individuals that look them up painstakingly. But I skip the words and phrases that I do not know when I read and I think that most other people do this as well and maybe that is why some texts are more difficult to read than others – because we are missing some knowledge and so we can not make sense of the text. And isn’t that a version of illiteracy? What is the reading level of someone who just barely is considered literate? This is a sliding scale. How do we measure it how do we measure it how do we measure it how do we
Get weird get weird get stupid get weird get weird get stupid what do other people do if they are not writing words down in openoffice writer docs what do other people do what do they do? I could do anything right now and I am writing notes down in an openoffice writer doc because I do not have Microsoft Office because I am poor because the version I did have got robbed by a man who fixes computers who told me he fixed my computer. He didn’t. I fixed my computer. Thermal paste, dweeb. That moment passed. This one will too. This will as well and I am becoming more and more aware of the things that I am doing but I am losing it because I love the line: “I’m gonna fuck my way through college,” but I will never actually be able to do that because I am already through college and grad school, and I feel like I got transitioned into adulthood but I didn’t want to be. And where did my life’s prime go? I am still doing alright but this moment will pass too yes it will pass and eventually I may actually be doing poorly and have no prospects and why have I never felt like I was doing poorly? Even in my worst times, I always thought I would make it through and be kind of a success, overall. There is no reason for that because I could end up homeless or raped or something else I judge people for.
When I was younger I lived on Winton Street. It was my great-grandmom’s house and we were charity cases. My mom is alright with being a donation bin, but I have more pride than that. Correction: my mom is alright with staking claim when she has no right to anything. My mother is a conqueror and a cockroach and she knows how to get by. My mother would be offended at that, although I think she’d know its truth. Was my mother ever an ‘artist-type?’ I think she likes to color inside the lines. I think she would worry about what other people thought although she’d never admit to that, I don’t think. To be honest, I don’t know her; I don’t think we ever really knew each other. I think she was very guarded and it made me very guarded. I think she wanted to raise me to be strong and I am strong but I am doing it in a way that isn’t as hardened and I think she admires me for that although she doesn’t understand it. I don’t feel strong. I don’t feel weak either. I feel like I am in the middle of a very long journey and this too shall pass.
I kind of like the ugliness of the name Agnes, but I think you have to be really hot to pull off a name like Agnes. I don’t think I could. I think that name would ruin me. You have to be quirky but not in a cute/silly way – you have to be quirky in a fucked up kind of punky way. I think Agnes would be my kind of girl if I were a lesbian, but she would be kind of out of my league in a weird way and date a fat lesbian with a rat tail. Maybe writing fiction is about speaking in hypotheticals and asking but what if but what if but what if. I wish someone would write a poem or a song about me but I would be so embarrassed to read it or hear it. I had a boyfriend write me a song once, but he played bass so I couldn’t be embarrassed by his emotions so much. It was sweet and we were 16 and I am sure he thought it would be a sweet thing to do as he sat down and wrote me a song. I wonder what his home like was actually like. I always thought it was probably kind of sad, but I don’t think we focused on it when we were together. I guess my home life was sad too and I didn’t talk about it either. I think it is alright to have people who let you forget things are sad. Scott is the guy who is making me remember things are sad and that is also a good thing because he is forcing me to acknowledge problems and try to deal with them. I can’t respond angrily to much with him because he usually makes so much sense to me.
And isn’t it funny that things make sense the more we agree with them? And isn’t it crazy that people will never understand other people because each person only learns so much and then they die and all true lessons must be learned through experience because no matter how many times our parents tell us not to touch the hot stove we have to touch it for ourselves before we really know it. Inching closer and closer, gaining more and more knowledge through the absence of pain, but still not gaining the knowledge we really need, which is not to do the thing we were told we shouldn’t do. After all we are told not to do things that are good all of the time and we don’t know they’re good until we do them.
Take old ideas and sound new take old ideas and sound new take old ideas and sound new there are no new ideas just new people there are no new ideas just new people there are no new ideas just new people and new listeners and a new audience and we have the same problems but we understand them just the same we have new people and new listeners and new people who ignore the same problems as if they are new as well as old people who ignore the same problems but know they are the same.
I want to like things that are weird a bit more than I do and I want to like them because they are what I chose to like and really aren’t all of our choices about what we are comfortable telling others we like? All decisions are decisions of guilt and shame but probably also of happiness and of denial of problems and acceptance of delusion. And if I get in this shower right now and you get here when I am in the shower would you wait outside or enter with the key that’s a copy of my key that I gave to you. And would you call and call and how long would you wait for me before you shrugged and turned around. And I worry about every action but I don’t know if everyone else does and I guess they might but about different things than I do. And I am not sure I have ever read something that is really truly coming from a happy place and maybe that is because I am not reading it from a happy place.
Tell me you want to take a drive and we will get in your car and just drive because there is a large percentage of this world that I haven’t seen but I want to see it with you. Tell me you want to go somewhere and that it doesn’t matter what we’re leaving behind because what’s ahead is more important and what’s here is the most important at all. I am a romantic and I am uncomfortable writing down sexual things in my writing and it is probably because I don’t care much about sex but also because I am uncomfortable. I could tell you I want you to grab my hand or my ass or pull my hair and I’d go with you regardless. I could tell you that all of me is for you so really just go for it and let me have whatever you want to let me have. I don’t know what that would gain me though, because that’s not so much what I think about and now I am wondering why I don’t really think about sex that much I mean I think about the prospect of sex a lot and how if we hang out how we might have sex no matter the day or no matter the drugs but I think I like the lead up more than the sex and I guess I am supposed to like foreplay. I don’t think about kissing you so much either, but I like the way you pause and look into my eyes after you kiss me and before you kiss me again.