02.Apr.2003
we are accidents waiting to happen
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there, there
Dustin has invited me out to a club on Thursday night, in which I will be subjected to his singing; I have not quite been privy to his singing before, but some of the genres of music in which he delights rub my aural wires to the point of subtle irritation.
I am a lyrical and musical person, and both of them fail when it comes to some of his tastes. That is to say, we share a common interest with others.
One early, Sunday afternoon, I unfurled from his blankets and blinked supinely at his spine; he turned his head and mentioned something about Skinny Puppy. I lethargically mentioned my affinity for The Legendary Pink Dots, at which point he rummaged through his dilapidated CD holder and handed me Faces in the Fire.
In Oklahoma, this is a rarity. Dustin is not from Oklahoma, however.
He was listening to Tool's live rendition of "Push It"; when he left the bedroom, I, with my infinite obsessive-compulsive disorder with all things musical, repeated it until I knew innately my memory would not fail me on the car-ride home. In the comfort of the living room, I constructed an acoustic piano version I have yet to give him.
His mother and I share the same birthday, and I have plans to purchase something for her. She is wont to be a rather demulcent, understanding sort, and at one evening when I was more than famished, she cooked me dinner. I have every means with which to return the favor.
I love his mother. She divulged that she considers me to be one of her own. She is the type of person around which I can extinguish any luminescent neurosis I'm currently harboring sans initial, mental grappling. This is refreshing, to say the least.
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I'm never aware of what will make me nervous. As the mood fluctuates, what would normally slam anxiety into my tiny head shifts, and I'm confident. Being bi-polar is being on both sides of the spectrum nearly synchronously.
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I never say "spectrum" when I'm describing music; I always say "spectra".
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The Canvas turns 23 today. To celebrate through the wires, I delivered to him a manga-infused birthday card.
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I dreamed about my son; I don't have a son.
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It seems an astounding shame to still be inside when the weather is this fuck-worthy.
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I over-heard my father once say this about me:
"She's not an idiot; she's just one of those scary, art types."
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I am cycling my arms toward the proximate sunrise and goading it with inextricable aplomb, while my ears throb against all things lit and pop-touched.
Bring me the motherfucking sun, little darling.
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time & machine