Tigers Are Better-Looking reviewed using songs I listen to.

Tigers Are Better-Looking

By Jean Rhys

(all the stories were published in the 60s and prior to 1968 when the book was first published. there is an end section titled The Left Bank which contains shorter things from the 1920s. There is an introduction-type-something written by Ford Maddox Ford)

“Till September Petronella”

I feel like this story is like the song “Taste” by Animal Collective in that the lines 'am i really all the things that are outside of me' makes me think about the main character’s conflict with her surroundings. The character feels depressed. Her life seems aimless. She has friends. She is from some other place. She spends time in a cottage or something with these friends, two men and another woman. I think there is some sort of jealously. Approximately 8 pages into the story you read these lines:

That’s the way they always talk. ‘You look as if you’d lost a shilling and found a sixpence,’ they say; ‘You look very perky, I hardly recognized you,’ they say; ‘look gay’ they say. ‘My dear Petronella, I have an entirely new idea of you. I’m going to paint you out in the opulent square. So can you wear something gay tomorrow afternoon? Not one of those drab affairs you usually clothe yourself in. Gay – do you know the meaning of the word? Think about it, it’s very important.’

There is a ‘bit’ about her past. She forgets her one, brief line during a play's performance. She cries afterwards. The actresses say something like ‘you’re wasting perfectly good tears’.

I feel that these lines in “Taste” also feed into the comparison between the story and song:

Only Ma'd pretend to like the clothes you showed to me,
Something in my heart can tell me it's a weakness,
And maybe you would have more luck playing those tasty games,
But me, I called and called and never heard from her again.

“The Day they Burned the Books”

I feel like this story is like the songs “Nazi White Trash” by Leftover Crack(the mother, rumored to be ‘obeah’ ‘betrays’ the dead father by burning his library); “Born to Die” by Choking Victim (the narrator ends up with a book at the end, titled Fort Comme La Mort (Strong as Death)); and “Kid” by Bouncing Souls (the main characters are ‘kids’).

“Let them Call it Jazz”

I feel like this story is similar to the song "Money" by Choking Victim off the No Gods / No Managers album in that the main character experiences money, residency, and unemployment problems. In the beginning of "Money" on the No Gods / No Managers album there is a speech said by Michael Parenti, who ends by saying "[...] the function of the police is social control and protection of property." Here is an excerpt from the story where a character, who is providing the main character with temporary housing, talks about the consequences of not 'caring about money,' in his view:

"[...]he tells me I'm a fool. He tells me I'll get push around all my life and die like a dog, only worse because they'd finish off a dog, but they'll let me live till I'm a caricature of myself. That's what he say, 'Caricature of yourself.'

The character ends up in jail fornot having money to pay a fine and causing complaints as a result of her race and strange behavior. She overhears another inmate singing a song and memorizes it. On the outside she 'teaches' it to a man who overhears her whistling it, as he 'makes it first class' using a piano. Later he sends her money for providing the song to him. She feels different things after that. One of the things: 'Nothing left for me at all.' She spends the money on a dress.

“Tigers Are Better-Looking”

I feel like this story is like “Badonkadonkey” by Born Ruffians. I don’t know why. The song seems kind of bouncy. All the instruments and the vocals in the song move to the same ‘bounce’. In “Tigers Are Better-Looking” it starts off with a letter from a friend who has left town. He writes: “I got the feeling that I was surrounded by a pack of timid tigers waiting to spring the moment anybody is in trouble or hasn’t any money. But tigers are better-looking, aren’t they?”

My favorite line in the song is “I won’t be sad when you and me are through” because of the attitude or something -- plus its 'neat' syncopation with the beat.

Both the story and song seem like a reaction to something previously more eventful, but are ‘interesting’ in and of themselves. The story seems to take place during one night, when a man takes two women to a place for drinks and a show. They get into a fight and end up in jail.

“Outside the Machine”

I listened to these songs while thinking about this story: “For a Long Time” by Line & a Dot, “Long Way Home” by Line & a Dot, “Echelons” by Line & a Dot, and “To the Sea” by Line & a Dot.

I feel like the more I listened to these songs and thought about the story the more they went together. There are no likenesses similar to the ones used for the previous stories. The moods match in some places, maybe.

In the story a woman spends time in a British-run clinic in Versailles, France. I believe she has no place to go when she is released. She suffers from an illness the author does not name. There is an attempted suicide by a different patient. The main character seems to feel mentally as well. The British people are kept separate from the French people.

