dec 24

Chasing the days of an advent calendar. The broken break. Straight through the heart of it. That feeling of forgetting something vital. Something huge and essential. A crucial quip. She bit her tongue until she tasted blood. And went on with intravenous shots of vodka. While a demon on her shoulder cheers wildly in the student section. Face painted team colors. Himself consuming airplane shots, proportional to the size of his body but he has built up a huge tolerance through many years of recklessness and chaos. Many years of upside down bedrooms and shifting ceilings. Feeling the world turn underneath his feet. As he was born in the center. The root of tectonic activity and mountain range forming. ------ Ended a few rituals and began a few more. Our christmas eve movie might very well be scarface. Time is irrelevant and days began after 2 pm. In this side world I awake comfortable yet confused. ---- Dive in to a well to collect the coins. Take back the wishes. The flight of ideas. The hot skin and light head. The watering eyes of happy tears. Use this money to pay god at the church collection plate. eat his flesh and drink his blood in his honor. and say your hail marys one thousand times before cutting a niche in your arm to fill with dope. a broken paperclip would do. (relocate from drum throne to futon). an armload of books cross traffic downtown hurdle fire hydrants, riffing with words a jam session of prose in the key of the english language. your powers of rhetoric are weak and futile in contrast to my masterful speech, your metaphors of ineffectual as they have no logical merit, further claims regarding my alleged actions would simply worsen the case for your while simultaneously backing up my argument that you have been caught lying in attempt to ruin my credibility, well, sir, if you must know, we have a mutual friend, one who listens and records when necessary, to analyze your claims against your actions, here he has found that indeed you are the one who has committed a criminal act, and all claims to the contrary must  be dismissed at once. This man blames me for what he himself has done. My hands lay by the side of my lover, while his hands where made red in a violent spasm of passion.... Chewing dark chocolate and watching the clock move from one corner of the room to the other. I am a perpetual sundial. My arms are like tentacles. I can spray a black plume of ink to deter predators or to confuse prey. I can breathe underwater, recycling our salt water supply through open gills. I can reach and maintain escape velocity to exit the outer atmosphere of our planet and keep momentum for hundreds of years towards distant mysterious. I will be selfish and keep all of my findings to my self. I will only transmit forward. To the others. Not backwards towards the earth..... A hole in my thumb, a water bottle with only one drink left, a cardboard cut-out cd case. You are the future. A mattress straight on the ground. Quiet sex unless no one is home. A ski jacket and a fold in the carpet. A suitcase that unhinges out into a record player. At 1:05 on christmas eve day I may just see if that needle will spin around with enough precision to translate music from a black disc to my reverberating room and the vibrating chambers of my inner ear. While this occurs, I will lean back and stare at the album art. Skipping the needle ahead briefly if the record skips. For now I pause my riff writing session. My psychobabble. The translation of incredible scattered thoughts. As soon as one is remembered another is forgotten. What we are left with should indicate some sense of my character. My anxieties. Psychoanalyze me, jesus christ in a lab coat. Let me test some drugs and take notes based on any distortions, any reality disorientation. A brief lapse into and out of an acid flash back, where some invisible spectre spins quickly around my perimeter like a larger and more threatening hula hoop. Limbo all way until the back of your head touches your heels. If you can't do that you are not a worthy opponent.

