Mk.gee

Mk.gee released his first EP in 2018. I didn't know of him till yesterday when I watched him on SNL. I can barely understand what he's singing, but the vibes are frosty. And so, down the rabbit hole I went, catching up on the last six years. 

There's barely any personal information about him online and he rarely does interviews, which is a relief. I really should have just listened to his music, and maybe limited myself to his latest live videos where you can hardly make out his face. I don't know why I go on these idiotic deep dives. 

 

I'm pretty late to the party, but this kid is good. I walked Bobby feeling light and not hating absolutely everything, fresh from the thrill of discovery. It reminded me on being young and listening to a new band in an internet cafe, just breathless and happy. 

 

Then I saw a livestream he did in his home studio and his ceiling is burgundy. I've been contemplating whether to put wallpaper on my ceiling or just paint it.

And now, my mother just opened my door without knocking (which always raises my heart rate in an unpleasant way) and told me to take out the garbage.

Trami

I feel sympathy for those who have to evacuate. What a fucking catastrophe that would be. There's something bittersweet about my current comfort. I'm in bed, working (well, I should be), drinking tea, listening to twinkly music, with my baby curled up beside me. It makes me feel guilty. 

 

I put on some perfume: L'Interdit Rouge. It is cool enough for it. I smell like a root beer float. It mixes beautifully with my skin chemistry. 

I think it's time for another The Holdovers re-watch.

Religion

"It is better to be depressed than confused," she said. Boy, how that rings true. Confused is how I would describe myself in my 20s. It was a hot, frenzied, and relentless feeling. 

Of course, there's a familiarity with depression. It’s a cold, yet welcome imposition—one that, despite its inexplicable nature, feels entirely understandable.

"Do you believe in God?" 

"No, but I often pretend that I do, because it makes me happier. But this never lasts long, the pretense or the happiness."

This is exactly my situation now. I use religion as a means to communicate with my parents. My mother is alive, an unflinching believer. My father has gone beyond the veil. I use it to comfort myself because I'm truly alone, with no one to comfort me and confide in.

I attend mass either seething in my seat or furiously daydreaming. Is it an hour wasted? Maybe not. 

"There probably are a few true things in the Bible, such as that the people who already have more than enough will be given still more. 

The most religious people I know are stupid rich. You can't find another group who give more generously, pray more fervently, or study the Bible more diligently. Why is that? They have more time to devote? They're guilty about their wealth. It's a lovely cycle. 

Snails

I'm reading Patricia Highsmith's Diaries and Notebooks. What led to this was a rewatch of The Talented Mr. Ripley and, subsequently, Ripley on Netflix. I am not going to watch Purple Noon, or am I? I don't know. Ugh.

 

I've never read the Ripley books, but I thought, hey, those must be ripe with descriptions of the wealthy and languid European expat life. A good start. 

 

One of my "things" is bored, rich people on vacation. Well, that's Dickie fucking Greenleaf and Marge Sherwood to a tee. No real responsibility to escape from. Chosen passions they're not really good at. An endless stream of rented homes and luxury hotels with servants. Sometimes playacting a more modest life where they have to hit farmers' markets and fill up their own ice trays. How cute.

Completely unattainable, but so easy to observe. I can check train routes, take 3D tours of accommodations, Google Street View it, watch obnoxious vloggers put their grubby hands all over it.

But Patty took it to the next level. Ripley is like a mirror for my own desires and conflicts regarding wealth. I wouldn't really classify it as a crime thriller because I feel that diminishes it.

 

Like most people, there's a love-hate thing that I have with the rich—fascinated by their lives, envious of their privilege, judgmental of their weaknesses, and simultaneously disgusted by my own inferiority. I see how easily I could slip into his mindset, willing to deceive and compromise just to be part of that wooorld.

 

The most striking realization is that guilt wouldn’t linger long; I’d feel it, but I’d move past it quickly, drawn by the allure of a life I both crave and resent. I find it all so relatable, ew.

