It has been well noted that I have a paranoid/obsessive compulsive personality. That is why I spent a year in therapy. Now that I have finally detached from my analyst, suddenly, I find myself quite lost and confused. A sharp razorblade runs against my eye every day and my disorders bascailly rule my life. How wonderful. Anger after an obvious let-down by a party whose feelings did not reciprocate mine triggered me to consume more than I can take and almost make a huge mistake- not having made it with the second party, and being a quite forgetful drunk, I have been beating myself with a stick of obsession and insanity for the past week. I don't know why I do this. I am glad I didn't sleep with the second party, because, clearly, it wouldn't have been the right time or the right reasonings, yet I still feel guilt. I am seeing a doctor in a couple of days. Misery loves company. Friends think I am crazy, and well, they are probably right. The only thing that keeps me happy right now is my unruptured hymen as a token that I have not completely lost the one thing that many so easily lose.
I don't know where this lack of excitement is coming from, but it is making me sick. I left the big city for the weekend, only to return to the shit town that caused me so much pain and suffering for the past 4-5 years. I am glad to see the parents, but at the same time, I am nervous, depressed and just crazy, and I cannot talk to them about it. They would make a big deal of it, and not just that, but so much pressure is put on me, so many expectations that are floating in air around me, that I just cannot allow myself to disappoint. Maybe if suctioning is ever needed, I'll have to. Then I'll roll around my bed in pain screaming "I hate myself".
I am ridiculous. Things are as clear as night/day. I just am not sure. I doubt myself. I don't know why.
Part of it is the knowledge that I screwed up. I always screw up. I am not seeing Morrissey in Detroit either. Fuck it all. My god. My god. My god.
I haven't written for days, can't bring myself to pick up a book, haven't done anything productive, and during lectures, my mind is a week away putting the pieces together, trying to confirm what I already know and am told.
I am a hypochondriac. Fuck it. I can't deal with it.
Saturday, September 15, 2007
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
Dumbing down for people
I am tired of having to be someone else for the purpose of having someone to go out and grab tea or catch a film with every now and then. It is truly a nuisance....anyway, I will have none of that anymore. I don't care whether people like me or not, but I will not pretend to think and see the world like them. I miss those old days when I could care less. Ugh.
When did I become so interested in becoming a palatable dish for people to enjoy?
Yesterday I went to the movies with a friend. All the way to the theatre men were honking from their cars and yelling out things. Men go wild when they see a lanky long haired blonde thing walking down the street. It's really confusing. And a bit petrifying. I don't know how she deals with it all the time. I get it sometimes, once in a blue moon...but she nearly caused a car pile-up by casually walking down the road.
That normalness annoyed me, because that s something I am not. Fuck it, I am a raging work of art. I am not the dull looking background friend. I'm not neutral. And if they have a problem with it, they can nicely go and fuck off for all I care.
When did I become so interested in becoming a palatable dish for people to enjoy?
Yesterday I went to the movies with a friend. All the way to the theatre men were honking from their cars and yelling out things. Men go wild when they see a lanky long haired blonde thing walking down the street. It's really confusing. And a bit petrifying. I don't know how she deals with it all the time. I get it sometimes, once in a blue moon...but she nearly caused a car pile-up by casually walking down the road.
That normalness annoyed me, because that s something I am not. Fuck it, I am a raging work of art. I am not the dull looking background friend. I'm not neutral. And if they have a problem with it, they can nicely go and fuck off for all I care.
Saturday, August 25, 2007
Growing Up Is (Surprisingly) Hard To Do
I remember when I would lie to people about being older. I was 14, and far too advanced than people my age- in some areas of life...in others, I couldn't have been more stagnant, as always. Essentially, this advancement robbed me of being young. Surprisingly, my age was never doubted- at 14 I pulled off 18 perfectly, as long as I was not asked what my day activities included. And now, that I am finally old and have a room waiting for me in the big city, that I washed a heap of laundry and picked out a few artifacts I want to bring along, suddenly, I regret that need I had as a child. In a sense, "fuck it" effectively summarizes it. Are all adults lethargic? I should know...now that I am one. Now that an 8 year old addresses me as "lady". If I am making such a big deal over turning 18...I don't even want to know what turning 20, 30...God forbid 40....
There is a ball of something stuck in my throat, and I am afraid to say, I think it might be fear.
So now that I am moving away...life is about to start. The race begins. Makes me wish I did something more with my preparation time rather than worry about silly things, people, events and aspects of life I could never change. Makes me wish I took life less seriously.
I think I am getting writer's block again. It always happens when I have a heavy stream of emotions pulsing, tingling, ravaging my insides. About two years ago, a friend of mine was getting ready to go to university. She was leaving and I still had two years left. I remember reading her post the night before she left for university, and being conscious that eventually, those same thoughts and feelings will be going through me...strong and real. I am surprised that I didn't have the "that will never happen to me" approach that most young people have. It is almost as though I stayed with that post for the last 2 years....anticipating the same thing occurring in my own life..keeping it at the back of my mind, stashed, secure, alive. And here it is. She spoke of a bride she was crossing, between her childhood and adulthood. Personally, I feel like it is a cliff of a a mountain. I'll find out eventually whether I'll have to climb, or fall into a deep, dark abyss of infomercials, softcore pornos and commercial jingles.