dec 23

I woke up in a fog. Slept through the well-intentioned alarm I set in a delirious state of change. The fed up version of self that realized I had lived the same day three times in a row. The weed. The food. The bed. The movie. The loneliness ignored. Marijuana becomes the active ingredient. The cure for loneliness. The cure for constant text messaging. Meaningless. The cure for the global social ties that sometimes soil normal social situation. (I've got the rich kid blues). hitting hookah in the cold garage. aimed a heater at my feet. circa 1974. something no longer trustworthy. alcohol and drugs just make the old people sleep. go to bed. call it a night. where we stand. the night ends. in infamy. in infinity. I wnet with intentions to find a piece of scrap wood I could use in a christmas project. I must find these solutions tomorrow. Some part of me wants to recollect the day before. The day that defines my night of typing. But another impulse wants my mind to wander around more like a scattered garden. Seeds askew. The dominant flowers and weeds will sprout in the dark soil. The weaker ambitions will be discarded by darwins laws. So I will write candid. Filling the body with music and smoke. And heat. And coffee or food that dates coffee well. Like a capricorn and a virgo. I would be curious if this little analogy made any sense as I just came up with two random signs. Could be compatible for all I care. Astronomy is apart from astrology. And I don't want to have to repeat this to a translator. For the exchange students. Enough to listen to absolutely anything and get into it. I might soon play guitar and record the jam sesh.

dec 22

Progressive guitar licks on a hand painted blue strat. Strap came off and I duct tape the input on the amp. It is a ghetto rig but the songs to keep are being written as we speak. Shy sexual young girl who does not know what a hookah is or how to play beer pong. Some other devil came out long before the others and if her looks had anything to do with it ill be damned. Hey babe. The blacklit dance floor. The potential for some late crazy exchange. The type we remember. Too often the type we forget. The lovely atmosphere of colored moving lights, some random, some repetitious, causing all designs on both corners to always change. The slightly movements of our eyes catch the intricacy as if we were studying under a microscope. If the house sways, it will probably smell like beer. Take out your measuring tape and your stethoscope and let's get a feel for this room. Let's analyze the history of the posters. The lack of resale value. The parents trapped in a conundrum. But it has become a long term goal in my life to help my parents move out of this mansion for two people. A house that is comfortable yet creates a rift. We all have our own spaces and our own lives. A sad lonely mother. A tired busy father. One sips wine one sips rum and orange juice. One has kids and minor work responsibilities. Paying bills and making sure that I can continue my education. One has 30+ kids and a new location to put team equipment. The donation box is full and finally some positive changes are being made. Both suffer the same silence and can't handle the house without the kids. The ghost of memories, we are running through the lawn, now that the fort has been overgrown. Built by a father figure I will never understand. Dad of dad. I never know how that dynamic worked out but I know how open I am with my parents and it is an anomaly what we have. How it is condoned. I have chosen the lesser path. One with discipline only every now and then. Incredibly, cigarette tobacco has entered my lungs today. This is beyond me. Some foreign hand with dark claws offered me the lighter. Some zippo with a faded design. Indicative of seasonal use. Progression. From here to there and back. Write about me puking and dying in the bathroom. I write about the feeling you get when you cannot forgive someone. That heartwrench. Destructive force behind evil images and thoughts. The ones they should put you away for. The thought crimes. Worthy of sin. Checkmarks in some giant, universal notebook. Naughty or nice party. We dress to unimpress. We dress in weird fashion to attract positive attention. The trend setting crowd the sees everything 5 minutes in the future. While us simpleton are stuck in the slow and desolate past. Or present rather. Still listening to Against Me! and miscellany of metal bands that no one else cares to here. A generation lower than At Night. Somehow someone does not know. Take a shirt. Advertise. Let them know we once existed. The album that could have been a ticket. Now passed off as some funeral handout. The event list. The event horizon. We are dark and spiraling in dark thought patterns. Avoiding boredom like the plague. But without any quantifiable evidence that it exists beyond our imagination. We dont know. So you dont know. The damage we cause our brains on regular basis. The energy in a crowded room compared to the energy in a different comfortable room. Early poker night. 25 people packed heavy and hot in a small garage space. Somewhere to dance and to drink and to be merry. To fight and to fondle. It does not happen, for me at least. Too timid. But there is a casanova somewhere, crawling to the surface. My personality awaits his arrival and the shenanigans he will pull. This new version. Still in working stages. In the prototype phase. the northwest the southwest. It will all really be incredibly similar. What if I don't want to hang around people I went to high school with forever. College friends have separate intentions. (get it in). Knowledge. Openmindedness. We hope for the best and cross our fingers when they are not clutching the waist of beautiful women, or the crutch of a hand rolled spliff, the half tobacco half marijuana joint. Once I meet this casanova, I will spend time learning his techniques and apply them at least to make girls smile in my direction. Write a resolution based on character. My habits. The tobacco, the marijuana. Controllable. Depression. Controllable. My social instability..? This must be manipulated or else I will never enjoy my peers, anywhere in the world. At 20 I should write a novel. Be in perfect shape. And flirt with women like its a career. Hours 7 am to 3 pm and sometimes 6 pm. This sounds like a terrible fucking transition. Extended high school. Calling us out. I wonder what it is like on the outside, this time of the year>

