Burnt

The sun fills me with anxiety.

Every year, around this time, we get a few sunny days that remind us that there's something out there other than gloom and cold. Of course, this is the weather I grew up with... SoCal, drought, blah blah all that crap I always talk about. So it's this weird sense of being a child again.

The sun is nice and all, except for my tendency to crisp up like a human slab of bacon. My problem is that it forces me to think about so many fucking things. Where I've come, what I've done. How am I different from that little kid running around North Long Beach, thrilled with her giant as fuck cassette Walkman?

I'm not.

My anxieties are different these days... dissertations, writing, money, other seemingly 'grown up' things. But the base of it is the same. How will I know if I'm actually happy?

Maybe that links back to all my brain fuzziness, the chemical imbalances, the abuse I've ladled on top of those. Or maybe, just maybe, that's fundamentally me. Maybe I'm just an unhappy person.

This isn't to say I don't enjoy myself, or like my life. I just always want... more. Better. The Best. It pushes me forward in ways others don't seem to be pushed. What I have isn't ever good enough, so I'm always fighting for more. That's behind my drive to get a fucking PhD for, really, no reason other than that I want one.

But it also causes these moments, where I can feel my skin burning, and want to run away from everything because nothing is good enough yet. Because I'm not good enough. These are the moments, sitting in the late Spring sun, that I become destructive.

Spring is the time for rebirth, according to all those legends. I'm sure we've all seen some Joseph Campbell shit about it. Late spring is my time. It's the time where I cast off coats, and reassess. It's the time where I tell the world to fuck off and make way for me.

It's a time of false bravado. It's a time of utter, crippling fear. I don't like change. It scares me more than most things. But... here it is. It's sunny and I'm thinking of ways to make it better. Ways to push things forward. Ways to be the fucking best.

Weakness

People are only interesting when they're weak.

I love finding those weaknesses. I love asking the questions you don't want me to ask. I'm still surprised, every single time, that so many people will answer. I think it's an unspoken Jungian shared secret: we all want to confess our sins.

The Catholics should be happy. Seems they've gotten something right. Of course, it's something they share with all of the Freudian and post-Freudian psychoanalysts. Everyone is desperate to have their story told, but nobody knows how to do it.

It seems wrong to just shout it into the world. (Maybe that's why all of us writers are absolute cunts.) So you sit there waiting for somebody to be interested in that story. I think that's what most people take to be love. We all just want somebody to listen.

I like to be on both sides of it. I like to confess, but I also like to hear confessions. I like being the one people can tell their darkest secrets, their worst moments. Tell me about the bad things, tell me what scares you, show me your scars.

I'm drawn to weakness. Partially, this is a desire to make things better, to heal, to perfect. It's also morbid curiosity, something to make my fucked up life seem just ever so slightly better. Mostly, though, I think it's just how I connect to humanity.

We all have weaknesses, and we spend so much of our life trying to hide them. That's boring. I want to know you better than you know yourself. I want to find that tiny little memory that makes you look into nothing for a split second, rolling something around mindlessly in your hand, before you give a slight cough and carry on with your sentence. That's when you're human. That's when you're interesting. That's when you're weak.

So go on... tell me a story.

And Jonny... you can steal this now. I won't tell.

Blocks

I think most of the time my writer's block is self-imposed. It's not a lack of things to write, or desire to write them, or even ability to write. It's fear of what will happen once I put that writing out into the world.

Words are so easily misinterpreted. It's a great bit of ass-covering if you're a lit student... there is no wrong answer blah blah blah. But if you're the writer, trying to field questions from people you know, or people who think they know you... it's a bitch.

Whenever I've put myself fully into writing, it's always been the same... People mutter, look at me sideways, then slowly creep up with queries and concerns. Do I really feel that way? It'll be ok. When did that happen? Is there anything they can do to help?

What people can do to help is to accept that writing is writing. Yes, there are some reflections of me in there, but it's like a funhouse mirror version of me. On one page, I might have a big head, while on another I have elephantiasis-infested cankles. It's me, but it's not.

So what do I do? How the fuck can I get over this block? It's self-imposed, but not. Maybe this is why so many authors are faceless hermits. Maybe Pynchon and Salinger got it right.

But that's the deep dark secret behind it all... I don't want to be faceless in this. Writing is all I have to get attention, and I want that attention. I don't want it in the form of pseudo-concern about my welfare and whether this that or t'other was true. I want praise. I want pats on the head and people loving me for my talent.

I want the same affirmation of my talent that I've wanted since I was a kid. The same damn drive that has given me ulcers and mental breakdowns, trying to be the best, being the best, thinking the best isn't enough. I don't know whether all that genius kid bullshit caused it, or whether it's just part of the mentality that we bring to the genius kid stuff. Either way, I'm an overachiever and a show-off. I do things well and I damn well want some recognition for it.

But... there's the sad little person behind all that. I can talk the big talk about genius and rewards. Under it all, though, is the crippling fear of not being good enough, and of having all of this crap be absolutely meaningless. It's a deep, dark fear that all the pain and suffering was just pain and suffering. It's such a fear, I can't even think of it in passing without being stopped, the wind knocked out of me, tears coming to my eyes.

I'm scared.

