I keep thinking, I should write more and then I just don't. I guess I'm probably not the first wannabe who just collapses under the amount of time it takes to actually write things down, as opposed to just having an ongoing dictation in my head. my problem is that I am uncapable of short and sweet, which means that I get run over by my complex compound ideas, and I try to mash them over with badly overinflated runon sentences... which takes up a lot of time.

I've been feeling good these days, the lens shifted once again and I'm not seeing everything askew (or: shit) anymore, or at least not all the time. I've been trying to extend my social web, but so far it's mostly been an exercise of my imagination, that is, in my head I make plans and pretend I'm doing stuff, like going to see a friend's dance festival, or going to a party with friends, but when the time comes, I always end up saying something like 'meh. I think I'd rather stay home and work on some comparative history' (i.e., watch season 1 of Rome and ponder on just how tall and rough Titus is.)

this weekend though, it looks like interesting things might happen outside the scope of my hollow head; M and I might go out of town on sat for another edition of Boy's birthday.

last time I was there, donkey's years ago, we had a huge psychodelic brawl, I got thrown into the pool and one of my favorite watches was ruined, we danced on the counters, and did naughty stuff in tents, had a grand old time, surely; early next day, drama unfurled like a new rose; while everyone screamed and flapped their arms in efforts for conciliation, I took Jack Kerouac's On The Road from a shelf, sat on the shade with some beer and gatorade (to prevent from crumbling into a pile of hungover dust) and read about half before the drama was fully wrung out, explored, discussed, analyzed, and forecasted. oh and we found out we weren't too nauseous for lunch anymore.

that wasn't too bad, except for the drama part that still gallops into these days, as dramas are known to do. who knows, with a bit of luck maybe I'll finish reading On The Road at last this weekend.

adoro a mi ipod (favod). estas últimas semanas se ha convertido en casi apéndice, tanto que hasta escucho ruiditos cuando no traigo puestos los audífonos, escucho la música a todo lo que da, creo que un poco fuerte porque veo que los vidrios de las casas vibran a mi paso y al ritmo de mi canción, pero poco me importa. el alivio de poder levantar una muralla de sonido entre el mundo y yo, vale absolutamente todo, incluyendo el riesgo de que me aplaste una marquesina en llamas mientras yo ignoro los gritos de advertencia. de cualquier forma, estos días Me Vale Verga lo que me pase, así que lo único que realmente vendría a arruinarme el día es que me asaltaran y se llevaran mi ipod.... otra vez.

pero en fin en esta vida hay que correr riesgos, no.

entonces ahí voy, tratando de huirle al mundo, al mono en mi espalda y a los demonios y ánimas y otros bichos que se me andan pegando, camino todos los días de regreso del trabajo, para espabilarme, para despejarme, para (no) pensar, para (no) soñar, y entonces más bien camino como quien marcha por tierra de nadie, ignorando semáforos y viejitos y vendedores ambulantes,

y así es como ayer casi me voy, cuando vi un hueco en Patriotismo y me aventé para cruzar como si no hubiera un mañana, o más bien como a quien Le Vale Verga; y que los ocho condesitas que venían detrás de mí, todos como de doce años, pensaron que ésa era la señal para cruzar la calle y que se lanzan detrás de mí. por una vez mi burbuja de sonido se vio vulnerada, con el chirriar de frenos y claxons, me pasó rozando un Mercedes y bueno, casi a todos nos lleva la carambola, entonces así estuvimos de cumplir nuestros sueños, yo el de que si me atropellan, que por lo menos sea un buen auto; el de mi hermano, de llevarme varios Condechis The Next Generation como souvenir; y el de otras personas de dejarme embarrada por todo lo ancho de una gran arteria vial...