dec 21st

Punched out the advent calendar out of order. Only I will know that I did this when looking back at the empty shell. The hollow carcass of the month of build up. That sleepless night jolly old saint nick rappels down chimneys of 3.7 billion houses. Everyone gives everyone deserves. It's living here in this house among evergreens. Watching white, unique snow flakes fall into oblivion once they reach concrete with brethren. Fallen soldiers. Mostly clouds of condensed moisture releasing a more solid form of water than rain in certain temperatures. The majesty and glamor. I remember the year that a box appeared on the front doorstep. It had air holes and was making noise. A cat. A kitten. Made me curious how my parents were able to hide a little kitten. Especially one my dad picked out because it was the only one that attacked his face out of the litter. Dirty Harry. Toy train tracks delivering presents of ghosts. The presence of presents in the right pretense. The preposterous. Always a huge distinction between those who received christmas bonus and those who get laid-off. Hunting reindeer. Burning poison in the chimney. The cookies are laced with pcp. A tab of acid in the milk. Santa will be a drunk driver this year. Spend the holiday in a dirty cell. The most deprived and sad and desperate can be found in jailcells this christmas eve. These are the fresh criminals at the end of the rope. The lights, the atmosphere, the joyous nature, at least facade, the implemented smiles, is too much. The people smiling and drinking peppermint mocha in warm fireplace corners of coffee shops. They know little of disparity. (this city, man, it's really got a hold on you). I drink cold coffee out of a yellow mug and sit on the ground. listen to seattle downer hip hop.
i have some sense of loyalty to the northwest and although i can live anywhere in the world happily, part of me already decided to move back up to the trees and the beauty, the interesting people and the cold rainclouds. the depressed people, wandering streets looking for shade. looking for sun spots. burning up. phoenix is currently getting more rain than seattle and something seems wrong. i threw a couple snowballs. sat down on a snowbank. counted the tops of trees i could see through the fog. sky highlights blue. blue blue blue blue christmas. a small scale guitar. a book never returned. a girl never spoken to. only looked at but never confronted. hot girls are not scary if you know they. for me it would be to approach an absolute stranger. for you, you are familiar. friend zone man. take her out. through some wild display of spirit. hold her hand and walk her through a christmas lit downtown plaza. feel some warmth. the power of sincerity in the spirit of the holidaze. dazed and confused you smoke your way out of close contact with a beautiful confused young girl. she would be nice to kiss. nice to watch sunsets with from riverbeds. nice to relapse with. subsequently... too intimidating to date to date. she is still too confused to date to date. to this date. hard to wine and dine someone who does not enjoy eating or drinking. wed and bed. the tying of the knot. the rocket to the moon. the nice, small town girl whose eyes grow giant in the city, the depths of an american western city, this is the time of life for casual sex and for intermittent meaningful relationships, the time to change the color and style of hair and personality. the time to lose your shoes and parties and walked fifteen blocks home barefoot, to be the one to keep her safe but thought of as someone who is trying to take advantage of her. but people don't like me that much anyway, although she was a drunk hot mess and danced with me, i went along only for awhile, thinking about how to deal with this. how to get her home safe without looking like a daterape in progress, eventually her roommate came out and took her away, i was an absolute stranger amidst those broadshouldered giants. i recognized her and two others. one who did not recognize me. but anyway, despite that trashy drunk evening, she is a good girl to meet and greet. take her home and show her off to your family. your friends. your ex girlfriends. you can't let that drunk mess of a girl, with only shreds of sobriety left in her head, with all of the worst intentions for self-destruction and slutty self-satisfaction, and instant gratification. everyone has been there at this point. making a mockery of standard morals. some dark and cold shade of a decent human being. it's there. underneath. the. surface.

