Abandoning The Plan But Continuing To Scheme

Roll the shoulders, rapidly and smartly smack the cheeks, quick crack of the neck, flexing of the fingers, here we go.

I simply have to make myself type something that doesn't sound remotely like a scholarly analysis of anything. Because if I keep it up with this passive voice I might soon conclude that the merits of repeatedly applying extreme force against a rough graveled surface with one's cranium might be the biggest contribution I can give to the soon-to-be-formed Society for the Selective Elimination of Useless Academia Leeches.

So in case you've been worried about my absence from the blogosphere these past two months, the answer is yes, I really did lose any will or ability for free thought. Thus the lack of lingual throwup on this aesthetically pleasing backdrop.

My pictures certainly are pretty, aren't they? I pretend it's almost the same thing, being able to create timelessness and just having timelessly good taste. Helps me sleep at night.

I just went through an intense "friend" purge on facebook, which was highly satisfying. The only people left now are a) people who I actually care to talk to/passively view their life and b) people who are too crazy and I fear the repercussions of dropping them even more than I yearn for the relief of not having to think about them ever again. And if you're having even a moment's doubt about which category you belong to, it's undoubtedly b. Don't watch me while I sleep. Again.

People have an insane--emphasis on the word choice insane, picture double italics if that's possible--way of projecting/altering what they want in a mate onto whatever is in front of them. Believe me, this judgment is being passed (and it is a judgment, let's not kid ourselves) with a lot of empathy, cause heaven knows I'm neck deep in the situation. But it's surprising how even when I've determinedly ignored all the flashing signs saying "no chance in hell are you two compatible" with equal vigor in the past, I still feel violated and get very frustrated when it happens to me.

Ah well, I always said I could even make hypocrisy look good.

Why I fell in love with the opening act for the Vampire Weekend concert I went to last week: She was strange, her music wasn't my thing, I'm never going to listen to it again, but there was a quality about her, quite separate from the rich flexibility of her voice, which was magnetic. The quality was that she was, in every category that exists out there, incredibly strange. And awkward. She stood up there with her microphone, no band, singing while doing strange jerky movements with her arms, and legs, looking like an anteater that had taken it into his head that they were born to be an exotic dancer.

But what made it all ok, what made it all alright and strangely entrancing and loveable, was her self-awareness. She wasn't awkward in the way that makes the viewer self-conscious--you know, when you're  pretty sure that that dweeb up there is trying to be cool, is miserably failing and you keep on having a strange urge to call the paramedics or their mother, trying to save them? No, that wasn't what was happening at all.

She was very aware that her style of performance was not polished into the absurd grandstanding that the audience has come to expect and require. She was aware, and she didn't care. She had the self-determination that everyone is given but so few exercise, and with that she made a performance about her own interpretation of life and what about it makes it fun. It was like watching a kid running like a maniac, all limbs akimbo, before they've watched too much TV or made too many friends that are far too ready to point out that they look ridiculous. It's magical every time I get to see that.


Ok, I'm talking in paragraphs still. Must de-structure even more. It's good for the soul. Decompile that twisted psyche. Cut it up into a pretty countdown chain, rip off a bit every once in a while for closer examination.

I've just spent the last fifteen minutes searching for a concluding image for this blog. I think I'm feeling a little stretched out right now, I'm craving clean lines and very little texture--just long horizons and wide expanses of filled-in space that I won't have to worry about.

I rediscovered the decible at which music is supposed to be played. I lost it for a while, mostly because I'm just the most thoughtful roommate ever (any roommate who wants to contest that, I welcome you to make your objections by destroying my stuff, just keep the comment off my blog). But I had some quiet alone time in an enclosed space--I'll let you draw your own conclusions on what I'm referencing--and I remembered that unless you can feel the music, you aren't hearing it. I'd rather have my teeth shaken out of my head prematurely if that means that me, Lou Reed, Joey Ramone and Jack White are all on closer terms. Besides, basically the only fond memories I have of my slightly evil great-aunt involve her whipping out her teeth and scaring small children. I could be that lady.

Someone should look into a more portable version of peanut butter, something that doesn't require utensils. I would avail myself of that product fairly frequently.