it's 7:14 a.m., on 2001-05-17 - a mother lode of irony.
~
I miss Ricky.
I think I'm in a blue mood. I think I'm, I don't know.
I'm talking to Sass, and we're discussing her writing WMF:
Saschaian: Dunno.... I could do the Manchester thing, I suppose...
lisellawilliams: Could you. Um.
lisellawilliams: I don't even know what I want. *sighs*
Saschaian: See, then I can't help you.
I think that's one of our fundamental truths, dearlings. I'm getting very blue. I think it's the music. I've been listening to hip-hop for a few weeks, and then I took out the good ol'matchbox 20. And, I have sadness.
Listening to Seven Mary Three.
Someone just randomly msged me on AIM, and of course, they asked a/s/l.
I don't have an age. My gender is in question. And I don't *want* a location.
Do I complicate every question on purpose, or is it just the way things are?
--he's male, from California.
Sascha is writing me WMF, them going to Manchester.
Let me tell you a story. Stuart Allen Jones. There's one of the luckiest bastards on the face of the planet. There's a guy that's got it toGETher, man. There's a guy, there's a guy. His world is so fucking huge.
I wonder how big he wants his world to be. Stuart doesn't work in wantings. Stuart works in havings. And he doesn't work in sayings, either-- no.
I bet Stuart hates cliches, even though he is one. Probably because he lives one.
~*~
Today, I'm going to write a little Irony.
Probably more than a little.
Sass is still writing comedic WMF, and that's not what I want. I want reality WMF, which is why I could never write it in a million years. I want to be here, or somewhere else, and I want it to be, sunny. Easy.
I found Depeche Mode on Napster.
It's very easy to create a playlist whose sole purpose is the punishment of whoever's listening. A little Matchbox 20, a little Depeche mode. Some Seven Mary Three. Futile and weeping. Chris's kind of music.
Haven't talked about Keller in a while, have I?
I'm carrying on a perfectly normal conversation with a junior at UCLA, from california. I'm watching Lynx and Staff argue about the Matrix. I have Sassy, writing. I have money on my bedsheets-- lots of fifties.
I have stamps. Dirty cups. Sunglasses. No car keys.
I am listening to the theme song for Nikita and Michael. They were from the show, La Femme Nikita, and I really really enjoyed the fic. They were two people who were completely unable to be honest with each other. Not only did they lie, but they didn't even know where the boundaries of each other's lies were.
Michael was married. For two years, the idea didn't even come up.
That's the kind of boundary that Chris and Toby don't have. Lies need boundaries. They come from knowing a person.
You can feel love and hate and need, right there. But the boundaries of knowing a person, they keep things in the rules of lies and truth.
There isn't any form of truth if you don't know who the other person is. Blank page.
--there's another good song.
I miss Ricky.
~*~
St. Lawrence River is a darker kind of sadness to have. It's almost a sadness that's angry-- that's why it brings me in mind of Logan so often. Logan, and maybe, not his anger.
Bobby, not knowing that Remy hung himself from the rafters. --did I ever show y'all that? It was most definitely nameless. And it was most definitely lucky. It was based on Vicky's 'the world is hollow', which I adored. In a gut-wrenching way.
Lynx and I are discussing the difference between the word 'gut' and 'belly'. We decided that belly sounds like 'bloated', whereas 'gut' should be related to wounds.
Gut wounds. Bloated bellies.
Fiona apple isn't enough punishment right now.
Sass is going away, now, so I'm going to be without the closest thing to Ricky I've got. I'm going to have that guy from California, and Lynx, and Farli.
She was writing them in Manchester, when I want them in Greece.
~*~
Playlist?
"It's three am, I must be lonely..."
But it's four am. Which means I must be, stupid. And confused. Because four am says, I hope to god I figure out what's wrong.
Dreamweaver is being. Very. Slow.
I knew it was a bad idea to start thinking about star charts, and constellations, because inevitably I'm going to try and think of something fundamental to say. And you can't *try* for those sorts of catch-phrases, they have to find you.
I have fifty-dollar bills on my bed like a cheap hooker, and a kerchief on.
Keep making lists of things I have and things I want. I am most definitely a consumer-- I even catalogue my emotions in consumer terms. I have, I want. I have, I want. We buy our feelings, like those whores down on Main.
That's, maybe, how I can be cheerful at Farli in one window, and listen to 'hang' by matchbox 20. 'so please hand me the bottle cause I think I'm lonely now--'
I have alcohol. Maybe it'd help.
The humming of the highway. That's Rob Thomas, too, right before the alcohol. The highway hums, and then there's beer or rum or something dark and liquid acid in a shotglass-- that's the way it goes.
Carolina's favorite Rob Thomas line was always, 'while you were sleeping, I was listening to the radio, and wondering what you're dreaming when-- It came to mind that I didn't care'.
I don't like getting my picture taken. I never remember my dreams.
~*~
Got a shitload done on the IBAs today. I think we'll be ready by next wednesday, which is good. Before SubCon. That was my goal.
Whoo. Hoo.
Exhausted.
I left the potato salad by my bed. That's going to be gross tomorrow.
No music's on, so I'm feeling okay.
~*~
My final statement is this: of all the people I read, right now this guy's impressing me the most. I think it's the cynic in me that really doesn't like to talk on the phone.
Maybe it's I'm just feeling blue and ironic all at once, and wishing I could get to a call-box in France.
~
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