life can only be understood backwards

”I had a dream that the world was ending a few days ago. What’s up with that?
Seems kind of out-of-place to me.

I feel like I need to be somewhere else and I’m not talking, like, metaphorically, I mean right this exact second in time. Don’t you fucking hate that? Especially when there’s nowhere else to physically be able to go? (Maybe that’s just my problem).

Talk about being between a rock and a hard place and with a different side to it, even.

Not being comfortable in the place you call a home can be a real huge shit on the brain. I don’t mean like, waaah-I-hate-my-life-here-and-want-to-move-out kind of uncomfortable. I mean the kind of uncomfortable where you’re almost literally itching to physically walk out the door and just start driving.

The right-this-second, spur-of-random-feeling, my-head-hurts-and-I-think-I-might-actually-puke-in-my–toilet uncomfortable. The almost-pissed-off-for-no-reason uncomfortable. The nearly total and irreversible bad, bipolar mood uncomfortable.

And that really blows because I’ve lived with other people and never felt this way. At least not anywhere near usually. I don’t even think there’s been a time to record this kind of brain splooge.

(Ding)
(Then it’s gone. As quick as it came. Like nothing ever felt a hair different than before.)”

 

some sketchbook; c.2008

younger, strung out me used to catalogue every thought and event from back then and i’m thankful for that now.  it’s actually reading these that makes me go back into trying to do that again.

reading a lot of things.  things like how my family and i never really did click.  things that sounded similar to things now.

ever look back into your old writing, your sketchbooks or whatever and it’s you who ends up explaining your current life mysteries to you the best?  albeit dramatically, but explanative nonetheless.  really raw reactions and every day normalities that weren’t normalities at all.

augh, gives me the weird shivers

v.

art can be easy

i am getting tired really early now and i’m not even thirty; so while i sit here struggling to stay awake before another day of warehouse working, i’m perusing this sketchbook i’ve been toting around since 2009 and awkwardly breaking the virgin wall of posting to this thing

this book’s was the only one i took out of the pile when i ditched everything and careened up route 95 back to my mountain home.  anyone else save every single sketchbook from here to timbuktu?  when you finally decide to let go of them?  apparently packing up necessities in 20 minutes and leaving prompted me to choose this one.

when i opened it, a few things greeted me and i shared the first one i saw on my facebook earlier but i want to copy it to here too

“Art can be easy.

It becomes hard when people ask of necessities–
when prices outweigh the paycheck of last week–
when teachers grade on beauty, not meaning–
when people decide what “good” art is —
when people believe that art can be hated —
when paper costs more than a water bottle —
when the world says you can’t do it–

and when you decide to give the bird to all of these instances and you do what you want anyway (even though it hurts)

you come to actually see how happy you’ve become because of that.”

 

thanks, younger me.  i’ll try to remember that.

this is mostly gonna be spew and a few personal stories, some memories.  there’s something endearing about sharing things with a mix of strangers and nosey people.  i just wanted to get things out, and sometimes i really do get artless.

 

v.