What is the significance, in playing the part?
"A smiling temperament, a sour tongue
Can you see behind the shadows, They poison my eyes.
Something more than weeping angels, burn into my mind.”
I have been wandering in the most dissatisfying way. I have five dollars in single bills and one tick of gasoline above empty. Tomorrow I have an interview with an ex-firefighter seeking a “nice average looking male as assistant” which upon inquiry seems to involve manicuring this gentleman’s home and running brief errands as he really only sleeps there and apparently has dogs and fish and idyllic visions of a tidy one-man hotel without vending machines. I’m actually excited about the work but am marking increasingly long episodes of dread about meeting this person’s expectations, despite them having only arrived at my awareness in the last couple days. Whether my neurosis will persist in action as well as planning is yet to be seen.
For the past month or so, congruent with the not-especially-surprising cash drought, I haven’t been getting out very much. Or at all. I haven’t really spent time with anyone but Dani for awhile, and then only sporadically so, and it’s doing some stuff to my brain. I’m spending my time mostly by observing the passage of time, which typically looks like long spans of potential cigarette smoking marked by brief, violent periods of extreme mania truncated only by my return to the reality of this abusive relationship between Pleasure and Finance. I’ll absorb myself in anything to escape. I can tell you in great detail the process of felting a pointy hat that by the time I’m financially capable of producing will probably escape my want. I can relate fantastic pseudohistories of Ancient Britain, mystery cults of anthropomorphic phalluses, the invention and design of the electric flyswatter, and a thousand places I wouldn’t have believed existed prior to these lengthy late-night Wikipedia forays which have marked this dark season. I do draw substantial pleasure from learning, but the satisfaction is transitory at best and, at worst, ultimately agitating. I am more excited about the world than I have ever been since pubarche, and just as frustrated by my inability to explore it anywhere but my mind or within a couple hundred feet of my bed. Imagine Omega Man, but he doesn’t actually leave his house and is constantly reminded of his isolation by his frustrated and worrisome mother. I’m shaving about once a week. I have been wearing one blue and one red sock for longer than I would like to admit. Prior to the e-occult marathon I was watching a lot of movies but would find myself discussing them, with myself, and actually getting pretty heated about it until I realized nobody else was in on the joke and I wasn’t getting much further than the vault of my serotonin-shy head brisket. I have tended my own garden much too long.
And the wandering. This is the heebie-jeebie of my hermithood. When I say I’m observing the passage of time, I am in reality observing some static interior space and am only aware that time is passing. I have several ways of doing this and they are probably all distressing to observe. Mostly it looks like my still body, in bed, with the lights off, late and early and in the noon sun, staring at my ceiling, thinking. For hours. Without sleep. It feels like I’m pretending to sleep and I get the distinct feeling I’m waiting for something that may or may not be livor mortis. I’ll catch myself staring at pages of text, not reading them, and not knowing for certain how long it’s been happening. I’ll get up and wander into various rooms of the house, usually late at night, and just stand and sigh and stare. I’ll go into the restroom to weigh myself every half hour or so. I’ll drink glasses of water for entertainment. Anytime I lie down with the intention of sleep, I’m overcome by what I could describe best as overbearing guilt or maybe frustration of a particularly dismal and quiet nature. If I were just a little more reactionary I’d swear I’m having siezures, but the episodes are so far confined to my home and unless the Indian burial ground beneath my bedroom is just now acting up I’m pretty sure I’m only lonesome and very bored. As for the mania, I’d compare it to the sudden thrills I’ve felt in conditions of sensory deprivation. I feel, behave, and look very much like a ghost.
Hopefully I’ll go this interview, not be killed or maimed in any way I might find unbecoming or stereotypical, acquire highly-active but variable employment, make money to buy drugs and gasoline and live until January when I can go to SSC and slowly watch my desires and ecstasies whither and die. But at least I’ll be around people enough to appreciate my alone time again.
(Source: , via electricbuzzard)