In San Francisco Ginsberg saw a $1 an hour psychiatrist, Philip Hicks, who asked him what he would like to do. "Doctor," as Ginsberg recalls his answer...
"I don't think you're going to find this very healthy and clear, but I really would like to stop working forever. Never work again, never do anything like the kind of work I'm doing now, and do nothing but write poetry and have leisure to spend the day outdoors and go to museums and see friends. And I'd like to keep living with someone - maybe even a man - and explore relationships that way. And cultivate my perceptions, cultivate the visionary thing in me. Just a literary and quiet city-hermit existence. Then he said "Well, why don't you?" I asked him what the American Psychoanalytic Association would say about that, and he said . . . if that is what you really feel would please you, what in the world is stopping you from doing it?
A brief excerpt from David Burner's Making Peace with the Sixties (Princeton University Press, 1996)
Oh god. My thoughts exactly.
Showing posts with label confessions of a politically incorrect moron. Show all posts
Showing posts with label confessions of a politically incorrect moron. Show all posts
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Monday, November 30, 2009
Dear Yoko Ono
Dear Yoko Ono,
I like you.
You're strong.
And I think I understand you. Mostly.
Some afternoons I sit here in this very spot that I’m sitting in now and I watch you on my computer screen: burning it with all your clipped words of white-hot love. It helps me sometimes…I think.
It helps me think.
Either/Or.
And there you sit across from me in the screen, sitting the same way every time: being positive, elegant, generous and loving and all of the things that we all should be. We all should be…and yet none of us are. No one I know is. I try to be. I know I’m not.
But you! You are.
Even after the merciless and horrible things the universe has brought upon your tiny little head, still full of your shiny short hair at 73 years old, you are.
See, if I were you, Yoko, I don't think I'd ever be able to say I love you again.
And you! You do. You say it every day, to everyone and no one at all.
God, you’re so fucking strong, Yoko.
You make me entertain the thought that I, too, could maybe be as amazing as you are one day even though I’m admittedly selfish (and, quite simply, not as amazing; simply in that I never want to have to be). But I still entertain it. I let it loose up in my head, like hair that’s been confined from tight braids it’s been in for weeks, like a child who’s eaten nothing but Pixie Stix for days on end and runs up and down the block to burn it all off.
This kind of simplicity? It’s so nice to have sometimes.
I wonder, Yoko, if you too sometimes get sad or bored with yourself, and the feeling that you’re not actually very good at anything at all?
I try to be creative most days.
Most days I can't even tell if it's working or not.
Most days I think I could do anything at all and none of it would matter to anyone but me.
Or it could matter to everyone, but I think it would mean nothing to me either way.
What is being creative anyways? Just…creating? Well, I could create anything then. I could write you a letter, I could draw pictures of paper coffee cups piled up on desks with words like I’m so fucking sick of this scrawled over them, I could draw them over top of worse renderings of with tiny waists and long legs of extra-terrestrials spreading their fingers atop the open palms that face their audience in surrender, saying come in, I’m letting you in, have a fucking look and don’t fucking look at me and I could make a million dollars.
People make a million dollars making much stupider, much dirtier, much more inane things than these.
I wish my mind was clean.
I wish I could make a million dollars.
I wish I didn't wish to know everything all the time.
So I guess what I’m trying to say is…I feel like you must sometimes feel like I do, Yoko.
Do you?
You certainly never show it. I'm working on that, too, the not showing of it. Not letting it get in me in the first place is hard enough, but at least not letting it out...it's kind of like those affirmation things that you’re supposed to do when you’re depressed. Someone told me to do them when I thought I was depressed, but I don't think I really was. Just sad. I did them anyways.
So tell me Yoko, please, because I actually need to know whether or not it’s true.
Do you ever get sad? Do you ever go on your early evening walks and feel nothing but loose street gravel below the soles of your little feet, do you alternate between conversations and shapes and numbers in your head, do you find yourself unable to speak of it, not because you don’t want to but because you don’t know what your insides are made of, let alone what words to use?
