Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Mind > Life
Here I go spilling burnt coffee all over my bed. It's been a long night with you, lying listless listening to my ramble in the realms of my imagination. The only thing that woke me up was the trickle of dark roast running down my thigh. There is something about love that is more real inside of my head than there is in every person I have felt on top of me since three years ago. Three years ago I exited the booze marsh that was my past and entered into a new one: more controlled and less dreamy. I think you're on my bed, maybe dumping my coffee but it's only me swinging back and forth in a stylistic graze of habitual movements in order to try and balance you, the mug and a leg protruding outward in a way to where I don't have to see that bruise I have not told you about. This board I am holding in my mind just looks like you. It's faithless, faceless, ruminating through the last carousel of beat down horses and chickens. It's our fable, how could I ever think of myself worthy of a dramatic statement, something more dribbling down my thigh on a Monday night? I'm no better than a non-food snack. I hide between the aisles of your possessed imagination. It's high time I feel something more inside of me than a body no better than empty air. This world can't keep us from loving. Lets put down the coffee and cigarettes and burn a pizza box in the street. Lets do it like our folks told us not to. We were too evolved. We were different. We were evolved.
I'm actually going to write about literature, gasp!
Way back when, Virginia Woolf brought me down from my cocaine high and allowed me to sleep peacefully into the night.
As an English major, the only thing that I can say it really gives me is the ability to think and analyze things for myself. All in all, that is the only thing that studying English gives you, as someone who already speaks it natively. Sure there is a benefit in speaking well, or writing well, but in the practical gist of things that is only fluff, in my opinion.
But beyond that, as a writer I feel this "requirement" to sit through certain classics because somehow they will pertain to my opinions or perceptions on things. Or maybe it's just a requirement because of that possibility I am drunk at some bar that smells like fish sticks and some literature fanatic finds out I write and wants to talk to me about it. I mean, if you don't have those fundamentals you're a quack, right? Apparently so. I guess. I can't ever tell. But there are so many classics I have been unable to sit through. I failed throughout my American Lit I class to read everything I was supposed to read and gather opinions about it.
Then there is the "required reading outside of school but if you are some counterculturian you should know this piece because I guarantee it shapes everything against the grain." One of these authors is Vonnegut, which I will admit I have been unable to sit through on numerous occasions. Maybe there is something wrong with me, like I am not legit. That is what I have been telling myself for so long now. Audrey, you don't get the Vonnegut craze? Sure he said some interesting things, he was an interesting guy. He had the background too. But really, when it comes right down to it... well, hell... when you pick up that book it's like slime right back into the I'm in the middle of reading this bookcase. It isn't that Vonnegut is bad, I just do not feel the draw.
Anyway, I guess what I am trying to say as I am close to the end of my rather confusing studies in English literature and writing, I have decided that the majority of what I read and was told to like was actually a farce. I mean, hell, no wonder I am so confused. No wonder I have no sense of what I am doing. I find my own classics, like Cormac McCarthy, even though he's up to writing right now. Or Richard Brautigan, a poet and prose writer who disturbed most critics and who frankly, I don't even know why I love so much sometimes. I'd rather read Sombrero Fallout every single day for the rest of my life than sit through something racked down my throat in literature classics as genius and all of that nonsense. I'm not saying any of this is bad. It's hard to say that something is just badly written when I can barely get words out these days. But I can't seem to see why something is regarded as genius or not. And why the lessons of William Burroughs only permeate through my poetry professor's mouth when she sees there is nothing more to tell me in the arc of my frustration over trying to write something suitable for an academic establishment.
Then again, hell if I know what I have been doing the past five years. I remember reading Richard Brautigan in one of my early creative writing classes in Columbia. The professor just had a look on her face like, "Oh man this girl is gonna be a pain in the ass," and that was it. Since then, I have served myself a heaping plate of asking way too many questions about something that should be set in stone. I served myself a heaping plate of pissed off Audrey making it hard to learn anything at all. 3 years later I sat in a classroom with a professor and editor of one of the more important literary magazines to date. I sat there the entire semester and became so fueled with anger that I was spending so much time trying to please this person who has already pinned me down as an imbecile. Either you wrote like him, and you were a male writing about oil in a car, or you were in need of not drinking so much and smoking so many joints.
Ah, there I go again, spilling coffee on my bed.
As an English major, the only thing that I can say it really gives me is the ability to think and analyze things for myself. All in all, that is the only thing that studying English gives you, as someone who already speaks it natively. Sure there is a benefit in speaking well, or writing well, but in the practical gist of things that is only fluff, in my opinion.
