Getting my tattoo, largely inspired by Special Topics in Calamity Physics, this weekend.
“Those around you can have their novellas, sweet, their short stories of cliché and coincidence, occasionally spiced up with tricks of the quirky, the achingly mundane, the grotesque. A few will even cook up Greek tragedy, those born into misery, destined to die in misery. But you, my bride of quietness, you will craft nothing less than epic with your life. Out of all of them, your story will be the one to last.”
"There’s no education superior to travel. Think of The Motorcycle Diaries, or what Montrose St. Millet wrote in Ages of Exploration: ‘To be still is to be stupid. To be stupid is to die.’ And so we shall live. Every Betsy sitting next to you in a classroom will only know Maple Street on which sits her boxy white house, inside of which whimper her boxy white parents. After your travels, you’ll know Maple Street, sure, but also wilderness and ruins, carnivals and the moon. You’ll know the man sitting on an apple crate outside a gas station in Cheerless, Texas, who lost his legs in Vietnam, the woman in the tollboth outside Dismal, Delaware, in possession of six children, a husband with black lung but no teeth. When a teacher asks the class to interpret Paradise Lost, no one will be able to grab your coattails, sweet, for you will be flying far, far out in front of them all. For them, you will be a speck somewhere above the horizon. And thus, when you’re ultimately set loose upon the world… I suspect you’ll have no choice but to go down in history.”
A reminder that the individual creates the best story.
Yesterday, I found a box of black hair dye in my bathroom. I almost did it, neglected the $200 it cost to get my hair back to normal, because I felt so much like myself when my hair was black. Physical appearance is so easy to change. Too easy. If you let yourself, you can become an entirely different person. Stay out of the sun. Grow out your hair. Dye it. Stop wearing makeup. Wear heels. Etc.
I don’t think I would make a good girlfriend. I’d spend the time; I’d watch movies with you and go on drives with you and we could take pictures together and write music or just listen to it. I’d talk to you and tell you what came to mind; I’d stay up late and listen. But I wouldn’t tell you I’ll love you forever, because I won’t. I wouldn’t write you love letters because I can’t bring myself to pretend like that anymore. I wouldn’t write you songs unless they were honest, and let’s be honest, love is fleeting. We’ll move on, and I’ll know it before you do because I’ve gotten over it. There’s no redemption; no redeeming quality. Love is different than attachment.
It’s strange what changes when you’re happy with yourself. I don’t need a relationship. I don’t rely on another person, I don’t need to make them happy, I don’t need to be in love. I don’t need the pathetic passion.
Within my own life, I’ll take chances, let go, make mistakes, start over.
literally all I want ever for the rest of my life is to watch Spirited Away and eat clean-ass grilled cheeses alone in my bed
wash your face
brush your teeth
go to sleep.
wake up early
watch the sun wake up
write about it.
wash your face
brush your teeth
call a friend
call your mom
call your dad
tell them how much you love them.
go for a walk
bring your headphones
give every song a chance
smile at strangers.
write often and honestly
trace the lines
and give yourself the utmost respect and kindness.
Seeing Slim Cessna’s Auto Club last night was exactly what I needed. Something about their energy, approachability, originality. Inspiring. And I think having a genuine conversation with my favorite musician set into motion the remaining changes.
I have to be the person I can look up to. And it’s really that simple. I have to expose myself to the opportunities I want and make something of myself. It doesn’t have to be some gigantic, Earth-shattering impact. But the whole point of it all is to be happy, isn’t it?
I’m going to develop my pictures and start a ton of bands and write whatever I’d like to and distance myself gradually from technology.
I’m going to work on my identity; take it back.
I’m going to spend Valentine’s Day watching Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind and writing angry love songs. And eating a shitload of chocolate. And holiday-specified marshmallow peeps. And Conor Oberst.
Oedipus on repeat
I feel full of cake and inspired to go play piano
Bloodline - Conor Oberst
Cotton - The Mountain Goats
While You Were Sleeping - Elvis Perkins
I Must Belong Somewhere - Bright Eyes
Love is All - The Tallest Man on Earth
Note to Future Self:
Remember that someday, you’ll meet someone who has time to read your screenplays and your favorite books and listen to your original songs and your favorite ones. And you’ll get to know theirs. And aforementioned ‘someone’ will be worthy of writing letters to late at night; sneaking them in his pocket. Long letters, thought processes, favorites. You’ll write about his quirks and he’ll draw yours. You’ll take him to Greek restaurants and sushi restaurants and you’ll cook soup from scratch. And you’ll feel it again.
I’m thinking maybe love isn’t meant to last forever. It lasts until everything becomes too much or too little. And then you learn from someone else.