not really feeling connecting to other people this year. brought Notes from the Underground to a pep rally yesterday, which was pretty dumb of me. i have the right to push people away, i suppose. sometimes i feel guilty re: not reaching out enough in order to enrich whatever experience I have in this in-between time of utter disassociation, but also what’s good in using other people for boosting my own sense of self-importance and validity? would drink alone more if i was better at it/it wasn’t so utterly boring/allowed me to read more without just being sleepy. got weirdly into the idea of stealing alcohol from skeevy m4m craigslist hookups recently. feels like an output from a creative force, creating fucked-up things for my life to interpret, to work through being a bad person. very Dostoyevsky. i think writing would probably be a better way to flex possibilities, but the allure is still there. maybe it’s an urge to find more queerness in my life. i’ve been unsatisfied with that aspect of myself for far too long now. wanting to hear more queer voices on here, wanting to be a queer voice myself. not sure how.
decided today that I’m going to decide what college I’ll attend based on the following questionnaire, distributed to the entire student body/faculty of each institution:
how ok are you with your impending mortality?
most chill gets my enrollment.
John Stanmeyer, African immigrants on a Djibouti beach holding up their phones to the night sky, searching for a signal to reach their families before shipping off towards Europe and beyond, for National Geographic, 2013
— "Thanatos," WW, August 2014.
We blame all human happiness or grief
Upon a place, make figures of our feeling
And move them, as a story-teller might
Move modern heroes into ancient legends.
Into the solid and acceptable land.
For who can keep a grief as pure grief
Or hold a happiness against the heart?
Noble indeed to impute our worthiest thoughts
To a serene and splendid countryside
And therefore logical to let our loathing
See a storm looming in the summer light.
The hills about to learn of landslides and
The entire landscape be quite swallowed up
In a surrender—a type of our death.
— Marcel Proust, Regrets, Reveries the Color of Time (via frauleinzooey)
Hear John Ashbery read more from The New Spirit & other of his poems here.
Is it time for me to be alone?