But beyond that, as a writer I feel this "requirement" to sit through certain classics because somehow they will pertain to my opinions or perceptions on things. Or maybe it's just a requirement because of that possibility I am drunk at some bar that smells like fish sticks and some literature fanatic finds out I write and wants to talk to me about it. I mean, if you don't have those fundamentals you're a quack, right? Apparently so. I guess. I can't ever tell. But there are so many classics I have been unable to sit through. I failed throughout my American Lit I class to read everything I was supposed to read and gather opinions about it.
Then there is the "required reading outside of school but if you are some counterculturian you should know this piece because I guarantee it shapes everything against the grain." One of these authors is Vonnegut, which I will admit I have been unable to sit through on numerous occasions. Maybe there is something wrong with me, like I am not legit. That is what I have been telling myself for so long now. Audrey, you don't get the Vonnegut craze? Sure he said some interesting things, he was an interesting guy. He had the background too. But really, when it comes right down to it... well, hell... when you pick up that book it's like slime right back into the I'm in the middle of reading this bookcase. It isn't that Vonnegut is bad, I just do not feel the draw.
Anyway, I guess what I am trying to say as I am close to the end of my rather confusing studies in English literature and writing, I have decided that the majority of what I read and was told to like was actually a farce. I mean, hell, no wonder I am so confused. No wonder I have no sense of what I am doing. I find my own classics, like Cormac McCarthy, even though he's up to writing right now. Or Richard Brautigan, a poet and prose writer who disturbed most critics and who frankly, I don't even know why I love so much sometimes. I'd rather read Sombrero Fallout every single day for the rest of my life than sit through something racked down my throat in literature classics as genius and all of that nonsense. I'm not saying any of this is bad. It's hard to say that something is just badly written when I can barely get words out these days. But I can't seem to see why something is regarded as genius or not. And why the lessons of William Burroughs only permeate through my poetry professor's mouth when she sees there is nothing more to tell me in the arc of my frustration over trying to write something suitable for an academic establishment.
Then again, hell if I know what I have been doing the past five years. I remember reading Richard Brautigan in one of my early creative writing classes in Columbia. The professor just had a look on her face like, "Oh man this girl is gonna be a pain in the ass," and that was it. Since then, I have served myself a heaping plate of asking way too many questions about something that should be set in stone. I served myself a heaping plate of pissed off Audrey making it hard to learn anything at all. 3 years later I sat in a classroom with a professor and editor of one of the more important literary magazines to date. I sat there the entire semester and became so fueled with anger that I was spending so much time trying to please this person who has already pinned me down as an imbecile. Either you wrote like him, and you were a male writing about oil in a car, or you were in need of not drinking so much and smoking so many joints.
Ah, there I go again, spilling coffee on my bed.
I'm not sure where to start on this blog. I could, maybe, make a declaration to reel myself in a little bit. This is going to require taking deep breaths, eating a real meal, hemming the boatload of dresses I have hanging in my bedroom and not take one more drink of alcohol for at least a week. Thanks to a violent hangover, I have had the entire day to mull over my stupidity.
Anyway, it's hard to really feel pity for someone such as myself enduring a violent hangover or any other violent stomach issue caused by my own doing. So I am not going to get into detail about the experience, other than the fact that I find my body to be smarter than I am myself, strangely enough. Not only does it know when I need to stop, it also knows when I am about ready to encounter someone I don't want to see and when things are changing dramatically. Enduring today's hangover is not a normal thing, it's my body's way of communicating that I need to level myself asap or I am bound to lose it. Maybe these are alcoholic genes evolving into something of use. The only time I become ill is when I do not listen to my own body and instead use that genius pleasure center as a way to override it. Frankly, I'm living on a planet and the body overrides that pleasure center, obviously. Why else am I far away from love and mulling over pleasure as if I were a fucking Rapunzel in a castle?
Now I am not making any sense. But either way, this summer has been a roller coaster and despite the fact that I have failed in getting most of my goals completed, I did find a job that will be tolerable for my last semester of school. And not only that, but it is something that I may know a little bit about instead of being so novice I am walking into an alternate universe. It will suit me well to try not be a novice once in awhile. The owner seems like a nice person who I will get along with, and it's nice to hear him say, "eh, interviews are ridiculous," and send me on my way. I may be making just enough to save up for future endeavors. Now that looking for a job is out of the way, I have much more to be doing. Although, first thing, no more violent hangovers before you go to work at a health food store... 'ya hear?
Anyway, it's hard to really feel pity for someone such as myself enduring a violent hangover or any other violent stomach issue caused by my own doing. So I am not going to get into detail about the experience, other than the fact that I find my body to be smarter than I am myself, strangely enough. Not only does it know when I need to stop, it also knows when I am about ready to encounter someone I don't want to see and when things are changing dramatically. Enduring today's hangover is not a normal thing, it's my body's way of communicating that I need to level myself asap or I am bound to lose it. Maybe these are alcoholic genes evolving into something of use. The only time I become ill is when I do not listen to my own body and instead use that genius pleasure center as a way to override it. Frankly, I'm living on a planet and the body overrides that pleasure center, obviously. Why else am I far away from love and mulling over pleasure as if I were a fucking Rapunzel in a castle?
