2002-07-25 - 12:53 a.m.
Listening to Fiona Apple's Paper Bag makes me feel all disenchanted and despairing.
And yet, won't turn it off because without it I'd still have the same mood, just without mood music.
And what's feeling without expression? It's painful, is what it is, I tells ya.
The other day's happy is tempered now by the forces of gravity. What goes up, must come down ... preferably with some kind of "splat!" noise to accompany it. Take this as my splat, then.
Outside it's night now but things can still be clearly percieved.
There's just enough light around to remind you it's dark.
Life's like that too. Busy but so empty. It's like I do things but I'm not making something of it.
It's not that I'm just going through the motions or anything. It's more like I'm in some game where all the moves I'm making are so obviously inconsequential that any goddamn passer by could tell you I'm waiting for something.
The problem is I'm not exactly sure what. A sign that it's all going to work out? My transformation into a perfect butterfly? A perfect life to be handed to me on a silver platter?
All of the above maybe. It's not that there's anything particularly wrong with this life ... it's just lost most of it's meaning and I've gotten ever so bored trying to remember.
You know, it's only when I'm not a serious mess that I feel out of it. How does that work?
[I'm only happy when it rains]
I'm such a liar. Of course I know what I'm waiting for, what I've almost always waited for.
The boy to make a delicious entrance and make the rest of my life feel okay.
And isn't that just the most stupid, fucking pathetic thing you've ever heard? Personally I blame Walt Disney. If I ever meet him post-(this-lifetime) I promise to kick his ass.
Okay, or at least give him a nice stinging slap on behalf of feminism.
But, away from the distracting tangent. And to a new one. I feel like I'm Goldilocks playing Musical Chairs.
Musical Chairs being, the game many semi-desperate guys play whereby they sit on the closest chair, or if they're taken, they lunge for the next closest just because they're so desperate to be sitting down.
And I'm Goldilocks because when I sit down I realise the chair isn't quite right for me. So I stand up again, and then panic about the lack of chairs in sight and I think "That chair looks a whole lot better from here and god, what if no other chairs ever want me?! I better just sit down, it's not a bad chair after all..." and so I sit, but something is not quite right so I have to stand again...
Plus, you know I'd suit being an actual blonde... not in this body though.
You know me, don't you? I'm the girl that's always taking her metaphors twenty kms too far, I'm sure you've heard of me.
You may also be familiar with my other work, I'm the one usually cast as the vaguely amusing, babbling, ditzy sidekick.
Even when I'm the one writing, producering, and directing the script I always am and will always be that role and I'm not sure why.
Not that I'm suggesting I'm more, but ... we'll never know, shall we.
You know what really, really made me cringe re: 40yr old business man asking if I was married, and consequentially if I was single? Not the guy himself but the small part of me feeling okay with the idea of it, actually feeling like it was progress of a sort.
Last night/This morning I stayed up til 7 am lying next to my nephew, listening to him breathe, monitoring him as he coughed, comforting him as he whimpered and stressed over his inability to take a breath without hacking up a lung.
And as I crawled into my own bed it was with the knowledge that I could do this, that I may suck with pets but I could look after children...
And so we're back again to me wanting one. I want a baby and a boy. Preferably not in that order. Which is ridiculous, I'm 18 going on 40 again...
I'll be dead by 30, no doubt. You'd swear I was a tortoise wanting to live life at the pace of .... some other, fast animal.
I think I may have run out of metaphor juice, for which you should be thankful. And also out of steam, which you should take as a blessing as well.
[I was staring at the sky, just looking for a star
To pray on or wish on or something like that
I was having a sweet fix of a daydream of a boy
Whose reality I knew, was a hopeless to be had
But then the dove of hope began it's downward slope
And I believed for a moment that my chances
Were approaching to be grabbed
But as it came down near, so did a weary tear
I thought it was a bird but it was just a paper bag]
And yet, won't turn it off because without it I'd still have the same mood, just without mood music.
And what's feeling without expression? It's painful, is what it is, I tells ya.
The other day's happy is tempered now by the forces of gravity. What goes up, must come down ... preferably with some kind of "splat!" noise to accompany it. Take this as my splat, then.
Outside it's night now but things can still be clearly percieved.
There's just enough light around to remind you it's dark.
Life's like that too. Busy but so empty. It's like I do things but I'm not making something of it.
It's not that I'm just going through the motions or anything. It's more like I'm in some game where all the moves I'm making are so obviously inconsequential that any goddamn passer by could tell you I'm waiting for something.
The problem is I'm not exactly sure what. A sign that it's all going to work out? My transformation into a perfect butterfly? A perfect life to be handed to me on a silver platter?
All of the above maybe. It's not that there's anything particularly wrong with this life ... it's just lost most of it's meaning and I've gotten ever so bored trying to remember.
You know, it's only when I'm not a serious mess that I feel out of it. How does that work?
[I'm only happy when it rains]
I'm such a liar. Of course I know what I'm waiting for, what I've almost always waited for.
The boy to make a delicious entrance and make the rest of my life feel okay.
And isn't that just the most stupid, fucking pathetic thing you've ever heard? Personally I blame Walt Disney. If I ever meet him post-(this-lifetime) I promise to kick his ass.
Okay, or at least give him a nice stinging slap on behalf of feminism.
But, away from the distracting tangent. And to a new one. I feel like I'm Goldilocks playing Musical Chairs.
Musical Chairs being, the game many semi-desperate guys play whereby they sit on the closest chair, or if they're taken, they lunge for the next closest just because they're so desperate to be sitting down.
And I'm Goldilocks because when I sit down I realise the chair isn't quite right for me. So I stand up again, and then panic about the lack of chairs in sight and I think "That chair looks a whole lot better from here and god, what if no other chairs ever want me?! I better just sit down, it's not a bad chair after all..." and so I sit, but something is not quite right so I have to stand again...
Plus, you know I'd suit being an actual blonde... not in this body though.
You know me, don't you? I'm the girl that's always taking her metaphors twenty kms too far, I'm sure you've heard of me.
You may also be familiar with my other work, I'm the one usually cast as the vaguely amusing, babbling, ditzy sidekick.
Even when I'm the one writing, producering, and directing the script I always am and will always be that role and I'm not sure why.
Not that I'm suggesting I'm more, but ... we'll never know, shall we.
You know what really, really made me cringe re: 40yr old business man asking if I was married, and consequentially if I was single? Not the guy himself but the small part of me feeling okay with the idea of it, actually feeling like it was progress of a sort.
Last night/This morning I stayed up til 7 am lying next to my nephew, listening to him breathe, monitoring him as he coughed, comforting him as he whimpered and stressed over his inability to take a breath without hacking up a lung.
And as I crawled into my own bed it was with the knowledge that I could do this, that I may suck with pets but I could look after children...
And so we're back again to me wanting one. I want a baby and a boy. Preferably not in that order. Which is ridiculous, I'm 18 going on 40 again...
I'll be dead by 30, no doubt. You'd swear I was a tortoise wanting to live life at the pace of .... some other, fast animal.
I think I may have run out of metaphor juice, for which you should be thankful. And also out of steam, which you should take as a blessing as well.
[I was staring at the sky, just looking for a star
To pray on or wish on or something like that
I was having a sweet fix of a daydream of a boy
Whose reality I knew, was a hopeless to be had
But then the dove of hope began it's downward slope
And I believed for a moment that my chances
Were approaching to be grabbed
But as it came down near, so did a weary tear
I thought it was a bird but it was just a paper bag]
