navel gazing
over the past weeks, I've noticed that my writing habits depend on my mental state. when I'm feeling (let) down and not everything's all hunky-dory, I write more. when I'm at the kind of state when I couldn't be arsed if you'd zapped me with a cattle prod (i. e. erm... happier?), I write less, if at all, and that only quietly for myself or in comments or the occasional e-mail or two.
or I see something and think "you should write about that" and then the moment's gone or my opinion about something changes too fast to keep track. like last friday, when I came home from work... got off the train to see a guy standing on the platform and he looked exactly like terry richardson. skinny, same gucci glasses, lithe mustache, dandy clothes. I took it as a sign for the kind of weekend where nothing can go wrong. and it didn't. coz - and let's be honest about this - in my book, ANY weekend is without fault, ANY weekend is absolutely perfect. I mean, c'mon, it's the time week where most of us don't have to work. and the ones in retail: that's the day of the week when you make most of your revenue.
but it this enough to write about? not sure about that.
okay, but how about this one time, at music camp... oh hang on.
the other day someone punched me in the metaphorical stomach. "I love you, I'm intellectually attracted to you, but not physically". yes, asshole, and have you looked into your own mirror lately? let's talk about receiding hairlines, crowsfeet and even though your abs ain't as hard as rock, at least your liver is... and then let's have that talk again.
so, I didn't want to write about that, either.
the other month, I went to the movies with my mum and her girly friend. who cares about the movie we watched (pan's labyrinth, was okies), while we stood in front, with our colas and popcorn bags, me smoking a cigarette, we had a little convo about my sperm donator calling my mother the night before and going on her nerves.
isn't it weird, I said to her, that even though you two've been divorced for about 28 years, still, everytime he whistles, you still wag your tail like a dog? how come you haven't stopped giving a damn toss about him after such a long time, you can't just dispose of him on the phone in less than 5 minutes' time? she had no answer for that. and silently I thought of my own inability to let go, even after years. is that still taking the piss at her or is it already projection?
she said his father had died the day before and that his own health isn't really good lately, that he's had a coronary before and he doesn't think he'll live for very much longer. good, I said, then I don't have to curse him. all the while, her girly friend had been chuckling, but she really screamed with laughter when I said I wouldn't go to my ex-grandfather's funeral, coz I didn't really know the fella, and that I wouldn't go to her ex-hubby's funeral either, because in our culture group it's not really acceptable going to a funeral in a red dress and then lifting it to piss down the open grave.
I don't know if that would've been the right topic to write about, either.
oh wait. too damn late now
;-))
or I see something and think "you should write about that" and then the moment's gone or my opinion about something changes too fast to keep track. like last friday, when I came home from work... got off the train to see a guy standing on the platform and he looked exactly like terry richardson. skinny, same gucci glasses, lithe mustache, dandy clothes. I took it as a sign for the kind of weekend where nothing can go wrong. and it didn't. coz - and let's be honest about this - in my book, ANY weekend is without fault, ANY weekend is absolutely perfect. I mean, c'mon, it's the time week where most of us don't have to work. and the ones in retail: that's the day of the week when you make most of your revenue.
but it this enough to write about? not sure about that.
okay, but how about this one time, at music camp... oh hang on.
the other day someone punched me in the metaphorical stomach. "I love you, I'm intellectually attracted to you, but not physically". yes, asshole, and have you looked into your own mirror lately? let's talk about receiding hairlines, crowsfeet and even though your abs ain't as hard as rock, at least your liver is... and then let's have that talk again.
so, I didn't want to write about that, either.
the other month, I went to the movies with my mum and her girly friend. who cares about the movie we watched (pan's labyrinth, was okies), while we stood in front, with our colas and popcorn bags, me smoking a cigarette, we had a little convo about my sperm donator calling my mother the night before and going on her nerves.
isn't it weird, I said to her, that even though you two've been divorced for about 28 years, still, everytime he whistles, you still wag your tail like a dog? how come you haven't stopped giving a damn toss about him after such a long time, you can't just dispose of him on the phone in less than 5 minutes' time? she had no answer for that. and silently I thought of my own inability to let go, even after years. is that still taking the piss at her or is it already projection?
she said his father had died the day before and that his own health isn't really good lately, that he's had a coronary before and he doesn't think he'll live for very much longer. good, I said, then I don't have to curse him. all the while, her girly friend had been chuckling, but she really screamed with laughter when I said I wouldn't go to my ex-grandfather's funeral, coz I didn't really know the fella, and that I wouldn't go to her ex-hubby's funeral either, because in our culture group it's not really acceptable going to a funeral in a red dress and then lifting it to piss down the open grave.
I don't know if that would've been the right topic to write about, either.
oh wait. too damn late now
;-))
posted by daria l'orange at 7:33 pm
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