I don’t run in circles like a Terrier. I run a straight line thinking black thoughts.
Benzos are the carebear of drugs. Ritalin is the pacman. The only thing short of an act of God that would motivate me to draw. A strange clean world somewhere between creative and and pure smiling hedonism. I’ll never remember how long I spent there, only that one day I came back. Not on account of anything. It simply cease to work. Left my heart pounding and limbs numb. Weeks of mind games and teasing addiction.
Benzos are habit forming. Cuddly. The My Little Pony of mood alteration. Like a little friend. And there is the problem. In my warm little world, unconcerned. Wholly unmotivated. Alone in my blithe chemical torpor.
Which can be good for the obsessive, neurotic, obnoxious. But not so good for the single. Or the lonely. Or the not so sure what the fuck their doing.
Sometimes you realize that the only way you’re ever going to get your shit back together is to get a little uncomfortable. That maybe this has actually been one of your greatest allies and in comfort, you lose your way.
Gleaned out of the corner of my eye I shamelessly looked. As far down breasts, stomach, legs, tattoo hip. Wondering something academically, what it would be. Wanting to say. To smell the sun and the leaves. Dirt and air. Perfect light and curled blond hair.
I never actually imagined I’d keep a blog. Let alone 2. I run sites mind you. Music and art. I’ve even blogged both. But I let the work speak. It’s always had more to say then me. And nothings changed except I seem to be spending much less time on those other two.
I’ve got a lot of things to figure out and I’m not exactly having a mid-life crisis. I’m 35 and I haven’t put enough thought into life to ever really have that kind of crisis. I’m on the wrong end of the bell curve and I’m just slowly starting to wake up. To realize what I have and haven’t missed. To think forward.
I’m perpetually in love with life and simultaneously, inextricably crestfallen. It’s a funny way to feel because it turns everything inside out. Sad beauty. The vividness and vitality of pain. The humor of it all making me love it even more.
I’ve failed at so many things but that’s not what bugs me. It’s the things I’ve failed to fail at. The things I’ve never done or was too afraid to do.
But currently I’m a practicing wreck. 3 out of 7 days I’m on drugs. The other 4 fewer. I’ve been accused of misrepresenting myself. Of pretending to be something other then I am. So I’d like to get that out of the way. I’m arrogant and stubborn. I’m wrong probably more often then I’m not and it doesn’t matter because being right was somehow never the point. I’m unrepentant, kinky and if you don’t know me you’ll probably never understand why all these things don’t collide. In some ways it seems like my life is divided into a series of subcategories. Sex. Art. Music. Love. Laziness. Obsession.
I tend to either be completely oblivious to things or completely focused. With the twilight my laziness. Laying on my bed thinking. Or sitting here typing. Anything you might think I am I am not. Anything I imply is too vague. Never something I intend to be taken seriously. I move between vice and virtue. I have all my life, so it seems natural. To other people it seems disingenuous or jarring. I love and hate myself. Usually at the same time. Everything I do follows. Every action extends this. But I love and hate a lot. With passion. Sometimes enough to consume me. To crush me. And by extension in my own perfectly imperfect way, those around me.
As much as I love my own self-destruction I love simple things. I garden. I can cook. I’m indulgent or civil. Licentious or slow and shy. Often quietly withdrawn working to understand my own motives. The wonderful and sad state of things.
