the new year makes me feel fresh all over. like summer's eve, only not.
i spent my new year's eve feeling unsociable and weird. if i'm not careful, i have a habit of stepping outside myself and watching myself act stranger and stranger without being able to do anything. well, it's like this. I'll be in a conversation with someone, and in my head I'll be thinking "say something! YOU GOT TO SAY SOMETHING!!!" and then i can't think of something to say because my mind is occupied and i just smile. and i would think of myself as quiet and weird, too, if I weren't myself. and then i want to cry and die.
But not around Fred Durst, because he can't be watchin' people die.
i think i am a candidate for Paxil.
at any rate, I've been taking this medicine which has not been letting me sleep. this has been for the past four nights. I lie in bed feeling all tired, with my eyes shut, but I just can't cross that bridge into REM. i get up in the morning feeling semi-refreshed somehow, but also crappy. i would call it a nightmare, but I'M NOT SLEEPING.
last weekend misha and i went to see the Henry Darger exhibit, which means we were actually out of the house by 6:00 PM. The museum was small, skinny, and expensive, and full of polite men in suits. I loved the exhibit, because i felt in touch with a legend, but in some ways i hate going to things that i am very interested in. because there is inevitably someone there who is not interested in it and who has to dampen the mood by announcing: "THIS IS DUMB/WEIRD/ETC". I didnt want to hear people complain about how sick or twisted henry darger was. or how "they don't get it". I will say that I enjoyed the exhibit in the context of folk art, because you're walking along, looking at needlecraft and big wooden horsies, and then all of the sudden is a small naked girl with a penis. Juxtaposition. it is the spice of life.
this weekend was also good because I found a song that I have been searching out for a while. It is called "Bonnie and Clyde" and it is by Luna and it is sung in French. I paid a bit too much money for it. That horrible/wonderful summer I spent in Iowa, we would serenade each other with that song often. That and "Wuthering Heights" by Kate Bush. "HEATHCLIFF, IT'S ME I'M CATHY I'VE COME HOME NOW". Padraig would be heartwarmed everytime he thought of Emily Bronte. Did I mention that he slept in the pantry of a house where a square-dance band lived? Well, he did. His housemate Alice kept her menstrual blood in a jar to paint with, and once I told her that the t-shirt I was wearing was made out of the Shroud of Turin. A young lad named Casey also lived there (not in the pantry), who was Padraig's arch-nemesis. When I lived in Chicago, I kept spotting Casey everywhere.
Casey had an earring, and I think filmed stuff for a living.
Also when I lived in Chicago: I slept in a murphy bed. It folded out of the wall. An old crazy lady with heavy mascara and brown lip-liner lived in the receptionist window on the first floor of the building. She started being nice to me when I scowled at Jackie "When I was in Paris.." So-And-So, who was being mean to her.
I enjoy reminscing occasionally.