Don't really feel like being at my computer and writing right now, but here I am. I don't like that when I put the date on these writings this computer considers it, say, the 14th because it's past midnight. I'm still on the 13th. But it is technically the 14th. Fucks me up.
Why, it seems this here PC is a tad SLOW, and I am not liking it one bit. Chugga-chug goes my computer. "You want me to do what?" God, I hate husbands. Husband mentality. Married people mentality. How fucking boring. Love has hideous side effects. The worst of which is, of course, marriage.
Am reading Grace Slick's autobiography "Somebody to Love?". She wuz a big fucking rock star in the sixties. Did copious amounts of drugs. Slept with Jim Morrison. Treat her with the respect she has earned. She is one rockin' bitchin' babe. I love a woman with unrelenting sarcasm constantly at her side.
In theory anyway. I get on my nerves.
Also reading a book by some British dyke, called "Writing On The Body". So dykey. My interest is not yet held. I will give it more of a chance. But I'm a little worn out by verbose, self-indulgent, frilly, self-righteous novels. (Fitting since this book is published by Alfred A. Knopf. Same publishing company that does Anne Rice.)
I've ODed on Anne Rice. Can't get into this "Servant of the Bones" book of hers. Got it last year for Christmas and I'm not yet past page 30. I've loved Anne Rice intensely in the past, but this one is boring the piss out of me.
I couldn't handle her witches either. I guess I'm of the main group of A.R. fans. I love the vampires. I'm here for the vampires. Oooh, Lestat. The Body Thief vibe mainly. Though Belinda wuz pretty hot too. And occasionally I'll pick up "The Witching Hour" and read parts of it. It is so richly descriptive and intense, lush, enveloping. But it couldn't hold me rapt for the thousand plus pages of the entire story. "Lasher" wuz pretty fucked up. Anne Rice is fearless. I will give her that. Lasher goes into some pretty fucking extreme scenarios. Out of control. Really, really fucked up. She is clearly purely unafraid. To venture to those places, and so wholely and vividly...
slippery sexual expilicit harsh ill strange unnerving freakish and yet more sexual sexual sexual fully untraditional
Though, again, I never did get through all of "Lasher". And I am more than a little apprehensive about these "new tales of the vampires", Lestat is chained up someplace dark and he's not speaking to Anne anymore. Let alone us, his hungry audience. And I don't think I'm all that interested in the history of these other vampires. Maybe I would be, if I bothered to read them. But I'm afraid to. It's making me think of the writer in "Belinda" who ghost-writes stories for his mother after she's died. Are these really stories of Anne's? I feel like a conspiracy theorist on this. I do like reading Anne's newsletters though. One of the ones I wuz sent wuz pages and pages of love for Gary Oldman. It wuz so great. And my sentiments exactly. On and on. I love her newsletters. The fiction is getting tired in my eyes though. And this bothers me cuz I used to live for her books. And live in them. I should have saved them, I guess.
Think of the Smiths. They're no longer together. And I have been smart enough to not go out and buy everything and anything they ever released. Because I know that once I do that, there will be no more. ('delaying pleazhure') So, I'll just let myself gradually acquire their whole discography.
I should have done that with Anne's vampires. I did wait a while before I read "Memnoch the Devil" because she said that Lestat wuz no longer coming to her. I read it once "Pandora" came out. I thought I would continue doing that, with each new vampire she let out, I would read the last one she released. But I haven't been.
I do want to read her "Violin" though. Badly. I love it's premise. I can totally relate.
I'm in full Tom Robbins mode these days. He seems to be all I can absorb, and love. But I don't want to eat up all his books and then be without anything good to read for the next however long... He's so great. Big love and kisses for Tom Robbins.
Douglas Coupland I will read with welcome ease. But, and I feel bad saying this, (since he's Canadian, lives in Vancouver, seems like a good guy,) I can't seperate him from his books. What is the saying? "A good novel tells you about it's character, A bad novel tells you about it's writer." I probably fucked that saying up, completely eradicating any credibility my opinion on this may have held. Blabla... My point is, it's always about him. "Polaroids From the Dead" is the best (worst?) example of that. Why should we give a fuck what you think of fucking Palo Alto? Or the Lions Gate Bridge? Or your wet west coast escapades with a German reporter? Get over yourself pal. So fucking Michael Stipe loves you. He loves everyone. Move on. Make me care.
