trav413
To harness a day... to grapple it, to take it by it's head and yank it towards you into a headlock, that's a goal of mine from here on out. I sincerely feel it catching up with me: wasting days doing what might seem fun, overall, but when dissected, is nothing more than perpetuating the lack of productivity by "staying busy" through constant lack of focus. I gotta get my shit together. Gotta make some changes. Gotta harness today.
Also, watched Dragon Tattoo last night and the harness Skarsguard (tell me i spelled that correctly off the top of my head...) put Daniel Craig in was one of the more legit harnesses I've seen in movies. Then he got got. . . of course.
The reporter stood over him, out of breath, while the rain smacked against the plastic hood of his parka. After two and a half years, she'd found him, huddled in the dark under the rain like a frightened cat. She held the microphone by the cord, letting it dangle and sway. It dropped and made a muffled thud against the wet, cracked black pavement of the alley as she put her hands on her knees, exhausted from running, exhausted from having been running after James Landry for what felt like her whole career.
I just read Oh The Places You'll Go. . . And I feel as if I've meditated. To see "disregard" come up is somewhat serendipitous, because I've done what I'd kinda swore off that I'd never do, which is have a New Year's Resolution. I know that to attribute changing your life because the dates change is kind of arbitrary, but the timing was right and my resolution was one that I think many people my age would love to follow: Give a shit about less.
I've slowly but surely been trying to shake the noise, the constant inundation of knowledge and information and experiences and noise, there's so much out in the world that it's overwhelming at times and I've spent more than a few mornings shackled by my blankets, scared of putting my feet on the floor. But to disregard that emotion, as well as others that have been weighing me down or turning me off course making me think twice. . . This week, I'll disregard them and be tactful in not giving a shit. To stomp my foot in such a way, on here, seems disingenuous and dramatic, but I gotta vocalize it somehow. And it'll be good to read this a few weeks from now and look back and remember that I did it, that I'm capable of doing it and having been in worse spots before, this one's just a moment from being the impetus for greatness.
Oh the places you'll go. . . as long as you go over the minute you're allotted to write.
I want to write a story here about how entrées come at a nice dinner and there's been a bit of a commotion and I can't believe I've stayed, or they've stayed, or I'm waiting to deliver news about leaving the country in a few weeks or that I've finally decided to start talking to my brother or something. . . It feels forced to do so, to conjure up something from nothing that isn't new or original.
Sometimes I really hate writing. Not the actual writing or the creation, but the whole idea of it. . . the concept behind having to originate something, when all that's left are reruns. It's tough, man.
He came back with a necklace made of what looked like organized but jagged quartz that'd scratch a woman's chest and throat, a slender sliver watch that took more than a few moments to unclasp, and a multitude of earrings, some of which matched and some that didn't. He'd grabbed a handful and kept moving, which is paramount. Besides, he thought, even if he didn't have a bunch of matching earrings, he still had what he'd wanted to steal from that house ever since the old couple moved across the street from him a year ago, leaning against his brick fireplace.
Not bad, right? Next time, if I remember, I'm gonna link the next word to this one.
Everytime I sit at my desk and hope to write something eloquent or profound or just something lucid with a quasi-legitimate storyline and a character that one can buy into, I end up sounding like a Don Draper wannabe.
Writing's tough.
Once bitten, twice shy. Never really got that saying.
I envision it meaning something like "fool me once, shame on you...fool me twice, shame on me" or whatever. Now THAT I can identify with, especially with women. I've gone back to ex's or had them come back to me more times than I'd like to share on a website such as this.
It's some shameful shit.
Wow...heartache. We're really pullin' for the "emo" crowd here on this one.
So let's dilute the overt amount of what's bound to be poured on and get to the crux of what we should be going for here: what it means to have heartache.
Heartache is something that some can claim to have, but that's almost like receiving a Purple Heart for accidentally stepping on a nail. To say you have it, whether true or not, is almost like saying you have wisdom: it yanks the thread of what you're trying to sew at the same time. You can say you have heartache, but that's more of a cry for help. . . and it's fine to cry for help. But with true heartache, you just cry.
And yeah, that's a cliché. But I'm not the one that put this word up so that people could drone on about people that fucked them over when they could be spending that time tirelessly battling to get "joy" back on their list. It sucks. . . to an incredible degree, and even more so when your life's suddenly been weakened, but the sooner that I realized I was 1)better off, or 2)strong enough to trudge through and eventually out of whatever happened, it took nothing more than dropping my feet off of my bed and tying my shoes to get going again, cuz after you've tied them . . . you might as well get to runnin'.
Flight attendants aren't what they used to be, and I'm sure everyone's going to talk about that on here, so in an effort to be novel, I'm gonna pour one out for the little guy...
The gas station attendant, without whom I'd be lost. With no access to 5-hour energy drinks, without whom I'd lose the ability to garner gas and lotto tickets. . . I wouldn't be able to test out a lil one-liner I'd just thought of on the ride to work if it weren't for them, standing steadfast behind their counter like the St. Peter of petrol. So here's to you, gas station attendant. . . You might smell like motor oil, but you sure get the world's motor going.
(Anheuser Busch - St. Louis, Missouri)
I just watched Martha Marcy May Marlene, and one of the scenes, near the end, where she's treading water behind her sister's house. . . the lake or river or whatever body of water she was in not only looked black, but looked like it had some sort of current, and I pictured her drifting away. . .
The movie ends under different circumstances. Go watch it.
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