I have this issue whereby I get so so so sad about things like other people's insecurities and roadkill. Every time I see a dead raccoon or groundhog or coyote or deer or whatever, I wince and get so guilty feeling. Because it reminds me that I'm on the wrong team or something. Reminds me I'm the enemy.
Same with how sometimes it's like this curtain just drops and I can see right inside people-- right through their posturing and their niceties and inane chatter. And all their misery and isolation just stares me in the face like a dead cat's flattened corpse. It's weakening, to say the least. It's embarrassing too. It's heavy. Too much sadness-- what do you do with it? You want to pat their head and give them a hug. Which is funny because hugs are something I could never do. I'd tense up and hate them and my favourite friends knew this, but the very best of them would insist on hugging me anyway.
The most awsome of these people would say things like 'oh I know you hate this but I'm going to hug you now and you can get as stiff and awkward as you like, but it's happening'. I loved those people so much and it weirdly feels like they've all left and I'm still in the same place. Both literally and spiritually. I hate that I had to say 'spiritually' but Quine and all those bespectacled profs can just fuck off and die in their tiny, damp offices because life is too short for that bullshit sometimes.
Monday, May 25, 2009
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
circulation
I've been on a True Blood watching marathon this week. Kind of gross of me, but it's what I'm wont to do. I'm a weak person. This is not news.
It's all about searching out the messiness of what runs the big show, if you know what I mean. Sex & violence & viscera & fear & attraction. It's stupid to say love because that just kind of ruminates throughout the rest of those things, does it not? Oh that and otherness and loneliness. Whatever. The whole thing makes my cheeks burn-- like when you know you're digesting a big meal. This happens to me- so much heat on my face and neck.
There's pictures of little babydoll Southern strippers during the opening credits. It's pretty cool. I started dancing to that funny, weirdly sexy song because I was all revved up from pointless cups of coffee and the anxious energy you get by spending hours upon hours on the couch- this is when you either have to get up and dance around a bit or pack it all in, right? While dancing, and obviously falling into my strippery moves since that's all I've got, I was struck by how fucking hot and sexy my body looked. I caught glimpses of my reflection in the glass across the dvd casing, the random living room mirror, the windows, etc. And holy christ, I looked hotter than hell. And I felt like this impossibly perfect looking sexbomb. It was so weird. I never feel like that while actually stripping and I wish I could. The thought struck me that I would make so much more money if I could actually dance like that in front of those people and that maybe I oughtta go find that song online and download it. haha.
But no, when actually on stage, or in the lapdance stalls, not really. Not even half as sexy. It really makes me wonder. And then you wonder about a girl who gets so curious over things like stagefright. Some girls, let me tell you. On stage it's like religion or something when they move around. You wonder where they learned that stuff and you don't learn it. I wish. I know damn well how awkward I look as a stripper. Or as a person- as any other being than that greasy haired girl writhing all by herself on the living room carpet. The cats only half looking.
Anyway. True Blood. Makes me think of everything that you count on as true, which according to Quine is all really just probability anyway. My circulation, for example, is probably to be trusted. Like the sun rising tomorrow. So that's a 2+2=4. But even that's revisable and I don't disagree with Quine about that. Even that word, 'circulation'. Like circles and how terrifying is that? There is nothing more nausea inducing than having to put your trust in circles and systems and routines. Maybe that's why I always fantasize of living a life like the Littlest Hobo. If you've never seen that show you totally should. That or True Blood. Anna Paquin is the best.
And of course I want to fuck that fictional vampire about 1000x more than I ever want to fuck my boyfriend. This trend- this sad little fact of me that I always hoped and assumed I would outgrow- oh it is even more depressing than two bowls of lucky charms and 10 hours in front of the television.
It's all about searching out the messiness of what runs the big show, if you know what I mean. Sex & violence & viscera & fear & attraction. It's stupid to say love because that just kind of ruminates throughout the rest of those things, does it not? Oh that and otherness and loneliness. Whatever. The whole thing makes my cheeks burn-- like when you know you're digesting a big meal. This happens to me- so much heat on my face and neck.
