Whoever invites me to their wedding next has a holy great deal to live up to.
Chicago, Martin Douglas is on his way.
People are so corny sometimes.
i closed my window, lit a candle, and loaded a bowl. i listened to a lot of the music from around the time i first moved into this loft, sitting above the garage of a nice 50-something-year-old lady’s house (public strain, share the joy, melted when i was feeling energetic, lasted when i curled into bed). pardon the cliche, but four years felt like a lifetime ago. i feel like i’ve lived an entire adulthood in the past four years.
sometimes i think about some of the things i had back then and have since lost, to the supposed afterlife, to the scrubbed ether of acrimony. a girlfriend who i valued more than i valued myself, a close friend with whom i’d had a very complicated (but enjoyable) friendship, my mom, a various parade of nice young ladies whose dealings with me dissolved into a pile of dust and blew away.
i try to think about where i’m going, but i have these crises of confidence sometimes. i’m still trying to plow past the one that set me back two years ago, and i feel as though i’m finally breaking ground. it’s not a matter of getting back to some elusive “old self” — that guy is long gone. it’s more about gaining that sense of confidence in order to push myself forward. in the various creative questions i obsess over (“how much subtext is too much subtext?”) and the equally various personal ones (“when does true love get to happen to me?”), it’s a task to back away from these acupuncture needles in my brain and just move along.
i do know that i don’t miss the guy i was four years ago. i still have the core principles of that guy, but the adornments have changed. there was a lot of psychic strain, but it’s mostly gone. so is the emotional instability. it’s hard to realize i can’t make amends with people and show them how i’ve changed, or show people i really have the wherewithal and the discipline to do everything i say i’m going to do. having a chip on my shoulder is a struggle, but i’ve always had it.
at least i have my friends, my family, and this 50-something-year-old lady and her husband who treat me like family. fuck it, they’re my family too. and i have the comfort that one day, i’m going to surprise everybody.
i blew that weed smoke into the air and watched it dissolve as it floated away from me. i need to learn how to not take such things so personally.
Gonna be starting Disposable Art 17 tomorrow. Check out my Flickr to see what you’ve missed thus far if you haven’t seen it.
All I really want is for somebody to like me (like, LIKE like me) for a sustained period of time without eventually getting tired of me and moving on. But until then, the handsome bachelor life it is, I guess.
I haven’t taken a photo of myself in a pretty long time and am finally starting to consider myself cute again, so here is a quick present.
The only thing I miss about my twenties is having fast metabolism.
I kind of want to start a book club with chapters from my manuscript, but I don’t know if that’s a dumb idea, to have a book club for a book that’s merely still in progress? I think on one hand, it would be cool to talk about these chapters extensively with people as the others are being written.
"Stop being so dramatic, Martin Douglas. You’re going to come back to Tumblr eventually, you dingus."
I’ve been trying to convince myself that I’m okay, but I still feel lost at sea. It’s been over five months since my mom passed away, and even though I don’t feel terrible every minute of every day, even though I don’t lie in bed every morning when I wake up and ask myself, “Do I really want to do this? Do I really want to drudge my way through the pits of another day?,” I feel like my motivation has been sapped away. I’ve done a few things that I’m proud of, but haven’t had the motivation I used to when it comes to busying myself with work. I find myself just wanting to be by myself every day.
I’ve barely written anything about music in 2014. I haven’t had the drive to keep up with everything. And the problem with that is, I don’t really care. It doesn’t matter to me if I write another word about anything, and that frightens me, because I don’t know when I’m going to be inspired to write again.
I told myself I’d take the spring off and come back swinging in the summer. I told myself I’d take the summer off and come back with a vengeance in the fall. But honestly? I have no idea when I’m coming back. The solitude is too alluring right now. Maybe instead of picking myself back up after my mother’s death, I’ve just suppressed all that grief and it’s manifesting itself in sloth and lethargy.
To be frank, I don’t know when I’m coming back. I don’t know if I’ll ever come back. I just wanted you to know in case I don’t come back.And if I don’t come back, maybe each of you will eventually see me in person one day, because I love every single one of you and I would love for that to happen. Always remember Martin Douglas loves you.