Packing isn't my thing. I've had to do it one too many times. It is an odd feeling, often associated with parting, sadness and not seeing some people for a long time. So I have yet to pack anything. Tomorrow I move in my things....come back home...and leave on the 29th...returning only when I need..to this disgusting hellhole, simply because my parents call it their home.
I can't write anymore. Ugh. Ugh. Ugh....
There is a ball of something stuck in my throat, and I am afraid to say, I think it might be fear.
So now that I am moving away...life is about to start. The race begins. Makes me wish I did something more with my preparation time rather than worry about silly things, people, events and aspects of life I could never change. Makes me wish I took life less seriously.
I think I am getting writer's block again. It always happens when I have a heavy stream of emotions pulsing, tingling, ravaging my insides. About two years ago, a friend of mine was getting ready to go to university. She was leaving and I still had two years left. I remember reading her post the night before she left for university, and being conscious that eventually, those same thoughts and feelings will be going through me...strong and real. I am surprised that I didn't have the "that will never happen to me" approach that most young people have. It is almost as though I stayed with that post for the last 2 years....anticipating the same thing occurring in my own life..keeping it at the back of my mind, stashed, secure, alive. And here it is. She spoke of a bride she was crossing, between her childhood and adulthood. Personally, I feel like it is a cliff of a a mountain. I'll find out eventually whether I'll have to climb, or fall into a deep, dark abyss of infomercials, softcore pornos and commercial jingles.
Packing isn't my thing. I've had to do it one too many times. It is an odd feeling, often associated with parting, sadness and not seeing some people for a long time. So I have yet to pack anything. Tomorrow I move in my things....come back home...and leave on the 29th...returning only when I need..to this disgusting hellhole, simply because my parents call it their home.
I can't write anymore. Ugh. Ugh. Ugh....
Saturday, August 11, 2007
Looking Siamese
What is there to say? Have we all thrown feminism out the door? I caved in. After I counted my last calorie today and observed the contour of my nose yet again in the refection of the car before I got in...I realized that I have become, and have been, the product of the very thing I am so very much against. When you start wanting breasts for the purpose unknown to yourself (I will never have children, and sex is out of the question, naturally), you should very much recognize you have a problem. Germaine Greer, help me? Actually, I don't need help. I suppose this is a natural phase. I will surely go back to my old ways in a month or so. Sometimes, this pressure just simply catches up with me.
My new theremin is on its way. For the first time in my life, I am quite content with spending 500 dollars on something- I really feel it is worth it. The entire way to Georgian Bay and back, when the occupants of the car were not looking, I practiced my aerial fingering positions and pictured myself in front of it. It will be amazing.
As I said, I went to Georgian Bay with my mom dad and friends Meghan and Brian. It was nice, which is nice. Nice is always nice. Nice, nice, nice. Like the city. The water was crystal clear, and the only thing that frightened me was a water snake that swam right by us and the bogs that we were supposed to use, which I refused to enter. I can't picture a situation where I would be in such desperation to use an outhouse. I mean, it was expected- we were at a beach at a national park, miles away from civilization...there would be no plumbing. But they didn't even make an effort... I didn't cave in. Somehow, nature and I don't get along, however, I respect her, and she has been kind to me so far, and I think we will continue this respectful but distant relationship. Driving back through the country side, I saw so many beautiful cows and their calves frolicking on the pastures. How can people be so cruel to torture and kill them? It brings tears to my eyes even now...the love that the mother has for her little baby, the way she rubs her nose against the top of its head and the comfort you can see in its eyes when it is around its mother. They have emotions just like humans (or as humans are expected to have, however, as time goes on, I am having serious doubts)...which doesn't need to even be pointed out.
I will never eat an animal no matter what. I'm not Ed Gein.
What more is there to say? No word from him yet. I lost faith I think. No, I haven't...which is probably the reason why. Usually, great things happen to me unexpectedly...when I have completely forgotten I wanted them. Which is slightly unfortunate.
Anyway....love and learn...take your turn..
Lee
My new theremin is on its way. For the first time in my life, I am quite content with spending 500 dollars on something- I really feel it is worth it. The entire way to Georgian Bay and back, when the occupants of the car were not looking, I practiced my aerial fingering positions and pictured myself in front of it. It will be amazing.
As I said, I went to Georgian Bay with my mom dad and friends Meghan and Brian. It was nice, which is nice. Nice is always nice. Nice, nice, nice. Like the city. The water was crystal clear, and the only thing that frightened me was a water snake that swam right by us and the bogs that we were supposed to use, which I refused to enter. I can't picture a situation where I would be in such desperation to use an outhouse. I mean, it was expected- we were at a beach at a national park, miles away from civilization...there would be no plumbing. But they didn't even make an effort... I didn't cave in. Somehow, nature and I don't get along, however, I respect her, and she has been kind to me so far, and I think we will continue this respectful but distant relationship. Driving back through the country side, I saw so many beautiful cows and their calves frolicking on the pastures. How can people be so cruel to torture and kill them? It brings tears to my eyes even now...the love that the mother has for her little baby, the way she rubs her nose against the top of its head and the comfort you can see in its eyes when it is around its mother. They have emotions just like humans (or as humans are expected to have, however, as time goes on, I am having serious doubts)...which doesn't need to even be pointed out.
I will never eat an animal no matter what. I'm not Ed Gein.
What more is there to say? No word from him yet. I lost faith I think. No, I haven't...which is probably the reason why. Usually, great things happen to me unexpectedly...when I have completely forgotten I wanted them. Which is slightly unfortunate.
