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Jan. 9th, 2001 03:40 amI've consumed an adequate dose of coffee, and I've only grown more energetic as everyone else has been winding down to sleep. I had a full day of rest and relaxation, with *gasp* TEN hours of sleep. I was so tired when I got home this morning that I don't even remember lying down on the couch...I woke up about six hours later and stumbled into my bedroom, turned on my fan, stripped off my clothes and dozed off again.
I've been listening to Nevermore and finishing 7 tattoos: a memoir in the flesh. I listen to at least one Nevermore cd every night and I notice something new each time. 7 tattoos is THE book that I wish I would have written...not that I would prescribe the suffering that the author has gone through unto myself, but the expressiveness of his writing leaves a mark.
"Or maybe what happens is that love offers you an exit from the seedy hotel room of SELF, the room in which you sit alone with your desires, the desires you take neat, like shots of rye. You meet someone, and she calls you away from the narrow bed whose mattresss might be stuffed with iron filings, the yellowed linoleum, the single, fly soiled lightbulb, the windows with their film of soot that give onto nothing but an air shaft. You walk out of the room and you join her in the bright air outside, and if you're lucky you get to stay there with her. But some of us, you know, are agoraphobes. We can't take the raw, unfiltered light, the hurtling distances. They make us anxious. And sooner or later we turn on the one who lured us out, we blame her for overturning our lives, and we go back to the old hotel, where our old room is always waiting for us." Peter Trachtenburg, excerpted from 7 tattoos
I've been listening to Nevermore and finishing 7 tattoos: a memoir in the flesh. I listen to at least one Nevermore cd every night and I notice something new each time. 7 tattoos is THE book that I wish I would have written...not that I would prescribe the suffering that the author has gone through unto myself, but the expressiveness of his writing leaves a mark.
"Or maybe what happens is that love offers you an exit from the seedy hotel room of SELF, the room in which you sit alone with your desires, the desires you take neat, like shots of rye. You meet someone, and she calls you away from the narrow bed whose mattresss might be stuffed with iron filings, the yellowed linoleum, the single, fly soiled lightbulb, the windows with their film of soot that give onto nothing but an air shaft. You walk out of the room and you join her in the bright air outside, and if you're lucky you get to stay there with her. But some of us, you know, are agoraphobes. We can't take the raw, unfiltered light, the hurtling distances. They make us anxious. And sooner or later we turn on the one who lured us out, we blame her for overturning our lives, and we go back to the old hotel, where our old room is always waiting for us." Peter Trachtenburg, excerpted from 7 tattoos
