Day 328. Finished MRP proposal, looking good but the reading list needs to be thoroughly examined. Had a good talk about the project with Anne Savage. Met a prospective Ph. D. student and accompanied her to lunch along with Anne and Krista. Food and beer, great conversation, skies a little clearer but still slick with that oil. Work, fuse a new piece for Alex and his classroom workshop, continue on twenty minutes of thrashing nightmares (what I now call sleep).
Lately, have been disgustingly unproductive. Can’t tell if too deeply internalized is the content of university education or if too developed is an uncontrollable disdain for anything human, or even if those two ideas are mutually exclusive, but there is a pressure in skull that has not been alleviated in the last two years. Nothing in the way of sexual pleasure, financial success, or artistic endeavor has done anything to change perception of these oily black walls that drip without fail. Bodies against the snow and never enough red. Bodies in the sun and not enough blanched bone. Everyone in their dark coats and bright minds. Can’t seem to feel. Absorbing movies and realizing personal film strip has a manic splicer behind the chopper, proper to a madman with one leg in the bear trap. There is always tomorrow to chew own hip and free self, albeit self-eviscerated for the sin of freedom. Personal absolution. The IV drip that feeds false hope is nearing empty but who would know; no one has seen it behind the doctor’s curtain. This is big. A storm is coming that will not be weathered.
Late morning after burning ideas with Peter, Margaret, and Ian for most of the night. Ian finds his way to my slum around noon, we set out to find those items most needed. First, new guitar strings. We find Picks and Sticks down on Locke, we both grab acoustic strings, I also find some for the electric. Songbooks and magazines strewn about, three for ten dollars. I find a Nirvana songbook that has somehow stayed in the pile for years. Second, eats. We find Gourmet Ole, a small joint with bonkers soft tacos, must return soon. Third, inebriation. We find LCBO, soon easier to find as it is moving to a bigger location closer to my pit.
Supplies garnered, we set to work. Guitar modified with new strings, Muddy Waters in the background. Beer consumed, Jimi Hendrix in the background. Cigarettes burned, The Legendary Pink Dots in the background. Marijuana in the air, The Doors in the background. Eventually the arts and crafts begin, posters for the upcoming show, Psychic TV in the background. The evening becomes harder to see through the dark rose of Jagermeister, Masters of Culture in the foreground. Waiting for the sea of mockingbirds has gone total and immediate.
Compiling a reading list for an MRP mere hours before the proposal is due. No complaints, this project already has my mind ablaze beyond the feeble flickers and struggling heat of the previous work. Hung around campus to catch Ghost in the Shell: Innocence, another masterpiece by Mamoru Oshii. Made my way home, waited for Ian to roll through the grunge, and we crossed over to share ideas and energy with Peter and Margaret. Evening darkness could not suppress the fusion within those minds. We washed over humanity like marbles down a staircase, unstoppable.
Slept the day away like an idiot who has no goals and no purpose in life. Gotta stop drinking, smoking, gallivanting about town, general miscreantry. Or, take all that to a new level and make it a business. Either way, a change is coming. Something I’ve not felt since…since…
Day 323. Humor, intelligence, and warmth were perpetual in a discussion of Andrew Salkey’s Escape to an Autumn Pavement. The characters are gripping and the novel itself is wildly philosophical, a good read for anyone faced with a life of ambiguity and uncertainty around every corner. (It gives no answers as to solving ambiguity, but paints a clear picture of the struggle.) Definitely a masterful work of art in Caribbean literature. An afternoon of creation and organization ended with a stroll downtown to the Cat and Fiddle where minds met and many illusions were brought to their bitter end.
These posts are falling apart, mostly because the days are filling with more important work than glorified journal entries. Must be sure to remember they are building to something much bigger (or hiding something much more sinister).
Long, long day. No sleep the night previous. Proposal due to class, right after extended discussion about the nonessential essential human and its impetus to consume the globe through the mouth of perception. Back in the slum, burn, taste depression, back to campus, plan meetings like a dust mite making dinner preparations. First tutorial, run through housecleaning. Lecture, a ghost stands in front of goblins and pukes disbelief into wary internal core processors. Second tutorial, fade to nothing. Disperse, obtain, explode, back again to the mire.
Watched movies to cleanse my soul of the day now known as The Sunday. Good flicks, though:
The Simpsons Movie
Paranormal Activity 2
The Exorcism of Emily Rose
The Simpsons Movie is obviously the odd one out, but the line-up as a whole was enough to give me hope for another week.
Tried at life and failed. Bad, waiting, sick, fuck, what was that? Nothing. Books on a shelf that nobody reads but what’s worse, nobody wrote. Vacancies bound in pretty, pretty shingles. Rooftop antics at the ground level, leaps of faith where the ground does not rush up to meet but is already smashing his face into asphalt. Defending products so corrupt they have been infiltrated at every level of infrastructure and philosophy. Purging fire is inevitable and natural.
Day 319. The word is panic. Finished two essays and two proposals. Watched Van Helsing. Productive but weak.