Anyway....love and learn...take your turn..
Lee
Monday, July 23, 2007
Dear God, may I never reach Menopause
Today has been nothing but pure hell. Right now, I am sitting in my room, quite willingly, as there is incredible dislike for me radiating from downstairs. Father and I never argue when we are alone. Mother went away for two weeks to take some art courses, and we did not fight once. She has incredible ways of getting him and I to just get furious at each other. Mother, whether she wants to admit it or not, is of the confrontational kind. She stares at people, analyzes every facial gesture to the point of rudeness, and then, determines what she thinks of this person. She does the same with me. I frowned once when my father said "he had no clue where my dudley lock went" when in fact, I saw him quite clearly fiddling with the thing a few weeks back. Upon noticing my grimasse, she jumped to the first oportunity of saying "How can you make that face at your father, it is not his fault..!!!" and of course, I, being naive, fired back "Oh honestly, stop staring at me!!!" and my father said "Don't talk to your mother like that".....
I can't say I dislike my mother, quite contrary...she is my mentor in a sense, and was ever since I was a child, but lately, she has been changing, and I must say, not for the better. Approaching mid 40s, mother has been rollercoasting through emotions, and so many highs and lows in a day...add up for those around her. One moment she will be content, smiling and saying nice thing, next moment she will be storming into my room screaming at the top of my lungs at how I destroyed her 2 dollar paint brushes (which I didn't even destroy). Then after that attack is done, she will retreat to her calm self. It is quite frightening, with this pre-menopausal thing, it is as though all of her traits get exaggerated.
Now I stare out the window (how Jayne Eyre of me...) and look at the grey sky, and think....August 26th...come faster, please!!!!!!!!
I can't say I dislike my mother, quite contrary...she is my mentor in a sense, and was ever since I was a child, but lately, she has been changing, and I must say, not for the better. Approaching mid 40s, mother has been rollercoasting through emotions, and so many highs and lows in a day...add up for those around her. One moment she will be content, smiling and saying nice thing, next moment she will be storming into my room screaming at the top of my lungs at how I destroyed her 2 dollar paint brushes (which I didn't even destroy). Then after that attack is done, she will retreat to her calm self. It is quite frightening, with this pre-menopausal thing, it is as though all of her traits get exaggerated.
Now I stare out the window (how Jayne Eyre of me...) and look at the grey sky, and think....August 26th...come faster, please!!!!!!!!
Saturday, July 21, 2007
Trotsky, I need you.
Lately I have been writing about things that I do not understand, people whom I have never met and characters whose lives I do not understand, but merely make assumptions about, based on my pathetic knowledge from mainstream culture and random thrown together articles that I have read throughout my equally pathetic life. Of course, this is a clear indication that I indeed do find my own surrounding to be too uneventful to ever attempt to record and immortalize. Everyone around me seems indefatigable...and well, if I didn't have to get out of bed, I would not.
I am actually very proud of one fact, and that is that I have finally pulled the plug on the dead-end part-time, soul-sucking, relentless job. I realized that sitting on the reeking bus, with "Heaven Knows I'm Miserable Now" set to "repeat" on my ipod, with unfocused eyes, curled up in a semi-fetal position in the seat was not exactly a fitting recurrent ritual. This vicious cycle was making me mean and apathetic, just like every person around me. The uniform didn't rub nicely against my skin, and the pants were big enough for two people to wear. The movie goers were mostly average drones- this is not simply my opinion, the statistics are all in favor of this notion, and given the demographics of a place like Durham...well...well.... besides, who would bother going to see a futile film such as "Transformers"? I saw these belly-hanging, sweats wearing drones leave the theaters every night, completely fascinated by what some guy jumbled on his supercomputer...no one really caring about the plot, or the message, or any other redeemable quality of a film. I still refuse to see that movie, however, I have seen Oceans 13, and I am ashamed to say- not only did I enjoy it, but I will probably be going to see 14, 15, 16...and as long as they keep them coming, I will keep on guzzling.
Mother and I walked into a sunglass store today. My intent was to try on a pair of Ray Ban Wayfarers....show her how wonderfully they fit my odd looking face, in hopes of her giving father a nudge-nudge wink-wink for what to get me for my birthday, Christmas, any other pointless occasion. But the employee of an official Ray Ban retailer not only did not HAVE the classic, timeless Ray Ban Wayfarers on display, but she did not even KNOW what these "wayfarer" glasses I speak of are. I was going to ask her what she is doing devoting her life to selling sunglasses if she has no clue about such an iconic style..that is like a mechanical engineer having no clue who Tesla is! (come to think of it, my father did tell me a story of when he was baffled by a "reputable" Swedish researcher in the field of electronics who has never heard of Tesla...I suppose career mistakes are made by people all over the world...some in more important positions than others). I even stooped to the level of calling them "the sunglasses Tom Cruise wore in Risky Business"...and I have never used Tom Cruises name in a sentence describing something I want before. But I figured, that's sort of up her alley...third rate actors climbing to huge mainstream, global success..she must have heard of him. But no, she handed me a pair of aviators and said "Oh my god I love Topgun". I looked at my mother, and we both agreed that we had to get out of that store, thereby proceeding to sprint towards the nearest exit.
