Friday, February 03, 2006 // 1:23 AM

im a dead person walking around from eight in the morning til about two in the afternoon. then the effort of that much knocks me out for a few hours, and then when i'm just about starting to breathe, again, the whole cycle starts again.

i can't stop eating and i don't know why. i don't think i'm stressed. i'm also kind of tired, right about now, but there's something in me that cant bring myself to sleep. i'm restless, i'm playing tapes and cds and changing them every two minutes. i'm determined to be sullen during the day.

all of a sudden i've started to listen to classical music. i want to work through the score of fantasie impromptu that joyce gave me. i want to try a lot of things without the associations, associations of which i would call high school, if kevin would let me. this might all be in my mind. even more reason to chuck it down the toilet. i'll try anything once, really i will. right now i'm pretty much open to. to listening to honest to goodness banglha music, to reading classics that are pretty much nothing more than sweet valley in good english. i'm reading persuasion, by the way, by jane austen, and this really is a stinking book. for all the Triumph Of The Female Spirit that the description at the end of the book applauds this particular work for, it really is nothing more than the classic female neediness, all over again. here they're saying, okay let's take smart/prudent/modest/etc/etc/etc/victorian/jargon girl, anne elliot (incidentally, she also happens to be beautiful: how about that? actually her "bloom" had "vanished early" a few years before, but i think ms austen forgets this as the book progresses) and hey really at the end of the day she really does need a man. help. i'm not even going to think about whether this really is the case of the female psyche etc etc, this is definately not what one might reasonably expect from reading the description at the back of the book. i know that this really is at the end of the day an issue of my being too modern, relatively. but still, this felt like a complete waste of time. but i'm reading it and reading it still, for the same reason that people read sweet valley or trashy chickflick literature. hey sure i can see its appeal, no problem. just don't call it intelligent, just don't call it good literature, please. good grief.

i like the pen that sam gave me, the one with the huge pink feathers, with piglet lighting up (before the battery died) when its being used. it amuses me with its cheeriness, if you strip away all the other associations that make it so completely incongruous with everything else i own. everything my identity has anything to do with. hello, hello ego, hello perception of self, personification, of self. what is a person, anymore.

jo caleld me a feminist today: so, i am quite the feminist, huh. i never thought myself so, but i suppose: if i am that much i am certainly not one from effort, from decision. you can decide what it is you belief, to some extent, and to some other extent finding out what it is you believe in is a matter of picking apart your own thinking and finding all the assumptions that have been nestling underneath. so. so maybe if you ever imagine you know yourself completely, if you ever imagine you've got it all sussed, you're just telling big lies, to yourself. but anyway. i don't like the idea of believing in things for their sake, which is a huge irony, because you'd expect as much from a manic idealist, me. but maybe that's just because i'm not feeling much like a manic idealist, right about now.

it is quiet in my mind. now what do i do.