all right all right already you got me
broke inside and took it all away
had a speech prepared and everything
tapped phone calls from God

and now I've found a new connection
being bored is really such a chore
some of us out here don't know shit
some of us don't even want to know

clearly this is my life
there goes, there goes, there goes my outfit
and I was only trying to help
I was only trying to help

just admit, I've got you by the lapels
they trashed me over over and again
you stood there and you said nothing
that's what shattered my heart to bits

clearly this isn't my life
I'm in the dirt and in the gutter
I've got mud and blood all over my face
clearly this isn't my life
there goes, there goes, there goes, there goes my outfit
and I was only trying to help

clearly this isn't my life
clearly this can't be my life

there goes the outfit, the dears

This funk just won't leave me be, and I realize it's been two years since I last had any psych control. I left it at the time because I was feeling better after two months of treatment, my life had kickstarted in some sort of motion again and I just couldn't be bothered with spending any more money on a doctor who couldn't remember my name or keep track of my prescription.

however, now I'm thinking this is probably more than a funk, it's been a few months since everything became all difficult all over again, balance all gone, no will to do anything except moan and cackle manically at dusk...

I know I don't cope well with change, and there's been a lot of that lately; I'm not that blurry around the edges yet, I haven't missed days at work, I'm not headbanging against walls or flinging cats or the homeless, but I'm not sleeping and I've caught myself giving some speculation to the sharp objects around the house, and people are giving me weird looks in the store which means I'm thinking aloud again, and that tells me I might be seriously heading towards ga-ga land, especially if I let myself, but I'm not going to do that. I really don't have the time or the inclination. despite what everyone thinks, I do not like being miserable.

so I'm toying with the idea of finding myself a therapist. only toying for now, cause I still have a couple of aces under my sleeve (and my heart, I seem to keep it there these days it seems), I plan on giving the wheel of kharma one hell of a FUCK OFF soon if things don't start looking up....

in the meantime the therapy is my daily hour of Scrubs, then Seinfield. and today was extra special because Scrubs was on again right after! yay!

laughs awww:
(the song is Sugar Baby Love by The Rubettes, from the st of a Breakfast in Pluto, which is one hell of a good movie...):

I'm just so pathethic, so much I don't even mind openly admitting it.

it's nine o'clock in the morning, I've been up for three hours, I've been sleeping shit for weeks now, even worse since I came back from the beach because, on top of my ongoing intensity, I have two cats who aren't used to living in such close quarters, and they've taken to practice their lacrosse at 5 am, on top of my head, while I twist and turn with nightmares and longing.

I tried hard all this week, after the misery parade last week, that I truly truly lost it, all week I've been trying to keep upbeat and optimistic and my-god doing stuff... I can't hold it. this morning again I am a drippy mess who can't manage anything but whimpers.

good morning, I'm 28, and like my brother I didn't crack at all during my father's funeral, for that I donned the armor so well that I'm afraid it's become a second skin; however, I can't keep my cool for more than a few days while waiting for... what? what am I waiting for?

to see if he'll come back? if he'll stay? don't I already know the answer to that?

and until I get that through my thick skull, it seems I'll be stuck with this --the longing, the wishing things could be different, everyone trying to be nice to me while giving me that look, the look that says well, what did you expect woman?

I didn't expect anything, to be honest, but still here I am wishing...

ayer, por el tercer wyborowa con ananá (no nanica), por fin me senté a escribir sobre aquello que me daba vueltas, ya con algunas ideas sobre discurso, narrativa y recursos, comparativas, etcétera; pero para mi desconcierto, me di cuenta que mi hermano agarró y lo escribió primero, libre adaptación de detalles, por supuesto, pero el sentimiento era el mismo.

así que in perplejis profundis, ya no escribí nada. más bien encontré más joyas.

seven turns on the highway
seven rivers to cross
sometimes you feel like you could fly away
sometimes you get lost

and sometimes in the darkened night
you see the crossroad sign
one way is the mornin light
you got to make up your mind

somebody's callin your name
somebody's waiting for you
love is all that remains the same
that's what it's all comin to

we were in bed, naked, our arms around each other, we were laughing, you kissed my neck, I held you tight, kissed your shoulder, felt your smell, said 'I've missed you so much', and started crying
you said, 'but why do you cry?'
'because I think I'm dreaming, and you're not really here'.
and presto, I woke up alone, crying, and cold.

if you're dead, then you should come and haunt me, cause otherwise I will never know and thus forever will think that you just up and left me.

but I don't think you are, I'm pretty sure it's me who is dead and in hell.