Before I quit my job and started this luxurious life of loitering, stalling, vegetating...I had to write a "letter of resignation". I laughed at the thought really- I was serving obese people popcorn, having them spit in my face because I spared them butter and postponed their cardiac arrests another 15 minutes, having managers send me home whenever they "didn't need me", mopping up spilled drinks mixed with soggy popcorn bits of the floors, that after having done all of these unglamorous, degrading things, I had to write a fancy "letter of resignation" as though I held an important position at a reputable company....these capitalists feel it is fine to pick and choose when they want to be classy and civilized. So I wrote my first draft....if went something like:
Dear Sir/Madam,
With this letter, I would like to inform you that I am leaving my job
at AMC. I am moving to Toronto in order to study at Ryerson
University, and would like to take the month before I leave to get my
priorities organized, therefore I will not be able to maintain my part
time position in concession. My decision to leave this early is also
due to the fact that I am very disappointed at how the workers are
treated at AMC. I feel that my time was not respected when I would
randomly be sent home early, especially since it would take a
financial strain for me for transportation in order to get to work. In
my opinion, young people who make AMC the great theatre that it is,
are underpaid for the job that they do, yet have high expectations
thrown at them. I understand that these are all marks of being the
lowest life-form in a giant corporate equilibrium, and knowing that I
cannot change these factors, I have decided to quit and move on to a
job more suited for what I feel I deserve. Thank you for allowing me
to get acquainted with the capitalist worth system, working for AMC
taught me what I do, and do not want to do with the rest of my life.
Sincerely,
M. F.
...and that is just the edited, narrowed down first draft. There was a huge chunk where I wrote about Marx and his doctrine and how it could bring their entire establishment if only the shameful workers opened their eyes and realized that together they cannot be beat.......
..and then I realized this is not a battle I want to fight. I've thrown pear before swine my whole life, and decided not to continue to do so. I am unable to comprehend why people are so stubborn to want change, to want better things in life. Nothing confuses me more than when a son of a 50 year old wal-mart cashier and a laid off General Motors worker says that "communism is a fucking dumb idea, socialism...man..that's so gay", when he regurgitates these pathetic McCarthyist views that seemed to have been programed in his simple working-class mind from generation to generation. These are the people that need to fight, and yet, they are winning money of the same people who oppress them. The reason why America is so great is because Americans seem to be content with being exploited, they are told that that is the way of life, that is how things go here and that is it. It is a confusion to me, and I will never understand. That is why I will not fight for these people, they don't want to be saved. Instead they'll drape themselves in Republican, Conservative colours while they are sodomized by big shots who laugh at their fawning devoted, patriotic dedication.
So instead I wrote:
Dear Sir/Madam,
I am very sorry to leave AMC so abruptly. I hope that you will be able to find another replacement soon. Thank you for allowing me to be a part of your establishment.
Sincerely,
M.F.
And that's it. It feels better, As Veronica from the brilliant film Heathers remarked to the horny college student: "You don't deserve my fucking speech!". And now I can go to bed and dig into my Complete Works of Edgar Allan Poe.
You know who is really really sad? That bald guy and his unsuccessful band that plays for David Letterman. I bet he had hopes of making it in the industry, now he is supposed to be background accompanying music to an unfunny, unwitty, rude, carnivore.
I am actually very proud of one fact, and that is that I have finally pulled the plug on the dead-end part-time, soul-sucking, relentless job. I realized that sitting on the reeking bus, with "Heaven Knows I'm Miserable Now" set to "repeat" on my ipod, with unfocused eyes, curled up in a semi-fetal position in the seat was not exactly a fitting recurrent ritual. This vicious cycle was making me mean and apathetic, just like every person around me. The uniform didn't rub nicely against my skin, and the pants were big enough for two people to wear. The movie goers were mostly average drones- this is not simply my opinion, the statistics are all in favor of this notion, and given the demographics of a place like Durham...well...well.... besides, who would bother going to see a futile film such as "Transformers"? I saw these belly-hanging, sweats wearing drones leave the theaters every night, completely fascinated by what some guy jumbled on his supercomputer...no one really caring about the plot, or the message, or any other redeemable quality of a film. I still refuse to see that movie, however, I have seen Oceans 13, and I am ashamed to say- not only did I enjoy it, but I will probably be going to see 14, 15, 16...and as long as they keep them coming, I will keep on guzzling.
Mother and I walked into a sunglass store today. My intent was to try on a pair of Ray Ban Wayfarers....show her how wonderfully they fit my odd looking face, in hopes of her giving father a nudge-nudge wink-wink for what to get me for my birthday, Christmas, any other pointless occasion. But the employee of an official Ray Ban retailer not only did not HAVE the classic, timeless Ray Ban Wayfarers on display, but she did not even KNOW what these "wayfarer" glasses I speak of are. I was going to ask her what she is doing devoting her life to selling sunglasses if she has no clue about such an iconic style..that is like a mechanical engineer having no clue who Tesla is! (come to think of it, my father did tell me a story of when he was baffled by a "reputable" Swedish researcher in the field of electronics who has never heard of Tesla...I suppose career mistakes are made by people all over the world...some in more important positions than others). I even stooped to the level of calling them "the sunglasses Tom Cruise wore in Risky Business"...and I have never used Tom Cruises name in a sentence describing something I want before. But I figured, that's sort of up her alley...third rate actors climbing to huge mainstream, global success..she must have heard of him. But no, she handed me a pair of aviators and said "Oh my god I love Topgun". I looked at my mother, and we both agreed that we had to get out of that store, thereby proceeding to sprint towards the nearest exit.