Now I am not making any sense. But either way, this summer has been a roller coaster and despite the fact that I have failed in getting most of my goals completed, I did find a job that will be tolerable for my last semester of school. And not only that, but it is something that I may know a little bit about instead of being so novice I am walking into an alternate universe. It will suit me well to try not be a novice once in awhile. The owner seems like a nice person who I will get along with, and it's nice to hear him say, "eh, interviews are ridiculous," and send me on my way. I may be making just enough to save up for future endeavors. Now that looking for a job is out of the way, I have much more to be doing. Although, first thing, no more violent hangovers before you go to work at a health food store... 'ya hear?
Saturday, July 17, 2010
Deadened
There are many reasons why my extended family thinks I am going to hell.
There is a reason why within' literature and art I am the kind of character that would be going to their make believe hell, in a place full of gossip and critiques that they know, deep down in their heart, that no one gives a shit about. Even in that room. Even in that room with their shitty beer and pants held up by gift ribbon.
I really do not know what I am doing. Everything I do looks empty. I have a riling migraine from drinking last night and around 3 PM the next day is when it settles. Maybe this is good, yes, when my perspective changes. It settles. My perspective changed one day when I woke up and it won't go back.
Today I am hanging out with my brother and raiding a bookstore. I'm so exhausted with my deadened bookcase. Loy, Appiah, Chomsky, Bey, Dalton, Hawkey. You shall be in my grasp in at least one hour.
Being a paranoid has its benefits. Such as, a fancified bullshit detector. The ability to look someone in the eye and they know you're ready to explode into a humanoid volcano is definitely another.
There is a reason why within' literature and art I am the kind of character that would be going to their make believe hell, in a place full of gossip and critiques that they know, deep down in their heart, that no one gives a shit about. Even in that room. Even in that room with their shitty beer and pants held up by gift ribbon.
I really do not know what I am doing. Everything I do looks empty. I have a riling migraine from drinking last night and around 3 PM the next day is when it settles. Maybe this is good, yes, when my perspective changes. It settles. My perspective changed one day when I woke up and it won't go back.
Today I am hanging out with my brother and raiding a bookstore. I'm so exhausted with my deadened bookcase. Loy, Appiah, Chomsky, Bey, Dalton, Hawkey. You shall be in my grasp in at least one hour.
Being a paranoid has its benefits. Such as, a fancified bullshit detector. The ability to look someone in the eye and they know you're ready to explode into a humanoid volcano is definitely another.
Friday, July 16, 2010
tune the fire doown
I'm staying in this Friday because A. My left eye is swollen from fiberglass B. KC can be boring sometimes C. I'm obsessed with my sewing machine but I have to clean my bedroom first (see, setting incentives) and D. I'm kind of in a daydreamy mood anyway. I'm craving invigoration. I'm wanting, and needing, an experience to strip me from this reality I am in the midst of right now. It's old. I know that it will change, and that life will flourish one day. But I have tapped into some ruts again, and this time I can't take a spontaneous trip to New York to break me out of them. This time the ruts aren't related to, "the way I treat space in the city," or , "how to reinvent my use of time." No, these ruts can only be influenced by the choice of people outside of me right now. And you know, that's the scary part of it. In some way I have control, but I have accepted that at this point in time, this space, on this bed, that there is no way in hell I can do a damn thing about it except sit and breathe and keep my bedroom from becoming infested with spiders.
Not only that, but my life is shifting around at this point in time. I have no idea what is going to happen but it feels rollercoaster esque, as if I am suspended in time. It's quite brilliant in a way. I escape this while being around my girlfriends, drawing, sewing or sitting at a bar staring at bottles of liquor and moving a straw around my rather tired gin and tonic. While I am alone, I am suspended. Sometimes I do not want to be distracted from it. I know I will land somewhere. I know what I want. I know what I need. And it may be that in most aspects (unless I tell myself there is no way that this can be real, that it's all almost too good to be true, that it's surreal, that it's no better than being ten years old and seeing anything beyond my rural hometown's city limits) what I want and what I need are on the same page. If I am lucky enough to spend one day with the satisfaction of knowing that something happened smoothly I would be a happy woman.
When I really think about it, though, I am a "I want to spread myself all over everything, deeply" kind of person. This isn't reality. It will never be. I will always, always be disappointed. I will always want more. And I mean by experience, or feeling. I'm not a rabidly money hungry person. I find nothing in that. If only I could tune down the fire for a minute. Or let it go where it needs to go. But that would be everywhere. No where is safe. No where.
