julys

in the heat with an alc layer

It’s all so odd, I think. Having my Substack as a primary source of knowledge for some people about my life. Which is odd in itself, to me, because I did always see this as a tool for people to use if they wanted to stalk me.

Saturday, I went to a house party that AC invited me to. This is also the night, after almost a year, that I found out what AC stood for. But she told me that she feels caught up in my life because of my posts. Which is incredibly kind, but I am overwhelmed by the feeling and the fact that there is much of my life I haven’t documented. People I haven’t documented that I met and revolved around. It’s a combination of being too busy and not busy enough.

Since I’ve started this post…

I’ve gotten buzzed because I can do that now as a legal 21 year old. Crazy work. This will speak to the disjointed nature of this post. An amalgamation of things, and an excuse for me to write. I’m sitting at the living room table with soju open in front of me, the Talking Heads playing in the background. I sat down for 6 minutes on a voice memo, hoping to say something profound, I didn’t. Here are some quotes from that

I wonder what artist do when they get drunk to write

I feel like a fraud because I say that I’m a writer but I think I’ve hit that point where I’m not much of anything anymore. I don’t really make music and I don’t really write anymore. I think I’ve come into a sense of having all these things in my background to be an appreciator, and that’s not what I see for myself in my life. I felt that I would be a more active pursuer of the arts and not really a passive consumer of it. But it’s the easiest thing to do and I don’t see myself breaking out of that mold anytime soon.

It’s just hard to realize that when you want something, even a little bit, it just stings a bit when you don’t have things go your way. I’m fine that nothing happened and nothing came out of it, but how much funner would my life be if something did?

This last one was about a boy I follow on Spotify, and I think he has an obscure music taste. I found him on Hinge and sent a like, not to go on a date, but to strike a conversation. I have this weird relationship with people on my Spotify. I have Spotify celebrities. There’s something so vulnerable about a Spotify. About a person’s music, which is why I am a certified music stalker, and also partially why I live under the assumption that I know a person after going through their playlists. And I guess as I’m sitting here on this couch and all I really want to do is connect. I want to connect to the people I know and love, but won’t respond to my text messages because they’re busy or not on their phones. To the people I’ve never met before, but I knew from afar, and the people I have met before, but are not close with.

I sit here wanting to talk, but I can’t, so instead I write this stream of consciousness. And I find that I’m not much of anything right now. A blob of a person who claims to be many things and has nothing recent to show for it. Music, writing, and films. I find that my writing has grown so much worse. I read things I wrote from a year ago and think that I can never replicate the way I travel through words and my growing curiosity in tone and sound. I fear I feel like every other person talking colloquially to their blog.

I recently discovered the roof of our building, and I’m trying to integrate it as a 3rd space. I’ve deprived myself of the sun because we don’t get it directly in our apartment, and I’ve been too lazy to go outside. I’m trying to rediscover pieces of me that I lost. And I have to admit, maybe that’s not the best way of thinking about it, it’s a little defeatist and self-pitying, but I will write poetry more and to you more, my dear reader. (Forgive me, I am tipsy.)

Here are things I wrote today on the roof as the sun set

Note: there are no stars in New York city, maybe this is why I'm on the way to forsaking astronomy. There are planes and satellites, but even I find myself deluded, hoping the bright orange tinted light is mars. But all I have is the moon and the buildings that cast a forever halo, a pertruding Sunset over the borough of Manhattan

This upcoming semester, my last year, I have resolved to write a thesis around the absurd. Absurdism and the absurd. And while I was on the roof, sober but bathed in a sliver of the moonlight, I was thinking about romance, a thing that I have rarely experienced, but know from many sources that it really fucks you up. I sit there and I wonder if I had the chance to experience it, in what ways would it warp the world around me? I wonder if I had the chance to experience romance, would life and everything in between still be so absurd? In a way, I hope the answer is yes. Because if I find that things start to make sense, then I have given life more credit than it was due.

I sink in that makeshift theater with you
 like a girl taken aback to middle school

 you asked, so kindly to put your arm around me
 so sweet
 all I could do was let you

running high off the anxiety of your touches
 or the free caffeine

 I find it oh so hard to breathe
my guts, in my throat, over working the audio of the screen

 but in the moments I find my breath
I couldn't help but think of you a month from now

starting a life without me
I have to hope that you meet an amazing girl, confident and free
 and she would be lucky to be where I'll never go with you

 sweet sweet and kind
 in ways, all I hope to do is to hold your hand 

I tried to get my guitar teacher to teach me this song once, and he was mystified by it. unwilling to give the chords and progressions a shot. I have to admit, it is a very hard song, but I am utterly in love with it.

This post is in part a post to say that I posted. I am about to make a promise that all writers make, and it’s to write more.

Guys and maybe justin bieber doesn’t suck. Maybe really we’re all on the same wavelength

like come on, mk.gee’s guitar?