Before I quit my job and started this luxurious life of loitering, stalling, vegetating...I had to write a "letter of resignation". I laughed at the thought really- I was serving obese people popcorn, having them spit in my face because I spared them butter and postponed their cardiac arrests another 15 minutes, having managers send me home whenever they "didn't need me", mopping up spilled drinks mixed with soggy popcorn bits of the floors, that after having done all of these unglamorous, degrading things, I had to write a fancy "letter of resignation" as though I held an important position at a reputable company....these capitalists feel it is fine to pick and choose when they want to be classy and civilized. So I wrote my first draft....if went something like:
Dear Sir/Madam,
With this letter, I would like to inform you that I am leaving my job
at AMC. I am moving to Toronto in order to study at Ryerson
University, and would like to take the month before I leave to get my
priorities organized, therefore I will not be able to maintain my part
time position in concession. My decision to leave this early is also
due to the fact that I am very disappointed at how the workers are
treated at AMC. I feel that my time was not respected when I would
randomly be sent home early, especially since it would take a
financial strain for me for transportation in order to get to work. In
my opinion, young people who make AMC the great theatre that it is,
are underpaid for the job that they do, yet have high expectations
thrown at them. I understand that these are all marks of being the
lowest life-form in a giant corporate equilibrium, and knowing that I
cannot change these factors, I have decided to quit and move on to a
job more suited for what I feel I deserve. Thank you for allowing me
to get acquainted with the capitalist worth system, working for AMC
taught me what I do, and do not want to do with the rest of my life.
Sincerely,
M. F.
...and that is just the edited, narrowed down first draft. There was a huge chunk where I wrote about Marx and his doctrine and how it could bring their entire establishment if only the shameful workers opened their eyes and realized that together they cannot be beat.......
..and then I realized this is not a battle I want to fight. I've thrown pear before swine my whole life, and decided not to continue to do so. I am unable to comprehend why people are so stubborn to want change, to want better things in life. Nothing confuses me more than when a son of a 50 year old wal-mart cashier and a laid off General Motors worker says that "communism is a fucking dumb idea, socialism...man..that's so gay", when he regurgitates these pathetic McCarthyist views that seemed to have been programed in his simple working-class mind from generation to generation. These are the people that need to fight, and yet, they are winning money of the same people who oppress them. The reason why America is so great is because Americans seem to be content with being exploited, they are told that that is the way of life, that is how things go here and that is it. It is a confusion to me, and I will never understand. That is why I will not fight for these people, they don't want to be saved. Instead they'll drape themselves in Republican, Conservative colours while they are sodomized by big shots who laugh at their fawning devoted, patriotic dedication.
So instead I wrote:
Dear Sir/Madam,
I am very sorry to leave AMC so abruptly. I hope that you will be able to find another replacement soon. Thank you for allowing me to be a part of your establishment.
Sincerely,
M.F.
And that's it. It feels better, As Veronica from the brilliant film Heathers remarked to the horny college student: "You don't deserve my fucking speech!". And now I can go to bed and dig into my Complete Works of Edgar Allan Poe.
You know who is really really sad? That bald guy and his unsuccessful band that plays for David Letterman. I bet he had hopes of making it in the industry, now he is supposed to be background accompanying music to an unfunny, unwitty, rude, carnivore.
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
The Journey To Morrissey (Unedited)
One would not necessarily understand why Morrissey, the legendary singer and songwriter, disagrees with the notion that he "performs" when he is on stage until one gets to experience the enchantment of his work as it nature intended- front center, ribs pressed against the barricade, the heat of the crowd pulsing from every corner, stench of desperation, stretching to reach and connect- from both the audience and the object of desire alike. Morrissey stands naked in front of the crowd, metaphorically speaking (of course, there is the shirt-ripping, a metaphor within itself, really), vulnerable, honest, simply there as he is. That is not performance, what he does every night of the tour takes courage and strength. One cannot call his events "shows", the word "concert" is too lighthearted to describe it, "event of epiphany" might be going too far- but I think "spiritual sharing" should cover what truly goes on between the creator of the music, and the crowd that stands before him. The reciprocal love and respect, sharing of true emotions between the two is astounding, and most likely a rare occurrence, especially in today's world. To many, the crowd is a faceless mass, to Morrissey, each and every one of us count.
On May 22, Morrissey decided to spend his 48th birthday in St Louis, singing to people who are there to listen. I, like many modern-day pilgrims of the chanteur, traveled from a different country, Canada, in order to see him. As the old proverb goes," if the mountain won't come to Muhammad, Muhammad must go to the mountain", so I ventured off into the wild, wild Mid-west on foot, with my walking umbrella, and a bag containing nothing but a few coins and an old copy of Arthur Rimbaud's Illuminations, to keep me safe on my quest to be entertained and understood (an odd choice, perhaps, but then again, what in life makes sense?). Through my journey, the pain and suffering I neatly tucked away by thinking what the end result of my trip would be like, and that the thirst I was feeling is in fact, creative thirst, rather than anything else physical real and boring. By the time of my arrival, 8am sharp, I crashed on the pavement of the train station, seemingly delirious to the bystanders, but actually never more composed and aware of my true self. And of course I should mention that some notions and details of my journey may or may not have occurred, but the true message and emotional value of this narrated story is unharmed by these miniscule alterations.
