Music used for amusical purposes irks me. I like my mornings quiet, echoey... where the world sounds when you strike it. In here, this cafe, where I try and write with therapeutic purpose, the music invades and pollutes those thoughts that woke me and kept me up. I like Madonna and all, but she's not the lady I want in my head right now. I'll do my dangedest to just get them down.
My sleeplessness was not that exciting, and mainly consisted of me recognizing the need to slip in an indefinite article in some archived paragraph somewhere... but there were parts worth talking about.
I devoted much of my insomnia to contemplating the concept of vegetable oil. I know I could wiki-it, solve the issue of oil extraction briskly, but I'd feel satisfaction to solving this one on my own: vegetable oil... it's cheap and consumed in abundance, but what vegetable are they talking about? Not once in my life have I had to push away a carrot for being too oily. Are there leguminous crude slicks out there? "We don't need no lube, baby. If you just lean over and get some cabbage from the bottom drawer..." (ed: it'll be there regardless of its slidifical properties) I understand how seeds can contain oil, but if vegetable oil is made from seeds they should call it seed oil. I understand, with the whole existance of baby oil, that one does not need to deconstitute something for it have the name of that something (but it would assist matters. ed: not talking population control) Perhaps they mean that vegetable oil is to be used ON vegetables? This calls for a public awareness effort. Perhaps I finally have purpose to be awarded a grant.
Steve and I chatted a lot yesterday. We both needed it. Steve had just watched a movie about psychos and had lost his nerve. And I'd just made several realizations about my life... found my nerve? I must plunge in this way - - ->
For the past few weeks, I've been watching my face devolve into vague, indefinite lines. I don't think I'd be described as a particularly vain person, not with some of the things I've done to my image (remember, I dress like a lesbian... I find lesbians dress either like urban-commandos/fishermen or a relaxed Richard Gere. I lean more towards the former style), and I like to be thought of as positive... My face in the mirror has been wan and over-exposed, hastily drawn, features conflicting and inexpressive. Acid-washed. I've wondered about it some, whether it correlated with my mild writer's block and brooding moods. If others saw it too. I've had a few upsets lately and not known how to deal. So yesterday, I looked deep into my mirror's eyes' mirrors and declared, voice tightened by emotion, "Tom, you need to be more of an asshole." I've been using kid gloves, pulling punches (I'm afraid of hurting people, which I guess is a little conceited, but I tend to either take the hits and analyze method or use killing strokes) and avoiding the sparring that most people seem to revel in.
So I went for a 30 minute sprint and burst through the membrane of my malign tumourousness like the Kool-Aid man bringing the party to a kid's lame-ass birthday. It was a crazy run. One of those tears-mixing-with-rain-and-snot, get-my-stolen-car-stereo-back, life-reclamation runs. I puked while running. I jumped over dogs. Cars gave way. It was mad. Then I came back and looked at my face. It had begun to reassemble. I met Steve, and we talked. About how hurt we were, about how we'd deal with it, about what we meant to each other and about psychos. Anyone could be a psycho, he said. And he's right. We are a pre-meditatively violent species. And look at the restraint people show. Look how much not-killing goes on. I don't trust any of you any more. You're all ready to explode in an overly intelligent and calculated fury involving chains and rusty basement bathrooms. From now on, I'm the overtly crazy guy, ok? At least it's honest. Anyway, the motif, it seemed, was 'control'. Steve dropped that one and it brought together the many threads I'd been tugging at. I have to modify it some and qualify it as the 'perception' of control being the important bit: making the decision. In my relationship with the cosmos, I've definitely been the bitch. I'm fine with it, but no more submission, feigned or otherwise. No more deferring decision. The time is now. Seize the world and squeeze the juice. After the next smoke, of course.
Er, what else? Oh yes...
-blogs as hyper-personalities: personalities you can create and present, a different type of citizen. Not really journalistic (I'd be pissed if I opened my diary to see someone'd left commentary or witty banter. Yesterday I saw the funniest anonymous comment I've ever seen on the entire internet: BIG BLACK COCK, IN YOUR FACE. That's definitely really funny.) but fully, conceptually presented.
-The physics of a novel. In real life, there's Newtonian motion laws, semblances of relativity analogies etc., but in a novel, perhaps it's the characters that determine the physical properties. Force of Wills and the momentum they carry. In novels, gravity is determined by the weight of the soul... this is a brand-new observation for me, so I'll turn that around a bit, see how it sits.
-Lucy's Aussie roommate who unfortunately works at Miami left me offended with her casual 'roo-shooting chit-chat. So I changed the topic to cane toads, and she told me they golf with them. I don't know if she meant swing with them or at them, but still... come on! Aussies seem to have quite a few sadistic/masochistic pastimes: footie, cricket, Foster's, toad-thumping, Neighbours, other Aussies... no wonder they all say that poutine'd be a big hit over there.
-My back is killing me.
-I'm torn between using my favourite slogan of all time 'Bilge Pump' as my DJ handle, or the spoonerism 'Bulge Pimp'. It's more of a spineroosm really.
-Sometimes I really wish I were a Kodo drummer.