It's cold with the window open

Bank Holidays suck ass. Maybe if you work in a regular job they're nice and fun and woo fucking hoo extra day off. I don't, though. Day in and day out, I do the same stuff. Bank Holidays just mean I don't get mail, stores close early, cab companies charge fare and a half, and more people are out to annoy me. Television schedules are also usually fucked with.

The only thing that was getting me through this one was that it was supposed to rain. Thunderstorms, even. Still nothing. Just a wind that freezes my arm with every gust.

I feel like doing something creative, but don't know what to do. Anything I do isn't good enough, at least by my standards. The only thing I do well is write, but there's so much potential failure to get past. I can't write doodles, I can't write snapshots. If I'm going to write, it's going to be proper writing and it's going to be some of the best strung together words you've ever read. If, that is, I ever actually fucking write them.

Offline

Going offline for the day, possibly the weekend. It's for the best.

Calendar

Saturday 23 May - Bristol - Calm Air All Ice @ Room 212 (closing party) then drinks
Monday 25 May - Bristol - Drinks and fun with Americans and a few Brits
Wednesday 27 May - Arts Festival promotion meeting
Friday 29 May - Deadline for Royal Academy decisions
Tuesday 2 June - End of Weapon of Choice group show
Saturday 6 June - Bristol - Upfest
Sunday 7 June - Bristol - Upfest
Monday 8 June - Arts Festival meeting
Tuesday 9 June - Bristol - Weapon of Choice @ Mr Wolfs
Wednesday 10 June - London - Roehampton Postgraduate Conference

So... Not sure how many of the above I'll be doing, especially the week after Upfest (other than the conference).

I also have a few deadlines in the next few weeks: writing, brochure design, and getting the presentation ready for the conference.

Going to be fun, though.

No comment

Taken today at the University of Bristol library, 2nd floor women's toilet.

Let's have another cup of coffee...

Just read this LAT article about yet another scientific study. Gotta love the way there's always research about seemingly random shit that will conflict other research.

But this one I like. Basically, coffee's good for you. Nice news, especially since I drink so much, and have no intention of stopping.

Here's the kicker on this study, though. Seems that coffee might actually help protect your liver against cirrhosis. So it balances out all the booze damage.

This is very good, as I pretty much just drink coffee and booze. (I do sneak in some juice and water, but really they're only about 10% of my daily fluid intake.)

Shitty morning

After 4 hours of sleep (just about the span of Tramadol's effectiveness), I woke up in horrible pain. Laid in bed trying to get back to sleep, but it wasn't happening. Didn't help matters that I was very thirsty and really had to pee. (Side note: That really bothers me. Why the fuck can't my body just figure out where the liquid needs to go and sort itself out? Why make me get up to pee and get something to drink? Sheesh...)

Came downstairs, took more painkillers, and attempted to sleep on the couch. Dozed in and out between cat nuzzling, dog cuddling, and shooting pains in various bits and pieces.

Now I can barely keep my eyes open, but can't get to sleep. Sipping my first coffee now, but know it's going to be a rough day. Pouring rain, tired, and I need to go out to run errands and have an informal meeting.

And, on top of all that, it seems that to buy the toner cartridges for the printer, I'm going to be putting out more money than if I just bought the printer all over again. Cunts.

Helping the arts

Have spent the last few hours rolling around on the floor taking photos for the Mclevey Upfest piece.

A few hundred shots later, we have a winner. Also, lots of creepy as fuck shots for fun, and a few weird joke ones. Since it's all hush hush until June 6, though, we're only releasing this teaser image for now...

Back again

I was about to start writing a Facebook note and then thought 'Fuck it, I'll write on that blog thing I've ignored for months.' So here goes...

I want to write, but can't get my brain in order enough to do actual work (whether thesis chapters or grant applications). I think I'm just going to throw down a bunch of random shit that needs to be recorded before the memories get squashed by future alcohol consumption.

Friday. London.

• Scene 6 porn revelations.
• Creeped out by staring fish.
• Asshole at LGC who kept yoinking the Montana Gold colour rings when I was still figuring out which numbers we needed, then asking for 'a dark grey'.

Saturday. Bristol.

• Kids asking for cans, one picking up a crushed cap.
• Kneepads, coveralls, wet floor signs.
• Contortions to fight the power of the wind.
• Cunt of a cabbie.
• Sitting at The Bell, Adam with one sock off, realising maybe people were out back.
• Peanut wars, and Cheba chewing his pint.
• Finding out that Cheba can eat a Snickers in two bites.
• Damn good cashews.
• Two San Miguels, two ciders, and a Gold.
• Downing Rory's wine in one after he seemed to disappear.
• Finding it difficult to pee when all you can hear is Jer's voice.
• Sock on a heater.
• 'Jer just bought me a drink. It would be rude to leave now.'
• 'He kept the Rolex. Ok, fine. I was the one who had the affair, but still...'
• The reason why I'm the only one allowed to have a pen.
• Or cans of paint...
• Cider! the canvas! and the Mclevey purple elephant looking thing.
• Finding out Jer's full legal name, and then forgetting part of it.
• Adam's hand retaining the pint glass grip after Jer had removed the pint glass.

Sunday. Bristol. Weston.

• A shopping cart full of booze, pizza, and a chicken.
• Shuffling everything upstairs and spraying Febreze to get rid of the smoke smell we brought with us.
• Staying drunk rather than getting drunk again.

So there we go. A mind dump for all to enjoy.