coming back down to earth

let's be honest, what i said about writing a hit is pretty silly. i have a little talent but not that much and i am not that lucky either. it's okay though. i don't even really care. also, what i said about it not being worth it to pray and ask god to help me (want to find happiness and peace via total sobriety) (or even believe that it's possible) is not necessarily true either. it isn't only chemical.

mewzy mew

Mewzy Mew is the name I would like to call a band. It is a nickname I made up for my cat and that suddenly became my own name and Michelle's too as a result of our fluid usage of nicknames. All the names can be applied to anyone in the house: boo, booze, baze, babes, babsey, mewz, mewzy, mama, etc.

Tonight we're going to visit Mewzy's sister and her gf in Philadelphia. Apparently they own a condo and that fact gets Michelle thinking they're farther advanced in life then we are. But that's not necessarily true. You know I think it's best to travel lightly, for as long as possible.

What I want to really talk about today is this documentary I was watching the other night with Michelle about Kurt Cobain. It was just random footage of Washington and Seattle set to his voice, talking about his life. Michelle liked it. I thought he seemed like a nice enough, regular person, but after awhile I thought, "Enough. Enough about you and your life. Stop whining and being obsessed with the past and stop bellyaching and making excuses for your addiction." I probably got annoyed because it reminded me of myself. I have to take into account the fact that he was really young while taping it and most of his observations sounded like typical, depressed-teenager-commentary. This is what I think happened. I think he was a talented guy who loved music. Then the world began to devour him in the way it chews up anything tasty. Then, he got addicted to drugs... and that was the end of him. He could have gotten treated for the stomach ulcer or whatever. He could have gotten treated for depression. But turning to drugs to ease all that... ugh it's such a common fucking stupid choice, all around. People ask, but how or why did he kill himself? I think that the drug addiction compounded the other, treatable problems so that suicide was a totally reasonable response. Predictable. Damn, I hate drugs. I think if he would have lived, he would have made some better albums.

I think it's possible that I could write a hit... some kind of hit. I believe in hits, and anyone with a developed ear knows right away when they hear one. Some people try to fight the candy-pop-culture of music by refusing to acknowledge the power of getting it right... they just write boring and ugly songs and pretend nobody likes them because the audience is too commercial. It's true that if your ear isn't used to certain genres like punk rock, you probably aren't going to like any song in that genre, no matter if it's great or if it sucks. But there's no point to producing albums with filler anymore. If the song ain't it, just don't even play it. In some ways, I'm so happy that I will never "make it big," because that requires you to play your shit over and over, way past the point of hating it. I can't do that. I do not have any songs in my life that I never got tired of. That's why I'm always open to hearing new music. But artists want career stability. That's where they go wrong and keep writing songs that are never as good as their hit. Once you depend on music to pay your bills, your fire goes out. That's why artists should hope that they die in obscurity. I don't know.

Over the past few years, I have developed a slight addiction to rx pks. Typical, huh! Common! Even Cindy McCain was addicted to Vicoden. I have never been that bad and I almost wouldn't label myself as addicted, but clearly I am, as demonstrated intermittently, over time. Over Christmas, I stole half a bottle of my mom's pills, and I was so freaked out by my own behavior that I ended up telling her about it in order to clear the air and make sure I couldn't do it again. She asked me to replace the pills, which was pretty strange. Like, how? She couldn't believe I had already taken them all (like in one day, mom). Then she wanted me to pay for them, so I sent her a five dollar check and she cashed it. I thought that was weird too, but I just wanted to be on good terms. The thing is, I really do not want to be or sound like a whiner. Everyone starts taking pain killers for some good reason or another. In my case, it was menstrual cramps and pain in my foot/leg. I don't want to be obsessed with my own little pains. But I am... like most singers... somewhat of a narcissistic mess. Obviously, this is complicated by the fact that Michelle is an addict. More than anything, it brings her down if I don't walk the straight and narrow. I also don't want to let myself be hollowed out, which is what my therapist said that drugs do (she said it last night). I don't want to give up on natural happiness.

So, I was outside my work building smoking a cigarette just now, and I thought, God, is it possible for you to help me want to find happiness and peace through sobriety? Is that something worth asking God for? And then I thought, God can't help at all with addiction because it's totally chemical. It literally changes your brain. So that was depressing.

Cycles. Why is it that even if you know something is a cycle, it doesn't help you recognize the part of the cycle you're in, and even if you can recognize it, it doesn't make it feel any less real. Like, right after a night of smoking weed I wake up in the morning and think I never want it again. Then two days later it's a craving I submit to. Total fucking bullshit!

