“The engine turns on a dime, but I ain’t goin’ nowhere tonight.”
I’ll admit, I’m retracting into my shell. The life of craving attention is quite over, and the point of this entire site was to promote the shark adventure. In the past two or so years it has morphed into more of a sounding board that would puke nonsense into the eyes of whomever decided to read it. Sometimes, perhaps, it was pertinent and entertaining. Other times it was just me being an angry drunk not knowing what to be angry at. Fact of the matter, this site doesn’t really serve a point anymore. I don’t have much else to say, except, we all have to move on. And I don’t need this anymore.
The same way I don’t feel the need to go drive aimlessly through the night down dark roads doing nothing but looking at stuff, wondering where the heck my life is going to lead me. I also don’t feel the need to stop for an adult beverage when I get stressed or even find myself reaching out for help from people that couldn’t possibly help me. I’ve sort of rearranged my brain and realized that the damn thing was a jigsaw puzzle with not just a few, but a hell of a lot of pieces gone. Those pieces that were gone I was trying to fill with stuff that didn’t fit. The more I tried to rearrange, the more deranged it became. Only when you can step back from a project you can really see the grand scheme of things, and sometimes it’s not what you want to see.
True story, I was once at a Ryan Adams concert (shhh, don’t tell anyone), and I accidentally got bumped into by someone which in fact made me spill some beer on the chick in front of me. She spun around and made the biggest deal out of it. To her the world was coming to an end and I was the scourge of the earth when in fact it wasn’t even my fault. Somebody ELSE knocked into me, and I was sticking with that as my excuse. What sort of excuse is that though, now that I think about it, should I have been there in the first place? No, not really, I didn’t even like Ryan Adams. Should I have been standing that close to someone notorious for moving about without warning? Eh, probably not either, it was a bad idea all around. Should I have had that beer in my hand? Maybe not, but that’s what all the cool kids were doing. I was just a reed bending in the wind, allowing the rest of the world decide what was going to happen to me, positive or not. In the end, I don’t remember anything else from that concert except for a long, silent ride home.
Bending like a reed in the wind…but why? What the hell, I mean, does the mighty oak sway in slight breezes, do the sequoias bend when a bird lands on them, does a…never mind, no more horticultural references…you get the point.
“Wild Willy makes bread – he’s 79 years old and doesn’t want to make bread anymore. He follows the directions and gets the same result every time. It makes you wonder if he’s ever wanted to sabotage his own recipe just to see it fail”
-Nikki Weed, the summer of 2009 at the weight of 82 lbs living in Kingsport, TN
I look back over almost a decade and a half of notes that I have written, quotes that I’ve kept and crap that I’ve chronicled in several small notebooks. I look over this, and remember very vividly that day. I was half dead, I was confused, and somehow, someway I found myself with my Aunts MDX at some flea market on 11W. Wandering in, mostly hoping to find some food to sneak (I had a problem eating in front of people), I met Wild Willy. His image matched his name, just a good ole boy that looked less like a baker than he did a genuine moonshiner. He had kind eyes, and when I wandered up, he had stories to tell, and I had nothing else to do but listen. I bet there was about an hour that passed me sitting there hearing his stories of being a kid growing up outside of Bristol, racing cars, dating “wimmin”, and the like. Towards the end of the conversation, however, the tone turned a bit more melancholy. He expressed the fact that he was sick and tired of making this bread that he was selling this bread at flea markets, how all the people look the same, and how everyone tries to hustle him down on a price that I thought was already more than fair. The hardest thing to hear was him say “I don’t know what else to do, I’m old, I can’t change now.”
It haunts me, that day, that summer, that decade. Why not? Then again, I found myself thinking the same way. What was I doing, where was I going? Why the hell am I making the same mistakes over and over again? For Wild Willy, he wasn’t making actually mistakes physically, he was just making one very large mental mistake, self doubt. I harnessed that for a long time too, until, with some very much needed love and support, I realized that I am, in fact, braver than I think I am. I can make good decisions, I can take control, I can make the decision not to put my fingers in the wood chipper (if you know me personally, you’ll know the reference).
“My life, I’ll live,
in a shadow of your past,
but I realize,
I’ll never be good enough for you.
I’m not a pacifist,
I’m not a complicated person,
I’m just not…
good enough for you.
I’ll never be…
good enough for you.
that’s the way,
Nikki circa 2007 (fuck, that’s some depressing fucking stuff right there.
I read this now and feel absolutely sick. Accepting myself as second rate and being okay with it, being oppressed and led to believe that I really wasn’t good enough. Good enough for what, I wonder now. Good enough for whom or what? Who’s to say that other thing wasn’t good enough for me? The progression backwards from this is interesting…taking another leap three years behind that…
“It is impossible to truly concentrate on anything when your wallet is empty and your heart is full of fear”
It was a quote from a Hunter S Thompson book I was reading, I remember being in an almost empty apartment in Lake Geneva after my cousin moved out. No job, no furniture, just my cat, my Nissan Stanza and a mattress on the floor. In many ways I was the happiest girl in the world because I had a few solid friend (most of whom I’ve lost contact with), but I was simple. Life was simple. The cat, my green suitcase, and maybe 25 bucks to my name.
And to the very beginning of my chronicles, back in 2002…
“Today’s pig is tomorrows bacon.”
I’m still not so very sure on that one, I guess it means use what you have today to plan for tomorrow, which is what I’ve been carefully scheming away at. Instead of being like the one that “isn’t good enough” or bending in the wind, or even baking fucking bread every day. I’m over it, I’m over letting other people boss me around and tell me what makes me happy, I’m sick of crying for pity for my own stupidity. Make the right decisions, that aren’t stupid, and you won’t have to cry for stupidity. I think the only thing my mom ever said that I ever took notation from was “stupidity deserves no sympathy.” I carry that with me every day, and when I do stupid things, I deserve the punishment. At this moment I’m hoisting my middle finger at my past and saying “Fuck you, bad decisions.” I’m moving on.
And I’ll leave you with one last kernel of information. I’m going to start seriously pursuing my writing career. Instead of sitting here with a bourbon in one hand and the keyboard in the other, I’ll sit here with my hot tea and my “works” in the other. It’s a hell of a lot cheaper than crashed cars, liquor store visits, and legal council.
I’ll just leave you with this and remind you, madness comes from within.
“Names on a paper, encrypted lives, poets and authors. Makes you wonder. Damn. These people need to get a life…upon further analysis maybe you should get a life. You’re the one reading it in the first place”
(someone, I think Bukowski, but I’m uncertain)