I hope you do, Yoko. I hope you are sad sometimes. I hope you hate sometimes. I hope you’re just as confused and fucked and afraid as the rest of us.
But as much as I need to know that you’ve got bad on your insides too, Yoko, don’t worry. I know you don’t. It’s why I like you.
I like you.
You're strong.
And I think I understand you. Mostly.
Some afternoons I sit here in this very spot that I’m sitting in now and I watch you on my computer screen: burning it with all your clipped words of white-hot love. It helps me sometimes…I think.
It helps me think.
Either/Or.
And there you sit across from me in the screen, sitting the same way every time: being positive, elegant, generous and loving and all of the things that we all should be. We all should be…and yet none of us are. No one I know is. I try to be. I know I’m not.
But you! You are.
Even after the merciless and horrible things the universe has brought upon your tiny little head, still full of your shiny short hair at 73 years old, you are.
See, if I were you, Yoko, I don't think I'd ever be able to say I love you again.
And you! You do. You say it every day, to everyone and no one at all.
God, you’re so fucking strong, Yoko.
You make me entertain the thought that I, too, could maybe be as amazing as you are one day even though I’m admittedly selfish (and, quite simply, not as amazing; simply in that I never want to have to be). But I still entertain it. I let it loose up in my head, like hair that’s been confined from tight braids it’s been in for weeks, like a child who’s eaten nothing but Pixie Stix for days on end and runs up and down the block to burn it all off.
This kind of simplicity? It’s so nice to have sometimes.
I wonder, Yoko, if you too sometimes get sad or bored with yourself, and the feeling that you’re not actually very good at anything at all?
I try to be creative most days.
Most days I can't even tell if it's working or not.
Most days I think I could do anything at all and none of it would matter to anyone but me.
Or it could matter to everyone, but I think it would mean nothing to me either way.
What is being creative anyways? Just…creating? Well, I could create anything then. I could write you a letter, I could draw pictures of paper coffee cups piled up on desks with words like I’m so fucking sick of this scrawled over them, I could draw them over top of worse renderings of with tiny waists and long legs of extra-terrestrials spreading their fingers atop the open palms that face their audience in surrender, saying come in, I’m letting you in, have a fucking look and don’t fucking look at me and I could make a million dollars.
People make a million dollars making much stupider, much dirtier, much more inane things than these.
I wish my mind was clean.
I wish I could make a million dollars.
I wish I didn't wish to know everything all the time.
So I guess what I’m trying to say is…I feel like you must sometimes feel like I do, Yoko.
Do you?
You certainly never show it. I'm working on that, too, the not showing of it. Not letting it get in me in the first place is hard enough, but at least not letting it out...it's kind of like those affirmation things that you’re supposed to do when you’re depressed. Someone told me to do them when I thought I was depressed, but I don't think I really was. Just sad. I did them anyways.
So tell me Yoko, please, because I actually need to know whether or not it’s true.
Do you ever get sad? Do you ever go on your early evening walks and feel nothing but loose street gravel below the soles of your little feet, do you alternate between conversations and shapes and numbers in your head, do you find yourself unable to speak of it, not because you don’t want to but because you don’t know what your insides are made of, let alone what words to use?
I hope you do, Yoko. I hope you are sad sometimes. I hope you hate sometimes. I hope you’re just as confused and fucked and afraid as the rest of us.
But as much as I need to know that you’ve got bad on your insides too, Yoko, don’t worry. I know you don’t. It’s why I like you.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Wednesday mid-morning coffee break.
Sometimes I just don't feel like using my words or my brain because sometimes it all just comes out the same way as it did yesterday and sometimes I feel like I'm the only one who knows what I mean.
Do you know what I mean?
Sometimes I don't want to write I just want to look at pictures of Anita Pallenberg in 1968 and study the angular sharpness of her face and wear more fur smoke more cigarettes draw my eyes black and heavy and wake up at whatever hours I want.