Not only that, but my life is shifting around at this point in time. I have no idea what is going to happen but it feels rollercoaster esque, as if I am suspended in time. It's quite brilliant in a way. I escape this while being around my girlfriends, drawing, sewing or sitting at a bar staring at bottles of liquor and moving a straw around my rather tired gin and tonic. While I am alone, I am suspended. Sometimes I do not want to be distracted from it. I know I will land somewhere. I know what I want. I know what I need. And it may be that in most aspects (unless I tell myself there is no way that this can be real, that it's all almost too good to be true, that it's surreal, that it's no better than being ten years old and seeing anything beyond my rural hometown's city limits) what I want and what I need are on the same page. If I am lucky enough to spend one day with the satisfaction of knowing that something happened smoothly I would be a happy woman.
When I really think about it, though, I am a "I want to spread myself all over everything, deeply" kind of person. This isn't reality. It will never be. I will always, always be disappointed. I will always want more. And I mean by experience, or feeling. I'm not a rabidly money hungry person. I find nothing in that. If only I could tune down the fire for a minute. Or let it go where it needs to go. But that would be everywhere. No where is safe. No where.
I'd like to end this job searching monotony. JINX
I don't really like updating this blog because my writing has been treacherous and torturous to read lately. Not only am I tired of having to force myself to read the classics, but the written word has been driving me nuts. My bookshelf is embarrassing and I am ready to trash it all. I can't seem to finish anything except Cormac McCarthy. Despite the fact that he lost his punctuation he makes more sense than trying to sit around and reviewing Strunk and White as if somehow, in the midst of any creative urge I may have with poetry at the moment, it will make me write better. Or differently. Or perfectly, more like.
I am sure once the temperatures reduce themselves to a level of I can tolerate and the colors of nature match up to my idea of color perfection in my own imagination then the words will start dumping out on the page, rather terribly and then by the end of the winter they will be an entirely new style, something that I will consider putting into my first chapbook years from now. Maybe once I start finding authors I enjoy. And authors who are writing now. And I have been. It's just, I need the reading material. I need to start clearing the academic muck to find my own voice.
And really, there is nothing that inspires me less than being on a constant search for a job. At least with my words. The kind of constant trance I have to be in when I am in a phase where I am writing a lot of poetry is crucially against my making of sense and fake presentation I must endure when trying to find a job. It's just the way of things. And I finally have a job interview on Monday that will be for something tolerable, and convenient, and lying right upon one of my obsessions. I've never had a job where I had a bit of a knowledge base to start from, and can learn upon, instead of being a novice at everything. And when the knowledge base is from nothing but my own interest and life experience, I can't help but think that it is perfect for me in a rather intolerable situation I have with one more semester of school left to go.
But jobs, schmobs. I just hope that I get the job and I can celebrate with buying myself a pretty piece of lingerie that can be worn on the outside. I am really into that look right now, and have been obsessing over it for a couple of years as well. I am just always poor as sin and can't justify paying what lingerie wants me to pay for it. You can't really buy much of it used, either. It harks back to me at eighteen when I tried doing it on a regular basis. I still have one of my shirts, and every time I wear it I get hooted at regularly as if somehow I really do resemble a streetwalker. A streetwalker in Southmoreland? Yes, the rich white art school boys really wish, apparently.
I am sure once the temperatures reduce themselves to a level of I can tolerate and the colors of nature match up to my idea of color perfection in my own imagination then the words will start dumping out on the page, rather terribly and then by the end of the winter they will be an entirely new style, something that I will consider putting into my first chapbook years from now. Maybe once I start finding authors I enjoy. And authors who are writing now. And I have been. It's just, I need the reading material. I need to start clearing the academic muck to find my own voice.
And really, there is nothing that inspires me less than being on a constant search for a job. At least with my words. The kind of constant trance I have to be in when I am in a phase where I am writing a lot of poetry is crucially against my making of sense and fake presentation I must endure when trying to find a job. It's just the way of things. And I finally have a job interview on Monday that will be for something tolerable, and convenient, and lying right upon one of my obsessions. I've never had a job where I had a bit of a knowledge base to start from, and can learn upon, instead of being a novice at everything. And when the knowledge base is from nothing but my own interest and life experience, I can't help but think that it is perfect for me in a rather intolerable situation I have with one more semester of school left to go.
But jobs, schmobs. I just hope that I get the job and I can celebrate with buying myself a pretty piece of lingerie that can be worn on the outside. I am really into that look right now, and have been obsessing over it for a couple of years as well. I am just always poor as sin and can't justify paying what lingerie wants me to pay for it. You can't really buy much of it used, either. It harks back to me at eighteen when I tried doing it on a regular basis. I still have one of my shirts, and every time I wear it I get hooted at regularly as if somehow I really do resemble a streetwalker. A streetwalker in Southmoreland? Yes, the rich white art school boys really wish, apparently.
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