May 22, 2016 § Leave a comment
Angel Olsen is killing me. today all of a sudden not really i remembered music and how that is. we drove to the library today. the whole ipod on shuffle, liberal with the skip.
the other thing was that earlier i looked through every photo of me on facebook in hopes of finding a new profile picture. to re-enter the fray. but why look to the past to represent the present, if a profile picture represents anything, anyway? no answer yet. i saw a picture i drew on mspaint of a moment i had with julian casablancas during a strokes show. we all agreed it was very much a moment, that his dead eyes and stylish husk stopped longer than normal in front of me, and the bouncer was very kind to let me touch his hair.
so today somewhere towards the library the strokes came on. that combined with the mspaint scene. i remembered who i was when i was 19. i am not that person anymore so here is an elegy to that scattered mess of a proto-woman who loved with her whole body but directed said love like an orange rolling blindly down a curb gutter. that person who schemed in her pea coat and new balances and crafted aim away messages for the boy in irish literature who never seemed to do any work but tucked his shirt in.
a person liberal with the eyebrow tweezer. dedicated to and untalented with her nikon camera, steadfast to film, not that digital crap. who tried on a cancer wig and saw the rough arc of the human experience in 7 months and rode the bus to the hospital. who illustrated vulvas on t-shirts for the upcoming performance of the vagina monologues.
that girl drank a lot of dasani, drank whatever else was available, wore a black tanga, made forts, slept on uncapped pens. feng shui-ed the dorm. schemed and schemed. signed an ex-nothing up for scat porn emails. lived in a thick layer of self-hatred, charmed her way around, begged for suggestions as to what to do with her appearance. saw silence of the lambs and secretary. none of her various idolized tools deserved her but she persisted anyway thinking perhaps the right man had taken the form of a pretentious gaslighting asshat.
she was an underbaked shiksa blogger (called livejournaler?) with doughy promise and such squeezing, pressing unmet needs. a sloppy wobbling superstitious ingénue. such an unrolled, obvious, glowing idiot. you were quite a sight.