stonedsour's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- closet (under construction) "Closet" The clock has swung past seven, not that it feels later, it's rather like a hood being drawn over your face, first the shadow creeps over the dip where your forehead starts and then from there it get's darker and darker....if your claustrophobic then now's the time to panic. Reminds me of the experiments they've done on animals for decades, ukno, the ones to measure the importance of enviromental stimulants for an animal... a humans social development. Primates locked up in a sarcophagus where black would be their everyrthing until the curious human decided he was mentally crippled enough to release. Couch potatoes and shut in's are what I think of next, slotted into haggard council estates on the fringes of every city....like bodies lined up in a morgue, they creep out under the cover of anononimity to scavenge for a midnight flick or some processed tunafish and then scuttle back to become strangers to the sun once more. This sort of micro-world behaviour isn't confined to those in the muddy drip tray of society, the wealthy and succesful are also prone to this behaviour, like God they work hard to do miracles with their money and then become reclusive for years at a time, Don Delilo is a good example of this. The capitalist fad, that is to have the freedom to trot the globe but to strive toward cramming your existence and needs into a few hundred square feet. You don't have to leave for anyone or anything anymore, shop online, read online, have your vacations online, have sex online, sleep online....die alone. I sit in a plush though vacant library typing this, with all the know how there is stuffed into the gelatinous mass in my head....it's all so convincing after all. I wish a fire would break out and the sprinklers turn on....the old expression dancing in the rain, well now you can do it indoors. I've started reading Chuck Palahniuk's anti-post modernist novel Fight Club and cried a bit at the end of the french cinematic Triumphe "Trois Coeluers Bleu" (Three Colours Blue) as the clock ticked lazily into 5am....intense and moving motion pictures are one thing I'll still be living for long after I've given up hope with my self...... "People are like pent up, tightly sealed Carbonated Soda bottles, they harm themselves trying to get them to open, and then seek help from those who are stronger....the point is, regardless of whether the seal breaks and the black-fizzing-river flows unimpeded or not, we never truely give up hope, of a solution...acceptance is harsh" I've began to draft an idea for a short story, i'd rather film the bowels of the sadness and secrets I'll put into it, but I don't have the knack...it's so much easier to type than to say, to brood over than to film. I'm imagining the giant paragraph that sits at the roof of this journal to be the self same roof for the story....the first contact for the melancholic shower that will trickle through the slates and be absorbed by the tear hungry eyes of the characters that need to take in water in order to keep crying....yes I've a twinge of agony in my gut...I think it's called hope. Ukno what's wierd, but strangely liberating...In the last 3 days, If I tottaled up the minutes I have used my "Gift of speech" the tally will not rise above an hour and a half at the most, and that's pushing it....yet I've hardly felt so comfortable and self justified in my "lonliness" not that I'd call it that, "I'm not lonely, I just want to be alone" as it is said....most who say it are indeed lonely though. For me, It's been peaceful, walking, waking, wondering, waiting for no-one or nothing...I'll make myself busy, and behind that sunken shrivelled gormless mask of mine, I'll be smiling. "What is self evident, is not, in itself, evident.... the warmth of that sweet sugary feeling that only charity can give you, will fall away like pieces of a wet cake to the warmer senility of familiarity and above all else, routine" ............................................... The clock chimes 8pm now, the headlights of my ride burn out the back of my retinas, like the first stages of an interrogation, the bus engine roars like wind turbines in my ears, and the bus driver gives you the shifty look that signals you know something. The wind teased my ankles for the last time, darting like a whippet under the metal frame of the raggety old shelter.... "Witta Street please......." "two fifty" "........don't you have anything smaller than a twenty?" jesus, when are they going to allow us to get five pound notes out of ATM's......why should they, if you get a ten out, you'll spend more. END (* to be added to soon *) 2:45 p.m. - 2004-03-28 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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