The Drivel Thread

[Light Housework]

Maybe you didn’t read it , but there was some other thread recently where I mentioned my puritan instincts and my loathing of sex positivity. Sorry, I don’t think your vagina or your orgasms are something you should make public posts about. Decorum—please.

I’m not sure where the line is though. If you had said, “Morrissey, I find you irresistible and I want you in my bed,” that would’ve been okay. But “Morrissey [implied], here is information about my vagina” is, yes, completely haram in my book. Let Morrissey be your model. He has not, so far as I know, talked openly about his preferences regarding the manipulation of his penis.

Life is short, and I want Morrissey to understand my womanhood as it was 20 years ago, before I’m no more.

 

[Lucifer Sam]

Life is short, and I want Morrissey to understand my womanhood as it was 20 years ago, before I’m no more.

That’s fine, but this is a conversation you should have with him privately, if/when he comes to your apartment.

 

[nicky wire's legs]

"I know I'm unlovable. You don't have to tell me. I don't have much in my life, but take it, it's yours. I don't have much on my mind, but take it, it's yours."
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Thus is by far the saddest post on this thread, evocative of aschenbach from death in venice.

 

[Light Housework]

I don’t feel like cleaning the floor. I intend to paint in about 3 hours. My lung bothered me somewhat for most of the day. It’s hardly doing so now, though it doesn’t feel healthy either. I’m sick of reading true crime. I guess I will look for the 2004 concerts that “famous when dead” posted a few weeks ago and watch the 2nd one down, as I did watch the top one, and it was good, as every Morrissey concert is, in its own way. It’s relieving that my right lung isn’t bothering me now. I don’t have any appointments tomorrow, so I’m putting off cleaning the floor until then. Today I saw a mental health worker. We walked to the cafe and sat in the spring sun sipping our beverages. A young woman with a dog passed by, and her dog made a beeline for my hand, obviously wanting to be touched. It was so instantaneous. The woman was very bubbly, friendly, easy going, and unrushed, so I gave her a Morrissey sticky note and she said she’d check out Morrissey’s music. She’s a fellow redhead. Later, on my usual walk, I crossed paths with a young man with two beautiful and calm dogs. I said that they were nice dogs and he gave me an obligatory smile. He reminds me of a young Morrissey. Gorgeous. I hope to see him again and get a better smile, and ask him if he’s ever heard of Morrissey. My right hip was ever so slightly achy on my walk. Such pains come and go. The right lung disaster is another story. I can smell the melanin on my skin after sitting in the sun. It’s a soothing scent, as long as it’s not too strong from sunburn. I’m somewhat afraid to paint because I like Morrissey In Grantley Hall so far, and doing further work on it is risking ruining it, but I must continue to paint it in, because it begs for more paint, being too bare and plain. I’ve got about 3 hours to kill until probably painting, and I wonder how long it will take me to locate the link with the 2004 concerts in a post. I’ll begin the search in about half an hour. I don’t feel like conducting a search right now. I’m just getting my bearings, after taking a bit of a beating from my right lung for most of the day, even while walking back from the cafe with my mental health worker, rattle coughing. It doesn’t feel comforting or reassuring. It feels like the beginning of the end. I’m writing this post to pass the time, to take stock, to place an entry in this thread that I look back through as a diary, to talk to Morrissey, and that’s about it, other than thinking that there are a few people who read this thread who appreciate it, which enriches the experience of documenting my life. It’s relaxing and a type of purging, to type these words too. My fingers enjoy doing it. I remember seeing Kristeen Young’s fingers enjoying her keyboarding on a synthesizer on video. I wonder what her style of painting is like. I bet it would be interesting. I’m dreading the return of the lung discomfort I’m expecting sooner or later. My knee jerk reaction is to reach for food and beverage, as if that could stave it off. A distraction. Head in the sand, trying to pretend everything’s going to be okay. I remember someone in Montreal calling ice cream “comfort food”. That was the first time I’d heard the term. He was eating ice cream while I was sniffing his cocaine. Jerry. A good, honest man. Kind and gentle he was. I don’t know what led him to become a coke dealer. His personality didn’t fit the stereotype. I was lucky that I didn’t get permanently hooked. It was just temporary, until I came down, and then I didn’t want more. I didn’t want to come down though, I remember. I had no choice but to come down off of it, and then the shame kicked in of having been temporarily addicted, and I didn’t want to repeat that, though I did end up dabbling a few times. Today I don’t crave it. I wonder what it would be like to be high on quality coke while my right lung is rattle coughing. I don’t much want to find out. The only way I might try a drug again is if it were offered by Morrissey, perhaps, but even then, or maybe especially then, I would say no, because I think I’d want to be high on life, not dope, in his company. Where are you and what are you doing Morrissey? Now I have Pashernate Love in my head.

 

[Light Housework]

I didn’t paint. I grumbled about the unwholesome feeling in my chest and laid down because it seems to alleviate it somewhat. I just rattle coughed. It’s closing in on me. The idea of painting while feeling this way gives me the willies. Painting’s all about enjoyment when it goes to my liking. How can I enjoy myself when it feels like I’m being tortured from inside my chest? I don’t know that I can. Maybe I will try, but not now. I feel too glum to right now. I don’t want to paint while feeling like this, because I think I would take it out on the painting, and that would make me sad. The resulting painting would be an eyesore. If chest discomfort won’t stop, then I will probably eventually paint anyway, but only if I will feel positive in spite of the shitty sensation. Right now I am not feeling positive about painting. I’m still grumbling, rather, and don’t think I can pull myself out of it. Maybe after sleeping I’ll be brave.

