insanity

I love smoking.
Watching other people smoke, the act of smoking, the smell of smoke on a cool morning.
I have not smoked for five years and still it is only recently that it has begun to look foreign to me. That I cannot imagine how to maneuver the cigarette to my mouth without burning myself. Only the last few days, weeks, months, that it looks strange … but still … it smells like some strange elixir floating on the air.

Is it immoral to be glad
To be happy that there are still people drinking
Smoking
The wild, crazy, drunken ones
Straring into one another’s eyes professing love eternal

Is it immoral to be happy that kind of largess still exists?

I love smoking
The kind of crazy welcome insanity
I no longer take part in

fractured

i like things that are broken. sounds. emotions. glass shattering, lines that delineate a parking lot, the even numerical spacing of bottles as they roll across an aisle in a grocery store. Sometimes in the middle of the day I wander out of the corporate enclave and sit in the middle of a parking lot, staring out at a pond. If it's summer you can watch the glaze of light reflecting back, in wintertime the icy refraction of sun on snow.

My life is like that. broken into segments like parts of a movie. In this Act she will be a teenage tyrant, strung out on disbelief and lost innocence. In this Act she will attempt suicide - one of those half hearted emo attempts you mock later in nihilistic disbelief over good wine and white table cloths. In this Act she will do it again because she has forgotten to locate the off switch and the wine has turned to something different, the vodka has become a drug, and the drug never fills the void. And in this Act she is sitting around a table chain smoking marlboros and wondering how she ever ended up in a room with 12 Steps.

but the plot thickens
it always does

she drinks again, there is a girl, there is a guy. there is chaos and night madness, and after a period of time she is married (again) and sober (again) for only a little while

trying to make sense of myself
I like lines.
the deviation of the world into quadrants and sectors that make it easier to understand. I use Excel a lot, PowerPoint - tools that break thoughts up and create from them a grid. Anything at all to simplify and coalesce. To see the big picture and make it all a little simpler. Because from where I stand, it's all just a little this side of fractured.

The first angry generation

It seems that everyone who grew up near me, at the same time I did, in the same sort of pseudo pretentious, almost deprived, Saved by the Bell kind of world, has had the same sort of fucked up things in their life. They feel too much. Drink too much. Take a few too many of this or of that. Or the knife on their vein feels a little too good, cuts a little too deep. I know a couple too many people who've died this way, heard of another the other (was it Saturday, Friday? I lose track) day.

A beautiful, mad, crazy girl on a heroin binge. Just another one of the lost brilliant ones. Just another of our brothers and sisters, lovely in her ballet flats, feet torn apart on the cement pavement of the steel jungle where she lived ... last seen riding around in her touring seden, four nameless and blameless crack addicts meandering with her, heads hanging out of the back seat.

It's a wonder she woke from the coma.

I went to get my hair done yesterday and found myself paying $145 for a cut and dye job so beautiful it made my eyes water - but when I was done I still borrowed money for the rent. Just until Tuesday.

Is it me?
Is it our generation?

My hair dresser is a beautiful boy sabatoging his relationship with a gorgeous man because he cannot allow himself to be happy. And even if we have all known for years he is gay - he still won't live with the man after 7 (seven!) years. What if his parents found out? What if he lost his freedom?

Meanwhile, we dance in circles and play pretend at jobs that praise us and over pay us. It's like school but with drinks after work ...

Peace