in journaling, when i ramble, its okay, because not even me is reading the shit, and here, no one really is either, or they are like you, the autonomous reader who i may or may not know, and you may or may not be caring about what i write about at 2:00AM. in my journals i can talk shit about everyone, even myself, and my self doesn't even care about all the deprecating things i have to say about self. i talk about how i have no good ideas and that i wish that i was creating more art than i am, and how i am honestly jealous at people who are creating good art, and what the hell is good art, or good poetry, or good writing anyways, and most of the time, poetry chapbooks... bore me. so how do we shake things up a bit PEOPLE? how do we stir up the publishing world. god, instead of talking about publishing and writing, i should just be writing, oh but wait, i am, and its doing me a whole lot of (no) good.
i'm really screwed. if this is my passion, if this is why i wake up in the morning, i am severly fcuk. i have missed all connections, the french ones, the spanish coffeecup ones, and i am left with an over-priced ticket to no where. but no matters, i have surfed the web hard tonight, mainly because i am still wired from the 5 cups of coffee i sipped with my cheapest thing on the menu breakfast. i'm happy, because i love the night, and i do my best writing when its dark and the kitchen is quiet, and i try not to hear the sounds of sex and sleeping.
i like alliteration. like lips puckering pulling wanting waning wandering aimlessly around bended buttoned tshirts. i want to write a whole page of alliterations. i want to write pages of ramblings and then pick out the sentences that i really like and blow them up really big, so that the book consists of only one liners, but comes from a history of unprepared unthought of thoughts. i like the idea of creating something out of nothing, of your mind moving faster than you can record it. and then how much of thought is unrecorded. millions of moments of conversations with yourself, gone. you fail to exist when you realize how much you will never know because you were not conscious about saving those moments. click save now. saving now... draft saved.
good. its isn't gone forever, its here now. but because only i will read this later on in a fit of self-reflection, its like it almost doesn't matter. but then one person someday in the future will ask what was 2011 like, and who was in LA at the time, and who was jaded and tired, but still a bit young, and then they'll find this blog, and be like, who the hell was she, and maybe read this post... i kid myself, thinking about the future and the importance of recording the now. someone told me that blogs have no lasting power, that there is no hope for documentation. we still have to make books. we still have to publish our shit, no matter how raw or refined it is.
here something nice i found, for you to glean inspiration off of ucsd literature professors who write for cool art zines and blogs and such:
and with that, freezing fridges.