I recall hearing amongst discussion that Line & a Dot is of French descent and lives in England.

“The Lotus”

I don’t know.

“A Solid House”

No ideas here.

“The Sound of the River”

“Poison” by Neva Dinova.

THE LEFT BANK

Preface by Ford Maddox Ford

“Illusion”

This story is like “3^rd Planet” by Modest Mouse. I don’t know why.

“From a French Prison”

I don’t remember this story at all.

“Mannequin”

The main character in this story steals a dress at the end. This short makes me think of “This Wal-Mart Life” by Star Fucking Hipsters.

“Tea with an Artist”

“A Man and His Dream” by Neva Dinova.

“Mixing Cocktails”

“Ivory Tone Piano Factory” (cover) by Owen.

I liked this short and I like this song, more than a lot of other songs.

“Again the Antilles”

“In a Mirror” by Born Ruffians.

“Hunger”

“Take Pills” by Panda Bear.

“La Grosse Fifi”

Not sure. Maybe, “Hummingbird” by Born Ruffians.

“Vienne”

I think I hated this story. “Good Girl” by Panda Bear.

Conclusion:

I guess I like these songs because I listen to them, or have listened to them in the past, frequently. I guess I like this book, since I spent time typing about it. The stories seem like helpful guides for style and length.

*edited - Tuesday June 2nd, 2009, 6pm* edited for 'grammar'. inserted 'i' in a lot of places - minor changes. it is still 'retarded'*edited - Tuesday June 2nd, 2009, 6pm*

hey, so yeah


damn


tao lin published my twitters like ten days ago. the selections he made seem to enhance what i was doing with the twitter thing. i was never sure what i was doing, felt like i was desperately expressing myself a la existential despair when writing some tweets, at other times giddy with excitement, felt heavily influenced by other twitters, and age old things such as aim away messages, bathroom graffiti, drunken facial drawing, other stuff. i read through them more than a few times and created connections, besides the obvious ones, in my head that were not their before the selection/edit/re-post process.


on saturday night i made some drunken posts. i feel bad about this because i felt like i wasn't drunk when i was doing it. it's like i got pretty good at being drunk, i can concentrate pretty good on things, but am overly emotional and inappropriate. damn, seems obvious. if it was another time in my life i might have let the posts stay. i can still read them on my googlereader.


so. hits and comments happened. seemed interesting. feel like i delete more of my twitters since twitters have been published. i still like to twitter. i have been deleting older blog posts. this post sort of establishes that i am not putting exclusively 'art' on my blog. my blog is becoming something different, a different platform. i feel 'whatever', not sure i really care either way. i used to want to be consistent. i feel like i posted things that i wanted to have published places in order to feel validated, as far as my existence, choices, thoughts, place in time etc. should i even actively contemplate life choices under the pretext of being an artist? is 'time' real? i feel like i shouldn't worry about anything, not even 'death'. i don't think i have ever written anything 'good', 'in that case'. i still have never 'completed' a short story. the first time i attempted one was four years ago. i feel like i am not okay as a person. should i even disclose a feeling like that? damn, i am openly experiencing an existential crisis. can i possibly 'overcome' or 'cope' through writing? it feels like since i have a job i stop thinking about by existence, since my job is part of something larger and i have responsibilities to other people, 'yadda, yadda, yadda'.


i have three files of literary type things going on on a zip drive. i take it to and from work. i bought a small journal made from 100% recycled paper. i have not consumed meat since memorial day. it was free so that's like a step above spending money on meat. it seems like i am going to enter a strong period of vegetarianism. i have felt this way before and then returned to a meat based diet almost involuntarily.


i read 'the brandon book crisis' thing on sunday while drinking iced-coffee while overhearing a motivational type conversation between a muscular black man and a short, obese latino woman. before they started talking they split a chicken and rice meal. i think i agreed with the logistics of their problem-solving reasoning 'or something' but in a more detached way. i think i would value certain things less. i kind of want to live in a world without values or money, though i keep a 'selective' bookshelf separate from all the other books i own - a place for more qualified literature in my view of what i have directly or indirectly chosen to 'like'.



i saw Line & a Dot twice. i like that. looking forward to having actual mp3s of One Toy Sarah's music instead of relying on her myspace page.


