and im back up

on the rollercoaster, hands up in the air. lovin it. lovin this. yipeeee

help, i’m alive

However aware I am of these struggles, I am latching on to them like a rollercoaster ride. And maybe that rollercoaster is never-ending. I’ve come to realize that I’m the most indecisive, ever-changing, inconclusive, impractical, irrational, most uncertain character in the world I know. Write a book about me, and I guarantee you, every chapter is a new epiphany – an epiphany that only starts and ends in my mind, where action & execution never takes place. If you have ever read Virginia Woolf’s Mrs. Dalloway, you know that experiences, emotions, feelings, memories, etc are triggered by almost everything and any little thing. What comes from where, what comes from what. I’d like someone to write a book about me, Dalloway style. Get inside my head, you will probably die trying to come out. -Does that sound right?

Pardon me. Are life crises true? I mean, everyone eventually gets back up right?

I have no idea why I am here, or I’ve completely lost it. I keep forgetting why I chose to come here. I have these schizophrenic monologues/dialogues with myself fully convincing me that I’m here because of . And these reasons are constantly changing, every fucking day. Today, I am applying for [a program which will remained undisclosed]. Yesterday, I thought, “why the fuck am I applying for this when I’m in New York.” The first couple of weeks, I was completely determined to score a job, and I was actually willing to virtually do anything. And then the interviews started rolling in, and then the job offers. And then I rejected them? Ok, I exaggerate. I didn’t get that many offers, maybe like one. But still, where was the “I am willing and determined Alexin go?” And other days, I would think it rational to find an internship that would lead me on the path towards a writing career. But then I would need job? A paying job. And then I thought of my teaching hopes and dreams, and then I get rejected. And then interview for administrative assistant positions and only find out that I am an inept excel user. Who the fuck am I? What the fuck do I want?

Before I made the grand move to the city of big dreams and nightmares, I dreamt of living that paycheck to paycheck life in my small studio apartment eating nothing but canned corn and chips. Cramped, poor, but happy because I had my pen, paper and laptop w/ high-speed internet. I was determined, then. What is writing to me? Nothing now I guess. Just a bunch of words. Where did that dream go? These dreams of mine are stacked up on top of each other like a deck of playing cards thrown across a living room. No one to pick it up, everyone too lazy to find the ace of hearts hiding underneath the couch.

And I can’t really take advice from anyone because, like my mother told me this morning “It’s up to you, Alexin.” Yeah yeah mom, I know. And then I complain and blab in my journal about this desire to “take control.” Um? I have full control, but how am I suppose to take control when I have no idea what it is I want. I just have no fucking clue. Am I here to have fun, or go to grad school. Make money and live on my own? Answer life’s unanswerable questions? Perhaps.

Now that I’ve vented, I will most likely go on facebook for 23742 minutes, browse aimlessly through blogs and other social spheres of the internet, and do only 25% of what I had originally intended to do which was something “productive.”

Ladies & Gentlemen, I thank you for reading.

brutal realism

Having a vision is one thing, but bringing it to life is another.

Right now, after just having written the above sentence, I am a madwoman flipping through Roget searching for the perfect word. Fail.

I just overdosed on Charlie Kaufman. With time, we all fade away, so live live live. But after having watched both Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind & Synedoche, New York back to back, I told myself to write. Keep writing. Envisioning. Creating. Feeling. Being. Happy-ing.

Do the same.

did it happen?

im being haunted by my own thoughts. i’m not sure what’s real.

c’est moi

I was walking in Greenwich Village today and bumped into an old lady with a moustache, clad in a nightgown, and holding the National Enquirer.

And she said, “this generation is shit.”

I enjoy listening to these people. You know what I mean. At least, I make the effort to think what goes on in their minds. They know things…facts even. Ha

But then she started grabbing my arm, not harassingly, but sympathetically – like a cry for help or even attention. Look lady, I ain’t judging you for your moustache and all, but would you kindly detach your hand from my arm!

“The village isn’t the village anymore. It’s not safe here.”

What the fuck does that mean?

“Homosexuals, unless you’re a lesbian (I was with two), Mexicans, Orientals, Celebrities.”

Um, yeahh…..I’ll hop on the subway.

What is our generation? Who are we? We, twenty somethings are stuck. Stuck. I don’t think we have any clue as to what we want to do with our lives? We know how to be and do. We can play at being things and do things. We are slaves of the workforce, children who beg to bleed creativity. Lives stuck in a meandering stream of false hope.

But do we actually become without playing the part or doing the part? Are we ever entirely sure that this, or whatever, is what we want? I feel I ask too many questions. Cursed with consciousness. I would like to rid myself of this thing called awareness for a day and see what becomes of me. Would I still be sat before this screen and question why I chose to come here?

Being or becoming? Are they synonyms?

Perhaps this only pertains to me. C’est moi,

i am a sick man, a spiteful…

is someone out there? please slap me in the face. i’m turning into the underground man.

sartre

“l’univers reste noir. nous sommes animaux sinistres.”

wait

what makes you feel most alive?

Day 7. one week

How does one look for a job? At this point, I’m up for cleaning toilets. Is it really this difficult? Every minute I check my inbox only to see that I have one new email from  ’facebook.”

I hate money. I’d rather be dancing right now instead of being sat by this laptop perusing through job listings.

What’s in New York Minute?

NJ Transit to Journal Square. Path to 33^rd. Lunch in Washington Square Park. “How you doin shawty.” Back to 33^rd. Interview on 32^nd. Coffee with Alice on 5^th Ave & something. Words in my journal. Window shopping in Soho. Wanting some legit ass brogues. Chase bank drama. Walked 2 miles on foot. Stop. Go. Lights. Walk. 32^nd to World Trade Center. Another $20 on my metro card. Path to Hoboken. Ali Baba. Coffee and cigarettes by the Hudson. Back in Jersey City. The Dodos on demand. Sleep now.

Sometimes all I want to do is write, but nothing ever comes out of me. I want to create a  story about these surges of New York City emotions, but I think I kind of like it untold. Maybe I’m too overwhelmed to write anything. Fuck it. Gnite.