believe it.

Oct. 8th, 2009 12:42 am
lostdetective: (Default)
“life will break you.
nobody can protect you from that, and living alone won’t either, for solitude will also break you with its yearnings.
you have to love.
you have to feel.
it is the reason you are here on earth.
you are here to risk your heart.
you are here to be swallowed up.
and when it happens that you are broken, or betrayed, or left, or hurt,
or death brushes near, let yourself sit by an apple tree
and listen to the apples falling all around you in heaps, wasting their sweetness.
tell yourself that you tasted as many as you could.”

- louise erdrich, the painted drum, p. 247
lostdetective: (Default)
Life is... strange, and hard, and painful, and absurd. And when Kayla really realizes this, she does silly things. This time, it's an impulse purchase of a netbook.

I just want to drive around and sing songs. Instead, I'm temporarily cutting ties and there is still sand from a beach in my shoes.

That's all I've got in me today.
lostdetective: (Default)

Indian Rock: best at 4am, frozen and delirious.
Greatest way to turn twenty-two.
lostdetective: (Default)

Today, I had my weekly breakfast with Jordan at The Vault.  There’s a waiter there, Larry, who is probably the most seemingly genuinely-enthusiastic food service waiter kid in the world.  If we don’t get Larry as our waiter, we — well, I — pound my fists on the table and say “LARRY!”

I like Thursday morning breakfasts a lot.  They’re moving up on my list of favorite things.  Followed swiftly by coming to the conclusion that writing music is A) not hard, B) even fun, and C) really quite fantastic.  Jordan, Jen, this girl Sophie and I are in a band that is as of yet unnamed, and I will sing (my way to paris), and Jordan will play guitar, and Jen will play bass, and Sophie will play drums; we have 4 songs so far and it’s only a matter of time before we actually rent out a space at Soundwave and have a real practice.  Exciting!  More songs, please.

“You’ll be happy to hear, Cory: he’s not going to drink anymore of your water.”

Pat is watching the Twilight Zone and I am writing in my dreamwidth and I’m edgy because he won’t commit to going with me to see The Informant tomorrow morning (although he kind of did eventually by saying “Well, we’ll see if you wake up in time and if you do, we’ll go”) and that’s just the way it almost always is.  Nothing all too set in stone.  Plans are rarely, if ever, made in advance - and if they are, they’re vague.

I’ll get used to it.

“Rocks and hills, that’s all there was.  Rocks and hills.  I thought I could get a fix using the stars… but it was overcast.”

I think that being creative with Jordan this morning and going over songs made my day go by a lot smoother.  I was calm when I went to work, it was an easy night, went by quickly.  I was, dare I say, happy.  I’m not entirely sure I’m biologically built to be even remotely content working… jobs don’t do shit for me.  I dread it almost every single shift, think of calling in sick every day.  Financial guilt drags me into the Barnes and Noble cafe (and every other job I’ve ever had) and I smile for 8 hours even when I don’t want to smile.  That’s a concept I am so adamantly against, but have no choice in - unless I wanted to be even more drastically unhappy working, say, telemarketing?  But maybe, just maybe, if I were more fulfilled creatively, my day-to-day drudgery and obligations wouldn’t be so daunting, draining, deadly.  Just maybe.

“I headed west towards… towards nothing.”

lostdetective: (Default)
thinking of

sitting in therapy waiting room,
thinking of
songs to learn
poems to write
battlestar galactica

sitting in therapy waiting room,
thinking of
friends blown off
gas prices
battlestar galactica

sitting in therapy waiting room,
thinking of
drinking soaked chrysanthemums
creamy lemon bars
battlestar galactica

sitting in therapy waiting room,
thinking of
birthdays and
holidays and
work days
battlestar galactica.


Today I was nearly slaughtered emotionally, but I am recovering quickly and decently. There's nothing like anxiety attacks in bathrooms, sobbing out The Big Existential Questions to no one but yourself.
It's hard to see in the midst of my breakdowns (which are all too frequent, but very slowly becoming less and less concentrated and more spread out time-wise), but the only decent theory I've come up with to answer "What's the fucking point?" - or, in more specific terms, why do we exist? - is human connection. As trite as that may sound, the reason I believe I exist, is to share my existence with other existing people while exploring the documented lives of no-longer-existing people. To connect with another living being, despite differences in age, body, history and time, to find something similar, shared; to decipher what things we all experience universally. Share stories, share experiences, share moments - thus enhancing someone else's life and vice versa, even in the tiniest of ways, so that they may go on and do the same with another, creating a chain of inspiration and sense of solidarity.

Of course, when you're trying to quickly re-learn how to breathe while battling that big question, it's hard to think clearly. It's easy to jump to "one day I will die and that will be the end to me and of everything that I know as far as I'm concerned (even though I won't be concerned since I'll be dead anyway) and that's that."

Meanwhile... I did, in fact, get to watch the first episode of season 3 of Battlestar Galactica (which I was hanging onto for dear life post-therapy) -- and totally worth it. I never thought I'd be so into it. I wish I could watch more, but it's a Kayla-and-Pat thing, and Pat was tired. He wants to watch "Nightwatch" tomorrow night, but I think it's getting the shaft until I need a breather from Battlestar. (Will that happen?)

Tomorrow: work.
Thursday: Breakfast with Jordan, work.
Friday: Tea with Jessica & John.
Saturday: Work.
Sunday: Birthday secret plans with Pat, ending with dinner at his parents' house.

I want to punch work schedules in the face. But I'll spare it a death, because the pumpkin cheesecake we have is fucking delicious.

Now, to scour the inner workings of dreamwidth!
lostdetective: (Default)
God damn, I've been empty. This is another desperate attempt to get some sort of writing routine going; something, anything. Better than nothing? I suppose that this is somewhat nicely reminiscent of the days when I actually WAS creating in the sense that I've been putting off a shower all morning just to throw this thing together.

We'll see how long this lasts.

Dreamwidth: livejournal for artists? I'm very okay with this. I know what's been missing from my writing endeavors, and it's community. At Metro Arts, I was surrounded by people eager to create and share and discuss and work and encourage... then I moved to the Bay Area, started working full-time, threw all of my pre-Californian poetry into a self-published collection to "start new," and never got started. I have about 3 crappy poems I spit out angrily one night after having too much coffee and a brand new typewriter and an argument with the boyfriend. In two years. Maybe there's some random bits and pieces floating around that I've written on the back of paycheck stubs or in margins of day planners, but really? Nothing I would ever want to recreate, share, discuss, work on, or encourage to continue.

My therapist says I need to learn to just create without judgment. I need to get shit out and just let it exist, without my internal critic getting in the way. I need to seriously just let things BE.

This is another desperate attempt.
We'll see how long this lasts.

My name is Kayla, and I write. I think.


lostdetective: (Default)
lost detective

October 2009

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