manta rays and munsters

It looks as though Nick at Nite's come up with an original program. Lord help us all.

The last two weeks have emulated the last five months, acting like an ever-shrinking, ever-quickening cyclone, spinning memory debris all over me and tossing me around like a bale of hay that's come apart. It sucks reliving stuff over and over again, and I'm not positive if I'm doing it to myself or not. It feels like you just can't help some things. But sure, I'm over it.

But what's weird is I can't talk about it. At all. If she's mentioned in the slightest, off I go again down some muddy mental slip 'n slide. But I literally can't bring myself to tell someone that I'm still upset about it. Or mention it, even. It's not like I don't want to, and I feel like I probably should, and that that stuff's all just going to fester into some mound in my gut if I don't coax it out like a tapeworm. But haven't I done that already? Like months ago? It's pathetic at this point. How long is this tapeworm, anyhow? I need to get over this. But I'm not yet. And I just can't admit it.

I guess that energy has to go somewhere, so I've been upchucking it all into my notebook. I have no idea what kinds of songs I've been writing; they're frighteningly abstract, yet as close as I'll probably ever come to clearly and "publicly" discussing the stuff I'm made up of. Like last fall, inspiration is coming from mystery, hoaxes, myths....so much so that I'm starting to think its all I'm capable of drawing from. At least its a quasi-niche in singer-songwriter berserk-hyphenated land. But lately the pieces I've been working on have like literally scared me. They don't sound like me. It's like I've been digging and digging and it turns out I was performing an epic root canal, and now that I pull back and think on it for a sec, I'm some tiny tiny miner peering up from a crater inside some dark molar, and its clear that I never meant to take it this far because my rope sure ain't gonna get me outta here now. Not like I'm going off the deep end or anything, just that I've unleashed a tiny gremlin out of my head, and he's never going to quite fit back in again, and wouldn't really have done anybody any harm had he stayed in there to begin with. It's like someone representing me has screamed out these songs in protest of my stoicism in order to get my attention, to wake me up.

At times like these I always think its good I don't partake of heroin or something. I have, however, just finished a behemoth of a plate of fishsticks upon realizing that the only food I've got is a box of government-condemned Topps hamburgers. Maybe I shoulda ate 'em just to test out how well e. coli stands up to my new health insurance.

Is it bad that I'm more upset that there's a pumpkin shortage than glad that there's not another flu vaccine shortage?

I can't stop this gross pull to the stations...its like this every night. All I can think about is how badly I need to perform this stuff, even if its just to a bunch of MTA patrons who are probably too busy direct-feeding a Top 40's I.V. right into their brains to notice some morose kid banging on a stringbox. It probably is better that way, heaven knows how awful these songs actually are in all likelihood.

This is kind of a weirder post, but my mind's getting all cannibalistic on me, so I may as well let it do its thing.

New Radiohead album in a few hours. Pathetic as it seems, i'm sure i'll end up feeling immensely unaccomplished in some overarching sense after I hear it. That being said, I can't recall the last time I felt this excited about anything.