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2000-10-06 || 17:07:47 || why do all the important things fly out the window? || last night sam and jeff and michael came over and we sat in my wee apartment drinking lucky lager and red wine. i got a bit silly. drinking usually makes me just feel sick and tired, but last night it was just enough to make me forget where the light switches were and hold on to the railings when climbing up and down the stairs. no one's hardly ever in my apartment with me (who knew i would be one of those girls who is out all the time living quite the young and modern lifestyle, only stopping at her house to sleep? this is making me think that there's a funny link here-- i was never like that when i shared a place with roommates. i think i was home much more often. ever since i got my own studio it feels like i am never home, although i long to be... but i'm thinking subconsciously i don't want to be home alone so i find things to do and reasons to be out. hmmm. in the back of my mind i feel myself wishing it would just all stop so that i could be home. call an end to all the shows and hanging out at fort mcgee and going out for dinner almost every night ((pathetic. i don't have salt and pepper in my house. i've used my microwave twice.)) and trade it all in for writing and catching up on my reading and practicing the guitar and making stuff again. that's what gets me down the most.. i used to stay in all the time, to the point where my mum's favorite saying to me (while standing at my bedroom door, arms crossed, head to the side) was 'get a life' (she's a tiger, that mum), completely content with making things and writing and brooding. i fear that i've lost it.. that it flew out the window of the car while driving over the bay bridge one night to a show or a bar or the flat on 24th street everybody used to live in.). this entry is growing arms and legs and parentheses and i hope it's not completely disorienting to read. but what i was trying to say was that no one's hardly ever in the apartment with me, so it was funny to be lying on the floor with jeff lying on my bed and sam and michael sitting on the couch, all of us surrounded by empty bottles (i happen to think lucky lager bottles are the cutest and it will be painful to throw them away.. i was going to go into my pack-rat tendencies, but i don't want to get off-track again..) and clothes and the stacks of books i don't have room for. those boys are tops. now i'm worrying about how bad i've gotten about making things- writing elaborate letters, writing zines, making books and pictures, hungry for blocks of wood to draw on. one of the attractions of living alone was that i'd be shut out from distractions and i'd be lonely enough to do something creative, but it's not happening. i feel like i'm jumping out of my body and whizzing around the ceiling, flying out the window to get away from what's in my head. i'm not willing to release it for some reason. it's been pushed to the corners so much that i'm afraid of how hard it'll be to find it again. guestbook || notes || archives || profile || photos || d-land |