There's pictures of little babydoll Southern strippers during the opening credits. It's pretty cool. I started dancing to that funny, weirdly sexy song because I was all revved up from pointless cups of coffee and the anxious energy you get by spending hours upon hours on the couch- this is when you either have to get up and dance around a bit or pack it all in, right? While dancing, and obviously falling into my strippery moves since that's all I've got, I was struck by how fucking hot and sexy my body looked. I caught glimpses of my reflection in the glass across the dvd casing, the random living room mirror, the windows, etc. And holy christ, I looked hotter than hell. And I felt like this impossibly perfect looking sexbomb. It was so weird. I never feel like that while actually stripping and I wish I could. The thought struck me that I would make so much more money if I could actually dance like that in front of those people and that maybe I oughtta go find that song online and download it. haha.
But no, when actually on stage, or in the lapdance stalls, not really. Not even half as sexy. It really makes me wonder. And then you wonder about a girl who gets so curious over things like stagefright. Some girls, let me tell you. On stage it's like religion or something when they move around. You wonder where they learned that stuff and you don't learn it. I wish. I know damn well how awkward I look as a stripper. Or as a person- as any other being than that greasy haired girl writhing all by herself on the living room carpet. The cats only half looking.
Anyway. True Blood. Makes me think of everything that you count on as true, which according to Quine is all really just probability anyway. My circulation, for example, is probably to be trusted. Like the sun rising tomorrow. So that's a 2+2=4. But even that's revisable and I don't disagree with Quine about that. Even that word, 'circulation'. Like circles and how terrifying is that? There is nothing more nausea inducing than having to put your trust in circles and systems and routines. Maybe that's why I always fantasize of living a life like the Littlest Hobo. If you've never seen that show you totally should. That or True Blood. Anna Paquin is the best.
And of course I want to fuck that fictional vampire about 1000x more than I ever want to fuck my boyfriend. This trend- this sad little fact of me that I always hoped and assumed I would outgrow- oh it is even more depressing than two bowls of lucky charms and 10 hours in front of the television.
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
jefferson was okay
So I'm very slowly getting through this John Adams biography that got all that attention. it's very good but I take my history in small doses and only in the morning, like espresso with splenda. You know something? Thomas Jefferson was a total spendy mcgee. He also liked to obsessively record every purchase he made but he never wrote down what the totals were-- he never added the sums of the columns (sidenote- today at work I forgot how to speak French for a few minutes...i actually called vegetables 'veh-gey-tah-buls'- lol!!!, and right now, for similar reasons, I have forgotten how to spell, forgive me).
You know what the lesson is there? I dunno. Nobody is perfect. I identified, obviously. I have many faults. I blame my parents. Ha. I suck at accountability, like 96 other character traits. But not stripping anymore is stressing me the fuck out, you guys. Not having cash in hand whenever I want it-- or that's not true, waitressing does offer cash. Let me rephrase- having $80 in my hand instead of $350 is stress stress stress, you guys. This girl doesn't know the meaning of the word budget. I don't know if this is ever going to be okay.
Today while driving my boyfriend asked me if, for six billion dollars, I would shoot someone. Was it a bad guy? I asked. No. Just a random innocent, but I could 'choose an old person'. In the mall, for example, he said. Fuck no!!! And my answer apparently displeased him because he kept explaining how much money this was and that i 'wouldn't go to jail'. He said 'oh but think how many people you could save with that money!' and I was all 'stop throwing this utilitarian crap at me and keep your goddamn eyes on the road while you're changing lanes'.
Okay, did I just tell you this to get you on my side when I explain how he is much of the reason I basically hardly ever strip anymore? But he's not the reason because I chose him. Huh.
You know what the lesson is there? I dunno. Nobody is perfect. I identified, obviously. I have many faults. I blame my parents. Ha. I suck at accountability, like 96 other character traits. But not stripping anymore is stressing me the fuck out, you guys. Not having cash in hand whenever I want it-- or that's not true, waitressing does offer cash. Let me rephrase- having $80 in my hand instead of $350 is stress stress stress, you guys. This girl doesn't know the meaning of the word budget. I don't know if this is ever going to be okay.
Today while driving my boyfriend asked me if, for six billion dollars, I would shoot someone. Was it a bad guy? I asked. No. Just a random innocent, but I could 'choose an old person'. In the mall, for example, he said. Fuck no!!! And my answer apparently displeased him because he kept explaining how much money this was and that i 'wouldn't go to jail'. He said 'oh but think how many people you could save with that money!' and I was all 'stop throwing this utilitarian crap at me and keep your goddamn eyes on the road while you're changing lanes'.