Sometimes I just want to be horrible and not care and not bite my hands, not hate my arms every time I pass by a mirror.
Sometimes I don't want to read about hope or love or see any more long-legged girls in beautiful outfits that I could never fit into or afford.
Sometimes I want no one inside my head but him and I take back everything I've done and...just, sometimes, oh.
Oh. Suck it back, stamp it out, oh.
Do you know what I mean?
Sometimes I don't want to write I just want to look at pictures of Anita Pallenberg in 1968 and study the angular sharpness of her face and wear more fur smoke more cigarettes draw my eyes black and heavy and wake up at whatever hours I want.
Sometimes I just want to be horrible and not care and not bite my hands, not hate my arms every time I pass by a mirror.
Sometimes I don't want to read about hope or love or see any more long-legged girls in beautiful outfits that I could never fit into or afford.
Sometimes I want no one inside my head but him and I take back everything I've done and...just, sometimes, oh.
Oh. Suck it back, stamp it out, oh.
Monday, August 31, 2009
Monday (Mondaze)
Currently laughing hysterically at my desk thanks to this.My nearby co-workers surely think I'm some type of mental retard, but whatever. Thanks, internet.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
A girl after my own heart.
I am by no means a thrower-around of the word soulmate, as it is one of the few words within the English language that I feel some sort of reverence towards.
That being said, I have most certainly found one such soulmate in the form of Miss Alexi Wasser of imboycrazy.com.
Although my lovably daft lesbian roommate continues to propose that I "just haven't met the right girl yet", I'm quite certain that I'm a certifiable, 100%, card-carrying H-E-T-E-R-O, and quite possibly the only one left in this city. Yes, that would be Toronto, the city in which seemingly everyone has pulled a Katy Perry (lame and over-used reference, but whatevs) and sucked face and/or other parts with a fellow female at some point or another. I'm a big fan of the 'to each their own' adage, but I simply like dudes way too much to ever even consider branching out.
If I were, however, to hypothetically switch teams, this chick would be my Numero Uno crush. She's hilarious and wise and basically me, albeit a little more confident, street smart and put together...alright, maybe a lot more of all of the aforementioned, but are you really keeping score?
I'm all too well aware that everyone and their dog's got a blog these days, but this one is actually unmissable if you're a chick who likes dudes, a dude who needs to learn how to be better at being a dude (read here, please and thank you), or just looking for a back-up plan.
What I've failed to mention is that she would likely hate me as I am a filthy smoker. But hey, you can't win 'em all.
Friday, June 26, 2009
Unhappy Birthday.
Due to the ABSOLUTE FUCKING NONSENSE that has transpired over the past 24 hours, tomorrow I will be spending my birthday NOT in the Mojave desert having a deeply enlightening spiritual experience with copious amounts of wine and peyote, NOT gleefully spraying overweight lesbians with water guns on a Toronto Gay Pride Parade float while dressed up like a unicorn Rainbow Brite hybrid of amazingness, and NOT out and about in a shiny little dress.
Instead I will be home, alcohol-less, fun-less, sex-less and hopped up on painkillers (meaning I also HAVE TO EAT (a.k.a. be fat) lest I want to suffer internal bleeding too) due to a cripplingly painful bacterial infection I incurred from shaving my goddamn leg the other day.
Unhappy birthday to me in-fucking-deed.
P.S. If I sound beyond angry at the world/myself/Bic razors/hospitals/drugs that you can't drink while taking right now it's because I AM.
Instead I will be home, alcohol-less, fun-less, sex-less and hopped up on painkillers (meaning I also HAVE TO EAT (a.k.a. be fat) lest I want to suffer internal bleeding too) due to a cripplingly painful bacterial infection I incurred from shaving my goddamn leg the other day.
Unhappy birthday to me in-fucking-deed.
