Friday, February 25, 2011

The world closed its arms on us now

If you’re wondering where I’ve disappeared to – and I know I have disappeared, I’m never online and I’m really sorry about that, I love you, you must know that – I’m actually spending all my free time reading. Work is sapping all my energy so when I come home, I have barely enough will power to have dinner, before tumbling onto the nearest soft surface with the nearest book. Falling into other worlds is much nicer than having to exist in a present reality.

Well, this is when I’m not out, which I am a fair bit too really. This weekend is going to be pretty crazy, long day tomorrow, long day Sunday. Cloudy, not too hot but humid, might survive to tell the tale. I’m just excited for TGA. If you’re going to Soundwave, say hi. I’ll be the one in the brown cowboy boots, and with the purpley tinted hair.

In other news, it never ceases to amaze me how much better I get along with older people than my own generation. I think it’s the lack of pretention, the sense that people know themselves and their lives, and aren’t messing about, pretending to be anything they’re not. And I know that’s not true of all older people, but it certainly applies to the ones I happen to spend time with. They don’t annoy me nearly as much my so-called peers.

I don't know. Sometimes I think few people my age don't have the ability to actually be honest (with themselves and acknowledge that freely) enough to have any real sort of exchange. Too wrapped up in our own insecurities, our own importance, it always ends in saying things we think people want to hear, or claiming things in the bid to be part of something, to just be noticed. Creative types are the worst. Just deciding to label yourself as something, doesn’t make it so. Oh, I’m an artist. Uh, no, you’re not. You took a photo of something, photoshopped the colours, and then smacked a phrase on it and posted it on Tumblr. You’ve got to earn these things people, your blood, sweat and tears have to go into it. None of this sitting around, chatting with grandiose aims about the nature of art, and then feeling very pleased about how creative you are. That’s not being creative, that’s just talking about it. Fuck off. It’s the same superiority complex, shared by the high school jocks who made your life a living hell, and makes you a slave to the competitive capitalist dogma you spend every moment of your waking life bitching about.

You’d think I’d grow out of my Holden Caulfield attitude to everyone, but it doesn’t seem to be happening.

Sticking to the Salinger references, after spending most of the last two weeks feeling suspiciously fragile in that Franny Glass sort of way and skirting the verge of tears, I felt such a surge of empowerment yesterday, I could hardly believe it. Nothing’s changed in my life (I still wish I could run away) but something inside me just clicked into place and it was, different. I felt different. I can’t properly explain it and I probably just sound deranged (hai, teen melodrama!) Maybe it was an epiphany of sorts. Here’s hoping I can hold on to it. That’s always the hard part.

Anyway, better get back to work. It’s been a major test of will for me, I must admit, I’ve just come to despise it so much. I find it hard to do anything. I always said I was constitutionally incompatible with this sort of thing, and I think I may have been right. I doubt I’m ever going to be able to hold an office job for long, not a full time one. But for the moment, even though the abject misery of it threatens to crush me, I’ll deal with it - only as a means to an end. I’m sure there’s something here to be said about building character…

Music: Even cowgirls get the blues - The Gaslight Anthem

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