St Louis is no place to have fun. It is a place where some are born, others rot, and third ones, positively die. Aside from a couple of places on Earth I've heard of, most other ones follow a similar demographical pattern. Not many move to St Louis willingly, or because it has been their eternal, lifelong wish to live there (unless they want to model their lives after famous movies done by Judy Garland, in which case, may God be with them, however, I have my doubts that such people do not in fact exist)- like an unexpected pregnancy, it just happens. My first night in St Louis I spent sleeping by the river, under a bridge where I met a few other fellow Morrissey pilgrims. The town was swarming with my kind, and even in a random city, in the middle of the bible belt, I, a practicing communist, vocal vegetarian and shameful sodomite (the word itself makes me all warm and fuzzy inside), felt more at home than ever. Maybe because He, with a capital H, was cuddled neatly in freshly ironed linens of an expensive hotel, smelling of frankincense and myrrh, I felt that through him, I was sleeping in same conditions. In reality, after dining on dry instant oatmeal, I wrapped myself in a spread-out cardboard box and rested my head on a solid piece of wood that washed up on the riverbank. I intended to take a bath in the river, in the morning- an event that proved to be near-fatal. After that incident, and clearing things up with the ambulance, police, firefighters (ironically, the latter showed up as well), I proceeded to go to the Pageant, the lavish-sounding concert venue, in what I've been told is the nice part of St Louis. To me it seemed very average- even their Starbucks was really dirty. And Starbucks' are usually relatively clean. Ah, what do I know.
If I had the time to describe every person in line, waiting to see the man, I would probably be a very lucky, or unfortunately screwed over person, depending on my life circumstances and place of habitat. Even though I lack time, I will still not resort to stereotypes. Sure, there was the sad black haired goth kid with fountain pen slices on his arms to prove his love, or moms who used to be cool but are now pathetically dragging themselves through the bumpy roads of menopause in sweats and flip-flops, the old guys who get told they resemble Morrissey (those who make the remark usually omitting "...if Morrissey weighed 70 pounds more and had his face in the microwave for 34 seconds"), the usual "concert goers" who really know nothing but are just there, the lonely 30 so year olds who lost all meaning and purpose in life (I sort of fit into that category, only 10-ish years younger than that)....the rest of the crowd is just filler, and they need not be mentioned such as the quiet guy, the loud girl, the faceless cluster, the fat guy, the fat girl. Just usual, at first sight, is this crowd. Now once inside, things get ugly. Or beautiful. Or ugly. Life is a circle anyway. It is the same thing.
I befriended a quiet Alaskan, feeling we're really in the same mindset. I didn't ask for his name, because names just take up space, and I needed all the memory I could get in order to remember the event that was going to take place 11, 9, 7, 5, 3, 2 hours, 30min from now. We sat through the day, wasting time, as if no time was needed. If there and then we were asked by the Grim Reaper if we would give up the rest of time in order for that one and a half hour in pure heaven with Morrissey, adorned with a green carnation and a glass of absinthe, we would have said "whatever, take it, now that we've waited this long, it would be such a waste not to get to see him!" . And we would have died and it would have been worth it.
It is such a crazy stampede once the doors open. My heart which usually beats slowly and insecurely, gets its annual workout at events such as this. The guard picks up his walkie-talkie, and tells us to line up. Everybody knows what is going to happen. You look around, nobody's your friend anymore, it's a competition. Brother against brother. It's a bloodbath. Realization that your perfect place in heaven depends on not only how fast you run, but whom else you leave behind you forces even the purest of heart to play dirty. "Ok, let them in". It's a blur. Now or never. Gather your assets, show your claws, the race is on. I run, I run, I run, my legs are doing a modern dance more passionate than Isadora Duncan could have ever choreographed. I advance. At the corner of my eye there are people, there are people, people and more people, their faces showing strain and pain and genuine anguish. Will they make it? What do I care. Fend for yourself....
Until you reach the cold steel, catch your breath, look up to meet the watchful eyes of a security guard, who understands no love, or passion, whose currency are not emotion or words or compassion. How can you, who operates on such a different level, ever reason with such a creation? Many have tried, myself included. It is like trying to communicate with someone who speaks a different language. But what if you don't reach the steel barricade? What if you are behind someone who was faster than you? Well, you stand there, wondering how wonderful it must be to be that person. You stand there, and you wait for your chance. Who knows what kind of a sinful beast you may turn into once the lights go down, the smoke rises, and your deepest emotions surface to the top.
The wait inside kills the most. He's there, you're there. We're all ready, come out already. You stand through the opening act- she could be the most wonderful singer in the world, a talent incomparable to any other of her time, an opera star highly acclaimed by the likes of famous Italian composers whose names I do not care to remember.....- but you can't wait for anything other than him. You're unable to. On any other day it would be different but now, you just must concentrate to prepare to absorb the most of him, when he comes. And he will, he must. He will, he must. For you're here, and his name shines above the door. It's a perfect match So it can't be a mistake. Could it be? No it certainly cannot be. You're not that much of a fool.