Okay, did I just tell you this to get you on my side when I explain how he is much of the reason I basically hardly ever strip anymore? But he's not the reason because I chose him. Huh.
Monday, May 11, 2009
this isn't facebook
Because I wanted to put this up on my facebook, but a part of me is just sane enough that I did not. This is pretty fifteen of me but I still wanted to share this quote with the ether:
(it was written by Charlie Kaufman and probably way better when you listen to it in the context of the movie Synecdoche, New York):
Everything is more complicated than you think. You only see a tenth of what is true. There are a million little strings attached to every choice you make; you can destroy your life every time you choose. But maybe you won't know for twenty years. And you'll never ever trace it to its source. And you only get one chance to play it out. Just try and figure out your own divorce. And they say there is no fate, but there is: it's what you create. Even though the world goes on for eons and eons, you are here for a fraction of a fraction of a second. Most of your time is spent being dead or not yet born. But while alive, you wait in vain, wasting years, for a phone call or a letter or a look from someone or something to make it all right. And it never comes or it seems to but doesn't really. And so you spend your time in vague regret or vaguer hope for something good to come along. Something to make you feel connected, to make you feel whole, to make you feel loved. And the truth is I'm so angry and the truth is I'm so fucking sad, and the truth is I've been so fucking hurt for so fucking long and for just as long have been pretending I'm OK, just to get along, just for, I don't know why, maybe because no one wants to hear about my misery, because they have their own, and their own is too overwhelming to allow them to listen to or care about mine. Well, fuck everybody. Amen.
Amen indeed! It seems sad but it's not exactly that. It's fascinating, isn't it? I haven't lived especially long but I've lived long enough to be terrified of choices and decisions. It's true, isn't it? That every step you take, every little flick of your wrist-- that could be your whole life, swung around 180 degrees. That could be the love of your life but you missed the elevator because you dropped your keys. A car accident for a text message. You think something like smoking or not returning a phone call- like it would take loads of these for something to happen but I don't think it works that way. There's always the one thing that lead to the rest of it all, and it's really all one thing anyway. I was arguing with a philosophy prof about this, in my defense of Spinoza (the man is a raging Leibnizian). He said 'but then you have to believe that everything is necessary- that everything you do you HAD to do. Well, yeah.
I was also watching The Hurricane last night, with Denzel Washington. Although I fell asleep on the couch. There's this espresso machine at work and I'm always using it because I happen to be one of the only people on staff who can make magical fancy coffees. So I inevitably have too much coffee myself and need old movies to sedate me after a night at the office (when I was dancing, I never had this problem). There's a scene where Rubin Carter says he has to want nothing and feel nothing to be free and human. I was like 'woah, the Hurricane is actually Seneca'. It's true too. And the happy ending of the story betrays the rest of the matter: the innocent man who served 20 years in prison. And it's all one thing, wrong place at the wrong time, so maybe you do need the stoics and the spinozans, all wrapped together. But then life is so short and who has the time?
And who gets to complain about overwork and also have so much time for movies, hmm? I should have danced today but I ate pancakes instead. Decisions, decisions indeed!!!
(it was written by Charlie Kaufman and probably way better when you listen to it in the context of the movie Synecdoche, New York):
Everything is more complicated than you think. You only see a tenth of what is true. There are a million little strings attached to every choice you make; you can destroy your life every time you choose. But maybe you won't know for twenty years. And you'll never ever trace it to its source. And you only get one chance to play it out. Just try and figure out your own divorce. And they say there is no fate, but there is: it's what you create. Even though the world goes on for eons and eons, you are here for a fraction of a fraction of a second. Most of your time is spent being dead or not yet born. But while alive, you wait in vain, wasting years, for a phone call or a letter or a look from someone or something to make it all right. And it never comes or it seems to but doesn't really. And so you spend your time in vague regret or vaguer hope for something good to come along. Something to make you feel connected, to make you feel whole, to make you feel loved. And the truth is I'm so angry and the truth is I'm so fucking sad, and the truth is I've been so fucking hurt for so fucking long and for just as long have been pretending I'm OK, just to get along, just for, I don't know why, maybe because no one wants to hear about my misery, because they have their own, and their own is too overwhelming to allow them to listen to or care about mine. Well, fuck everybody. Amen.