P.S. If I sound beyond angry at the world/myself/Bic razors/hospitals/drugs that you can't drink while taking right now it's because I AM.
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
My city has been taken hostage.
by Tamil protesters. And I've had enough of it.
I didn't complain when my walk to and from work every day became comprised by having to weave through thousands of shouting Tamils on too-narrow sidewalks on a daily basis. Nor did I say anything when I was knocked on the head by one violently waving around a massive sign with President Obama's face on it...and, like, what the fuck, he's not even our President (?!).
Four weeks of this have worn my patience, sure, but I get that Sri Lanka is 'in need' of Canadian intervention or whatever and have kept my mouth shut about the whole debacle accordingly. Politics don't particularly interest me and I'm not very informed about whatever it is they're protesting. They're quite vehement in their persistence, so I imagine it must be bad...but really, I have enough on my plate as it is and the plight of the Tamil people isn't something I feel equipped to add to it at this point in time (yeah, so sue me, I never claimed to not be self-involved...)
The reason I am writing this, though, is that they've finally gone too far. According to various news sources around the city the Tamils are planning on taking the TTC hostage at some point today - and I don't care who you are or how desperate your cause is, you do NOT fuck with our transit system.
Truthfully this isn't a selfish stance to take - I'm fortunate enough to live, work and access everything I generally require by walking, and any TTC service disruptions make absolutely no difference to my quality of life. Instead I'm thinking of the millions upon millions of Torontonians who do rely on a functional TTC to get to work, pick up their kids from soccer practice, meet their friends for dinner, etc.
This is no longer peaceful demonstration, it's terrorism. Not only are they getting increasingly scary in their downtown core protests, they're now hindering people's mobility as well. So I'm going to come right out and say what I've been wanting to, politcal correctness be damned:
GO BACK TO YOUR OWN COUNTRY AND FIX YOUR OWN FUCKING PROBLEMS. There are obviously enough of you to form a not-so-small army, and you seem to have the rage bit covered, so GO.
As if Sunday wasn't enough (yeah, you saw that right, that's the Gardiner Expressway. If you know nothing of Toronto here's a little backstory: whatever retarded city planners made the city made this stupid highway basically the only way in and out of it...and they blocked it for hours).
(Photos property of Torontoist)
I didn't complain when my walk to and from work every day became comprised by having to weave through thousands of shouting Tamils on too-narrow sidewalks on a daily basis. Nor did I say anything when I was knocked on the head by one violently waving around a massive sign with President Obama's face on it...and, like, what the fuck, he's not even our President (?!).
Four weeks of this have worn my patience, sure, but I get that Sri Lanka is 'in need' of Canadian intervention or whatever and have kept my mouth shut about the whole debacle accordingly. Politics don't particularly interest me and I'm not very informed about whatever it is they're protesting. They're quite vehement in their persistence, so I imagine it must be bad...but really, I have enough on my plate as it is and the plight of the Tamil people isn't something I feel equipped to add to it at this point in time (yeah, so sue me, I never claimed to not be self-involved...)
The reason I am writing this, though, is that they've finally gone too far. According to various news sources around the city the Tamils are planning on taking the TTC hostage at some point today - and I don't care who you are or how desperate your cause is, you do NOT fuck with our transit system.
Truthfully this isn't a selfish stance to take - I'm fortunate enough to live, work and access everything I generally require by walking, and any TTC service disruptions make absolutely no difference to my quality of life. Instead I'm thinking of the millions upon millions of Torontonians who do rely on a functional TTC to get to work, pick up their kids from soccer practice, meet their friends for dinner, etc.
This is no longer peaceful demonstration, it's terrorism. Not only are they getting increasingly scary in their downtown core protests, they're now hindering people's mobility as well. So I'm going to come right out and say what I've been wanting to, politcal correctness be damned:
GO BACK TO YOUR OWN COUNTRY AND FIX YOUR OWN FUCKING PROBLEMS. There are obviously enough of you to form a not-so-small army, and you seem to have the rage bit covered, so GO.
