Hey there kids! It's 3:35 in the morning, and you know what that means!
It's time for another installment of "Clara is an insomniac zombie!" YAAAAAAAAYYY.
It's hot. It got up to ninety today, and as I have previously stated, I do not like hot weather, so in the Clarometer, It was about ten degrees over "lay in bed and die" and well into "oh dear god."
One of these days, I am going to get out. I refuse to be one of those people who just stays in one town their entire life. I know people like that. They were born here, their parents were born here, their grandparents were born here, all of them grew up here, went to school here, got married here, never left here, and fully intend on dying here. They make me sad. They never want to see what's out there, they stay with what they know, with what is safe, and that really depresses me because life isn't safe. It's not supposed to be familiar. As my biology teacher said in one of her few moments of good-teachery; "nothing about reality is constant."
I'm gonna get out of this town, out of this state, and I'm going to go somewhere where it snows in the winter. The closest I'd ever consider to being here is on the other side of the continent. New York, Jersey, maybe. Somewhere I don't know anybody and I can't run home. Somewhere where I can force myself to regenerate. Maybe London. Somewhere where I can study my music and be the person that I want to be instead of the crappy person I'm stuck as.
I can't be close to home because I know I will give up if I am. I will run home and be safe and I can't do that. I want to rent a small apartment and go to college and be able to play folk rock and Black Flag on my guitar at four in the morning. I want to be able to watch the sun come up. I want to be able to wear what I want without judgmental looks from people I know. I want to drink coffee and write and draw and sing and be me for once in my goddamn life I want to be me. And I can't do that in California. The ghosts of everybody else are overwhelming me.
Saturday, June 29, 2013
Sunday, June 23, 2013
It's five in the morning. I guess you could say that I'm up early, but only if you completely disregard the fact that I never actually fell asleep. I tried for a few hours, got up and had a mug of tea and drew things, read for a few hours, then just gave up and started writing this. I do this a lot. It's gotten to the point where I have pages and pages in my sketchbook filled with drawings that I make at three in the morning and coffee and tea rings from where I set my mug down on my paper. I once went three days without sleeping just because I wasn't tired. Of course, at the end of it I passed out on a book, but before that, I just couldn't sleep. I never can, really.
I was talking to a friend of mine once, and she told me about how she always plans out anything she writes before she writes it. Do people actually do that? I've always made things up as I go along. I believe it's more effective at capturing thoughts and emotions. I don't plan, I rarely edit, I just write. Part of that may be because I am one lazy piece of shit, but the capturing the essence bit was good, let's go with that.
I'm so fucking sick. Read that however you want, they're all true.
I was talking to a friend of mine once, and she told me about how she always plans out anything she writes before she writes it. Do people actually do that? I've always made things up as I go along. I believe it's more effective at capturing thoughts and emotions. I don't plan, I rarely edit, I just write. Part of that may be because I am one lazy piece of shit, but the capturing the essence bit was good, let's go with that.
I'm so fucking sick. Read that however you want, they're all true.
Wednesday, June 19, 2013
feelings and alcohol and needles
I'm tired. I don't mean sleepy, just tired. Today is one of those days where I get the whole 'the heart is the epicenter of all feeling' shit because the brain may be where feelings take place, but your chest is where you feel it. It feels like I've lost something, and now there is just this gaping hole where it used to be and I'm so desperate to get it back, but I don't know what it is, so I'm left frantically for an unknown object in an unknown place with no hiding spots and I can't see what I'm doing, but I just need this unknown thing more than I need air but I can't find it because it doesn't exist.
I could easily see myself growing up to be an alcoholic. I heard somewhere that people with a history of alcoholism in their families are more likely to become alcoholics themselves, and I certainly have enough alcoholics in my family for that to apply. My mum's an alcoholic. I have a few blurry memories of when I was young of watching my mother get drink after drink after drink and her crying and screaming and the days after were the ones when my father would drop my sister and me off at school and would say goodbye but couldn't bring himself to look into our eyes. At every single family gathering everybody gets drunk and laughs and yells and argues and my uncle talks about all the kids he beat up in school, but he "wasn't a bully. You know, kids like that, they just get beat up." And my grandfather, whom I normally adore talking to, as he is an author and he knows more about poetry than anybody I have ever met, talks about "the dykes and the fags and the Jews" and he doesn't know he's being offensive, he's just old (he fought in World War II for chrissake) but I'm bisexual and my girlfriend is Jewish and he doesn't know about any of that and it just hurts because I love him so much but he can never know the details of my life because he will never forgive me.
But yes. Alcohol. I see all of this, and I still see the appeal. I've had a few glasses in my life. A glass of champagne at New Year's, a glass of wine when relatives are over, and it's tingly. a sip makes everything a bit warmer and brighter, and I'll be the first to admit that I need a little bit more warmth in my life. I can see myself becoming an alcoholic, but I don't want to. I don't want to be one of those people who get a bottle and they drink until they cry and they drink until they stop and they drink just because they have the bottle in their hands and what the hell else are you supposed to do?
Moving on,
I have been thinking about getting another piercing. There is this great place in San Francisco called Body Manipulations (link even though I am fairly sure you are not in California) who does every piercing with a hand held needle. I've gotten my other piercings done there and the feeling is fantastic. It hurts less than you'd think. There's a little bit of a sting when the needle goes through the skin, but after that it's just this slow sort of burn, this stretch that hurts in the best way possible. It's like a wave that you could ride for-fucking-ever and it's just fuckin' awesome. There's another way that I am fairly certain I will end up as; twenty-five and covered in tattoos and piercings. They will love me at airports. (I also might give my uncle a heart attack, but that's just a bonus.)