i spent $51 dollars at the grocery store. i was thinking that i have better things to say to people when they are not around, but feel hopeful that i will have an opportunity in the future to say something close to the things i was thinking about. i almost twittered something similar to the previous sentence. it just seemed like a normal thought that i should keep to myself. i am sort of thankful for the internet in those regards. potato bread pb&js are so sweet. i ate some then fell asleep with my laptop on my lap and then woke up as it was sliding off my lap. my body went into like a miniature panic attack. i saved laptop though. i felt traumatized then laid down on the couch on my side after that.


this was while watching the yankee game, but was awake for nick swisher's double that broke the tie in the seventh. i am excited that joba is building his credit as a starter, in lieu of MikeFrancesca 'taring him (and other joba supporterbros) a new one' on tristate sports radio. i am glad the yankees have a no-error streak/record going.



i watched Drag Me to Hell, a bootlegged version streamed on Justin.TV by some random bros who i think were in high school because i observed them chatting and they mentioned homework. it was pretty cool. i liked it. i like the type of horror it was. i felt like the setup story was good. i am glad they involved banking and used a relevant situation to 'set the plot in motion.' i am not sure about the visual representation of the antagonistic demons but the camera tricks made all the manifestations plausible - shadows, wind, cut aways, blood, fuscous-matter. i was dissappointed it was only rated pg-13. i feel like i am ready for rated R, especially when it comes to horror. i felt like the technique adhered to interesting rules of filmmaking i learned in school as a television production major who thought 'film' was cool.


zachary german's new blog is cool.


also bought brandon scott gorrell's book.



i don't like being awake this late when i have to work tomorrow. it seems like my thoughts are more concise after 2am for some unknown reason.


i was thinking i wasn't sure if i was liberal or conservative, probably going to enter into the future answering that question as 'neither'.


i also read The Tigers Are Better-Looking and plan on typing notes/thoughts about each of the stories and making that the next post.


is this how i do this? the self-aware internet literature personality; real life information, reality/experience/perceived emotions and thoughts.
i still like art and stuff, not sure why i need to strive to be an artist though. it seems like 'the more you put in the more you get out.' it seems also like my thoughts and stuff will be just as interesting if i concentrated on media production and forget about the literature scene and revert back to reading faulkner novels until they dog-ear to death and i have to buy new ones.


i friended Dennis Cooper on facebook. i also saw his book Ugly Man at barnes and noble. i saw that he likes Rimbaud. i read Rimbaud one time with friends while we were stoned and drunk. one time i was working at a fire in brooklyn for the news station and a bro txted me the famous first line to that famous poem - something about life being a banquet and drinking wine. i can't believe leo played him. i watched that movie a few years ago. i was into rimbaud in '06 i think. i am not sure what he was talking about in his poetry. it seemed highly emotional and sad though. it seems like he was into synesthesia from what i read on the internet. i think that was just a form of metaphor though. he also was saying 'i is another'.


i feel like i witnessed brandon scott gorrell's blog 'go' from like a lot of 'artistic' posts to highly informative and 'active-in-the-scene' type posts, where he manipulated the landscape via a short story contest. i feel like i noticed literature themed bloggers doing similar things and this seems like another level of them just being artists which is good for them if they like that stuff i guess. i feel like i enjoy blogs that are purely 'artistic' as well as 'highly informative ones'. i feel like the purely 'artistic' ones post less, maybe. sometimes blogs that hardly post seem really 'good'. idk. it's all good, just not sure what i should do with myself. i have been paying close attention to what i think while i am like waiting for trains, and other idle activities. i think that might be a good place 'to start' on developing my persona.


speaking of scenes, i talked to some friends who went to mountain jam.


this is the most in-depth conversation about mountain jam V that i have had so far:

:46 PM me: you see cris bro?

