Why live in the world when you can live in your head?
So you finally left school, now what are you going to do?
So you're so grown up, yeah you're oh so mature.
Going out late for Monday, chuck up in the street on Sunday.
You don't want to live till Monday and have to do it all over again. "
-pulp PULP PULP PULP, quoted gratuitously, all over this page.
Kicked out. Chased out. alone in parks
cities not my own
"He's standing far too near and how the hell did you get here?
Semi-naked in somebody else's room... "
Small of stature she makes no sense here at all. I close my eyes.
God strike me down if I ever
You know, many times in school I made concious decisions to be kind to the teachers with asshole reputations among their students. And every time I did that the teachers crushed my spirit fully, wholely, completely, and with no qualms whatsoever. Every fucking time. Lesson learned in that: Teachers with reputations for being assholes earned those reputations fully, and deserve to be treated as horribly as possible in vain attempt at retribution. Don't waste your time trying to find good qualities in them. There may be some, but they are nothing next to the traits that make them monstrous.
And these teachers were usually art teachers. Fucking ironic. Bastards.
Needless to say, there wuz some grandios scene of public humilation, instigated by her, between she and I. In front of a gaggle of gathered friends and not-so friends. A very heavy, harsh bashingbeatingbruising of my creative spirit (in regards to my poetry, which, at the time wuz a little too tripped-up and abstract for her tight-ass Matilda-principle tastes) which sent me into some 'oh my god i suck' crying rage in the spider-webby basement of the school after a "Well Chaara, no one understands you" attempt to comfort me by some vaguely well-meaning acquaintance.
(I have also since learned that most art teachers love such episodes, and are drawn to them. It is the only way they feel they can assert themselves creatively in the face of their failed art careers.)
So she lost my sympathy right fucking there.
And I wished I had never been so kind to her in the first place. What a waste.
Ohhh, I do not feel well.
Anyways, the conclusion to the Evil Art Teacher That Should Have Been Fired, or just killed, Years Ago story is such; A week later I won first place in that school's poetry contest. And the English teacher who judged it gave me some fabulous glowing praise and told me to never stop writing. I laughed at her.
And I always forget that part of the story. It comes to me only after I vividly revisit the 'ouch ouch ouch, you bitch!' memory of Mrs.Hag's cutting down of my writings.
Simpsons quote, Lisa to Marge:
"Though I know first hand how fragile young talent is, I'd love to hear the particulars of how your gift wuz squashed."
"... I can't believe you gave up painting because of one small minded art teacher."
I'm tired of the constant slog of coherent thought. This is coherent thought? It is making me want to swallow things, to shut it off. Who says coherent thinking is good? I am not having fun with it. Valium! Thorazine! Acid! Drano! blablabla And I can already hear the approval in that.
"Chaara, here, Thorazine. Sit down, shut up, be numb. Exploring bad. Submission good." I'm not that far gone, I don't think. But there is no way I would confide in, say, my mother, about the mental-illness spawning boredom that is making me this stagnant solitary sleepless fuzzy-minded mumbling lunatic. "Chaara, you're bored because you don't pay me rent. Give me money and all your ills will be gone (you insolent infantile parasite)." My doctor wouldn't give me Valium anyway. Too close to death. Prescribe me a fast car. That is all I need. "You've got a fast car... I want a ticket to anywhwere.. Maybe we could make a deal. Maybe together we can-" get the hell out of here. "Anyplace is better." I am never happier, or clearer, than when I am on the road. "Chaara, as your doctor, I am telling you, you don't have long to live. The only cure for your particular (and peculiar) ailment, is a long roadtrip to somewhere warm. If this can't be arranged I may as well just check you into a psych ward now. It would be a lot less messy." And everytime I hear Joel RL Phelps' "Downer Trio", (emerald city, at el paso, guns of brixton... ) I can think of nothing but being in a stranger's car, flying down an unfamiliar highway with the warm wind in my hair. "I think I'm ready to go... "
Hey, you know, this is a little extreme. I should be writing on a more shallow level.
Now, some late night touch ups. Just watched my North of 60 tape of the day.
Some dialog I found fitting, between Sarah, the doctor, and TeeVee, the punk:
S- Why do you think you're having trouble sleeping?
T- I'm not having trouble sleeping I'm just restless.
S- Well then you don't need sleeping pills.
T- I don't need 'em I just figured they'd help me get to sleep.
S- Let's figure out what the problem is first, okay?
T- I don't have a problem.
S- You don't need pills TeeVee.
T- I need the pills cuz I can't sleep.
S- What's bothering you?
T- You! Cuz you won't give me any pills!
Spike and Patrick broke up and I don't know why. I'm all bummed out now.
I thought it would last forever! He wrote good songs... What happened?
"Oh, this world may lack style, I know. But each bud must blossom and grow.
Young girl, one day you will be old. But the thing is, I love you now.
This is the last song I will ever sing."