"i saw yer!" - pete townshend to keith moon @ the end of happy jack
09.07.03 @ 4:52 p.m.
I suppose there's much-ish to talk about after my long, slightly horrifying and tremendously boring weekend.
First things first, though. Today marks the 25th anniversary of the death of a supreme rock legend: Keith Moon. I highly recommend that everyone go and listen to the NPR's "Remembering The Who's Keith Moon". And I'm quite sure that the book listed is the Moon biography that Prof. Saunders recommended to me, so I'm strongly tempted to buy it from the NPR shop since I can't find it 'round these parts.
The weekend started off badly on Wednesday night. I tore the fucking house apart looking for either of my checkbooks and found neither. Everything still has a freshly tossed and dug through look to it. (I'm so damn tired, it's almost hard to write this.) So I had to borrow my half of this month's rent from my mother. And fucking hell, I never gave it to E*. I just realized it's still in my wallet, even though I showed it to her and told her about it, she told me to hang on to it for now and I never ended up giving it to her. Fuck. Fuckity fuck. That kind of sums up how I feel right now. Probably I'm just easily put out because I'm tired.
And why am I so very sleepy? My bed in Eugene, the matress my mother was so relieved E* got because it meant we didn't have to go find one, is a goddamn rock. I cannot sleep on it. I've barely slept at all the last three nights as a result and my shoulder hurts like the devil. Hmm. I think I might take a nap. It sounds mighty good about now. Eugene was just a den of frustration. I have lost any slight faith I had in E*'s housekeeping ability, or, come to think of it, her common sense. She just doesn't have any, and it makes me want to scream. My dad thinks she's maybe a bit spoiled and therefore extremely innocent of how things just... work. But let's face it: I just cannot fathom how that girl's mind works.
So the house and our landlord and a lot of the living situation frustrates me because it's not as good as it could be. Add to this the constant itch to write something, anything. I blame Stephen King's The Dark Half, which I just finished and goes on a bit about the beauty of fiction writing. And of course, I couldn't think to bring a goddamn notebook or anything at all to write in. Stupid, stupid. I've also been feeling like I need to play guitar more. And draw, but I have no inspiration whatsoever. I just feel like there's this roiling mass of creative energy building tension constantly within me and I just can't find any way to let it out, and so I just end up unhappy and depressed and tormented and all those good things that the artists we worship are. And wouldn't it be nice if I could build something out of the torment, but I feel like I'm blocked on all sides. Not music nor writing nor more visual arts (which I must say have not always been my strong suit, since my opinion tends to be that I'm just a talented mimic with no ideas of my own) have been satisfying, though I wonder if I just start forcing myself with the writing, the flow that came with Riverwood Park will come back. It took some time before that flow kicked in anyway. And then there was the time that all my characters "went on strike" until I gave the male lead his own sort of soliloquy. And actually, writing here is nonfiction but it feels like a bit of a release for me. And writing is I think my strongest area, though I look back sometimes on things I've written and there are big glaring errors or mispelled words (or just wrong words spelled correctly) because, like Charles Bingley of Pride and Prejudice, sometimes my thoughts are moving faster than the hands pouring them out and things just get... lost. Oh well, too bad. Sometimes I feel like I can sit down and rewrite Riverwood, usually after I've polished off a pulp Regency Romance. And I'm finding myself adhearing to the rules I'm finding there. And, well, Emma Rowland was just too damn perfect. I have to break myself of the nasty habit of just spilling out my own stupid fantasies as enacted by prettier, more poised and more charming versions of myself, who later start exhibiting my own quirks and shyness and insecurities even though I started out with vivacious, charming people. But angst is just too much fun sometimes. Especially when you're alone and lonely, that's when the creativitiy seems at it's best.
Well. Breaking away from that for now. A girl working at an electronics store we stopped at told me my hair was really cute the way it is, with the red all along the bottom. It's kind of a maroony red right now and I hope to get some of the digital photos E* took of me yesterday to post. She went with us to the dog show one day and unlike a lot of other people or what I would expect, she was interested in the actual mechanics of how a show works, why some dogs win, how they're judged and what the classes are. I was rather impressed. And today I watched handlers stumble and fumble and I realized that I could do just as well as a lot of the handlers my age and even older do. I watched the sister of my dad's star handler, who will handle our dog, Billy, at the national futurity in Daytona Beach, panic and overstretch and just generally fail to control our dog Telly in the ring. Jesus. I could have done that.
What else, what else? Moni came over to the Eugene house for a bit last night and we chatted. I bought five postcards to send to Slavik over time. (Not all at once, of course, of course.) (And actually, one of the five is a keeper--I don't think Slavik wants a postcard of Johnny Depp.) (But I do.) And I was going to make a tape on my parents' VCR just now, but Dad is going to run and the tredmill will fuck with the VCR, I just know it. Hrm. Maybe that nap is called for right now.
So go out and celebrate the extraordinary Keith Moon by listening to some Who->! I myself listened to most of Ultimate Collection in the car with Dad today and we concentrated on listening to the drumming. Go listen to the NPR story, go listen to "I Can't Explain" and "I Can See For Miles" and "Happy Jack."
Previously
fuck it @ 08.01.05
fanciful imaginary sea voyages to come @ 07.20.05
*dies* @ 07.19.05
more ootp @ 07.17.05
harry potter: driving our children into devil worship @ 07.17.05