I could easily see myself growing up to be an alcoholic. I heard somewhere that people with a history of alcoholism in their families are more likely to become alcoholics themselves, and I certainly have enough alcoholics in my family for that to apply. My mum's an alcoholic. I have a few blurry memories of when I was young of watching my mother get drink after drink after drink and her crying and screaming and the days after were the ones when my father would drop my sister and me off at school and would say goodbye but couldn't bring himself to look into our eyes. At every single family gathering everybody gets drunk and laughs and yells and argues and my uncle talks about all the kids he beat up in school, but he "wasn't a bully. You know, kids like that, they just get beat up." And my grandfather, whom I normally adore talking to, as he is an author and he knows more about poetry than anybody I have ever met, talks about "the dykes and the fags and the Jews" and he doesn't know he's being offensive, he's just old (he fought in World War II for chrissake) but I'm bisexual and my girlfriend is Jewish and he doesn't know about any of that and it just hurts because I love him so much but he can never know the details of my life because he will never forgive me.
But yes. Alcohol. I see all of this, and I still see the appeal. I've had a few glasses in my life. A glass of champagne at New Year's, a glass of wine when relatives are over, and it's tingly. a sip makes everything a bit warmer and brighter, and I'll be the first to admit that I need a little bit more warmth in my life. I can see myself becoming an alcoholic, but I don't want to. I don't want to be one of those people who get a bottle and they drink until they cry and they drink until they stop and they drink just because they have the bottle in their hands and what the hell else are you supposed to do?
Moving on,
I have been thinking about getting another piercing. There is this great place in San Francisco called Body Manipulations (link even though I am fairly sure you are not in California) who does every piercing with a hand held needle. I've gotten my other piercings done there and the feeling is fantastic. It hurts less than you'd think. There's a little bit of a sting when the needle goes through the skin, but after that it's just this slow sort of burn, this stretch that hurts in the best way possible. It's like a wave that you could ride for-fucking-ever and it's just fuckin' awesome. There's another way that I am fairly certain I will end up as; twenty-five and covered in tattoos and piercings. They will love me at airports. (I also might give my uncle a heart attack, but that's just a bonus.)
Saturday, June 15, 2013
smoke and night
I love the way smoke looks. I can't smoke because I have asthma and one hit would kill me fucking dead, but I like watching it. I love how it looks alive, the way it curls around objects and unfurls into the sky. I love the way the light hits it and it turns the air murky and mysterious. I love the way it looks when people lean against a wall and have a cigarette or a joint in their fingers and they inhale and close their eyes and let the smoke pour like liquid out of their nose and mouth and curl around their fingers. And I love the way it looks on a ceiling, when the combined trails from a hundred mouths form murky clouds overhead and fill a room with the stench of tobacco and pot, I love the way it lingers on clothes and skin, musky and spicy and sharp and sweet.
So it's summer, and it is way too hot and too bright to do anything. I keep on trying to explain that I am a teenager, a creature of the night, and that I am pale and nonathletic and that they should know what a delicate fucking butterfly my immune system is, but they refuse to listen and continue to make loud noises at eight in the morning (which is too early for anything, I mean, jesus wept) despite my insomnia. My mother says that I should just take a melatonin if I'm having trouble sleeping, but the truth is, I like having insomnia. I like being awake at four in the morning when everybody else is asleep and sneaking out to the porch and looking at the stars. It's weird, but I like being tired, too. I like that state of sleep deprivation where everything is sharp and real and alive. I don't have to worry about the reality of what I see because I don't have to be crazy if I see things that aren't there. I can just blame it on a lack of sleep. Sometimes during the day, I start to miss the night and then I feel guilty because the day is beautiful in its own right, but it doesn't have the security of the dark. I have never been afraid of the dark. The sun burns and kills and heats, but the dark is safe and cool and it surrounds you like a hug. The dark will never hurt you. The night comforts you when you cry and hides you when you can't bear to be around anybody. the light will come and go, but shadows are always left behind to help you.
So it's summer, and it is way too hot and too bright to do anything. I keep on trying to explain that I am a teenager, a creature of the night, and that I am pale and nonathletic and that they should know what a delicate fucking butterfly my immune system is, but they refuse to listen and continue to make loud noises at eight in the morning (which is too early for anything, I mean, jesus wept) despite my insomnia. My mother says that I should just take a melatonin if I'm having trouble sleeping, but the truth is, I like having insomnia. I like being awake at four in the morning when everybody else is asleep and sneaking out to the porch and looking at the stars. It's weird, but I like being tired, too. I like that state of sleep deprivation where everything is sharp and real and alive. I don't have to worry about the reality of what I see because I don't have to be crazy if I see things that aren't there. I can just blame it on a lack of sleep. Sometimes during the day, I start to miss the night and then I feel guilty because the day is beautiful in its own right, but it doesn't have the security of the dark. I have never been afraid of the dark. The sun burns and kills and heats, but the dark is safe and cool and it surrounds you like a hug. The dark will never hurt you. The night comforts you when you cry and hides you when you can't bear to be around anybody. the light will come and go, but shadows are always left behind to help you.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)