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hello sunshine
sometimes the morning after can be a bitch. and sometimes, the morning after can be lucid. it's a bitch when you wake up with a crushing hangover, not realizing how exactly you got home. that's what happened to me this morning. it seems to be a regular occurrence. and as i lay there, the events of the night before came to light.
i remember the loud, obnoxious drunk guys, the hockey game on the television screen, the girls with way too much make up, trading free shots with the bartender who knows me pretty well by now, which is probably disturbing, and the brazilian girl i gave my number to before i left. it all comes back and for the first time in a while, although it was brief, my mind is uncluttered. yes, i have a blistering hangover, yes i may or may not still be drunk, but i am able to enjoy a moment of some semblance of peace, which is not something i've had in quite a while. this here is the lucid part.
i haven't written anything in over two weeks, which is a shame, because i'm so close to finishing the novel. the main problem is the constant barrage of thoughts that go through my head. i am always thinking. and believe it or not, it's not always about sex or food. it is just not possible to turn my brain off, as much as i'd love to do so. i can't seem to be able to manage any of these thoughts either; they just seem to come down like an avalanche, which doesn't help my writing.
maybe it's the fact that i just don't need to write anymore like i used to, but it doesn't seem to really matter anymore. in fact, most things don't matter to me anymore. but what i've been trying to do is get a sense of clarity. i wanted to clarify what everything meant to me. what vancouver means to me, what my friends mean to me, what my family means to me... but the truth is, those answers don't matter.
and so as i lay in bed, staring up at the white ceiling, i quickly came to a sense of calm and quiet and peace. it's the type of peace that would bring tears to your eyes. not to my eyes, of course. i don't cry. because, like, i'm a man. all tears aside, i know i've been a ghost as of late. as much as i love the city of vancouver, i must admit, the city tends to make ghosts of its citizens.
take for instance the brazilian girl at the bar last night. (i keep calling her the brazilian girl because, well, i actually don't remember her name.) it's rare when i see women drinking by themselves, especially attractive ones. she was very receptive and in the end, just wanted someone to talk to. she was lonely. i got that. she was pleasant and polite, guarded yet open. her loneliness was palpable and attractive, and it's a loneliness that i understand. the point is not to share thoughts or feel someone warm against you or swap body fluids. the point is to make sure that you're still alive. waking up and going to work: that's not living. that's merely existing. furniture exists.
this type of loneliness sort of gets filtered through all of my books, and it's not something that i can shake, no matter how badly i want to. at this point, it's sort of like a longtime friend. themes are important in a work of literature. and the themes that repeatedly crop up in my writing, besides loneliness, are politics, the city, and the desire for relevance.
at this point, i don't know if my new found clarity will translate into new writing. (blogging, by the way, is not writing. if it is, it's definitely the lowest form of it the way sarcasm is the lowest form of wit: it's just too easy.) i also don't know if this clarity will last. but as the song goes, for the moment, i am comfortably numb.
i remember the loud, obnoxious drunk guys, the hockey game on the television screen, the girls with way too much make up, trading free shots with the bartender who knows me pretty well by now, which is probably disturbing, and the brazilian girl i gave my number to before i left. it all comes back and for the first time in a while, although it was brief, my mind is uncluttered. yes, i have a blistering hangover, yes i may or may not still be drunk, but i am able to enjoy a moment of some semblance of peace, which is not something i've had in quite a while. this here is the lucid part.
i haven't written anything in over two weeks, which is a shame, because i'm so close to finishing the novel. the main problem is the constant barrage of thoughts that go through my head. i am always thinking. and believe it or not, it's not always about sex or food. it is just not possible to turn my brain off, as much as i'd love to do so. i can't seem to be able to manage any of these thoughts either; they just seem to come down like an avalanche, which doesn't help my writing.
maybe it's the fact that i just don't need to write anymore like i used to, but it doesn't seem to really matter anymore. in fact, most things don't matter to me anymore. but what i've been trying to do is get a sense of clarity. i wanted to clarify what everything meant to me. what vancouver means to me, what my friends mean to me, what my family means to me... but the truth is, those answers don't matter.
and so as i lay in bed, staring up at the white ceiling, i quickly came to a sense of calm and quiet and peace. it's the type of peace that would bring tears to your eyes. not to my eyes, of course. i don't cry. because, like, i'm a man. all tears aside, i know i've been a ghost as of late. as much as i love the city of vancouver, i must admit, the city tends to make ghosts of its citizens.
take for instance the brazilian girl at the bar last night. (i keep calling her the brazilian girl because, well, i actually don't remember her name.) it's rare when i see women drinking by themselves, especially attractive ones. she was very receptive and in the end, just wanted someone to talk to. she was lonely. i got that. she was pleasant and polite, guarded yet open. her loneliness was palpable and attractive, and it's a loneliness that i understand. the point is not to share thoughts or feel someone warm against you or swap body fluids. the point is to make sure that you're still alive. waking up and going to work: that's not living. that's merely existing. furniture exists.
this type of loneliness sort of gets filtered through all of my books, and it's not something that i can shake, no matter how badly i want to. at this point, it's sort of like a longtime friend. themes are important in a work of literature. and the themes that repeatedly crop up in my writing, besides loneliness, are politics, the city, and the desire for relevance.
at this point, i don't know if my new found clarity will translate into new writing. (blogging, by the way, is not writing. if it is, it's definitely the lowest form of it the way sarcasm is the lowest form of wit: it's just too easy.) i also don't know if this clarity will last. but as the song goes, for the moment, i am comfortably numb.
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