ihavebeenfloated

Look at this spineless anomymous moron in my comments trying to start something with me over something that I wrote three years ago. Amazing, the internet, isn’t it?

On this note, I figure it’s only proper for me to mention the re-opening of An Exquisite Corpse, that I would have been completely oblivious to, had Mr. Anonymous not called my attention of it. As I mention in the above reply to the commenter attacking me, the entire concept of equisite corpses was never, ever suited to the internet. You can’t use photoshop and build something off a fifteen pixel strip that is going to look anything like the section before it, without the benefit of complete luck. The beauty of ‘corpses’ are the nature of them, the folded paper and the similar materials you use.

I remember one night, Dan Crum and I were sitting out—(Or maybe it was my girlfriend at the time, and I)—by the pool at the old apartment, doing corpses with a pencil and a pad of paper. The things that came out at that point were infinitely better than anything ever posted to that website using Photoshop. (I must mention at this point that I can’t draw worth a shit, there is not a manual graphical artistic bone in my body, but the corpses were still better.) An equisite corpse requires a human connection between the two people. It requires that undeniable subconscious mental link between two, or several, different people when they’re in the same room, experiencing the same thing. This is how you get corpses that have relationships developing between the sections. You need a relationship in order to create relationships in art.

Besides, art is not ‘made’ with Photoshop. You can’t just construct things beautiful out of it, you must start with a foundation that is already potentially artistic. (I say this as to not step on the toes of photomanipulators, who create some amazing pieces using Photoshop, but usally start with a really lousy photograph or series of photographs.) Unfortunately, the concept of equisite corpses pretty much all but makes it impossible for you to manipulate an already existing piece of art into another one, as the outcome will come out to look like, well, this. (And that is the only corpse I ever worked on, and then I tore it apart in the comments.)

Looks like “Stuy Parker” comes back when Brad severs his ties with cigarettes.

The hockey game was a bit of a bust, as far as I’m concerned. Both eye opening, exciting, and a tiny bit soul crushing. Sara’s dogs loved me. Sara’s little brother says, “Please,” and, “Thank you,” which is very strange. Tiffany wore this fuzzy orange shirt that gave me goosebumps. Jaimie ate these garlic fries that made both Tiffany and I want to puke all over ourselves repeatedly. Then she fed them to Tiffany’s dog, which gave her the same nasty garlic fry breath that Jamie kept shoving in my face until I was nauseous. I hustled Tiffany and I out the door soon after that, because I knew if I stayed any longer, I would probably get sick all over the amazingly beautiful dachsund that was sitting in front of us. The strange looks Sara and Jamie shot at me on exit didn’t bother me much, I think I’m getting used to them.

I’m not giving up hope, I’m just not worrying myself about it anymore. In fact, I think I may have learned that I have hope, and that I had really none before. There’s a line of realization that has to be crossed, and sometimes that line is the biggest gaping chasm you have ever seen in your life when there is a hole inside yourself that is slowly filling with all the potential sorrow in the world, and most of it isn’t even yours at the time. Eventually something comes along and starts to close it up, the sorrow getting scooped out and shoveled back into the other people, back to where it belongs, and that line of realization becomes just that, a line that can be easily stepped over. When you wake up from the crossing, you look back and you don’t recognize that place as somewhere you were, because the other side of the line is just a mirror image of the side you were originally on, but you feel different, and it leaves you confused. The place hasn’t changed at all, but you’ve moved. You’re left standing there, not sure whether you actually learned anything or not, trying to figure out why you feel different about all sorts of things that bothered you before, and above all else, you’re ridiculously fucking confused.

The change is patience, patience given to you by hope. It feels like not caring, it feels like giving up hope, if you were never someone who was patient before. I guess I’ve always been the, “right now, goddammit,” type. I become obsessed, maybe even a little delusional, trying to justify the things I’m thinking and doing, no matter how bullshit the excuse is. I want everything to happen as soon as it possibly can’t. When you pull away the pure impatience lying inside of me, I start to feel like I’m not as impassioned anymore, like things that used to matter don’t anymore.

I have to remind myself that I am not giving up, I am just moving forward while waiting.

There is no need to stand still.

I swear to god, I should just smoke a goddamn cigarette. This insane bullshit is going to kill me.

Pity that I have this pesky sudden will power.

Five days now? Approaching a whole week. Crazy.

Where’s my chewing gum?