MXA

My anger and my rage is poison.

A drink fixed this

I am filled with an all pervasive anxiety. It makes concentration difficult. I have been feeling this since yesterday, in the early hours of 1 and 2 am when I got home from KG’s. Is it related? I don’t know. Waves of self-loathing and disgust; the Barney’s Version essay is painful.

I have spent so many years compromising what I believe about truth and honesty, in the interests of getting a job, to survive, that I have betrayed those ideals.

…

Often when I learn about a new author, in an effort shave off some part of their greatness, I will compare myself to them. Mordecai Richler believed in the truth before politeness; in his younger days he was uncomfortably shy; Mordecai wrote in multiple mediums, never settling for fiction, but writing essays, non-fiction books. It is as if by finding similarities between myself and the author, I can gain some small part of their talent.

Kerouac and Capote Walk into a bar

When Kerouac wrote On The Road, he glued sheets of paper together end to end forming a long roll. This way he never had to stop typing. On and on he would go, driven by Benzedrine, until 3 weeks later it was done. Pure, unedited, perfect. Of Keruoac’s style, Capote once said, “That’s not writing, it’s typing.” Both men obliterated their talents and themselves with alcohol and drugs. Kerouac, in particular, drank himself to death.

I would rather spend my life dreaming of a better world, than accept my fate in a shitty one.

I am either a furrier or the cat is shedding me a new blanket.

There is pain worse than yours

Things have been going shit lately, but much like that old Radio Head lyric, “you do it to yourselves / you and no one else,” this is all self inflicted. Procrastination leads to anxiety leads to more procrastination. I’m feeling sorry for myself as the bus enters the DTES and I can’t help but think, You know, it could always be so much worse. Your problems aren’t really problems.

Listening

Listening to two South Asian girls on the bus. They switch between Urdu-Punjabi-Hindi — I’m not sure — and English with ease. They are young and so their English is perfect. They start sentences in English and will finish them in their particular flavour of the Indian Subcontinent. For those mixed sentences spoken particularly quickly, there is a transition: English words preceded by a South Asian one will blur, are spoken with a South Asian accent are followed by a perfect English one. It is fascinating to listen to. I find myself trying to decipher the conversation by the few English words that are spoken.

For the record, India alone has 22 languages to choose from.