As if Sunday wasn't enough (yeah, you saw that right, that's the Gardiner Expressway. If you know nothing of Toronto here's a little backstory: whatever retarded city planners made the city made this stupid highway basically the only way in and out of it...and they blocked it for hours).
(Photos property of Torontoist)
Friday, May 1, 2009
April Is Over.
It's all been a little serious and depressing around here lately, hasn't it? And I'm truthfully not as brooding or miserable as I might sometimes appear. So while April Oh Nine admittedly wasn't the best month ever, on the first sunny day of Marvellous May (n.b. thankfuckinggodAprilisover) I'm going to take a moment to wax poetic about what was nice about it.
Things I Liked In April
The small 'garden' (and I use that term loosely) of plants I made on my bedroom windowsill that I haven't had to water most days because it has rained all the fucking time. As such, the garden is flourishing in a manner that it most certainly would not if left under solely my care.
Chattering endlessly with friends about spring flings and summer loves and bikinis and beers and rooftops and all of the wonderful things that make our lives so fucking wonderful. It sounds and IS really lame, but they're gorgeous nights of being lame nonetheless.
Waking up to Snap Cup Love on the kitchen wipeboard! If you haven't seen the cinematic masterpiece that is 'Legally Blonde 2: Red, White & Blonde' then you won't really get this one. Meaning get thyself to a video store stat, rent it and come back to leave your jealous comments about how I really do have the best roommates in the world.
Chai tea with plain soy milk. I've determined that this concoction of deliciousness will never taste as good in any other month as it does in April. Why? Because it is comfort in an oddly reassuring Venti cup, that's why. And rarely have I required such comfort as much as I have in Awful April (it was initially called Awesome April, but that went out the window about four days into said month, so...)
Oh, and if you think my list is lame, please keep in mind the things that have made my life absolute shit this April, which include but are not limited to:
- finding out that my ex-boyfriend probably has cancer. Or is pretending to to get my sympathy vote. Either way.
- general impoverishment and being unable to afford the things I want
- feeling fat (those of you who know me in real life: SHUT UP. Yes, I know I'm objectively not fat. I just feel it sometimes, okay?)
- flaky hipster boys who only want what they can't have
...Yep, April. Is. Over.
Things I Liked In April
The small 'garden' (and I use that term loosely) of plants I made on my bedroom windowsill that I haven't had to water most days because it has rained all the fucking time. As such, the garden is flourishing in a manner that it most certainly would not if left under solely my care.
Chattering endlessly with friends about spring flings and summer loves and bikinis and beers and rooftops and all of the wonderful things that make our lives so fucking wonderful. It sounds and IS really lame, but they're gorgeous nights of being lame nonetheless.
Waking up to Snap Cup Love on the kitchen wipeboard! If you haven't seen the cinematic masterpiece that is 'Legally Blonde 2: Red, White & Blonde' then you won't really get this one. Meaning get thyself to a video store stat, rent it and come back to leave your jealous comments about how I really do have the best roommates in the world.
Chai tea with plain soy milk. I've determined that this concoction of deliciousness will never taste as good in any other month as it does in April. Why? Because it is comfort in an oddly reassuring Venti cup, that's why. And rarely have I required such comfort as much as I have in Awful April (it was initially called Awesome April, but that went out the window about four days into said month, so...)
Oh, and if you think my list is lame, please keep in mind the things that have made my life absolute shit this April, which include but are not limited to:
- finding out that my ex-boyfriend probably has cancer. Or is pretending to to get my sympathy vote. Either way.
- general impoverishment and being unable to afford the things I want
- feeling fat (those of you who know me in real life: SHUT UP. Yes, I know I'm objectively not fat. I just feel it sometimes, okay?)
- flaky hipster boys who only want what they can't have
...Yep, April. Is. Over.