 

There's also the familiar feeling of loving someone and wanting to be them at the same time. You kind of want to be in their skin. Maybe you're in love with the idea of them or the idea of yourself being with them. It's ironic how wanting to be that close to someone can also be so detached from real love. Well, I don't know. Maybe that's real self-love.

So, I ordered the books. In the meantime, I downloaded her Diaries and Notebooks and fed it to TypeLit.io. Typing it all out is an inefficient way to read, so I do it the regular way save for some passages that I really like. Makes me feel like I'm trying out her words. Unsurprisingly, she was preoccupied with writing, getting published, the quality of her accommodations, money, alcohol, and women. Lots of women. It's quite gay.

And, of course, I found her journals in her 20s tedious and, sometimes, amusing in a patronizing way. I'm deep into her 30s now, and I can recognize myself in her writing—a certain exasperation and social fatigue. She never went long without a girlfriend, though, and I have no idea how I am now as a lover so I can't compare. One thing I did notice is that the way she writes about love is consistent, with a girlishness, full of ultra-specific details only an obsessive youth would hold on to. I find hope in that. 

She wasn't entitled, and humbly accepted life's "truths" as she encountered them, which I like. There was nothing stubborn about her except her desire to write and her hatred of Jews? Apparently, she was an anti-Semite, which I don't understand.

She also had a thing for snails. From the NY Times: She kept hundreds of them in her back garden and once brought about a hundred with her to a cocktail party, hidden along with a large head of lettuce in her handbag, which she delighted in showing to surprised guests. 

 

Moving from England to France, Highsmith was prohibited by law from bringing her snails into the country, so she smuggled them in under her breasts, fitting up to ten under each. 

 

It takes someone real demented to do that. 

 

I rarely ever see snails, but yesterday, when I took Pancho out on our front yard, he almost peed on one!

Built-ins

I spend most of these days daydreaming about my room renovation. I still can't afford it — between the looming visa application for the trip Mom wants to go on and the car I have to buy, it's just not realistic right now.

So I'm just taking my time, trying to enjoy this drawn-out planning phase. In a way, I'm relieved it's not possible yet. My drafts from about a year ago are wildly different from what they are today. 

My latest idea is to paint the inner bookshelves the color of deep, dark, dried blood. I think it would pair nicely with the creamy whiteness of everything else.

Whites are complicated. Right now, I'm still leaning toward a white with a pink undertone, something that would only be noticeable against warm light. 

I'm also toying with the idea of having a stone tabletop. I like the idea of working on a cold, hard surface. I don't know, that might be too expensive.

And this is not just plain indecision; I'm slowly learning about my real tastes, what I'm willing to live with for... well, the rest of my life, I suppose. I also have to take the style of this house into account.  

The image is a 90s IKEA teen boy's bedroom decorated by his wannabe decorator mom whose personal frou-frou style bleeds into everything. I'm talking about blood a lot? Like Boy Meets World x Matilda Goad.

Anyway, this room needs a lot of work before the actual redesign. We got this house with basic finishes, and I just can't work with the floor laminates they chose. The walls have to be sanded down and repainted. 

My old AC tended to leak and it ruined the paint beneath it, causing cracks and bubbling. And since redoing it was too much of an undertaking, I just covered it up with wallpaper. That needs to be removed now. 

I can't do any of these things myself. I'm dumb and accident-prone. I would have to YouTube this shit and buy tools and materials? No fucking way.

The trouble with that is finding a decent contractor. Every time we hire people to work on little things around the house, we always have trouble understanding them. They'll do the job (poorly, most of the time), and they never can really explain what they're doing. Mom and I are too clueless to understand this "man stuff."

If I hire a proper contractor, it's going to cost as much as a down payment for a fancy car, not a basic little hatchback. That's just how much things cost now, but dang, it would hurt to pay that much for such a teeny-tiny room. 

But it's my room. It's my world. And I guess it's worth that much. Sigh. It sucks to be poor.