dec 19

The sunrise offers less comfort than the silence. Northwestern silence. Cotton shoved into ears. Although I had a 20 hour sunday my mind rolls me out of bed. I am baffled by the inconvenience. It is so senseless. Last night I slept horribly without a soundtrack. Tonight I cannot slept in my hot bed in a cold room without rolling or turning. I use my fatigue to my advantage. It guides writing. Strange, partially coherent late night actions. Such as folder half of the laundry. Tuning the first three strings of the guitar to an open E flat chord. Partially coherent thoughts. Lists, to-do lists. To-don't lists. Checkmarks, underlines, cross outs, circles, arrows, engraving. Become a professional writer. Use this blog as catalyst. As pandora's box. Look at me all! Fill me in between your lines with blue ink. Connect the dots with swirling scars on your back and wrists. Shrapnel from a blown past. Reignite the old cow from her humble chambers of rest. Let her know she is loved. Fake it or believe in it. She will change the world if given incentive and motivation. It seems I need to learn how to solve problems. My life. The life of a friend. To be a savior. Scratching my bare chest. The one I've learned to be indifferent to. The one I can be proud of or ashamed of in equal proportion. The one I sculpt and manufacture, in attempt at health or beauty. The one shielding a beating heart. Pounding and reverberating in its cavity. Its home. But where is my heart? Where do I belong? My face gathers oil. My teeth stain yellow for neglect. Careless lovers exchange sex for food under an overpass. They carve a little hash mark into a hidden corner of the concrete infrastructure to indicate how many days they have survived after the supposed end of the world. They pause and rewind family video tapes in their heads. And weep as they lay eyes upon there very own childish features from murky recollection. Of course I remember, sister. I cannot suppress all unpleasant. I cannot call poison ivy a blessing. I cannot be as brave as I was when I was 14. When I broke the chassis of an old bike, on a sketchy steep, mountain bike suicide trail. When I would swing from giant chandeliers and light candles with magnifying glasses. If fires start behind my back, warn me if I am burning. If we were lovers in twisted clothes, eyes from head to toe, filling out the details, the contoured outlines of what may or may not be beneath. Reality often disappoints imagination. Oh. It's like this anyway. The dark rings form under my eyes. Sagging eyelids like an old timekeeper. The one who lives high in the belltower but has long lost any sense of sanity or rhythm. The bell rings discordant in odd hours throughout a series of weeks and then months before no one ever hears from him again and notre dame is burned to the ground. In a delicate explosive tactile maneuver. We will rendezvous in the state you left me in. Oregon. Melancholy. Washington. Nostalgic. Arizona. Confused. Pick your favorite color from this suspect lineup and let me know what you think when you see me in your bathroom mirror. It's a convincing ghost story to spread throughout history. That one about the little boy crying from one hillside to another. Floating above the fingertips of evergreens, he haunts generously. Giving fright to those who believe what they see. The ones who second guess will never be quite sure. The root of scientific inquiry is in this poorly distributed balance. My confusion has lead me to attempt a discovery of something that can be called by many as real, tangible, within reason, logical, and always always always true. My colleagues will be very impressed with the extent of my body of work. They will look up in awe at statues in my likeness. Not an ode to me by any means, rather a symbol of excellence, representing power in the face of utter oblivion. Indifference seeps in and destroys dreams of any statues to be constructed in my image. Streets named after daughters never born. Places where no one will ever be conceived. Sheer impossibilities. Obscurity. Blindness. I don't know when this insomnia will cause lasting damage. I don't know if it will. My mind running on empty like the instinctual death throes of any wild beast. It's wild, erratic. Hardly in touch with other departments of my mental faculty. I laugh in the face of a good night of sleep. I laugh at the prospect of a six pack. Glistening in southwestern sunlight. I grind my teeth, thinking about how I should stop popping my knuckles.

