My internet is no longer at my house. Here's a blog I wrote last night around 1:30 AM.

Oh, how I hate this.

I'm sitting around a half-empty and one-quarter-boxed-up house. I spent all day waiting on a call from these people who I met with yesterday, for them to tell me whether or not I could move in to their house. I called them up, talked to a nice person, and was told that another roommate just came in and they had to talk it over with him. Then that roommate called me back, and in his (torturously, not charmingly, not in this situation) awkward and roundabout way told me that they're probably going to go with a closer friend.

This is the reoccurring pattern, of meeting with people, and thinking it's going well, and envisioning living with them and how charming that would be, because I got along with them in the meeting, and then finding out that they have other friends who take priority. I understand putting friends before strangers. But this time- I think the call fell just after my birthday ended, after it ticked past midnight onto the twenty-eighth, and I need to be out of here completely on the thirtieth- I just started to think "Well, sorry I'm not cool enough for you" and then getting really mad, feeling really negative, depression and rage and panic and dread. Sitting paralyzed in a comfortable chair that I actually probably need to get rid of, waiting for that awkward-as-shit guy to call back and say "hey dude I'm kidding, you're golden." Knowing that won't actually happen, but feeling like it should, because of the sheer bullshit nature of the call itself.

That's what I hate, just feeling all that hatred, and how easily and arbitrarily it could've been love and praises to God had he said "oh yeah, you got the room, you can start moving in your boxes tomorrow." And it's because I'm not friends with these people, because I don't have preexisting relationships.

I feel right now like I either want to be held tightly, or to be struck by lightning, but with both of those being the same thing- this larger thing that could engulf me as I'm caught up in all this small petty bullshit.

The other day I ran into a friend of mine on the street as she was going into a store to look at dresses. I went with her and as she combed through the racks I occasionally offered my opinions, which ended up just being one opinion, that I really like geometric patterns, as a thing to engulf a body.

I'm listening to Kites' Peace Trials- The record that vacillates between noise tracks that grow more brutal and songs that become prettier and prettier. CF of Kites also draws comics, one of which I linked to on the Highwater site awhile back, and is in the SPX 2001 anthology, where the finale is a person drawing lines on the ground and being consumed by them as a form of escape from the drudgery of jobs.

I'm typing words on this screen, on Wordpad, and I'll post it to Blogger tomorrow, at school, as the internet is turned off here. I'm writing past the hatred, which is nigh-all-consuming- It's aimed at my not being cool enough, and at those that don't think I'm cool enough- so that maybe by one AM the only emotion left to deal with will be the trembling panic. Would that I could try to transcend it all the more by turning away from it and producing something beautiful, but I'm at the point in my book-writing where I don't really know what to do next, besides a general idea of there being something amazing and maybe holy, and I'm just really not in the space to produce that right now.

When I was thinking about geometric patterns the other day, I was thinking of them partly as this thing that suggests the infinite, partly as this thing which looks interesting in the way it folds on an actual moving frame, and partly as a way to visually depict music- Repetition with variation and patterns and math. What I want is for the speakers to push more than just the air, to actually push against my body that converts me into it, that I would dissolve and cascade through the room in zigzagging lines, and that when the music stops my body would just be multiple colors staining the
carpet and the walls.


God, OK, wait- can I just let that stand as the emotional climax, but keep on writing, because I want to go to sleep soon, and before I do that, I want to get out these other thoughts, that came after I was done listening to Kites, and was listening to The Mountain Goats instead. I feel bad whenever I say something that comes off suicidal, because I'm not suicidal. But the other day I gave someone my pitch for the meaning of life- That the idea behind life is that you make enough of an impression of the world so that when you die, you transcend that, and people remember you, even if only for a little while. Part of the imagery that I just tried to deliver is- something of your consciousness persisting even as you stop being something making conscious decisions all the time and having existence be something you have to work at. Pretty much if there was a book with all my thoughts in it and my name on it I wouldn't really matter if I was still walking around with my name on me. Likewise if you were to make some kind of scientific advancement or build some kind of shelter, there's nothing wrong with that being around instead of your actual presence. This kind of also reflects on the artist Ray Johnson, subject of the movie How To Draw A Bunny, and how I feel about what he did.

I also wanted to write more about CF's comics, and I could talk more about them, and how they relate to Ben Jones' comics, but I think it should suffice to say that they point towards transcendence, and I will single out as another example of this the two page comic in the Paper Rad, BJ And Da Dogs book about the guard.