Matryoshka69’s Weblog

 I always want to post song lyrics instead of my own writing. Someone has already said anything I could have been thinking and feeling better than I could, and put it to music, too. Again with the self-deprecation. I’m not good at anything except feeling. I’m real good at feeling things- tiny subtle things in shades of gray and other difficult-to-place shades, and really grand things. But I can’t create anything with them. And what’s the use of being able to perceive great amounts of pleasure and pain if you can’t find a release?

 Every emotion is wonderful ( but i could do without terror). Especially the combinations, like nostalgia. Nostalgia and loneliness are my favorites. I miss people even when they’re present, and it just makes me yearn to touch them even more. Not in a sexual way- just to make sure they’re still there. But it’s all useless. You can’t get anywhere or get any satisfaction out of life by being an expert feeler. You get places by turning it into art, or a passion for a subject that turns into new cutting edge research, or music, or philosophy or writing. I feel helpless. 

 This is a real problem for me. I’m not kidding or being wierd because it’s almost two a.m… I really don’t feel satisfied with anything, because I can’t do anything. Art is art because it is the physical result of the whole of someone’s state of mind at a certain point in time. I consume other people’s art, because if it is well-done enough it feels like my own. But I can’t produce it. Fuckin’ A! Someone get me out of my skin before I burst. Or deflate. Or stay the same and dry myself out with constant anxiety and disappointment in myself. I don’t know which is worse.

 I hate feeling sorry for myself. Is this my fault? It must be, but how can I force creativity? I suppose I just need to keep trying… but when I try it sounds forced. If I don’t try it doesn’t make sense. Maybe I should accept it. But nothing good has ever come of people who have given up on themselves. Maybe I never really tried in the first place.

   Oh sailor, oh sail me, silver mast do impale me… oh windless, oh ruby, remind me, rewind me… oh laughter, oh laughless, just sing this, just mean this… infinity whispered to me, a mumble so dreamy… a soft sound so creamy….

 Girls are so silly. CocoRosie wrote a song about being lovestruck, and it’s so true- it’s midnight and all I want with my life is to be your housewife. Girls are so silly. I should feel stupid for actually yearning with all my heart to do something disempowering  like that, but it’s so frustratingly sweet, so vulnerably open… waiting in the kitchen, waiting for him to get home in the evening. The well-groomed house has been cleaned and scrubbed and heated, the toddler is asleep, and the chimney is blowing cheerily into the cold winter air. From the outside the house looks so quaint against the snow, the windows leaking a little bit of the love and affection cradled in the heart of the girl inside. There is doting puppy love packed into every crack and crevice of the oak floors. She was alone all day, patient for the night to come to be in his arms. The rooms are flooded with the smell of apple pie, or freshly baked cinnamon buns… He walks through the door, and the day is worth it. Everything is ok. It’s all worth it as she smells his scent while helping him take off his coat and his scarf. Words can’t even squeeze their intrusive noses between their tight hug. No, it’s an embrace. They melt because they are each other’s comfort, each other’s hot chocolate on a freezing day. She pads around, doing what she does while he goes to change his clothes, and she can feel his presence moving with him. Pride swells in her chest as she watches her man enjoying the dinner she prepared. He thought of her during the day when he was eating the sandwich she made for him- how she made it big enough for a man, so that he’d have to hold it in both hands and really sink his teeth in. He puts his lips on her cheek and every nerve ending in her body is purring with pleasure at the gentlest brush of his skin. Everything is ok. The bed missed him. He puts his arms around her and they make love gently, quietly, before falling asleep. It’s funny how this is what I see in my head when I think of two painfully devoted people loving each other fully and all-consumingly.

I’ll always be by your side
Even when you’re down and out
I just wanted to be your housewife
All I wanted was to be your housewife
I’ll iron your clothes
I’ll shine your shoes
I’ll make your bed
And cook your food
I’ll never cheat
I’ll be the best girl you’ll ever meet
And for a diamond ring
I’ll do these kinds of things
I’ll scrub your floor
Never be a bore
I’ll tuck you in
I do not snore
I’d wear your black eyes
Bake you apple pies
I don’t ask why’s
And I’ll try not to cry
I’ll always be by your side
Even when you’re down and out
And it’s nearly midnight
And all I want with my life
Is to be a housewife
‘Cause it’s nearly midnight
And all I want with my life
Is to die a housewife