 

[Light Housework]

I slept, and am feeling better, though not completely. I hope to paint in a few hours, and that I will be crazy about the process and the results. So far I do very much like the portrait of Morrissey at Grantley Hall, though I’m just noticing that his body is a tad too small for his head. Ah, well, c’est la vie. I know why that happened and it’s perfectly understandable, though I don’t want to bother explaining in words. I’ve been hearing crows and seagulls through the open window, though it looks like it’s still dark outside. The blinds are down and I don’t feel like getting out of my recliner to look through the window. Now that I know I screwed up Morrissey At Grantley Hall, I feel less intimidated about painting it more. I just took a selfie, with the urge to post one now, but it’s so ugly, that I would be embarrassed, and don’t see the point anyway. I often remind myself of Alain Whyte in my selfies lately. I’m hoping to have a productive day, even if the rattling cough happens throughout it. It hasn’t happened yet this morning. I want to just enjoy my life, being carefree and amused. It’s getting harder to do, and lately I’ve been noticing that I have what I’m guessing is like athlete’s foot, in the middles of the palms of my hands, particularly after my hands have been soaking, for instance in a bath. I don’t know how that started. I began noticing it about a month ago, much to my chagrin. Somebody please kill me.

 

[Light Housework]

I’m remembering you, how you stayed on that bench waiting for me to eat and pay at the restaurant, though I didn’t know it was you at the time. I know only in hindsight that it was unquestionably you, and I remember how patiently you waited, similarly to when you sat near me while I ate at the restaurant in Chinatown 20 years ago, oh so patiently and calmly, I love you. I’m going to watch a 2004 concert of you, then paint some of your portrait, then clean my floor, then go for a walk hoping to end up in your arms. If it doesn’t end that way this evening, then I hope to be patient for you to come and take me in your arms finally, before too long. If my right lung acts up, I will try to stay active in spite of it, as long as nausea doesn’t occur. Nausea is a deal breaker when it comes to enthusiasm, and lung pain is up there nearly as disenchanting. I don’t want to end this post on such a note. Right now I’m feeling pretty good. I’m willing to continue to feel pretty good for the rest of the day and for the evening. Will my willingness be enough?

 

[Light Housework]

Feeling pretty good and pleased with how this painting session went, though my fingers trembled when painting around the irises, and it shows.

 

[Light Housework]

Spent an hour cleaning the floor, and am feeling pretty good. Will leave home to go for a walk within an hour. I am pleasantly surprised to be feeling no lung distress signals. I actually enjoyed cleaning. I’m sitting on my bed waiting for the floor to dry so I can walk on it without ruining my cleaning job. Cleaning can be an exploration, an examination of relics and a treasure hunt, though it’s mostly uncovering garbage and figuring out how best to dispose it. I think Margaret Atwood calls dust bunnies “slut’s wool”. By the time I’ve finished the whole floor of my apartment, I will have filled a small garbage pail with it. Funny how slut’s wool doesn’t crop up in the outdoors. Mostly just under furniture.

 

[Light Housework]

When I didn’t think you were interested in being with me Morrissey, my fingers didn’t tremble when painting your eyes. I guess I felt a detachment that has vanished now that you’ve shown me that you at least wanted to be with me Aug. 10th 2023, and Feb. 13th of this year. It’s like your eyes in the paintings are so realistic to me in essence, that I get nervous daring to mess with them. I try to tell myself that it’s just a painting, but I can’t help but see your eyes in the painting’s eyes, and it feels like so much is on the line and I have the world’s fate resting on my shoulders, and my nerves go haywire. I wonder what I would do if I was a surgeon dealing with tiny nerves and my fingers trembled uncontrollably. Maybe I will imagine I’m doing surgery the next time I paint your eyes, and see if I can summon up steady nerves for such an important endeavour as giving you interestingly painted eyes to depict your own eyes. I don’t know if I can imagine the gravity of paint being flesh, and a brush stroke carrying the weight of a scalpel or, other minuscule surgical tools, but I will try next time I paint your eyes, to give the paintbrushes the importance of doing surgery and see what happens, in the hope that I will stop shaking. It’s interesting that my fingers are steady throughout the portrait, only trembling just where I most want to be steady, your sensitive eyes. It drives me up the wall.

 

[Light Housework]

I think the trembling has happened with your mouth too. I think I remember that happening once, when I was painting the right corner of your mouth, and my nerves jumped and the brush went astray in spasm.

 

[Light Housework]

You can see it at the corner of your mouth here.

 

[nicky wire's legs]

Your hands shook when I met you! It's the medication. Someone should've told you it was a side effect.

 

[Was I ever any good]

It’s just a pity her hands didn’t shake your throat to death

 

[nicky wire's legs]

Yuk yuk

 

[nicky wire's legs]

It’s just a pity her hands didn’t shake your throat to death

Ask fwd why spazthebunny isn't front page!! (I want to but I'm too scared!)

 

[nicky wire's legs]

Also figure out how to create a blog for me! I want to create a work one where I write stunningly astute and withering profiles of my coworkers and customers. I want it to become famous and for them to recognize themselves in it and never leave their homes again!

 

[Was I ever any good]

I’m on it

 

[nicky wire's legs]

Fwd set up a blog for me!!

 

[Was I ever any good]

I don’t even know what a Blogs does.
Is it when people chat shit for hours and hours?