I’ve never stopped writing. At first glance that sounds all pretentious and artsy, but when you actually stop to think about it, writing near-constantly means you’re going to end up with a lot of embarrassing shit.
I write about literally everything. Every trip I go on, every argument I have with someone, every book I read, movie I watch or TV show I catch. I have notebooks in every corner of the house and my phone is dominated by apps like Evernote, Google Docs, Notepad and other word processing programs. I literally can’t stop. When I have nothing in my head to write down, I fucking write lists. Lists of things we need at the grocery store, lists of possible blog posts, lists of people I’d like to quote in a meme, lists of places I want to visit, lists of gift ideas, meal options, movies I want to see. It just never stops. I’ve never stopped writing… except in my sleep.
Sometimes I go back and read old crap I wrote and I laugh at myself. Recently, I read over an old journal I kept, and I got such a kick out of it, I thought I would share some of the funnier or enjoyable (or even horribly pretentious) entries with you. These are all just random quotes, from random times in my life:
Letters to prison:
I often think to ask him if he has a window in his cell and if he does, what does he see out of it? Can he see the stars at night? But I always forget to ask. I remember after I’ve sealed the envelope and dropped it in the mailbox, so I have to start a new letter just to ask that question… and then I forget again…
Well the Du Maurier International Jazz Festival is rollin’ around once again and I’m savin’ up spitballs to shoot in the saxophones.
Bed and Breakfasts:
You know all those people that sat around listening to Timothy Leary, dropping acid and dancing naked in mud puddles to Carlos Santana and Country Joe & the Fish? These people now own our world’s bed and breakfasts.
Me in my head:
Some days the space in front of me is silent and empty. Nothing is reachable. Sometimes it’s nice. Just to have no one to have to listen to. No one watching. Just to be me in my head.
I miss you:
I miss you, I miss you, I miss you and I always will until the day we can split a red hot bean fucking burrito in the foodcourt of some bullshit mall, should we ever choose to do such an absurd thing. One day, one day, my bean burrito dreams and foodcourt wishes will come true.
All the guys that make advances have significant others and I’m sick of it. I’m not going to fall into your slimy, owned-wang-dance-trap. No thanks, pal. Go dip it in your own chick. Or they’re germ buckets, swirling vats of bubbling, boiling, steaming venereal disease, warts, herpes, HIV and crabs, just waiting to boil over and make contact with anything that has sex organs. Ummm. No. I’d thank you to go WASH. Please.
This weekend was so beautifully melodramatic and emotional, it was like I was living in a made-for-tv flick on the Vision Network starring Patty Duke and Della Reese getting douched by an angel.
Calls from prison:
Today, I heard the most beautiful sound in the world. A recording of a robotic voice saying “this call is originating from an Ohio correctional institution and may be recorded”. Yeah, I heard him for the first time in 4 years and I’m elated and crushed at the same time. Only ten minutes and his voice is still my friend’s voice and I heard it… I heard him say ‘I love you’.
A beautiful moment:
Then there was this beautiful moment. He told me to turn on Nightswimming by REM. He mumbled along, and filling my heart with a joy I hadn’t known before, whispered, “Court. I have a hug ache…” Silence falls as my computer’s cd rom stalls in the middle of Nightswimming. I can only hear him breath, and he says softly, “I love you.” and then my rom kicks back in:
“And what if there were two
Side by side in orbit
Around the fairest sun?”
If you ever need evidence that we have all been successfully moulded into consuming machines, hold a garage sale.
Highs and lows:
The highs on fridays and lows on saturdays can only be evened out by a trip to the giant, Asian, super mall.
Leash up my dog, such a stunning, beautiful creature out for midnight relief. The sound of his jingling collar gives way to a slow, deep whistle and chimes ringing from all directions. The courtyard is alive with gusts brushing through the bamboo and the buildings creak and the boardwalk creaks and it haunts. The sky has been wiped clean of all its clouds, letting the brilliance of each star rest peacefully above the gales. Shadows dance on walls and the walk and fences bend, street lights tremble. Stand still on the river and you lean, resting on the wind collecting scents, collecting debris and catching dust. Cold and fresh and clean, the insignificant in her quarter, the canine and master at her mercy, the brushing, the bending, the lean, the walk.
Beautiful circle the ‘o’ the cycle the globe the round the cirque ring sphere wheel the repeat and around again the repeat wheel sphere ring cirque the round the globe the cycle the ‘o’ the beautiful circle.