The lights dim even further, it is either anticipation or deadly acid mingling in your abdomen, unsure of the way your bland body reacts to excitement you hope for the best, expect the worst....the anticipation rises, rises, the music tearing you one note at the time, builds, builds, the crowd is shivering, you pick up the shivers too, tears? it tears? could it be, no it, yes it, oh, there, here, maybe, now, I'm not ready, ok, I am, I think......- crash!!!!! There. He walks on stage and you've completely slipped into "dream" mode. You will wake up the next day and believe it was all a fragment of your vivid imagination, which can both be a curse and a privilege given the situation . It is impossible, the man on the picture beside your bed, he cannot be here, in front of you. And all mental preparation to remember as much as you can is thrown out the door. It is all about the feelings baby, that's all you get to remember.
To try to describe your most cherished memory is hard. I remember the woman behind me, saliva dribbling out of her mouth, diving back to catch a piece of cloth he threw into the crowd, no, I don't dive back for it, I want to absorb as much of him as I can. Read the expressions on his face, feel the sound. It's here, now. You've heard it before, never like this. As she dives back, an opening for myself is before me- the steel barricade. My ribs are neatly placed over it, I am on my toes. Pilates instructors cannot stretch this much. He glances at me. Shrugs his shoulders...there is hell behind me, a whirpool of hyenas tearing up his shirt. No, it can't be. Next second the look is gone, nothing happened. No, it can't be. There is an open wound on the right side of my chest, but it really could be from anything. Even now, I still don't know what side the heart is on...nor do I care.
And so he sings, and he sings, and hours feel like seconds. The end is nearing. I realize that subconsciously, my hand, clutching Illuminations, has been trying to reach him for the entire duration of the night. "Here I am, here I am". Did I look pleased? He kneels, and extends his arm, with a smile. A connection. He has it. Eyes connect, it burns. Imprinted on my memory, somewhere, very vividly, but I will have to figure out the access code later. He stands up. He mouths words to you. You can't believe it. You stand there and it is over. And you can't believe it. Then you get the encore after the show. Even closer. Even more personal. We said nothing to each other, but, as those cheesy novelesque expressions go- we spoke through our eyes. I am sure that those 4 seconds in some distant cosmos are worth a lifetime, that we were transported there for that duration, and exchanged something profound, because I haven't felt the same since then. Food has no taste, people all look the same, I can't fall in love (but what else is new?), nothing equals that moment. For me, of course. He is a whore, he shook so many other hands the next night. I have yet to wash mine.
I lie. I tried. I failed. It is now clean.
On May 22, Morrissey decided to spend his 48th birthday in St Louis, singing to people who are there to listen. I, like many modern-day pilgrims of the chanteur, traveled from a different country, Canada, in order to see him. As the old proverb goes," if the mountain won't come to Muhammad, Muhammad must go to the mountain", so I ventured off into the wild, wild Mid-west on foot, with my walking umbrella, and a bag containing nothing but a few coins and an old copy of Arthur Rimbaud's Illuminations, to keep me safe on my quest to be entertained and understood (an odd choice, perhaps, but then again, what in life makes sense?). Through my journey, the pain and suffering I neatly tucked away by thinking what the end result of my trip would be like, and that the thirst I was feeling is in fact, creative thirst, rather than anything else physical real and boring. By the time of my arrival, 8am sharp, I crashed on the pavement of the train station, seemingly delirious to the bystanders, but actually never more composed and aware of my true self. And of course I should mention that some notions and details of my journey may or may not have occurred, but the true message and emotional value of this narrated story is unharmed by these miniscule alterations.
St Louis is no place to have fun. It is a place where some are born, others rot, and third ones, positively die. Aside from a couple of places on Earth I've heard of, most other ones follow a similar demographical pattern. Not many move to St Louis willingly, or because it has been their eternal, lifelong wish to live there (unless they want to model their lives after famous movies done by Judy Garland, in which case, may God be with them, however, I have my doubts that such people do not in fact exist)- like an unexpected pregnancy, it just happens. My first night in St Louis I spent sleeping by the river, under a bridge where I met a few other fellow Morrissey pilgrims. The town was swarming with my kind, and even in a random city, in the middle of the bible belt, I, a practicing communist, vocal vegetarian and shameful sodomite (the word itself makes me all warm and fuzzy inside), felt more at home than ever. Maybe because He, with a capital H, was cuddled neatly in freshly ironed linens of an expensive hotel, smelling of frankincense and myrrh, I felt that through him, I was sleeping in same conditions. In reality, after dining on dry instant oatmeal, I wrapped myself in a spread-out cardboard box and rested my head on a solid piece of wood that washed up on the riverbank. I intended to take a bath in the river, in the morning- an event that proved to be near-fatal. After that incident, and clearing things up with the ambulance, police, firefighters (ironically, the latter showed up as well), I proceeded to go to the Pageant, the lavish-sounding concert venue, in what I've been told is the nice part of St Louis. To me it seemed very average- even their Starbucks was really dirty. And Starbucks' are usually relatively clean. Ah, what do I know.
If I had the time to describe every person in line, waiting to see the man, I would probably be a very lucky, or unfortunately screwed over person, depending on my life circumstances and place of habitat. Even though I lack time, I will still not resort to stereotypes. Sure, there was the sad black haired goth kid with fountain pen slices on his arms to prove his love, or moms who used to be cool but are now pathetically dragging themselves through the bumpy roads of menopause in sweats and flip-flops, the old guys who get told they resemble Morrissey (those who make the remark usually omitting "...if Morrissey weighed 70 pounds more and had his face in the microwave for 34 seconds"), the usual "concert goers" who really know nothing but are just there, the lonely 30 so year olds who lost all meaning and purpose in life (I sort of fit into that category, only 10-ish years younger than that)....the rest of the crowd is just filler, and they need not be mentioned such as the quiet guy, the loud girl, the faceless cluster, the fat guy, the fat girl. Just usual, at first sight, is this crowd. Now once inside, things get ugly. Or beautiful. Or ugly. Life is a circle anyway. It is the same thing.