nov 21

Congratulations, they say in a shower of glitter and sparks. Metallic flakes that shine as they spin to the earth like comets. Although I know this comparison to be much more poetic than real, because comets don't necessarily ever reach the surface of earth, especially in such a slow, floundering way. You made it. Congrats. Here's your trophy wife. Just as you ordered. Dark hair, piercing eyes, a depth to those eyes, a knowledge and understanding beyond surface temperature and sensation. Not too short. But not taller than me. Is okay with going out into public with my flannel and some sweats on. But I digress. Frantically packing up school supplies, attempting to recreate a normal social conversation but in my recreation I find fault throughout. How much of that tan is from melanin and how much from whatever happens in a tanning booth? If I ever want to be a writer I must freewrite with concept or theme. Although in retrospect one appears often enough to ME. I am not my only audience. You prove this. If you read along these lines and find any sense of me. If you can cut yourself open and let the light in. through the back window of my disorganized room. the inconsistency of all good things that should propel me. I must go again. It is all so god damn distracting. All of it. All of this life.

nov 8th

a future riding on this decision this research. of course i feel unprepared, need a miracle, need people to miss their window so i can reach mine, need people to drop like flies so i can brush past and into my own personal future, how is it possible that i am left without any pleasant sounding options among the ruins of a major, the ruins of a future, hey, some point kid, you will have to figure this shit out, study abroad, fuck. study two broads, fuck if i care what you do to a t, you have to do it, you have to go for it, their fucking art classes require you to be an art major, what would that look like, repeating a credit that i aced, god damnit god damnit, where are all of the dream classes i imagined i would find here, drop the whole thing for a semester, huh, would you like that motherfucker, that new loneliness minus homesickness, so much more familiar, i spiral towards another restless night, tuesday night beer and time zone pushes back all tv shows forever, arizona does not operate on a time zone, what is that bullshit? an hour ahead, i lived an hour more than you right just now my old friends, fire away bitches, pull apart at seams, well what am i interested in? what won't make me want to strangle any stranger, choke something, put my fist through a wall, mangle a bike rack, fucking fuck fuck fuck. pull it together.

I HAVE NO ONE TO ASK FOR GUIDANCE

NO ONE

I am alone is this desert. This cold desert. A sad irony. I finally wore my orange hoodie. Alone of course. Should be used to that. Shooting self in knee caps until I can never walk again. Jesus fucking christ. What compels me to do such things fiasodfiushjn ;k;

oct 30

The full realization of the American Dream, rather... MY American Dream... came to me while I crawled towards a strangers yard to throw up bourbon whiskey and dr pepper onto their green, well kept yard. My poison breath, maybe spots will form there, on that lawn, where no grass will ever grow again. Dead patches. I used an American flag to wipe the vomit from my chin. I slurred my words and found myself blacked out in the back of a flashing taxi. I have a scar on my right arm, inside bicep, where intravenous operations are performed. Appears a rash. Perhaps it formed when I fell sideways in the hall, waiting in line to puke in the bathroom. For some reason I thought this would be the best place to get on with my embarrassment in the most subtle way possible. Ya know. Throw up all that 'bad beer' and come out anew, steal some mouthwash or cologne and clean up a bit. Get rid of the bad layer and rebuild at a better position. But it all went wrong. Knocks came on the door. I had no time. My face was red and eyes streaming a bit. Dry heaves mostly. It took some stumbling and spinning to enhance the nausea. Well. At least I put the toilet seat down. A gesture I find habitual as well as somewhat rude or ignorant to be forgotten. Anyway. I stumble outside and sit on the curb. Dead drunk. This was the end of a night that was not all bad. I ran through 6 hours or so with full momentum, never slowing down for a second. The first party nurtured my insanity. I smashed drum sticks with deliberate licks and rolls. Representative of different musical styles. Chill sesh. Jam sesh. Soaked in sweat. Too drunk to regulate body temperature. Belligerence is unattractive unless everyone involved is belligerent. Understand simple commands like, shut up, let's go make out somewhere, what are you dressed up as? the questions become less interesting and personal and more egotistic and boring. this guy is so fucked up etc. well now I came as the american dream. the american dude. our team. your team. lets play some drinking games and pour out some beer for all fallen stock car drivers, dale earnhart respectively. and so on