But I do care. Ugh. That burns. Why are other people's lives interesting even when there's nothing in them? Escapism through literature. Not my life. Yours. I don't have to be there really. I live vicariously through books. Typical.
And I truly love Douglas Coupland's books. Identify. I strongly dislike certain things in them as I'm reading. I'm insulted, annoyed, indignant. But at the end of the book I have forgotten all the things that bothered me anywhere in there and I'm just sighing. "Yes. Exactly."
Plus, he's a Smiths fan. I love almost any Smiths fan. Instant family.
I hate that my typing skills are not hyperspeed. And this stupid "Audio Catalyst" thing which is meant to turn songs into mp3s will only turn them into wave files for me. Things that are pissing me off right now.
"Drink up, baby, stay up all night. With the things you could do, you won't but you might..." -Elliott Smith
I wuz in my room for six hours today before I finally came downstairs. Trying to avoid my mother. It wuz eleven pm when hunger overcame me and I went to the kitchen, even though my mother wuz still awake. Don't have anything to do these days. Nothing at all. And no one to do that nothing with. I can't remember the last time I went somewhere without the stalker of antisocial paranoia tracing my shadow with each step I take.
Of course logic would dictate that I ought to get out more, to alleviate this. But impulse dictates that I stay in more, to avoid the "I am a huge freak" feeling that comes with me when I leave my snug little world, alone.
This haircut, done in angsty haste, is not looking too angsty.
Usually when I cut my hair it's in some pissed off-rage. But the result is always so... cute. My hair, apparently, is not an adequate avenue for the expression of rage. Especially rage that I feel has spawned from encounters with my mother. When she sees the haircut she never fails to say "That's cute." Fuck. When I'm chopping away at my hair I am imagining an Annette Bening in "American Beauty" reaction; "Are you trying to look unattractive? Well, you've succeeded." But no. It's always "cute". (Oh poor me.)
Simpsons episode. The comic book geek and a sarcasm detector:
"Oh, a sarcasm detector. That's a really useful invention."
And the sarcasm detector explodes.
I would probably be better off opening a new slate for this new topic. But I'm not sure I'm ready to write about it now anyway. Or I don't want to write about it now.
Man, when can I begin my life of howling like Jim Morrison naked and crawling around on a balcony of some hotel in LA? When does this begin for me? Did I forget to sign up for this lifestyle when I wuz supposed to? Shouldn't it be kicking in right about now? When will I have fabulously wild people like Grace Slick knocking out Jefferson Airplane songs on my hotel door to solicit some strawberry fuck? Hm? Why is this lifestyle eluding me? I don't feel there is enough naked acid-laced howling on hotel room balconies in the rock world these days. I would happily fill this void. Just put me there and I will fulfill my role fully, completely, every day and night. Happily.
I would greatly prefer a wild child life of perpetual madness and intensity to this. I am doomed to live a long and dull life, based on where I'm at now. How shameful. The thirteen year old Chaara is seriously fucking pissed at me. She's naked out on the street, fucked up beyond belief, her body painted, laughing and yelling at me. "What the fuck is this?! Where's yer Goddamned rock n roll?!! Where's yer sex and drugs and screaming universal wildness? Don't waste my fucking time, bitch!"
And I'm just sitting here quietly, inside, at my window looking out at her there, naked and pure, madness in the real world, and I may as well be sane I am so domestic and mousy. I'm trying to justify the state of things to her. But of course I'm just bullshitting her. Hoping she'll calm down and leave me alone. But I don't want to tell her to fuck off, cuz I am still clinging to the hope that she'll get pissed off enough one day to come raging in here with her posse and an AK-47, hold it to my head and drag me away, to the grandeur and insanity I fucking desire with all of my stalled soul, once and for all.