Luna Perigee

btw, look up

the moon is gorgeous right now (that was, actually, the content of the very random text message I received the other night).

the moon is 356754 km away from the earth right now, so it looks huge - that, coupled with the fact that it's a full-moon makes it spectacular to see.

I sat outside watching it for a twenty minutes, sipping on cheap bourbon out of a styrofoam cup, hearing John Vanderslice wailing through the windows. It was a spectacular sight, absolutely gorgeous, seeing that celestial body floating through the sky, bracketed by a thin layer of clouds.

So, I repeat,

Look Up.

atrocity exhibition

I still exist.



I really want to see control, hence the title, and first line.

but that has nothing to do with anything.


A few things I've seen recently:

A car full of people all talking on their phones. I don't know what exactly it was about that that caught my very insubstantial attention, but that scene did. Maybe it was the isolation of those people in that very closed space - four people crammed into a mid-sized car, all in their own private conversations. Or maybe it was the fact that i imagined them perversely conversing with each other, each listening in on each others' private words, learning more about each other that way than through direct conversation. Or maybe it was the fact that they stopped a good twenty feet behind the car ahead of them, forcing me to glare at them (as they were blocking me from making my left-hand turn).

A spider. Not any spider, but a seven-legged spider. And not any seven-legged spider, but one with an incredible ability to survive. You see, I saw this seven-legged spider months ago, in my home. I was drawn to it even then - maybe it was a morbid curiosity, but I couldn't help but watch it make its way up the walls. I even took pictures of it - I would post them here, but I'm A) too lazy, and B) I have no idea where my camera is. Which brings us back to A, but I digress.
I saw this spider long ago, and saw it again less than a week ago. This isn't all that impressive in and of itself, but there's another little fact - my house was fumigated a few weeks ago. So, a couple of months after originally seeing the spider, my home was filled with poisonous gas. Then I see the very same seven-legged spider trudging through his day. I thought that was amazing, and found myself imagining his perilous journey, surviving the poisonous fumes that filled his home, with one leg missing, then seeing this bizarre giant who took pictures of him so long ago.
I now wish I had caught said spider, and given him/it a more comfortable home - a sort of retirement, where it/he didn't have to worry about survival. But I suppose that would be a sort of insult - this is, most likely, a proud, honorable creature that has survived far too much to be relegated to mere pet. After roaming freely through my entire house, a small glass cage would be dishonorable.


Stories. Especially the filmed variety. I've watched quite a few movies recently, ranging from the recent (the likes of Ocean's 13 and 28 Weeks Later) to the legendary (Rear Window and Cries and Whispers). I noticed something that, for me, set apart the stories I loved from the ones I could barely pay attention to. The best stories, for me, are the ones that focus on the individuals' stories, instead of some grand picture. Some stories try to be all encompassing, while others - the truly great ones - speak volumes about the human condition by focusing on the lives of individuals in minutiae. Those stories that focus on a few characters, and delve deeply into their lives' and experiences hold more weight, for me, than the ones that make sweeping generalizations about humanity as a whole (I'm speaking to you, Michael Moore).


Oh, and I've fallen even more in love with Joy Division.

Plus, I got a random text message from someone I haven't talked to in a long, long time. That was weird.

And I just rambled on for a good, long while about nothing in particular.



Now go listen to David Bowie and Joy Division, and Jenny Owen Youngs (one of these things is not like the other... but great anyway!!!!).


This is just a means to an end (yet another joy division reference, which is what reminded me of Jenny Owen Youngs, as I just refer to her as JOY anyway)

I think I saw you in an ice-cream parlour

I don't think there's any hope, either. I was just trying to make you feel better.

Why can't I sleep? No rest for the wicked, and all that, I suppose. But really, how wicked can I really be?

I was laying in bed for two hours, trying to fall asleep, before giving up and writing this. I would go out and get something to drink, but that doesn't really help, and it's too late, anyway.

I just laid in bed, thinking too much. My mind drifted from memory to imagination to vexation. I thought of a girl I knew a long time ago, a conversation we had years ago, missed meanings, and what may have been. Or maybe I just conjured up a false memory, to shield me from some god-awful truth.

Why can't I sleep? I relived an argument from months ago. Words said and unsaid - especially unsaid. My verbal jabs are much more poignant spoken silently in the stillness of night.

I think I'm a good person, overall. I can't say I've never hurt anyone - but can anyone really say that? Even if unintentionally, every single one of us has harmed another. Maybe it was someone who deserved it. Maybe we were having a conversation with someone else, and said something hurtful that someone else overheard. Maybe the person we hurt was someone we loved. Maybe it was something said, or done. Or, every bit as likely, it was something we didn't do. Something we weren't there for.

I laid in bed, trying to sleep. The noise from the neighbor's air conditioner humming into the night. They must sleep under yards of down comforters - I'm cold in here, and they have their AC on. My monitor buzzes when it's off. Not really a buzz, I guess - more of a high-pitched whine. I turned on my side, going fetal, my ragged blanket bundled up around me, a cotton womb. I checked my phone - only a few minutes had passed since the last time I checked.

I start writing a story in my head, and it's pretty good. I outline the plot to myself, working out the kinks and inconsistencies. I even write out some scenes in detail, picturing it while translating that into words. It's a short story, of course - my mind is far to feeble to contain anything of considerable length. It's the worst, though, when I write the scenes out in my head - whenever I try to write them down proper, for the world to see, it's never as good as it was before. I lose the exact wording, the images blur, I start to lose the plot. That, and I get bored of it - the story's already played out for me, so it's the verbal equivalent of watching a rerun or a semi-decent drama. Sure, it was good the first time - but once you've seen it, there's no real point in watching it again.

But maybe I'll try writing this one down. To quote _Storytelling_, it's confessional, yet dishonest.

But instead, I write this, to no one in particular. Sort of a public diary, I suppose. Maybe, someday, I'll write something of substance, and that will make all of these rantings seem more interesting. Or maybe I'll die a beautiful, tragic death, which would have the same result - only a bit more on the macabre side.

On that note, good night.




and if you were wondering, the title is also a quote from Storytelling. Great movie, if you can find it. No stores seem to carry it - I've called them all.

JOY

as in Jenny Owen Youngs:

"It’s silence at the bottom of a bottle
ba da da da da da

The problem will find them sooner or later
you have to hit something."


I feel as though I've said this before, but you should check her out.