9:55- 10:21
I live surrounded by sleepy hearted people, in their little dream cottages with blinds closed and neighborly love forgotten with wine and headphones plugged into television sets as to not upset the others. It is neighborly fear for sensory complaint. Wake up like the weather: grey, silent, and foggy. Pressure behind the eyes for the success of every endeavor. To make love to the world ....
shut up dude. they might hear you and cast you out.
There are lime shots, eastern edges of housing developments, quiet, paralyzed communities of sound refuges, darkling and reminding us of our inadequacies. Used to have to wear ear plugs for the two stack noise we made in that mahogany jam room, or over ear studio headphones where everything is cut but the rumbling, grumbling bass. This is insulting to my personality to be told to turn down my music even further. There may as well be no more music for my hands. Also had a ridiculous smell complaint due to the falafel I was frying. "Please open a window." This is when the spiders must have crawled in to colonize my hanging asparagus fern. The one with spikes that prevent my hands from investigating if it is dry.
Last night was Friday night. I am a late sophomore. This might be one of five nights I remained entirely sober through the brunt of it. No whiskey smiles or beer battered tongues, nor THC infused loop pedal jams (they would have been too loud and I would have been too high to open the door) nor intoxications of overdosing on over the counter prescription drugs like the others do, or the drugs designed in basements of pastor uncles holy homes, the grandiose feelings of superiority to sober self when on some of those intoxicants is dangerous. If any commits suicide while on drugs it is either because they already wanted to die before ingesting the drug and the carelessness of feeling gave them courage to go leap off the bridge, otherwise it might be the dark self assessment and how the drug makes them feel how they can't in reality and the futility of a return overpowers all logic in action.
My life is worth living. I can convince myself of that sober. How nice. Strangely, however, although I had a sober night last night, where I painted frantically and never left the sad, huge apartment of mine, I feel almost hungover. This could be a metaphysical withdrawal symptom. My propensity to drink during my late teenage years lead me nicely to continue similar habits while more abundant in Portland, then Arizona. California even worse because I had nothing to study and would get piss drunk and try to play drums 3 or 4 times a week. It was the community. Now they are in London and I get sound complaints as I work on sounds that mysteriously drop in recorded volume over night and all my editing has been futile. They are exploring the world with tightly closed up minds and I'm exploring my world with a semblance of an open mind but I am blocked horribly by some evil imprint of me. Something ungodly. Otherworldly and terrible masquerading as myself but only in outward appearance, though the down turned lip and convulsively negative self talk is entirely a different beast. Could it all be tied to envy, jealousy? Withdrawal from the easy comfort of alcohol or the slovenly life I lived and how they get to perpetuate their filth overseas?
There is irony. I have to turn down even painting alone in my dark sober delirium where no substances can be held accountable for my thoughts. They can be drugged up in a huge tour bus, handed everything, accounting for nothing. Pained expression of my mind's eye and I suffer still.