9 minutes

1:56 PM JJ: My condolences

you PERVE

hahaha

1:57 PM me: damn

yo

JJ: yeah i saw Chris a ------- bunch man

me: nice

JJ: multiple times a day with his buds

me: nice

JJ: too classic, he's really one of the best

and sadly 110% like you man

noticed it now more than ever

haha

me: that is what i like to hear

1:58 PM JJ: hahaha down to like the sayings and everything, the thingsd he laughs at and shit

it was scary

but he was great, hung out a lot...had some babes with him too

me: nice

who did you go with initially

JJ: wen intiially just Stark, Pappas and I

and literally, we pull into a parking spot, and right next to us

me: nice

JJ: are Tim Brunell, Dan Gilsenan

and a bunch of other peoople

yorktown people

1:59 PM me: nice

JJ: it was classic, so we all ended up as one big tent community, so perfect

2:00 PM u gotta get out for the next one

no excuses, have to

me: nice, maib

maib

2:04 PM what bands were 'good' IMHO

2:05 PM IYHO

JJ: haha nice yeah

dude

TLG ripped, but that was to be expected

allmans late night last night, was surprisingly short (no encore)

but wow did they just ------- shred man

far and away breakout of the weekend was this band U-melt

me: they played late on a sunday

JJ: who had a late night set in the lodge saturday 1-3am

me: surprising

2:06 PM JJ: saturdays lineup was weak in the jam dept, so people were just like...hurting for some danceable music

U-Melt had the lodge (small indoor venue) and just...slayed it man

people were lined up outside the lodge dancing and shit just to hear it

2:07 PM so I'm going to keep a close on them for sure

me: were these terms, slayed, shred, and ripped used at the festival

JJ: haahah probably some worse ones

but they all just go along with the scene

me: i like them

JJ: we talked a lot about the scene, hahaha while we were boozing

me: nice. i like self-awareness

2:08 PM JJ: we just sit and you can pick any person at the festival and say shit that no one else could understand...haha

I left midway bobby to catch DSO at the solar

like all this perve talk, haha Stark was loving it

me: bobby who?

JJ: hahaha bobby weir

me: nice

JJ: ummm

me: i knew that

JJ: Kreutzmann played with his band did a lot of great dead covers

2:09 PM Franti, was of course, just the most uplifiting positive shit ever

you can knock the pop sensibilities in his music, i can't disagree with you there

me: manningsbiatch could use that

JJ: but seeing him live is like, englightening

yeah without a doubt

2:13 PM me: going for coffee

Seaport Afternoon

i feel like i am getting nothing done.

when i picture my blog i feel like there is something ultimately 'out of focus' to my entire approach. 

there is a nervous feeling when i am aware that people are reading my writing.

i do not feel like i am ready for people to read my writing but i want to remain constantly available for the duration of my life. 

the only times i would like to remain closed off to someone is if there is a persistent awkwardness, or negativity between that person and myself. or if a person is using or taking advantage of me for an exclusively personal gain.  

i feel less anxious when my writing enters someone i do not know's life. yet this feels like a form of laziness or something, though not bad, not entirely desirable. i am confident that if my writing is read by people 'close' to me and 'accepted' by them in an honest or sarcastic yet positive way, that will develop my cognitive manifestation of thoughts. i feel that cognitive manifestation of thoughts helps a writer, career-wise. i am not sure about this though. i just want to be more like i am in real life and in real life i want to be more like someone who is interesting to other people. i feel like i am coming to terms with my ego, or my self-consciousness. 

i need to increase references to my self-consciousness and my self-awareness in a way that will make me definitively ironic, an ultimate parody of a self-interested yet humble - a compassionate person with a sense for cuteness, passion, and pity. bravery - maybe. 

i keep leading myself to uncertain thoughts.

i just thought about deleting this whole post, or disqualifying it in some way. i imagined myself in the MLB and my pitching coach telling me a lot of what i do is unnecessary and that i will not become more threatening to batters unless i eliminate my ineffective pitches.  

i had thoughts about not blogging anymore, even deleting a significant amount of incapable posts.

maybe i should become more of a shrewd and canny person. i feel like being a mild mannered person detracts from my ability to make objective observations. i am confident that this is an assumption and that i feel like i simply want to become more of an objective thinker and observer. 

a lot of times when i am thinking about writing i repress anxious feelings towards having to recall observations that i told myself were interesting after i experienced them. i hope i am not depending on spirits to infuse my writing with concrete material. 

ultimately i want to write something that reflects my life and my personal brand. sometimes i feel like my writing is 'blurred' by how i am living, which i also perceive as to be 'blurry', as if my life does not have a personal brand for my writing to reflect. these things are inversely negating, as is maybe some larger universal duality. 

i want practice writing in a way that will produce results, as in a personal satisfaction. 

i feel like i have achieved a level of thinking that i would like to manifest and then develop into a career arc sort of thing. 

this would maybe maximize my personal experience maybe or improve the objective nature of my life. 