oct 18

Days I walk tall in the sun, casting longer shadow than the rest. In a 'loud' pumpkin shirt. Oh well, tis the season I'll say and then disappear because I have to study for a math test. The probability of embarrassment or failure. The gigantomachy: battle of the gods and the giants in my head. The depth necessary to make dramatic action. The architects and the artists remembered. For the first time in history. But hey, me? Study me? Unlikely. Body of work must be more extensive. Huge. Impressive. Intimidating. When did he do all of this? Like the parthenon. Like the pyramids. Like mathematicians who observed patterns in numbers and things and created notation that will help others to understand. You find the long way before attempting the shortcut. You will never learn anything if you go straight for the short cut. The spark notes, the websites where you can buy college assignments or class notes. Miss a day, hey, I understand. Miss two days. You are lazy or too unhealthy. Take more vitamins and get your lazy ungrateful ass to class. It seems like a crime. To miss class. No matter what. But you are robbing YOURSELF. Anyway. Listen to punk music and feel nothing. Write a book and mail it to a friend to publish. Write a letter and burn it up before the words can escape. Chronicle. Write me down. Remember what I did and who I am for better or worse. Privacy vs torture. Simple as that. A one bedroom apartment for two motherfuckers. Then again, I'm still meeting strangers on the street with captain morgan breath and giving out my number at random intervals to people I won't remember. Or cruising from one place to another. College college college. Where are you from? Why did you transfer here? Why the HELL did you transfer here?I did not expect this to be the most commonly asked question towards me. Oh well. I'm done ranting at the moment. My bowl of cereal has reduced to simply a bowl of milk and my coffee smells like it's done. It's going to be a long day in my pumpkin shirt.

oct 10

The toss and turn of sore legs indicative of a poorly slept night. Window reflecting blood into the room. Dark red radiance. IN the same vein, I puncture skin to create bruises and put my fist through walls in places flimsy enough. Guitar tone evident, the creation process, a six day challenge, to brainstorm for the rest of the week, and come up with shitty ideas on shitty mondays, to process the inevitable decline of the show as other things become juggled and to combat fan reactions, but the whole offensive thing became taboo and im drinking an instant breakfast in the morning, this warm morning, awaiting the courage the motivation to go lift some weights for awhile among big-necked shit heads who look down at anyone they might see as a threat to their masculinity or chances at getting some pussy, but hey monday morning, it is not my time to be on the prowl, this is for me, this is not for pruning and strutting, the cocky walk of big dudes around small girls, the sneer, the attitude, not for me to adopt. Not for me to consider. the reality is, I want to get in great shape because it will make me happier and my body happier, to treat myself so nicely. it is not about sex or the secondary cause or some horny high school kid blues, the fate of it, the elastic girls with their eyes in the clouds, looking down, running slowly through treadmill marathons and training to go over to san fransisco to race and to win, to fly 200 miles. To glory.

oct 2nd

So it's my birthday and I will spend it laying around with blankets and sticky floors. A warning that testifies the volume of the afterparty. The length times width times height. The lightrail highlight reel.
entirely too exhausted to work on much at all, the brain cells dead or dying, revitalize with a too ripe banana and a late night long walk home, the weed freaks who get grumpy without a fix. will write later

And as always I think about Gandhi and his lack of needless material possessions and hug all of my things closer. The disbelief in present receiving, friend ignoring deviance. Throw me a line, man, tell me your whole story, tell me baby, what's your sign and the jazz will fill our elevators. Our elevating moods and widening smiles. The rap music heard from the stairway, a warning, a decision.

