it's 1:29 am, on February 05, 2002 - my holidays.
~
Just finished Sandy's newest story, which brought me to butterflies in the stomach and warm and intense feelings. --the way that I feel about Paris, really. Intensity. The gist of it changed but the intensity never did. Like, you get over love. you don't get over this.
--That's a John O'Hara quote, and it really doesn't work here, because I'm just talking about the intensity of Joey not feeling safe and Justin being scarred and Lance being not, okay. Intense feelings. Because it's hopeful, but oh so scared too, and it feels like my life.
And, I will never make something that big. I could write for a career for the next fifty years and I will never write something of that import. That isn't in my throat to say. It's not in my gut.
I often wish it was, but it's not.
I'm in a, place. and it has a lot of indigo girls playing.
I was in the bookstore the other day, looking over shitty bargain bin cds, and I picked up a Lou Bega and a crappy R&B cd, and the guy at the counter was unimpressed, but then at the checkout I picked up the new Morcheeba CD and redeemed myself by knowing half the songs and wanting it. So I say, I know music, just not very well.
I know some things about some things, just not much about everything and nothing about anything. --that's confusing enough to be lyrics.
"I remember the time I came so close to you"
Indigo girls. That also is from the very-intense-Sandy-story.
"I'm trying to tell you something bout my life"
I don't even know. I'm feeling this very intense urge to. --and then she stops, she says, she stops and bites her tongue. I'm feeling much too, too intense, for normal conversation, for any conversation. This would come out wrong, this would stick, if I tried to say it to you. It's all in here.
"hey sassy girl, need a little bam! in your step?"
Also, something I wanted to talk about that I don't think I have yet: Why Real People Slash. A lot of people tend to say, no, okay, they're not really *real* because they're more like caricatures, and so it's okay because of that. I think, I can say I don't feel any moral quandries because, I would enjoy fiction about me. It's an ego thing. I know if I were rich and famous I would enjoy reading slash about me. It's all flattery.
Which goes into my ego issues, which goes into wanting the crowds, wanting to be eaten, even if there's no one left there beyond the stage.
It's one thirty. I have a new computer desk, and a Justin marionette, because Lance needed someone to fuck. I bought a new purse. I got some photocards, which were all Lucy's fault. I have. nsync tattoos. I have a new shirt. I.
I listened to "you sound like louis burdett" on the way home again today. Really love the aussie music pusher's sample bag.
"where would I go for holidays"
That's my question. That's like, the question of my life, my whole existence lives to fufill this. I think, perhaps, this might be a big part of the meaning of my life. --it's quite possible that this song sums up the meaning of my life completely. Eventually, I'll write a story about Chris that uses this song as a template, and it'll be funny and it'll be dark and it'll hurt and it'll ache and it'll be good. and it'll be bad. And it won't resolve a fucking thing.
"Chris doesn't like madness, but madness likes him"
Chris kicked over the trash can, just to watch it fall over.
Justin shook his head. "That's not something you should do, man."
Chris answered, "I know," and folded his hands neatly in his lap. He hadn't meant to do it, really, but now that it was done, he couldn't take it back, and now that justin had commented on it he couldn't pretend it hadn't happened. "I didn't really think about," he said, because Chris believed in being honest. "The devil made me do it."
"The devil's name," Justin said, amused, "is Chris, you know." That was something about Justin. He always knew what to say to set Chris on edge. He also didn't mean to be on edge, but it sort of happened, anyway.
~
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