i hear a person singing outside. i think this person might be drunk. the language is spanish.

i feel unsure how any of these thoughts can improve a person's writing. i feel self-conscious of what people might deduce my emotional state to be, or my level of self-confidence to be gaged at. 

i feel satisfaction in a helpless existential retreat. my level of depression and uncertainty are combining to produce yearning phases of bipolar behavior. adjectives and adverbs are out of control. 

my life feels calm. i feel patience is easy to practice. 

the other night i let a small amount of fear, brought on by arbitrary thoughts before sleep, a la bipolar-ness (see above), stay in me. i thought, i know this is fear, and i know i can make it leave, but it should stay for longer and grow a little, a little longer. 

i forget what happened next. 

i feel as though i can finish this post without using a rhetorical statement, though i have felt urges to use rhetorical statements throughout and conscientiously abstained. 

*edited* 5 / 24 / 09 *edited*

1,2, ---- you

i have made a playlist for writing poetry.

it is called 'poetry writing mix.'

the mp3s accumulate play counts - sometimes i am not writing 'poetry' -

and the songs creep into the top 25 most played list.

it seems that i can only act like i know what life is really about in spurts. 

it feels like i am changing every day, but still feel the same on the inside

i imagined my thoughts were the noodles i was eating.

this was strange, believing it sarcastically. each noodle was a separate thought and together they were one thing.

seems far away and okay, a la 'golden years'

every time i read a story that is set in some sort of asylum i think of 'Girl Interrupted.'

sometimes i think that the writers of 'Girl Interrupted' must have read this story

and then deduced the screenplay accordingly.

i have been having apprehensive feelings about initiating conversations with people or ay, caramba!

there is a grammar book that i like. “the sea horses, you see, were lassoed, broken, taken to the rodeo, and, at last, after all these degradations, put in a tank on Fisherman’s Wharf[…]” is a sentence in a paragraph about voice.

the book uses clever sentences, they 'make you think'. the examples usually cover a lot of possibilities. the style seems like a 'writerly' style. not like a cover letter or office style.

there is also a story woven throughout the book.

at one time or another, i took sentence examples as sort a framework for sentences to start poems with or to like insert into my poems a la the 'bad poems' on this blog like here.

i feel pity for the people at the public library who have to wait to use the computers while people use their allotted time to check their myspaces. this seems frustrating for them.

i feel like i am in some sort of mood where i can keep writing a lot, where i feel like i need to write.

i think i might be in the gym later yearning over ideas i want to write down thought i will not be able because the gym is not a environment conducive to a writing.

i am going to go to the gym though.

that is the 'life i have chosen'. i sort of wrote this down before i typed it. i sort of feel like i should type things exactly as they are written but while applying rules like 'expand contractions', 'add subjects like I'

i feel confused by the things i know i will never understand. the things that are happening that i would feel better if they did not are persistently happening. i am dying. at the end of the day i am alone. at the end of it all we are alone.

i am more excited about going to the gym than not going to the gym. i pay to go to the gym and if i go tonight then i can 'not go tomorrow' and spend time on writing. [before edit: more excited about adding the gym in there than not going]

i am back from the gym.

i feel like the period of my life when i waste money to do things that i feel are fun is over. i feel like if i were paying to go to college again i would not waste the money by drinking instead of studying and when i have money in my bank account i do not feel like spending it all until i black out drunk. that life not only seemed unlivable but also it seemed.

in the book i was walking about before, there is a drawing or print of a person in a little chariot with bird wings and he he or she is holding the reigns which are really just strings tethered to a bunch of birds. there are skeletons and stuff too. i like these things in the book. there are some exposed breasts in the pictures, some bats, frogs, horses, vampires, duh.

i think i will use the internet for grammatical help if i feel [illegible] worried about grammar.

i feel pressure from my spellcheck to capitalize 'gothic' and 'internet'.

e

i use expository sentences to enhance thoughts of stubbing my toe and my sandal filling with blood and of a rusty roofing nail poking into the skin of my palm.

i ride my skateboard to the garden supply store to buy a clay planter and topsoil.

i sip from a pitcher of ice water on the bar and the bouncers remove me from the venue.

i feel that this is a 'big deal' and you should know.

i decide against buying a clay planter and topsoil and instead practice 'front-side' 180 degree ollies with my skateboard.

i drink coffee and eat cake i bought from the library cafe.