Amen indeed! It seems sad but it's not exactly that. It's fascinating, isn't it? I haven't lived especially long but I've lived long enough to be terrified of choices and decisions. It's true, isn't it? That every step you take, every little flick of your wrist-- that could be your whole life, swung around 180 degrees. That could be the love of your life but you missed the elevator because you dropped your keys. A car accident for a text message. You think something like smoking or not returning a phone call- like it would take loads of these for something to happen but I don't think it works that way. There's always the one thing that lead to the rest of it all, and it's really all one thing anyway. I was arguing with a philosophy prof about this, in my defense of Spinoza (the man is a raging Leibnizian). He said 'but then you have to believe that everything is necessary- that everything you do you HAD to do. Well, yeah.
I was also watching The Hurricane last night, with Denzel Washington. Although I fell asleep on the couch. There's this espresso machine at work and I'm always using it because I happen to be one of the only people on staff who can make magical fancy coffees. So I inevitably have too much coffee myself and need old movies to sedate me after a night at the office (when I was dancing, I never had this problem). There's a scene where Rubin Carter says he has to want nothing and feel nothing to be free and human. I was like 'woah, the Hurricane is actually Seneca'. It's true too. And the happy ending of the story betrays the rest of the matter: the innocent man who served 20 years in prison. And it's all one thing, wrong place at the wrong time, so maybe you do need the stoics and the spinozans, all wrapped together. But then life is so short and who has the time?
And who gets to complain about overwork and also have so much time for movies, hmm? I should have danced today but I ate pancakes instead. Decisions, decisions indeed!!!
Saturday, May 9, 2009
getting closer
I watched that movie Closer again. Funny how you feel about movies four years later. I think there's quite the leap of maturity between age 20 and 24. Or maybe not a leap but an alteration in attitude. Not even necessarily for the better. I just know that I used to like the Alice character and then the other day, seeing it again, she just seemed so transparent.
What was also uncomfortable were the scenes when they're all 'I love you, how are you?' and you can tell one of them is just utterly miserable and keeps hugging and kissing their partner, saying it's all okay. Hmm.
Also I remember the first time I watched it, I was gleeful to notice the faint outlines of cellulite dimples on Portman's skinny thighs. Like seeing them on Scarlett Johansson in Lost in Translation, the feeling was such a relief. THAT is how fucked up I can be. Now I don't care. I think that if I were those actresses, I'd complain about the lighting, but that's about it. Maybe THEY don't care, or don't notice. All the better for them.
No, this time, all I noticed was the tremble in her balance as she stood up in the stripper heels. That was about all that gave her away, mind you. Lady is hell of an actress. I used to think about myself too. It's probably more true that I only think I go about in disguise all the time. How much do I actually give away? 'What's so great about the truth?' haha, I love that line. And I used to think all I cared about was the truth, truth, truth. Doesn't it just drive you crazy that you never really know?
Friday, May 8, 2009
lightning & egg salad
Yeah, those things were the highlights of my day. WTF, my life is boring. Dancing is many things but not boring. I had a thought while driving around today. Actually, like lots of thoughts. While I'm on the topic, driving has become my meditative vehicle, as it were. This is so carbon-consumptive that I feel like I've got demerit points in the realm of 'good personhood', simply because of all my unnecessary driving. I think the deeper lesson is that I should just go on more walks. I thought about getting a dog simply because it would afford me more opportunities to walk around my neighbourhood, which happens to be really lovely this time of year. But no, I'm addicted to junk activities, like the internet and sudoku and television. Ohmygod, crisis!!
I think the above paragraph sums up everything that is dumb and unfortunate about me as a person. I also really enjoy justifying my bad behaviour--- if rationalizing crap were a sport, I'm basically be working up to the Olympic trials. For instance, whilst worrying about my love for carbon-zapping selfish activities I thought 'well I just won't have kids then- bam! ahead of the resource curve.' And then I thought 'oh!! and also, I'll go back to smoking again because that might shave some years off my carbon-consumer lifespan, and also give me a reason to leave my apartment and go for walks again'.
