lauralh: (wisdom tooth bandit)
Like most fucking pussy ass faggy writer chaps, I actually enjoy the works of Shakespeare. On a whim in the YA section I pulled out a book called Joker by Ranulfo. His author's bio on the back flap contains "blah blah blah" quite a bit, and the Modern Hamlet structure also pulled me in. This morning I was in a mood to rival athe Black Prince, so I pulled it out and read it all in one sitting. (It's just under 200pgs.) The lead character, Matthew, is quite mad after his best friend is killed in an arsonist attack and his dad's best friend seduces his mom. The madness takes the form of - in my opinion - an alternate personality called the Joker. The Joker turns this model Australian boy into an unemployed angry layabout who wants to destroy the world if he can't destroy himself. Or something like that.
I remember a newspaper story about a Czech who always wanted to visit Sydney, scraped and stinted to pursue his dream down under. Years of hard work and sacrifice finally brought him to his goal. A dream comes true. A week after arriving as he strolled down a street in Woolloomooloo, admiring the blue gem of Sydney Harbor, a stranger with an axe pounced on him and opened his head like a grotesque flower.

I must go to Sydney. Maybe a man with an axe is waiting for me.

madness

Nov. 10th, 2008 02:21 pm
lauralh: (wraith)
I read Marya Hornbacher's first book, Wasted and enjoyed it a great deal, even though I don't "get" eating disorders at all. Her latest Madness is about being bipolar, something I can relate a little more to. Unfortunately, while her writing is as intense, vivid, and descriptive as ever, the narrative flow lacks cohesion. I know this can be a problem with memoirs, but her first book was very concise and specific leading up to a breaking point where things started to change, if not immediately improved. She makes a decision to live. There is no such similar point in this book, it's just a series of anecdotes about being manic or depressed. And not your garden-variety mania or depression, these are months-long episodes that more often than not lead to her being hospitalized. Each one separately is powerful and heartbreaking and painful - she really draws a reader in - but as a whole I felt it missed the mark. I just felt empty after reading it.
lauralh: (wacked out burns)
reading: I started on the first volume of the collected letters of Hunter S. Thompson. He's bugfuck even before the drugs, nomsayin? Oh, also, most of the stuff in Fear and Loathing was actually made up. Horrors upon horrors. I am also reading Henry Miller's Black Spring and by reading I mean skimming and jumping around on the page. I think I'm not going to try reading any more of his books, because I like reading and want to continue to like it. This is also why I refuse to read Joyce.

body: My calves no longer feel like twenty million bacteria with hammers are working on them. Maybe only one million. So I'm going to have to continue with the exercise, I suspect. Especially I feel amazingly fat today. Probably cos we ordered Pagliacchi last night. I prefer Stacia's but they are batshit nuts with their 3 hour wait. I mean, excuse me, how is this possible? Really, what? How on earth can it possibly take 90 minutes to make and deliver a pizza? Can you please hire more fucking cooks or ovens? Jesus.

etc: This morning there were about 30 people waiting for the bus, and this was at 8:30 in Ballard where there was sunshine and little ice. Three of them came in a row, two Express and one Local. I hightailed it to the last one. Apparently it like snowed or some shit last night. Other than that no issues, downtown was dry by the time I got there and walked to 5th from 1st.
lauralh: (wacked out burns)
oh, I'm sure I told a lot of you, but [livejournal.com profile] uberjeep is freakin' amazing.

"You can tell a schizophrenic’s room because the radio is always on at low volume to drown out the voices, there is often a fairly organic smell and they sleep with their boots on in case they have to run away quickly."
lauralh: (the cheat is not dead)
[Poll #385095]

edit: I am talking Role-Playing here, people! what's wrong with you?
lauralh: (Default)
So I ride the bus every morning and every afternoon at the same time. Well, more often the same time in the afternoon, I'll grant you. Anyway, it strikes me as odd that I pretty much never ever see the same people on the bus from day to day, even at my own bus stop. Or maybe, just maybe, they're totally indistinctive from each other. I mean, once I saw a girl reading at my stop in the morning, and I saw her on the afternoon bus too, but that was it.

A couple days ago I saw a severely retarded girl on the bus. She resembled my sister, but like I said, worse. Downs' people make me feel itchy in my soul, because I love my sister but I'm honestly the type of person who thinks she should have been aborted. But, she's really very mildly retarded, and apparently loves to save up money to buy Friends DVDs. So you know, we have something in common. But this girl, on the bus, was very unlike my sister. In appearance anyway. First of all, she had her mouth open the whole time. In high school I realized this was the quickest way to be branded a retard. And of course she had those big round-slanted eyes and a fat round moonface. My sister has a cute cute B[mylastname] button nose, but this girl had like, my roommate's nose but twisted. I felt sick to my heart looking at her, as I always do.

Yesterday, though, I was in for a treat. Middle-aged Crazy Goth Man was sitting across from me. He had flames tattooed on both sides of his face, a silver dangly earring that looked like the biohazard symbol, and a dark black cowboy hat that looked western but not country. He wore a leather motorcycle jacket underneath a big black trench coat, or maybe it was a duster. And of course black pants going into big huge gothy black boots. A real Winnar, as it were. The creamy filling to this guy was what he held in his hands: a brown paper envelope with the label "SOCIAL SECURITY ADMINISTRATION."
lauralh: (Default)
My dad has this thing about listening to the same album over and over again. I used to not be able to do that, what with my attention span and all, and I'd get so very annoyed that I'd want to smash the car windows (as we were usually in the car when I was forced to listen with him, otherwise I could leave). One of these was Past Masters 2, and inevitably he would talk about the 60s and drugs or something.

Especially when "The Inner Light" came on. Damn, would he go on and on about his LSD trips.
lauralh: (Default)
[Bad username or site: herbaliser' phonepostid='7 @ livejournal.com]
lauralh: (oxygen gets me high)
after reading most of this last night, i totally wanna go to kmart and make tea out of dried opium poppies.

it was all rather disturbing, actually, and I'm not sure why. i'm just easily disturbed. for some reason the soviet spy shit bothered me a lot. i guess because glasnost was right around when I started noticing stuff, and then we started seeing how Russia couldn't possibly be a threat and all. but hey guess what! it was totally, big time. "there are still a ton of secret transmitters that have been booby-trapped in existence."
lauralh: (Default)
When tweaked out on cold medication, do not read nutso conspiracy fantasy.
lauralh: (Default)
A Beautiful Mind and The Royal Tenenbaums. Both good. I liked the latter better, since you know, Wes Anderson is a fucking genius filmmaker, but the former was pretty cool too. Especially since I'd just read that SF book about schizophrenia.

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Laural Hill

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