i work on a short story i have been working on, 'off and on,' for 10 months.

i feel an ominous form of depression in the morning. 

it exists outside of me, like an atmosphere clouding the 2-3 hour time period which i consider to be the 'present.'

i am not sure why i am 'writing' like this, am i being non-directive. 

i hope things change soon or am i just being impatient or should i be working harder




it is my second or third night in a row where i have been kneeling at my bed and typing on my laptop.

it sort of feels like i have been praying, like i am very desperate for something to happen in respects to me understanding what i need to do to end up in preferable situations, like so i am not in a subway station at 2am hating myself and my bank account and my job and my thoughts, when i want to be at home or hiking or reading or something. so i don't keep looking back on when i was first writing things and giving them to teachers and them saying things to me so that i could build my confidence and, but now, have to feel that nothing has changed since that time. what do i need to do so that i am not looking for things that other writers do to be in my own writing.

what do i need to do to convert my feelings of aimlessness, anxiousness, and boredom into motivation to sit down and write. when will my focus shift from not being able to concentrate and feel confident, uncompromising, and excited.

will it hurt me to be as reckless as i am in the beginning, is it still the beginning. will i improve.

i wrote ideas down for this blog post earlier in a notebook. i feel that if i can't re-think these ideas without the notebook then they are not substantial or my brain is just fucked and i should get started at a manual labor career.

i am listening to choking victim. i just downloaded seven albums by them via one torrent.

i saw tyson earlier. some parts of it were interesting. i felt things that i heard and saw affecting the way i think of my own life. it was funny to be within tyson's world for ninety minutes, it felt real or something. i think i thought 'damn, this is someones life. this is life. a life.' the young tyson, approximately 84' - 91' was inspiring. he moved very fast. must have trained very hard, intensely.

i feel like my life is heading in an unknown direction. i look at other people's lives and i wish my own life seemed as simple as theirs. sometimes i just sort of stare off at inanimate things and feel that i don't understand any of it but at the same time like i am growing very accustomed to what i am seeing. i feel anxious but sort of oblivious to the fact that i am older than i want to be while feeling this way, like when a washer machine or dryer at a laundromat is making loud noises and no one is acknowledging it and if you're the one using it you feel guilty for some reason.

i feel like a small event can alter my situation in a major way. i also feel like i want to go to the gym and do crunches while attempting to exert more effort than i have in my three months as a member there. i want to work really hard and manage my time effectively, so that not only am i going to be a player in the game, i am going to sort of impress people. i want to view the back of my head or my side profile in a home video of myself and my friends and get a like a cool feeling of relief.

i feel like my ability to work hard at things is decreasing. i am more easily distracted every day. i gambled two days in a row, ate fast food two days in a row, saw a movie, and went to three bars this weekend.

my thoughts are consistently about working on things. i feel like i keep trying to cover up that i want to write with things like gambling, playing stocks, doing laundry, eating food, and downloading music illegally. i feel myself inside of my body recoiling, as if my body is gross, un-showered, and heavy handed and hormonal.

i just want a ten-foot, red haired barbarian to do barrel rolls down my street, crushing the pavement.

i want the internet to fail for the entire world except for maybe in iceland and there be a mad rush for all of humanity to inhabit that country before they build a giant wall to keep out the desperate, infected, doomed humans.

i want to just survive on physical skills alone, that or simply money savvies and professionalism, have in-demand labor skills. i want to go to everyone's house and fix something they would be appreciate having fixed and willing to pay like 30 bucks for me to fix and be done in like an hour and half and do that like 6 times per day, go home, work out, shower, and then work on lacquering and finishing the hull of a boat i plan to ride down the mississippi river.

can't i just drink myself to death or get on probation. have i missed my opportunity to get women drunk and take advantage of them, contract an std, and lose count and then become sick of women and then learn an instrument or a rare dance and then be inspired to travel the country.

i just want to at least write about something other than not being able to write, in a form that can be consistent enough for myself to merge with prior selves so that i might have a more enjoyable insanity.

this country is ------ right. as balanced as we are with our risk and return, our love and our hate, i mean we still have to do it until we die. i mean i just feel like i am going to die before things really change.

i just feel like either i need to have something happen or i am going to miss out on something. like what is going on right now are things happening that i am going to hear about later, how will they affect me.

i am not understanding who i was in the past so much. it feels like i am trying to be more in the future but i am sort of just existing in the past more. the air feels like the same air as when i was ten or two or eighteen.

i just want a decent metaphor for the present. i feel sort of lost in the present. i think i went and reached for my checkbook on my desk the other day and i was thinking like 'who the am i. why am i reaching for this thing. why are these things in my room. why did i get up and walk around.'