LOL. I'm such a weirdo. You know what's great about dancing? The money, bitches. That's what's great. I'm in a weird mood right now. I'm tired of making the whole thing seem like something it's not. Maybe I make it into more than it is in my OWN mind and that's why I barely do it anymore. There's always a million reasons NOT to do something. That is (always was) my problem I guess. Although right now it feels like good reasons-- my back is stupid sore and I can't stop coughing. Unrelated pains in my ass. I'm not very healthy. Which is so great about sex work- very flexible schedule. Take ALL the time off you want. You know what I hate most about these regular jobs??? Not being able to book time off. Oh, and being redundant. I hate managers who don't know how to properly book staff. Overbooking staff is so ANNOYING. I don't care that I'm getting paid for nothing. I'd rather be useless at home, frankly.
Okay, I'm just being boring. You know what has me both perplexed and fascinated and strangely disturbed right now? I recently decided to join Twitter, pretty well solely because I wanted to follow Mindy Kaling's 'tweets'. And DUN!! She is like apparently super-duper close friends with Samantha Ronson. WTF. If you don't know who that is, Bless You. Seriously, please leave me your contact information so I can ask you how you've totally managed to WIN this game of living.
I think the above paragraph sums up everything that is dumb and unfortunate about me as a person. I also really enjoy justifying my bad behaviour--- if rationalizing crap were a sport, I'm basically be working up to the Olympic trials. For instance, whilst worrying about my love for carbon-zapping selfish activities I thought 'well I just won't have kids then- bam! ahead of the resource curve.' And then I thought 'oh!! and also, I'll go back to smoking again because that might shave some years off my carbon-consumer lifespan, and also give me a reason to leave my apartment and go for walks again'.
LOL. I'm such a weirdo. You know what's great about dancing? The money, bitches. That's what's great. I'm in a weird mood right now. I'm tired of making the whole thing seem like something it's not. Maybe I make it into more than it is in my OWN mind and that's why I barely do it anymore. There's always a million reasons NOT to do something. That is (always was) my problem I guess. Although right now it feels like good reasons-- my back is stupid sore and I can't stop coughing. Unrelated pains in my ass. I'm not very healthy. Which is so great about sex work- very flexible schedule. Take ALL the time off you want. You know what I hate most about these regular jobs??? Not being able to book time off. Oh, and being redundant. I hate managers who don't know how to properly book staff. Overbooking staff is so ANNOYING. I don't care that I'm getting paid for nothing. I'd rather be useless at home, frankly.
Okay, I'm just being boring. You know what has me both perplexed and fascinated and strangely disturbed right now? I recently decided to join Twitter, pretty well solely because I wanted to follow Mindy Kaling's 'tweets'. And DUN!! She is like apparently super-duper close friends with Samantha Ronson. WTF. If you don't know who that is, Bless You. Seriously, please leave me your contact information so I can ask you how you've totally managed to WIN this game of living.
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
Pretty cool stuff, you guys
Say what? Mindy is getting her own fucking show? (And also, tragically, I had to hear the news from Perez Hilton. Oh, for shame, you guys. I know. I just threw up a little in my soul.)
I mean, wowza!! This is delightful news. Also delightful, I get to start riding this new mare in a couple weeks, who is a dream. Who has a sire with his very own wikipedia page. The story is so Cinderella-esque, I can barely believe it. Good luck has this tinge of fantasy about it, in my life. Or in all cases. Like I won't even buy lottery tickets because 'as if'.
I should change this blog to just a Mindy Kaling fanpage. I barely strip anymore. But I won't say that I've quit because there are too many things I want to buy in this world, too many places I want to go. Voila, strip club. And whatever. I like waitressing, and between the two jobs, I can do about as much of it as I can handle these days. But the money will never touch the sex work, as is usually the case. The money can barely, just barely, pay for my life as it is. Nevermind the imaginary life in my head where I am always wearing fabulous clothes and going to fabulous places and smirking like a fabulous cat-lady who is so secretly charming you just want to invite her everywhere.
In my reality right now, I'm mostly laying about my apartment floor, such is my back pain, when I'm not at work. I can't even think about dancing again (oh fuck, those heels? forget it) until zee bulging disk takes a chill pill. I'm going to see a doctor concerning said very pill(s) tomorrow, because the advil and the ice are not cutting it. This back pain should concern me, but I'm a goddamn optimist. This is nothing that yoga and pluckiness cannot overcome!! Zing!
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