i just spilled dr pepper all over myself and had to change.
i'm back.
there was a while where i didn't want to write on this blog at all. there was a longer while where i considered deleting everything i'd ever written and wiping the entire blog from the internet. sometimes i wonder if i'll ever figure out who i'm trying to be -- beyond "myself," which is an entirely unhelpful answer when I'm not sure who Myself is trying to be either. sometimes it feels like i'm getting closer, cutting a little more to the quick of my interests, my beliefs, the things i care about. but then i remember how many times i've felt like that before, and i wonder how many more plateaus i will hit before the finish line. is there even a finish line? is it all a dream? sometimes i feel less that i am cutting to the quick of everything and instead am being shaped by the flow of tides over my skin, the sandstone canyon rather than the river itself.
if it helps me answer my own question, that's why i didn't end up deleting everything off of this blog. it's been difficult to accept, but i'm learning that there may not be any such thing as a true magnum opus, but rather a bunch of little artifacts, marking points of every person you have been. i wonder how many artists were truly satisfied after they finished their "magnum opus." I can't think of many. Everyone keeps working, keeps changing. The river keeps flowing. The sandstone keeps changing.
That being said, when I moved to new york, i felt much more ... like an image. i wanted to be consumable, wanted to try to market myself in a certain kind of way. before i moved to new york, too. i think i didn't understand how one could do that, didn't know how it worked, and wanted to experience it to understand it. it really comes through in my writing, i think. it also doesn't help that i moved to new york at 23 years old, on the cusp of one of the big ego transitions of life. i don't have as much fear anymore about sharing myself, but it's because i understand my own boundaries a lot better, and i stopped expecting everyone to play along with me in good faith. most people won't.
rereading the post i made earlier this year on Lack, I was startled by its similarity to something i wrote in my journal only last night. i've been sick the last four days, and laid up in bed i started my period, and my mother was getting major surgery on monday. i cried for hours every day, and lamented my ability to write new music, to complete any tasks, wondered if i could ever do something meaningful in comparison to all of the beauty and seemingly endless output of my friends... and yet i was just focusing on the lack again. the rat race cranial infestation gnawing at my brainstem. every day i experience something that feels like a beautiful song. i laugh with my friends. i stroke my cat and he purrs. i stare at my ceiling and listen to an album i have never heard and am overwhelmed with enough emotion to tranquilize an elephant, and i wonder where the art has gone. whence my spirit has fled. it's sitting next to me. it's studying my naked form, preparing the sketches for the final portrait.
it's unbelievable to me that it's not even been a year. that i still have three months until 25. slow down, shapeshifter. take time to count the feathers that fall.
things i like recently:
- Natural Born Killers
- Tonstartssbandht - An When
- practicing electric guitar
- being alone in my room
- Dr. Pepper
- shoegaze/slowcore
- Totino's pizza rolls (not new for me)
- Nana
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