Weezer, The Smashing Pumpkins and most of Eric’s Trip.
It’s such acne ridden teenager puke music.
You know what? Why the fuck do people make awful movies? And you know what else? Why do they cast Nick Cage? The guy is so ugly, I can’t stand it. I don’t know what the fuck inspired me, but I just watched Bangkok Dangerous and I felt like I was being mugged over and over again, except the muggers weren’t stealing money or jewelry or anything like that, they were sucking my soul out of my eyeballs. And they weren’t muggers. They were Nick Cage.
This one is titled Constable Schroeder and I can’t remember why:
Unguarded carefree fiery electric long sniff charged quiet under-breath fixation stirring developing juiced swooooon eyes ears mouth and nose brush waft delicate explosive sober drugged dizzy clumsy (head & shoulders knees & toes?) thrilled thrilling proximity innocent devilish sap mystery eye-contact curiosity appreciation soft listen grin.
As I was waiting for my table at the sockeye city brunch, I saw a walker parked in the waiting area, the kind with a seat, should granny get tired. There was a sticker on it, “p. roach”. I thought that was notable.
I hate Sundays. I hate ’em ’cause they’re perfectly fit for nothing and yet every Sunday there’s something I have to do. Every Sunday, I have to write an article about search engines, search engine optimization, web design, corporations saving millions, reaching number one best traffic in the WORLD… meaningless words about 1s and 0s that give me heartburn and make me sick. I’m read around the world. I’m published in major marketing periodicals and I hate every word I say. Here’s a secret: one week, I wrote an article that got picked up by a rather large publication and the next week I wrote one that completely contradicted the first, and it got published in the same publication… and no one noticed. Morons. Just string ’em along and tell ’em lies, here’s what’ll work for your site: cook some eggs, sunny side up, pour sambuca over them, light it on fire and dance the hokey pokey while chanting “Google is good, Google is fun, Google’s gonna make me #1”. Works every time. Seriously.
Every day, I thank myself for being smart enough to drop the whole working-for-someone-else scene. It’s just bad news.
I found this hardcover copy of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde from 1946 yesterday. I love old, stinky books. I inherited from my great aunt her massive book collection, and the best one by far is this old medical encyclopedia. It’s so old the title’s worn off the front cover, the binding is gone and it’s missing the first 30 pages or so, so I have no idea what it’s called, what edition it is and what year it was printed, but in the “alcoholism, treament of” entry it says “Very little can be done for the habitual drunkard”. So that’s that.
Amy’s Magical Leafing Techniques:
I discovered a whole new world today. Relations from frigid Kingston flew to my sunny city in search of a rubber stamp store. We located one down the street. Kids, I walked into an alternate universe. There were stamps everywhere, big ones, little ones, rabbits and bears and dogs and trains and flowers, trees, words, martinis and beer, books and teapots, christmas trees, easter eggs, the Star of David and the Mona Lisa. ribbons, glitter, origami, colored wire, shaped hole punches, stickers, paints and embossers. There was a CLASS taking place in the back of the store, little, tiny Japanese women cutting shapes and poking holes and folding paper.
The jewel, my friends, the absolute jewel of this absurd store was placed nonchalantly on a shelf under packages of different colored gold leaf. A video case, with a poor resolution picture of an aging, permanently-sad-faced, chunky house wife and the choppy, grainy swoop of calligraphy spelling out “Amy’s Magical Leafing Techniques”. Dang, what I wouldn’t give to see what’s on that tape. I really should have bought it.
Today was garbage. There’s usually a total lack of reason no matter where you go, what you do, who you talk to, but today was unquestionably the most unreasonable day of all.
Where ya been?
I dread apathy. I just sit and stare. No writing. I thumb through Poe’s entire works over and over poking at the macabre. Sometimes it’s Dharma Bums by Kerouac… rucksacks and trains and times when you could hitch across the continent safely and everyone fuckin loved the trumpet. Try to think what it would be like to be them.
I just hide out in my room. Pet my dog. Keep the blinds closed. Pop out when it all blows over and everyone is so happy,
“Courtney!! Where ya been?”
Hoppin trains with the Buddha. Smokin’ in jazz clubs with Ginsberg. Y’know. Same old, same old.
Yeah. I’m glad I’m older now. Let me know if you enjoyed this and I’ll post some more one day.If you enjoy my blog and videos, consider becoming my Patron. All Patron donations go towards hosting, domain names, and more time creating. Click here.