the only thing here is what she wants you to see

what she wants you to see is the only thing here.

this is the humble and somewhat barren website of mat catastrophe. while once here did live the "blog," Nihilism for Dummies (which was and is the number one result for that phrase on the all-mighty google), it was ended some time back. nihilism, it seems, is tiring after all.

a new blog may not be far off, but it might take a different tone than NFD, which was relentlessy upbeat and cheerful.

No, you may not add me on myspace. I am not really there.

22 June 2003

A cut up. Cut out. Stand up type of cardboard dream. A ribbon. Dancing through her hair. A timepiece. Paper mache cuts trimmed in blue with one more strand out of place. Fountain of youth misspent. Eternal tragedy caught between two vexing lines of thought. Cross pollinated intoxicants. Cancer causing agents raided the house. Entrenched enchantment, belle of the ball. The hall fell silent and caught a glimpse of my strength. Take in stride, no one can break that. No one can break this down. Composition, lack thereof. Structural strain on the ties that bind. Blind leading blind asking deaf to feel the way out. Side with the losers and find dear friends. By chance snoring in the corner, a bedpost on the top of this last hillside. Please don't be there when the bodies come home. Don't be around this tired old soul. Trainwreck of thought, list out the peeves you had. Tear it all up throw it all away. No problem is all that large. If you think it, step back. Display. Product. Changeable face plates glass window shoppers get home later. There is no other way to a safe home. Drive like a bat. Dodge the silver bullet, take one for the team. Don't listen to me, listen to you. Irony in everthing. What are we doing here? A cut out stand up talking doll of a man. Even goes to work. All you do is feed. All you do is clothe. This is progress.

24 June 2003

I think we've run in circles enough, dodging the truth that we both know. As though we were perhaps both afraid. I'm not afraid to tell you any of the things that I felt. But I can't feel that anymore. I can't feel anything, anymore. My emotions drained out of me, slowly, a sponge drying out in the sun. Hard. Brittle. Cautious around me. Maybe I'll break and there'll be a thousand little pieces of me, waiting for you to step on. I remember the things we never got around to doing. It was never the right time - we were never in the right place. Just a little bit too busy for for this and for that. We fell apart, just like I always do. And now, it's too late for any of it anymore. I'm just too old. I'm just too tired. I'm just out of old excuses and there aren't any more good stories to tell. Maybe if we could all go back to some other time, with the knowledge of what our actions or, better, our inactions would cause --- what's the point of that, though? "Would you do it differently?" she asks, and the only answer is, "If I could, I still wouldn't know the difference, would I?" Regret is something I'm not used to and have no use for. This is how my life is going, this is how it has gone. I'm not half of what I thought I was and yet I am twice what I ever hoped to be. I contradict myself I am a contradiction.