My friends are becoming avatars—smiling faces with one-liner quips next to their names, short expressions of happiness or sadness or love or hate. Or, oh my god, self-promotion. Propaganda. Marketing. We’ve become our own advertisements for…ourselves. Publicity agents for our own lives. Whoring ourselves to our friends. And I’m sure it’s all genuinely felt. Oh, I’m sure it comes from deep within. But I know I start to get numb to it. And I just skim now and I don’t really read. And I’ve “hidden” more than I show. And I think probably my friends deserve more than that. More, even, than my “Like” or “Become a Fan.” An email, maybe. Or a phone call. Or simply our memory. Some of our friends just deserve our memory of them. That’s it. We should all kill our Facebook. And I have a date to do just that. With a friend who isn’t even in my Facebook. We’ll do it over shots of whiskey. And we’ll curse while we do it. And bang our fists on the bar. And celebrate our freedom.
When I’m feeling like crap about my writing, like I am now, this song helps me put shit in perspective. Helps me to remember that taking chances creatively is good. And that taking yourself too seriously is a sure-fire way to go crazy.
i had to leave the house of conformity in order to make art i had to be more or less true
to learn to tell the two apart
….. i had to leave the house of self-importance to doodle my first tattoo realize a tattoo is no more permanent than i am, and who ever said that life is suffering i think they had their finger on the pulse of joy ain’t the power of transcendence the greatest one we can employ Shroud, Ani DiFranco from Reprieve (as with any music/art I post, I’m happy to remove if putting it here offends anybody)
The truth is that guy has retired and is now living someplace in the Great White North, drinking beers and eating back bacon and fishing through holes in the ice. And he just sits there not worrying and writing it all down in a leather-bound journal that smells like farts and cigarettes. And he’s waiting to die.
Strangely, the biggest problem for me with blurring the line between fiction and reality on this blog hasn’t been a fear that people will confuse the fictional elements for reality. It’s been the other way around: that people will confuse the real things that happen for fiction. Because I want people to know when something is real. And so it’s left me with this recurring problem: How do I take posts out of the narrative landscape of the story? How do I call a “time out” and say, “Okay, listen, this really happened!”
In the other room, Monica is naked on the bed. When I lean close to the mirror, I can see her in it. She is lying on her back and Honey is beside her in a curl. She pets her with one hand. Her other hand is folded over her stomach. She says: “I don’t think you enjoy fucking me.”