Me and Mr. Jones

Subversion should eventually give way to authentic creation. But that’s not to say it isn’t worthwhile.

I encountered the phrase “God is Gay” while reading up on Kurt Cobain. Apparently as a young lad he used to spraypaint it on buildings. Brilliant.

I myself had been recently looking for my own phrase to scrawl upon the walls, and now I see no reason to re-invent the wheel. Especially since it fits so nicely into my own psyche. At the surface there is the simple fact of upsetting the ignorant brand of small-minded christians that such a phrase caters to. I’ve always been acutely biased against these folk, so why stop now?

But as we travel down the iceburg we find the connection between this utterance and another famous proclomation: “God is Dead”. I first encountered the phrase via my teenage music-lusts. Nine Inch Nails wrote a song about it. Prior to that Jane’s Addiction had shouted it during “Had a Dad” (which coincidentally was one of Kurt’s favorite songs). But my sister schooled me to realize that it was Nietszche who first made the statement. Such rich history…

But what does such a statement mean? Does God really listen to Madonna? Is he fond of sucking on the body of Christ (or any other man for that matter)?? South Park has already exposed the sexual persuasion of Satan. Perhaps it doesn’t stop there. Perhaps, I say…

Not so sure about this technical age distinction–and by that I mean 27 definitely sounds a bit old–but I am not at all upset by the day itself. First off, I have nice people in my life who send well-wishes. And my boyfriend, well, he’s taken good care of me this morning. (as he does most mornings) And I must confess some excitement because I recently learned that my beloved iPod was born on Oct. 23, 2001. So, in sum, we’ll see how today goes. I am optimistic.

Tony thought he had made his final point: “I thought writers thought of stuff on their own.” I’m not sure if this was meant to imply that I have not been authentic in the past or if I would soon be plagiarizing. Or perhaps he was simply tired of me asking him for ideas of what to write about. Whatever.

Roland Barthes told us that the “Author” was dead. And I have already supported this claim with my own tendency to make “pastiche” poems of other’s work. And beyond that, I heavily take from my own life. I know that I’m confusing the matter but I promise you that it works in my best interest.

I took a day off of work today. I didn’t do very much. But I considered writing about certain things quite a lot. Is this enough to call myself a writer? Or must I have a publication and audience? Again…this is merely a distraction. Some inquisitive smoke screens…

I think you own ideas when you convince others that they were yours. Tony isn’t convinced but perhaps if I keep asking he’ll help me out.

It happened in a library. This is not necessarily important to the story, but I find it appealing.

Love, for me, is not passion in extremes. It is meted out daily in even doses. It is thankyous and hugs and sly smiles. It is a Sunday morning cuddling on the couch. Taking turns getting up and bringing eachother food and drink. Being invested enough to get into fights and then resolve them. Spooning deep into the night.

I once thought that love for me would come with a man heavily involved in the arts. An eccentric personality that might eclipse my own. An international affair filled with sweating and longing. But that isn’t really authentic to me. However, I didn’t know this until I met him.

We are such opposites. He loves Mariah Carey while I prefer Antony & the Johnsons. He enjoys football while I can’t get enough of Stephen Colbert. He keeps a budget and I am usually late on bills. I drink coffee by day and whiskey by night. He undoubtedly has a water bottle in hand.

But we are slow and steady. We laugh and play scrabble. We respect one another. We allow eachother individuality. And I just can’t get enough.

He is sexy in a completely innocent way. He is strong and stable. He puts me to bed when I’ve had too many drinks and pass out. I like to do silly dances to great him when he comes home from work. He pretends to think I’m too cheesy but I know he likes it. We fit.

That’s about it, really. Love is idiosyncratic. A link between two random people that figure eachother out. For me, with him, it is entirely beyond my control.

i just sent an e-mail to a girl i haven’t seen nor spoken to in 6 years. i hope it finds her well. if it does, i know for a fact it will be received well and our reunion will be fun because we are the types of people that don’t change.

in other news, i just came back from a “cocktail party” at a colleague’s house filled with fickle folk wearing lots of cleavage and sparkles. someone knocked a throw pillow into some candles and ignited a small part of the living room.

i probably need another drink.

good night.

Wild night–wild night!
It is sodden with rain. A quiet madman,
never far from tears, this is rain on my face–
Heaven blazing into the head.

Just took a quick tabulation of my current daily medication regimen:

1 pill antibiotic for sinus infection

Several scattered and decreasing daily pills steroid to reduce growth of polyps in nose

2 sprays daily of nasal steroid for sinus maintenance

4 sprays daily of some other nasal medicine for allergies

1 pill for anxiety

1 pill acid-reducing thing for stomach condition

sheesh.

The summer found me sitting. A. Lot.

This fall has begun with school, and old patterns are already apparent. The sluggish morning routine. A day filled with mispent time. An afternoon nap. Perhaps a nightcap before bed.

A couple trips are being planned. Old dreams are being hatched anew. Every morning promises a warm cup of coffee.

Potential rears its ugly head.

Can’t wait. Sounds fun.