Monday, March 16, 2009
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Breathe in, breathe out, oh no you're drowning.
Say hello to a revolutionary device called the SmokeStik.
I discovered it this morning while checking my horoscope (which, by the way, has been uncannily dead on the mark as of the late) via this article in the Toronto Star, and am somewhat conflicted where it's concerned.
I totally, totally get the appeal, and am in fact even considering purchasing one for my mums and step dad; it's quite safe to say that I love them and would rather not have to see them with a trachea tube or whatever that thing's called that I remember turned me off television in a massive way when I was nine after seeing it in those terrifying Health Canada commercials.
Conversely, must the 21st century take the fun out absolutely everything? According to SmokeStik's distributors "it's like smoking with a condom on." Sounds really fucking attractive, no? A dude with a SmokeStik in a bar is certainly no James Dean, and I still want to find my James Dean goddammit. My point against the robot cigarette is pretty convoluted and most likely really, truly, severely misguided, but since all of two people read this blog and I know that they'll at least partially understand where I'm coming from, it is as follows:
I don't know whether or not ya'll have given our inevitable mortality any thought recently, but if I may, let me jog your memory using the grade-school 'hamburger essay' scheme...
Then again, I'm probably going to die all wrinkled and trachea-tubed when I'm, like, 30, so it's likely best to not take my advice.
n.b. I just read this back and realized I make virtually no sense whatsoever. Yeah, I'm an asshole, and one that will probably jump on the stupid robot cigarette bandwagon along with everyone else once this country's government allows it. Not for the death thing so much as the wrinkles...I admit it, I live in constant fear of the day I wake up to my first wrinkle.
I discovered it this morning while checking my horoscope (which, by the way, has been uncannily dead on the mark as of the late) via this article in the Toronto Star, and am somewhat conflicted where it's concerned.
I totally, totally get the appeal, and am in fact even considering purchasing one for my mums and step dad; it's quite safe to say that I love them and would rather not have to see them with a trachea tube or whatever that thing's called that I remember turned me off television in a massive way when I was nine after seeing it in those terrifying Health Canada commercials.
Conversely, must the 21st century take the fun out absolutely everything? According to SmokeStik's distributors "it's like smoking with a condom on." Sounds really fucking attractive, no? A dude with a SmokeStik in a bar is certainly no James Dean, and I still want to find my James Dean goddammit. My point against the robot cigarette is pretty convoluted and most likely really, truly, severely misguided, but since all of two people read this blog and I know that they'll at least partially understand where I'm coming from, it is as follows:
I don't know whether or not ya'll have given our inevitable mortality any thought recently, but if I may, let me jog your memory using the grade-school 'hamburger essay' scheme...
1. Introduction: WE ARE ALL GOING TO DIE ONE DAY.
2. Narration: Lots and lots and lots of people are smokers.
3. Affirmation: I enjoy smoking. Really, I do.
4. Negation: Secondhand smoke may or may not be harmful. No one knows for sure, regardless of what the crazy anti-smoking fascists might tell you. They do not actually know. Also: it's like smoking with a condom on. Need I say more?
5. Conclusion: We are still all going to die one day. I'm all about give and take...I'll gladly go to two hours of yoga and have a salad full of all of that Omega-3 and Vitamins A-through-Z bullshit, only to proceed to drink a half bottle of wine and chain-smoke throughout the rest of the evening. I enjoy both activities, and don't necessarily think that one cancels out the other. I do, however, think that I was put on this planet for a number of reasons, one of which is to enjoy myself.
Then again, I'm probably going to die all wrinkled and trachea-tubed when I'm, like, 30, so it's likely best to not take my advice.
n.b. I just read this back and realized I make virtually no sense whatsoever. Yeah, I'm an asshole, and one that will probably jump on the stupid robot cigarette bandwagon along with everyone else once this country's government allows it. Not for the death thing so much as the wrinkles...I admit it, I live in constant fear of the day I wake up to my first wrinkle.
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