I befriended a quiet Alaskan, feeling we're really in the same mindset. I didn't ask for his name, because names just take up space, and I needed all the memory I could get in order to remember the event that was going to take place 11, 9, 7, 5, 3, 2 hours, 30min from now. We sat through the day, wasting time, as if no time was needed. If there and then we were asked by the Grim Reaper if we would give up the rest of time in order for that one and a half hour in pure heaven with Morrissey, adorned with a green carnation and a glass of absinthe, we would have said "whatever, take it, now that we've waited this long, it would be such a waste not to get to see him!" . And we would have died and it would have been worth it.
It is such a crazy stampede once the doors open. My heart which usually beats slowly and insecurely, gets its annual workout at events such as this. The guard picks up his walkie-talkie, and tells us to line up. Everybody knows what is going to happen. You look around, nobody's your friend anymore, it's a competition. Brother against brother. It's a bloodbath. Realization that your perfect place in heaven depends on not only how fast you run, but whom else you leave behind you forces even the purest of heart to play dirty. "Ok, let them in". It's a blur. Now or never. Gather your assets, show your claws, the race is on. I run, I run, I run, my legs are doing a modern dance more passionate than Isadora Duncan could have ever choreographed. I advance. At the corner of my eye there are people, there are people, people and more people, their faces showing strain and pain and genuine anguish. Will they make it? What do I care. Fend for yourself....
Until you reach the cold steel, catch your breath, look up to meet the watchful eyes of a security guard, who understands no love, or passion, whose currency are not emotion or words or compassion. How can you, who operates on such a different level, ever reason with such a creation? Many have tried, myself included. It is like trying to communicate with someone who speaks a different language. But what if you don't reach the steel barricade? What if you are behind someone who was faster than you? Well, you stand there, wondering how wonderful it must be to be that person. You stand there, and you wait for your chance. Who knows what kind of a sinful beast you may turn into once the lights go down, the smoke rises, and your deepest emotions surface to the top.
The wait inside kills the most. He's there, you're there. We're all ready, come out already. You stand through the opening act- she could be the most wonderful singer in the world, a talent incomparable to any other of her time, an opera star highly acclaimed by the likes of famous Italian composers whose names I do not care to remember.....- but you can't wait for anything other than him. You're unable to. On any other day it would be different but now, you just must concentrate to prepare to absorb the most of him, when he comes. And he will, he must. He will, he must. For you're here, and his name shines above the door. It's a perfect match So it can't be a mistake. Could it be? No it certainly cannot be. You're not that much of a fool.
The lights dim even further, it is either anticipation or deadly acid mingling in your abdomen, unsure of the way your bland body reacts to excitement you hope for the best, expect the worst....the anticipation rises, rises, the music tearing you one note at the time, builds, builds, the crowd is shivering, you pick up the shivers too, tears? it tears? could it be, no it, yes it, oh, there, here, maybe, now, I'm not ready, ok, I am, I think......- crash!!!!! There. He walks on stage and you've completely slipped into "dream" mode. You will wake up the next day and believe it was all a fragment of your vivid imagination, which can both be a curse and a privilege given the situation . It is impossible, the man on the picture beside your bed, he cannot be here, in front of you. And all mental preparation to remember as much as you can is thrown out the door. It is all about the feelings baby, that's all you get to remember.
To try to describe your most cherished memory is hard. I remember the woman behind me, saliva dribbling out of her mouth, diving back to catch a piece of cloth he threw into the crowd, no, I don't dive back for it, I want to absorb as much of him as I can. Read the expressions on his face, feel the sound. It's here, now. You've heard it before, never like this. As she dives back, an opening for myself is before me- the steel barricade. My ribs are neatly placed over it, I am on my toes. Pilates instructors cannot stretch this much. He glances at me. Shrugs his shoulders...there is hell behind me, a whirpool of hyenas tearing up his shirt. No, it can't be. Next second the look is gone, nothing happened. No, it can't be. There is an open wound on the right side of my chest, but it really could be from anything. Even now, I still don't know what side the heart is on...nor do I care.
And so he sings, and he sings, and hours feel like seconds. The end is nearing. I realize that subconsciously, my hand, clutching Illuminations, has been trying to reach him for the entire duration of the night. "Here I am, here I am". Did I look pleased? He kneels, and extends his arm, with a smile. A connection. He has it. Eyes connect, it burns. Imprinted on my memory, somewhere, very vividly, but I will have to figure out the access code later. He stands up. He mouths words to you. You can't believe it. You stand there and it is over. And you can't believe it. Then you get the encore after the show. Even closer. Even more personal. We said nothing to each other, but, as those cheesy novelesque expressions go- we spoke through our eyes. I am sure that those 4 seconds in some distant cosmos are worth a lifetime, that we were transported there for that duration, and exchanged something profound, because I haven't felt the same since then. Food has no taste, people all look the same, I can't fall in love (but what else is new?), nothing equals that moment. For me, of course. He is a whore, he shook so many other hands the next night. I have yet to wash mine.
I lie. I tried. I failed. It is now clean.
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