swinging

Mood swings, mood swings - I'm having a whole fucking playground of moods these days. I don't really know what's going on, but I spent all of yesterday afternoon in bed, with the lights off, watching new DVDs: some Buffy DVD with four of the classic Faith episodes, followed by A Life Less Ordinary, which at least made me feel less depressed for the half-hour before unconsciousness swooped in.

I feel bad for my 20 year-old roomie - he's a really nice kid, we've hung out loads over the last five months, he has become my foster kid bro...but for the past three weeks I have been isolating myself rather unabomberishly. Not to say I am constructing explosive devices, obviously, but I am seeking refuge in the isolated cabin of my mind, most definitely. I can feel his angst seep in through our thin walls, he is just BEGGING me to come out of it because he isn't really capable of entertaining himself. Lord knows I wasn't at 20 - it was the beginning of my post-France, post-freakily-isolationist phase and I wanted to be with people around the fucking clock.

But at the same time, I feel myself resenting those regular knocks on my door, that unspoken pleading for me to come the fuck out of it so he can have something to do.

It makes me angry, just because of the way I have been feeling these days. I'm not a fucking television! I don't exist to entertain you! It's not my fault if you're bored! Sometimes I wish that I could be distilled into the ideal form of myself, to give voice to that anger. But other times I'm glad I'm not. Though he is Welsh, he has definitely inheirited the whole emotional restraint of grande bretagne, and would probably not be able to deal with me unleashing like that.

Luckily, we don't really have to find out. I don't think.

I kind of feel like A Life Less Ordinary is my new fave movie. It's about to enter regular rotation with the newly-purchased Triplettes de Belleville, which I picked up in the magical land of Brest last weekend.

Currently reading Fortress of Solitude by Johnathan Lethem and I am in love with every word he writes. The way he brings everything about the environment of late-seventies Brooklyn is setting my brain on fire with possibility. Lovelovelove it.

Hopefully, I will finish it and pull myself out of this pit. Haven't even written in THE STORY since one week ago today, where I hit my page-goal before setting sail for Brest.

It's official now. Maybe. My most beloved teeshirt, the symbol of all my crazy adventures in Nawlins, all that sex and booze and lying around the Garden District so hungover and nights turning into mornings just like that...is maybe gone forever. I thought for sure it would be at my friend Andy's, but he can't find it. It kind of breaks my heart, even though I am so over the genius bartender, I still love thinking about that time in my life. That teeshirt is a fugitive from the crumbling house of memory. The Hideout doesn't even fucking exist anymore! I will never return there, never pour another shot of Jameson or another draft of Bud inside those dirty, magic walls.

I don't think this is specifically what is depressing me, but it might as well be.

Or, maybe I just need to get laid. I need to try and seduce my colleague with the big blue eyes, who may or may not have been checking me out yesterday. Gaydar doesn't work on this continent, but slightly more extensive intuiting and veiled hitting-upon may become necessary.

Il faut laisser la porte de possibilité ouverte!