31 Jul 2009

July 31st

This has got to stop.
Do I need a tattoo?
July 31st, 2009, orange ink on my forearm.
This has got to stop.
Half-measures yield nothing.

Step 1 - chucked a half-full pack of export A golds into the trash. If I crave again, at least it'll be a choice. It would be nice to get back to pining, instead of using. Cold turkey this time, no champax, no substitutes.

There is strength somewhere, it came out of the blue. It's flighty, it never visits for long. People can hang out on my terms. If you want to hang out with me, then come to a meeting with me. Misery is slavery, substances, habits. Recovery is the way to happiness. My room still smells like gasoline. I will be cloistered for a while, because half measures don't work.

I'm getting apathetic - to everything except recovery. I'm wishing someone would fire me. A mercy firing. Hypnotism? Implant? Disgust? Yada Dada Sada Mada Fada.

IS my time more valuable than this? I haven't proven that it is. I haven't done much with free time, except in brief bursts of studio mania. I've never felt so far from God, enlightenment, spirituality. I'm even farther from that stuff than when I went to the opposite nihilistic extreme. Then, I felt nearer to spirituality because it was implied in the opposing stance I was taking, it loomed large as some kind of shadow. Spirit felt close even in avowed non-existence. Now I feel that God is real, but so what? It's of what consequence? But I feel my time could be, should be more valuable. I guess I should get a fucking book deal.

I will write and nothing else. Maybe change into fresh clothes, that will be my one bulwark against decay. It's the kind of decay that you can't see, but you can sense. And you can still love a decaying organism like this - it's in its prime, it's young and healthy, and it's wasting away. It scorns any love it can't touch. Maybe it's being an asshole cause it's quitting cigarettes cold turkey today.

So, I'm frustrated and depressed today, but I can't really blame anybody, except myself. But I still feel anger, anger at something, nothing, always slipping through my clenched fists and teeth. All the work I do seems to yield nothing. Certainly the work I do in the kitchen - my time is more valuable than that, I've decided. It gets harder to endure, and I'm making less than I did last year, before I quit and came back. A little glitch? Or me not wanting to even discuss the issue of money with the management? Well that's quite the glitch isn't it? That's not the kind of genetic trait conducive to creating wealth for a lineage of descendants seven generations hence. Yeah, a glitch, I'm glitchy. And kitchen work gets more and more meaningless, and it's harder and harder to run out the clock. I'm sick of being a drone. I've always avoided bitching about work, but I'm letting loose now, fuck it. I hate it. I hate my job. I can do better than that, for fuck's sake.

Then there's the labour I expend on music and writing, mostly music, mostly recording. Yeah, so the prime mover is to create, and that's a good artistic thing, I guess, but man, I'm getting nowhere with it, in objective terms. I'm not a professional. I'm nobody. I'm not in any scene, nobody cares what I'm doing, beyond some friends. Yeah, certain people prop me up. What more can they do? Motivate me to get it out there, I guess, what more can I ask for?

No comments:

Barbie evolved into Malibu Stacy. That's not nothing, that's an upgrade. Strawberry Ice Cream turned into platitudes about believing...