We're headed to Philly tonight. I'm sorry that I'm not a perfect angel. I don't know what I'm gonna do. Tomorrow is Valentines Day. I got Michelle a white hoodie, white button up, white undies, and a white teddy bear (and some candy and chocolate). Obviously, it's the theme of purity.

new Heart of Darkness mix plus commentary on the advantages of technology over humanity

http://sites.google.com/site/sfwk444/Home/end_of_mix3.mp3?attredirects=0

It is so easy to work with Mark. It seems like the song already exists and we just have to find it or figure it out, like a math problem. We basically agree on almost everything and easily convince the other when divergent preferences arises. When we played in a band, every little decision took forever. First we have to argue, then play it enough times almost perfectly before we can realize the idea sucks and move on. I really love working on the computer. The trick is to have things sounding digital rather than just fake. Easier on dance songs. At this point, we both do almost everything, except I still write all the lyrics and vocal melodies and he plays the actual bass, guitar, and works the actual computer stuff. Last night I didn't sing, but we worked on old and new tracks together. I feel good about it. There is a chance that Mark and Jen could move to my neighborhood! They are looking at an illegal loft on 5th ave. tonight, in between 8th and 9th st. (Brooklyn). Obviously, that's only two blocks away! We could do so much more if we lived near each other. Then I see a future opening up... that doesn't include moving to Philly. I might be happier in Philly, slowing down, buying property (!?), but I really want to stay here. Forever? I told Michelle I will move in a few years if things stay the same (financially), or get worse. Maybe she would be happy if we got a bigger apartment? I would love to get her out of our building and off our block because they are drug infested and dirty. And it would be nice to have a backyard too. On the other hand, I think we are exactly where we're supposed to be right now. I shouldn't even think about the future.

PS. I am totally sure about life on other planets.

Love: the dreamer and the dream

Let me state straight out that I have tried some narcotics in my lifetime, and one of them is crack. I want to talk about this because it's important. It was different than I expected it to be. It didn't make me bounce off the walls, tear your hair out, and fall into fits of madness and laughter. I actually just felt like laying down and writing in my journal- having generally positive and optimistic feelers The high was extremely short lived, but while under the influence I thought, "This is how I should feel all the time." After 20 minutes or so, during which you aren't even sure if you "feel anything," the good feelings fade and sobreity sets in, with an edge. At that point, wanted to be in a good mood again, and so the use continued. It's difficult for anyone to feel sobriety and reality set in because none of us (I'm pretty sure) feel how we think we "should feel" on a daily basis. And for people who are dealing with particularly difficult realities, such as homelessness, grief, etc., the urge to get that good mood back must be really strong.

The sad thing is, though, it was just a good mood. It's wasn't even euphoria or anything like that. It's just a basic feeling that everything is okay and everything will be okay. I think the fact that people kill for this drug speaks to how that feeling may seem simple but it's actually really elusive. Or maybe it speaks to my own whacked brain chemistry - the particular effect it had on me.

Addiction is like a dictatorship in the city of the mind. The takeover is insidious and sometimes slow, like the beautiful Trojan Horse rolling through the city gates. Once in power, the dictator's thoughts seem like your thoughts and you can't tell the two apart. And even if sometimes you can tell the difference, the ability comes and goes, and you can't tell when you can tell. The voice of addiction is always a little smarter than you are, no matter how smart you are. In fact, the smarter you are, the smarter it is. It is highly uncomfortable to resist that voice. And yes, I said uncomfortable, not painful! I'm not talking about physical withdrawals (irrelevant in this case for the most part). But do not underestimate the power of discomfort.

Last night I was feeling very sad and scared. So I came up with this image that helped me. Say the sadness and fear are this small black dot, like a throbbing planet. And while I'm in this moment, it feels like I'm in the dot or the dot is inside me. But actually, I'm the whole universe around it, as well as in it. Around the dot are all the years, all the time and space that lead up to this moment, as well as what will follow after it passes. Also, out there, are all the other people who aren't feeling what I'm feeling right now (although they may have felt it before). The point is, I can observe the dot, the planet that pulsates black and red... from the atmosphere. I can float around out there, and rest.

Some time during the night, I dreamed that acrobats were doing this very difficult, graceful routine on gymnastics bars. They were wearing bright colors and leaping in slow motion from one set of bars to another. While on the bars, they struck yoga poses, also in slow motion, and totally synchronized. The crowd, including myself, was saying "ooo" and "aaah" because it was so impressive and lovely. Sometimes a small group of them would go and I noticed one girl who wasn't perfect... and sometimes a couple of them would perform flawlessly. Somewhere in the vicinity, I went into a changing room. There were many dresses in there- fancy, expensive, and colorful dresses. I told someone that I had already tried them all on before. The only other part of this dream I remember is that there was some affection and interest between myself and a young man. He was white and around my own age; he was kind of a tough guy. At one point we were sitting in the same general space (an empty intersection near the acrobats?) and we were both working on writing lyrics. I noticed he was serious and hoped he could tell how serious I was and that he would respect that and like me because I liked him. Someone tried to bother me and I screamed at them to let me work because I had to perform or record really soon and didn't write anything good yet. In another part of the dream, I was looking down at the guy's thin, clothed body, and thinking that he was really hot. The last thing I remember is pouring him a cup of beer and making a bed for him on the floor. I went into another room to sleep.