Cobain wrote "don't read my diary when I'm gone", then he wrote on the same page, below those words "please read my diary." He pleads in messy scrawls, "look through my things, and figure me out."
I don't know why I write, other than that I can relate to that scribble.
I don't know why I write in this format, instead of in a diary, under lock and key, hidden in the laundry pile.
The book "Cobain Unseen" by Charles Cross was at the book shop, as if waiting just for me, when I came back from Olympia. It belonged to a brilliant woman from Oysterville who recently lost her wealth of brains to the un treated damages of multiple strokes. She knew and liked Cross, and collected his every title. I don't really think she cracked this book open at all though. Or maybe she did and the weight of it's contents drove her bonkers. I hope that when I "lose it", my friends and family give my books away too, to book shops and stuffy literature snobs who need to read Hitch Hiker's Guide. I hope they give Winter's Bone to a spoiled brat like I was as a teen, who thinks life is so sad. I hope they give my copy of Island of the Secret Love Nun to a religious Puritan, as sexually frustrated as it's broken manhood-ed main character. I love my books.
I don't love your books, I love my books. I want walls and walls of books- but for them to be mine, I must read them- touch every page, get katsup on some of them, ruin the corners. I hate e-books, oh I loathe Kindle. But if that's for you, that's for you. NBD.
I am terribly off-track.
What was it I was going toward?
The theme of being seen and seeing other people, and what that means to me pops up a lot in my writing lately. The title ,"Unseen", grabbed me by the belly button, and the work of beautiful musings for and about Cobain hasn't let me go since I got back home, to the cold sun on the back porch- I got my tan sitting and reading and looking at the photos in this cool book. Cross wrote that Cobain left his diaries out on coffee tables and sofas. That he often read aloud from them, and encouraged his acquaintances to read from them. He was a collector of the obscure, appreciative and hungry for the constant reminder that things are always a little bit twisted, a little more dark and fucked up than all the good ol' folks around want to admit out loud, hear about or recognize in art, music, writing, etc. I have the sneaking suspicion that Cobain was lovely and fragile like so many of us are- but he grew to hate it more than I care to.
Sure I resent the fragile loveliness I see in myself and others, but I'd rather work hard to keep those parts alive and soft than do nothing about the process of getting hard, and letting the loveliness die. You'd end up soulless, with a chip on your shoulder and nothing interesting to say or do, but always with something to say or do. Hah. You'd be just like Fred.
I was thinking yesterday: when did I become such a sucker for bad love? Was it the separation of my parents? Is it just the fact that I haven't been able to see and handle the anger and frustration of life in general, and it comes out sideways in the form of the people I choose to become attached to, and why.
From the twenty four year old when I was seventeen, whom I got my early puppy-dog eyed training from, or the unattainable spawn of my bookstore friend- the idea of whom is my absolute Dream Boat, the thing I should probably "hold out" for, but what do I know- he has no clue and probably won't ever snuggle up close enough for me to find out, it's all unhealthy, pining and complaining. EMT Boy/Toy, is muuuuuch younger than any guy I've ever accidentally grown accustomed to, and he still got me to assume the pining puppy dog position in an instant! Maybe he didn't mean to, but that has sure my reaction. What a tell.
With Fred, I spent a lot of time looking for reasons to pout, and with him the effing space was overflowing with them- now, did I ever look at that and decide all those reasons to pout may be a sign that this is bad love? Hell no.
My Albanian tongued boss is more sweet to me than Boat even was, and he was the most polite and sweet person with a hose in his pants that I think I have ever met, besides my brother- who is the sultan of sweet.
BUUUt, The word boss, combined with my past all-or-nothing messy way of reacting to outside of the family sweetness from males, combined with some kind of gut feeling that I don't want to all-or-nothing anymore, and I have to break the habit, just makes me want to turn away from the whole concept of partnering up any more, ever, ever again, with anyone until I have known them for twenty years first.
Last night was interesting.
The boys were fun and didn't make me feel uncomfortable at all, which I truly appreciate. Maybe it was just disappointing that we didn't get to see boobies with Frank for his birthday, and had to get pushed around the pool table by Canadians all night at a no-boobies allowed type bar instead, but my mood was not cool, and I growled and scowled all the way home.
I had to try really hard to keep up the appearance that I was not miserable (not due to company! I probably would have been cranky even if I was hanging out with jolly saint effing Nicholas last night, with the toxic black goo for thoughts that I was having) to the people around me, I'm pretty sure that it had nothing to do with boobies.
It's my expectations, my bad habits when it comes to men, how I "get my kicks", and apparently, also my expectations and misunderstandings involving even little-boy-wanna-be men. Who I truly thought I wouldn't become attached to.
Today is a day for hanging out with maggs, drinking sleep time tea, taking a break from ciggarettes, binge eating a little, and reading a few pages of my beloved books. Today is not a day for being lonely.
Today is my day to exist for myself, and let those wanting to follow do so. But today is not for pining.
Not for feeling shameful.
Not for being judgmental, or for burrowing into my idea of how things are.
Today is for letting things be what they are. I'm remembering the concept of surrender, and my visual is that of a giant wave covering me in life as I just stand on the beach and surrender.
Please, read my blog.
Go through my things, and figure me out.
Reprogram my brain and make me less lovely,
So that when it doesn't work out, I won't feel enough to care.
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