I Walked Around After Work

i walked from work to chrystie street, below delancey street on chrystie street. 

i got home an hour later than usual. 

i thought about a lot of the people i have known.

sometimes there were big blue signs. sometimes there was the smell of marijuana being smoked. i saw the joint in a man's hand on houston and first avenue. a lot of the time you could see into the bars, see that they were filled with people who were sitting down, eating, talking and drinking i guess. one bar had live music. it was loud, a lot of drums. 

i walked through the greenwich village, the village, and the east village, little italy, soho, and some of chinatown. everything was closed except for bars, restaurants and bodegas. 

i looked at a lot of people, felt sure of things, mistakes, of negative feelings - a little unsure of my own negative feelings.

 

a woman came out of a bar wearing a tight shirt and make-up. she was walking with her breasts pointing, arched out, her face expressionless. i had been in that bar before. i think i was forced to dance. what happened? i used to like to dance. i don't like to feel like i have to dance. i didn't like that bar i think.

 

the train is not coming now, they said it wasn't coming, people are acting like it's not coming. being forced to dance. i think there was an explosion underground. 

i looked in peoples cars when i was walking around and thought about what it would be like to be in the cars with those people. the people were either all girls, or like two guys. the girls were smoking cigarettes. they were going places quickly.

some restaurants had a lot of people and some were empty, patron wise. one restaurant which had a lot of space and was open to the street, had a suited man sitting at a table on the sidewalk. he told a mexican worker to do something and the mexican asked him a question and the man looked away and put his cigar in his mouth. he looked disgruntled or frustrated.

people are drinking from flasks on the subway.

a man outside a 'packed' restaurant, just down the block from the other restaurant, held a menu and looked worried. that was little italy, mulberry street.

on some blocks i was alone except for a person a few feet in front or behind me. at one point, on chrystie and something, near the manhattan bridge, i turned around. 

i went in one station and it had no train service. i had to walk to broadway lafayette and go north and get a different train to brooklyn. 

i am not sure why i walked around after work instead of going straight to my apartment. i wanted to feel like i experienced things outside of myself and my routines i think.

i had been to all the places before. some were new, like one or two blocks over from where i have walked before on the same types of excursion.

 

i thought about what i might say to some of the people. i thought about what i would say to people i know if they were with me. when you see different people you feel different. overall, i maintained a constant feeling of dissatisfaction, unrest, disinterest. i felt like i was forcing or willing myself to observe things, to not think in words, to try and forget words.

 

i felt feelings of unrequited-ness, coming from different sources, coming from my locations, situations. each person i saw seemed like far away. sometimes i looked at them a long time until they acknowledged me.

a man is reading 'political theology'. a man is sleeping. a woman eating cheetos or something. people are drinking from flasks, small water bottles. why do the subways always strand me.

how long have they been this bad?

is this because the economy?

should i be writing about these things? should i be writing about more advanced things, ideas. likes as if i know and understand everything perfectly, as if i can predict feelings, the economy, individual people's actions. if so i feel like everything would be a metaphor for my more perfect understanding of those things and the complete-understanding of them via my mental superiority to life, to my worldview and other's. 

a man is selling dvds and announcing them.

where is my own, unique voice. did i need to say 'my own' - is just unique enough.

why is there train traffic now if it took the train ten minutes to arrive while i was at the platform. 

i think i just thought of nothing, but cannot be sure.

nothing feels like a sheet of metal, looks like the surface of metal pushing outwards.

i want dunkin donuts. i see a bag from there.

i want coffee.

the air was foggy. manhattan felt like it was floating through nova scotia in the summer at night, the hudson bay. the night was mild in terms of how people collectively felt or acted i felt. 

people sped off in their shiny air conditioned sedans, searching.

i stared at a toys-R-us bag and thought about how i might be dwelling on sadness and negativity.

if i bring up negativity or bad feelings or even think bad feelings you will act pissed and make a noise. i have heard those stressed noises. i don't know why you make those noises. you will make a distressed face too. you will turn and walk away.

 

i feel like i am forcing my ideas out. this is unproductive.