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2003-06-13 07:43:35 (UTC)

Phish and Coffee

12:21 AM, a few minutes past the last entry.

Lots of things trouble my mind and I think if I articulate
them they might get their own physical bodies in words and
leave mine alone. The fact that I have a willing audience
makes this more complicated because people demand
censorship, or rather censorship is a precaution I inflict
on myself in fear of being misunderstood. "Bedtime" for me
translates to "time for my third cup of coffee". Michelle
is glad she's smart, and she is smart. I'm also really
fucking smart. I'm writing spontaniously right now. That's
what Jack Kerouac did. He also drank himself to death. I'm
not an alcoholic (yet?) but I would like to go to an AA
meeting because it would be sentimental and remind me of
decent parts of my childhood. The cigarette smoke
(recovering alcoholics smoke like fucking chimneys), the
monotonous prayer and cult-like chanting to "our dear
lord", the housewives whose bodies are mantained by a
system of abused prescription drugs, their husbands hitting
on the baby sitter and the secretary and...the step-
daughter, mowing the lawn, slipping some vodka into the
grape juice, giggling maniacally, mini-vans and malls and
fast food...this is our culture, this is my culture and I
am a product of this sedated plastic world like those toys
that fold into your pocket with little pink cases and
little plastic people who can't stop smiling and never move
or think. When I was a little girl other children harassed
me or teased me because they thought I never spoke or
smiled or laughed. It got worse. You knew me vaugely in
middle school, but do you have any idea what it was like
for me? Long pause. Very Long pause. I felt absolutely no
joy. I hated myself, especially my body and my appearance.
I felt utterly abused in both school and home. The time I
liked most was when I could be alone in my bedroom, in the
dark, crying and worrying about everything that had
transpired in the day and would repeat itself the next day.
In those moments between days, the nights of torturous
anxiety and tears, at least I could be alone and safe for a
little while. The concept of god seems really degrading to me.
Like when potheads say, "heyyy...did you ever wonder if
there's a whole universe of microscopic life on my fingernail?
That would mean I'm, like, god! Dude, that's crazy! Heheh!"
If we have a god, I believe that's exactly what they're like.
I just debated with myself for a few minutes on whether I should
refer to god as "he" or "she", so I wrote "they". My dad is a
cross-dresser now. He gave me a helluva lot of make-up.
Zeke left because Rohnert Park is toxic. I have no father figures.
Maybe Chris was my father figure, being 22. I'm starting my
psychology class on Monday, and then I will make up lots of
ridiculous theories like that. An "ego" is just something some guy
made up...and I had accepted it as something real. Words are symbols,
nothing more. I want to control the way I think to make it less
verbal and be more aware of the mental images I use. I had a dream
that there was a stampede of high school students all in crazy
elaborate costumes on their way to Rancho down Golf Course Dr. and
Kai was there in a lizard suit with rosy cheeks and freckles, and he
kissed me and I followed him all the way to a lizard store in Santa
Rosa wearing only one shoe, because that's how much I admire him.
Michelle, the Tim from your psychology class and his friend who
apparently lives in my complex made a sign saying "Help! I'm fucking
hungry! Degrade me- I need some attention" with little pictures of
animals and guitar strings and left it in the plum tree in front of
my house, so I drew a picture over it in marker of an alien wearing
an igloo and a little monkey thinking about numbers and an angry
eskimo saying ,"right away, captain!". Maybe they will be my friends
now. I had my last bass lesson on Wednesday. Steve taught me how
to play Purple Haze, I removed $20 from my boot just for him, I
saluted him and announced that he taught me everything I know. I like
his long curly blonde hair and his lanky british rock star body,
and the way he would say philisophical things about bassists being the
foundation. I respect people who have a fixated, swift
walk even when they're not sure where they're going yet.
Love, Demetra