One week in notebook

“Had a dream where I decided on an idea for a book that I thought I should write someday while I was still asleep. Meaning that while I was dreaming, I was DREAM-THINKING, ‘this is a book that I want to write.’ The premise was a love triangle that took place in an apt. building between two women and a man. One of the three is so in love with another that they fill an entire apartment up with objects that they want to give to them as gifts. (There are even objects inside of other objects) The book would basically be a portrait of obsession from the obsessor’s eye, telling a linear tale through explication of the objects strewn around the apartment (their placement and their history). Upon waking, I had no real idea what this novel would consist of because the characters immediately began to escape me, but whilst dreaming they were vivid, present, and entirely inhabitable.”

“The internet is made up of humans, furiously working to perfect knowledge; ourselves. As a perfectionist myself, it seems the only option available- be perfect or do not be. What does Yoda say? Do- there is no try. So, I won’t. It would end me to try and yet fail.”

“‘My stomache is so big that it actually hurts to lay on. -Eric, on the 4th of July”

“I’ve learned more from talking to lesser and average intelligenced people than I have from talking to geniuses.”

“Drawing smileys on beach pebbles is one of the greatest ideas that I’ve had to date.”

“To reject the internet is evolutionary suicide, so then call me confused in the primordial soup. I’m returning to a better time.”

“Life is exciting enough without inciting waves, for some, it seems.
For me, I’ve always found adventure and knowledge from fellow travelers and from whose who I’ve traveled upon- dripping loose with lessons.
One man in Andy Warhol sunglasses taught me how to break another’s arm with a lifting turn of the wrist, and a return over my own.”

“Eric and Vinnie are strolling down the beach away from me in similar dawdling strides, red and green shorts making them look quite like a traffic light on a windy afternoon, a box looking to shake free of its intersection.”

“Nothing destroys your inner voice like college. Before college, I had the voice of a lion- a bellowing roar that only sounded when you were a mouth’s stride away from the inside of my throat. Maybe I was still developing, but at least I was developing. College took my writing to a barreling pause. The pressure to produce journalistic writing with no more compound or complex an adjective than “very” absolutely devastated my creative voice and I doubt that I will ever venture to try again in that vein. Make me a columnist- let them grab their dictionary. I am not dumbing myself down for anybody ever again. Nanci taught me better than that. Nanci taught me that success and what I need to achieve it, are already inside of me. I’ve been blessed and I need not to forget.”

“Hit me, punk ass.”

“I dreamed last night that my grandfather was ‘scheduled’ to die, a dream I once had before about myself. This future world that I dream about- where death can be scheduled and you needn’t go it alone… In this building that I stood in then with my closest relatives, all sorts of people were laid up of sitting in caskets that lined the gymnasium-like buildings, some surrounded by families laughing uncomfortably, and others completely alone. A solitary greenish-gray hand moved downward in one casket that I passed, showing that the movement from this world and to the next had not yet been completed. We were there with Grandpa, an IV pumping death into his arm as he lay there, frantic, forcibly composed, and blind. All of these people had their eyes removed- black, empty sockets were brandished and bewildered, eyebrows furrowed up into v’s above the holes. I feverishly guarded every new thought that Grandpa and I communicated before he was gone.”

“Write loads, think more, listen always, say less, tell nothing.”

“I love the smell of my body odor. This is going to be a professional problem.”

“Dear journal,

Hi, hello, this is your humble narrator, Gianna, speak writing. I am coming to you after the first full night’s un-rest that I’ve chosen to have in a long while and it feels amazing. I forgot how I’ve relished my condition in the past at times, and how I did so to harnass my most productive hours! I feel like my old self again and also as if I finally know where I’d gone to and just how divorced from myself I’ve really been. Honest, I remember myself in this moment.

Last night I began talking about my accident for the first time since I was working through my PTSD. I even looked at the pictures of my truck and couldn’t even begin to understand how I survived that car wreck. (Seatbelts and angels to be sure)

I chatted with someone about how this was the first time since my recuperation that I was really talking much about it and how I’ve felt sort of insecure about discussing it because of my mother’s obsession with tragedy, while I’ve seemed the exact opposite. He said something very succinct on the matter and it went along the lines of:

“Some people enjoy being a victim, other just want to persevere at all costs.”

I am definitely of the latter camp, though I do recognize my hardships as having been invaluable teachers to me in my lifetime, events that I would never copy, edit, or delete.

I also came to a stumbling sputtering conclusion that I want to pursue comedy.

(Blame The American, the new Bill Hicks documentary)

I really think it may be the medium that my writing will sing in.

I’m a good in-camera editor and I have a feeling an in-camera edit of my writing on stage could be it.

If not, maybe I need to find myself a “real job.”

Someone hold my hair back while I barf into my lungs (again)….

…..And with that, journal, I bid thee adieu (or “adue” as some poor sap explained on facebook or “fb”

(if you prefer the Orwellian Newspeak that infests every corner of our instated society).

This has been:

one week in notebook from this bulbous-nosed 24-year-old shit clown.

Over and out”