Lately I cannot get enough sweets, fried things, Radiohead, Smiths, Bowie and Joy Division. I also haven’t satiated my craving for eggplant. Mmm, fried eggplant. Or roasted. Sounds divine. Falling apart with crisp, shimmery skins. Or gooey, with black bean sauce. Or with ground pork. Or with garam masala and coconut milk. I really love eggplant. Haven’t had them in ages. No, but I’m eating kinda cray-cray. Peanut butter straight out the jar like nobody’s business. Lots of kiefer. Soda pop. Sweetening my tea. Half and half, too.
And I’m listening to dark music. The optimistic bell-like guitars of Johnny Marr with the heavy, heavy lyrics of Morrissey. Ian Curtis’s leaden voice hitting me on the head, along with the tragic story of his life. The most joyous is the Bowie, and Station to Station has a weird edge to it; the Thin White Duke is my favorite Bowie incarnation, but I’ve always had a thing for creepy old white dudes. When I was in junior high I had a huge crush on Jeremy Irons, for example. This is when Dead Ringers and Reversal of Fortune were around–two of the creepiest movies around, and the creepiest he was in. And I found that attractive. Jesus. I still have a bit of a crush on that Jeremy Irons. He doesn’t look so bad now for an old ass smoking dried up dude, either. He’s aged better, than say, Jack Nicholson (I just learned that’s not fair; Jack is eleven years older. I’m just looking for someone old and creepy. To compare him to, I mean. I’m not actually in the market for anyone old and creepy (Mr. Irons, call me!)) (That is a whole lotta punctuation, and getting worse).–Okay. Jeremy Irons and Bowie are the same age. But they both look pretty good. 1948 and 1947, respectively.
What was I talking about? That’s a problem of mine. I chase tails of thoughts like gangbusters. No focus.
Oh. Cravings. Nervous energy manifested in worldliness. I’m trying to eat peace. That doesn’t work. It’s not hunger that’s led to my being unsettled.
There’s A Scary Thing I need to do. I have decided to do it this weekend, to get it over with. I’ve been scared to do it for eight months. Part of me knows I shit bigger than this, and part of me is so scared. I have a lot riding on this, and I can only control my input, not the outcome. How does that differ from the rest of my existence, you ask? Well, I have a lot riding on this, I protest! So? Don’t over think it, Seer. Just do. Just be. Just act.
Whew, thanks for the pep talk. I’m just scared that past mistakes will negatively affect my future. I’m kind of pole vaulting over mouse turds, it’s true. The situations I’m worried over aren’t nearly as serious as I make them out to be. And if they are, well, I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.
Thanks. I’m glad we had this talk.
I’m still going to make refried beans with bacon drippings this week. And eggplant with ground pork. And spaghetti squash with butter and cheese. And, and, and. It feels so good to eat on a craving, and so long as I can fit my fucking pants, it is on.
If you don’t know Joy Division, you should.