the cruise.

living in the sunlight / loving in the moonlight / having a wonderful time…-”Living In The Sunlight, Loving In the Moonlight”, Tiny Tim. 

Well. I must say, the man looks kinda like Tiny Tim. He also has the quirkiness and slightly-irritating voice. I like Tiny Tim more.

The nickname ‘Speed’ suits him. As in he probably knows a great deal about drugs.

At times he seems unaware that he’s not the only person living in New York City.

When he says Willy Wonka is one if his inspirations, I believe him. 

At most times, I find him rambling. He’ll bring up an interesting idea and then just keep talking. There’s no time for thinking about things. I figure that’s a lot like how the whole tour bus thing works. Look here. Now look here.  No real thoughts.Interesting idea: Visual rambling vs verbal rambling. 

uncategorized post!

So I can talk about ANYTHING I WANT, AHHHH, SUCH CREATIVE FREEDOM! 

I’ve had too much sugar.

 I watched Control today with Shannon.

That movie fuckin’ kills me, every time. I cannot imagine how frustrated Ian must’ve been to feel like hanging himself was the only way to resolve his problems.

And at the same time, I don’t see how those closest to him couldn’t see it coming. A month before his suicide, he tried to overdose on his epilepsy medication after a night of drinking. He staggered into his bedroom, collapsed, and his wife called the hospital and he got his stomach pumped.

Plus, well. You could see it coming just by reading his lyrics. Don’t get me wrong; I’m the last person to say “Oh no, look at what so-and-so’s writing, they must need help.” But really, how could those closest to him not see what was happening? They all knew he was on a bunch of different pills for epilepsy, the pills weren’t working and were causing depression, his wife was filing for divorce, his affair with a Belgian journalist [the reason for the divorce] was falling apart, plus the guilt of said affair and the guilt of knowing that after the divorce, his [ex] wife would likely have to take care of their infant daughter on her own.

And then, taking all that into consideration, there were his lyrics. Maybe it’s only obvious in retrospect, but they seems to give off a big vibe of “I’m not okay and won’t be.” And I feel bad about it. Ian Curtis was intensely talented and some things in his life were beyond his control. When he had seizures onstage, he’d end up having to be carried off and would end up crying in a back room. Maybe if there had been better medication to treat his epilepsy, he’d still be around. However, that’s mostly hopeful. 

Ian Curtis
1956 – 1980
 

new york.

but if you could just see the beauty / these things I could never describe / these pleasures of wayward distraction / this is my one lucky prize...

-”Isolation”, Joy Division. 

              I don’t exactly identify with Schulman’s New York, but I wish I did. The other narraratives seem to view New York as something great and spectacular that exists around them; something they do not exactly interact with so much as observe. Schulman views New York as exactly with it is, whatever that may be, accepting it and living with it, developing her own method of working within it.

       In reality, I think I identified with Kazin’s view of New York, namely the following quote: “…I could look straight across to the skyscrapers of Manhattan, I saw New York as a foreign city.” It’s so easy to see New York as a foreign city. I’ve never seen anything like it. At the same time, it’s completely familiar. The trick is to not see it as a whole but to see it as a kind of puzzle. Seeing New York as a solitary mass makes it overwhelming.

       Besides that, I liked the way White mentioned events and where they took place, not by giving the address of the event, but relating it in blocks to how far it happened from where he is/was currently located. It both lends to the myth of New York of this greatly eventful place as well as related to it in a human way; this is where things happen, beautiful things as well as not so attractive.

       Didion’s New York seemed so distant, but at the same time understandable. I’ve also had days where I didn’t want to leave the comfort of my safe, secure bed to go out and see people and places I didn’t care for seeing. Abbey’s idea of New York seems to also include New Jersey and I don’t stand for any of that. New Jersey is not New York. New Jersey is a giant highway that leads me to New York. I’m not sure how I feel about Abbey’s passage.

home.

you’ll see the horrors of a faraway place / meet the architects of law face to face / see mass murder on a scale you’ve never seen / and all the ones who try hard to succeed…
-”Atrocity Exhibition”, Joy Division. 
 
Home is a place to play my vinyl albums and make snarky jokes about reality TV stars.
It has a bed and sometimes cookies. And always pillows. Pillows are a necessary kind of thing.
There’s cigarettes with the option of coffee.
There’s a wall to hang my My Little Pony Christmas stocking on.
Eyeliner and boots and books. Musicals. I don’t believe in using desks for their intended purpose.  
It doesn’t need to stay still. Home is not the building but its contents and residents. There doesn’t need to be any obvious common factor.
It has an outlet so I can charge my phone. Connection to the outer world is critical.
Home is never silent. Silence seems empty.
New York is home right now. More, it contains home; the immediate surroundings being an added bonus. People and noise, the bus that stops under my window at all times, the trees and buildings I can see. The playground across the street that no one seems to go to. There aren’t any swings there so I can’t say the playground is unloved for no reason. Swings are essential to success.

I need to get a course packet before I write anything more. Tomorrow, after lunch, will be a good time for that. I have the feeling I’m going to abuse this journal a great deal and write about pointless things quite often between class assignments.

Time to turn the record over.