Like sand through a hourglass, so are the days of our lives.. Oh dear, I just quoted the intro from a soap opera..
However today has really felt like a total waste, every hour, just like sand, passing by without any importance. I woke up at 1.30, had a nap around 4. Really productive Lisa. Reminds me of the old me, the me that stayed up all night and slept all day.. The days just passed by, until the weekend. Went out, got annihalated both friday and saturday, sometimes I woke up alone, sometimes next to someone.. Then it just started over again.. I hate my self-destructive behaviour. I know that I can make myself feel better by just getting out of bed and activate myself, but i don’t. I lay there, hour after hour.. The anxiety is almost like a drug, I crave it at times although I know it makes me feel horrible. It’s like I think that I deserve nothing more then to feel like shit..
I just realized it’s friday. A friday night, and I’m at home watching TV. This isn’t me, I really need to get my money soon before my ass permanently gets stuck on this couch. Being broke sucks ass.
“Not being able to sleep is terrible. You have the misery of having partied all night… without the satisfaction.” -Lynn Johnston (Canadian cartoonist)
Like so many nights before I am lying sleepless in my bed. The clock on my mobile phone is showing 3.14, that number 3 is so taunting. Every time I see that God forsaken digit I know that I have a long lingering night of frustration ahead of me.
I have read somewhere that the best thing to do if you can’t sleep is just to get up and do something else for a while, so I turn on my little gay pink computer (I know that to sit by a computer or watch TV is one of the worst things you can do, but I disregard this) and open up ITunes. I should probably play my ‘Zzz’ playlist which as you might understand is music suitable for sleeping; however I choose to take a walk on the wild side. All music – on shuffle.
I start off with a nice and comfy Homeward bound (Simon and Garfunkel are perfect for late night listening) and then I leave my destiny in the hands of the program given to us by the all powerful Apple. The next track starts, an unfamiliar couple of guitar riffs later a very British voice sings; “Living without reason, Dwarfed, Alone, Imprisoned, wondering why I’m here at all.”
Sudden flashback. Debaser, Slussen in Stockholm late December (I think) of 2007. A crowd of young indie kids and somewhat older self-appointed music connoisseurs are buzzing like flies in a venue drenched in a smell of cheap draft beer and lack of deodorant. On stage, Jack Peñate, a Brit playing decent what I would call catchy pop/rock music. He’s a pretty ordinary looking bloke, and so is his music to be honest. But geez, seeing that guy on stage is like liquid ecstasy and Viagra in one – Pure energy, pure sex. And boy did he get the crowd going, I don’t know how long it lasted for but I danced my little ass of, and so did everyone else especially the artist himself. To quote the Kooks, he ‘moves in her his own way’.
After the gig (and a couple of shots) I decided that Jack Peñate probably wanted to hear my opinion. I wiggled my way over to the closed door behind the stage and gave it a couple of hard knocks. A man (I think it was the drummer) opened the door and I told him I needed to talk to Jack, that it was urgent. The ‘drummer’ looked grumpy and slammed the door shut. Just as I was to walk away the door opened again, there he was, my Jack. I took his hand and slurred “I really, really liked the gig.” He smiled and thanked me, after that a looong awkward silence. I remember wondering why he didn’t just walk away. But then, when he asked to get his hand back, and I realized that I was holding on to his hand for dear life, with both of my sweaty palms. I gave him his hand back and let him retreat to his little room back stage.
As I walked back to my friends I felt proud (not really the feeling I had the nest morning), not for having talked to him, but for letting him know what I thought about the gig, making him feel appreciated. As if the screaming crowd hadn’t done that?
Next time I talk to a great performer (if ever), I’ll hopefully be less intoxicated and more elaborate than “really, really good”.
Penn deserved every carat of the Oscar he received for his acting in Milk.
Today I watched a homosexual politician fight for gay rights. In I am Sam I followed the struggles of a retarded man. Mystic River showed me a grieving father wanting vengeance. Susan Sarandon talked to an imprisoned killer and rapist about to be executed in Dead Man Walking. Other actors play a role, Sean Penn becomes it.