Experimented with a black out potion. A concentration of chemicals and tthings.... akin to taking certain medications only to reduce the side effects of other medications. A droplet and the night turns great and everyone falls in love with you and your eagerness to access and live this life. Watching plastic surgery infomercials and wishing these people would love themselves more. Not believe that the grass is greener, the other woman is prettier, the other school has a social studies department and more pools, where the sunsets out of view (southbound window) the moon rises up and briskly disappears behind rooftops, solar panels and intelligent design. I'm the architect, not the blueprint. You are the architect not the blueprint, get that through your head.

Nap through my birthday dinner. Obviously, I can cry if I want to. I can spend minutes thinking about how to present myself. I can shove pills into my stomach and waiting for the inspiration to come. I can imagine the types of things you do on weekends. I can shun you and lose interest. I can let the nuances distract me and fall apart at a cold rain. A soaking backpack. Now, sweat. Now, tears. Loneliness. Nobody likes you when you are tweeeeentty. My wasted day. I will tell grand tales of a fantastic weekend. Blink 182. Thrice. Moving Mountains. Crowd surfing people, noise complaints and alcohol bottles in the window that glow with ominous blacklight. Free from writing engage. the type of shit that makes no sense to read later but is still strangely captivating, maybe the expression of pure subconscious, with the governor destroyed, no way to cap max speed, run into kids who might be the only true lesbians on campus, looking to space and talking down to people who can't point out jupiter or name the tune drops of jupiter, or the size of our sun in proportion to the rest of the shit in the sky, the skateboards and longboards and miracles that seem to always be right around the corner, the homework machine, the hesitation that gets us all killed, the realization that gets us all killed, the voice lost by screaming at the rock show and all of those thousands of tiny cigars smoked, why does everybody always buy these? why did you all get the same vibe from her that i did? slut. ho. perhaps but that is not an uncommon situation around here, some girls lose themselves in the first few months of college and are as naive and drunk as they themselves they aren't, true are others worse off, pregnant or dead or with some unforgiving disease that puts an active healthy sex life underground, burial grounds for sexual prowess, the finesse and techniques learned and read in private articles, all the working and reworking of ideas that might have worked for a different person, but it is not all the same, it takes a while to really find that number (so fucking useless!) that spot that makes a stranger a lover at least for the moment, which is to say a snapshot of our time here on this earth, the complications that made my head ring, i cant answer that call, my legs are caught in the crosshead traintrack and i will be smashed once that whistle blows, the one that calls out at night, longing and curious, safe insured, the morbid thoughts that accompany any approaching city, the amount of unnoticed suicides in an east to west coast train route.... in other news, the drinking began at midnight, my legal birthday as they don't necessarily worry about birth-TIME. teleport a year into the future and i will be sitting in some tiny bar without a care in this world for much more than further alcoholic delirium. go get drunk with friends. the drinking should slow slow slow down. the parties die. where is my art party group? by the way, how the fuck do I join a student group??

I am a self-medicating music therapist, as both shrink and psycho. The self-indulgence, hey I know what this mental illness is and that I have it and that I can try all these different little things to try and fix it. But hey, I will just self-medicate, eat some fruit, take an all inclusive vitamin, the universal, everything everyday vitamin, with antacids and antioxidants, the celery stalks, the prey realizes, switch open a knife and scare everyone with paper thin grasp on reality, the shitty lost voice, destroyed by toxic smoke and bad breath, shake off the chills, just don't look into his eyes... Nearly that perfect disneyland, overpriced dream. I am at Whataburger for my 20th birthday dinner. I ordered the special, green pepper double burger, or something. Pay 32 cents extra for some honey barbeque sauce. Drink water, whisper to myself that I will change myself. Become a better human being starting now, this very second. Learning lyrics to lovely songs. Writing lyrics to terrible songs. There is no cure for procrastination save death by decapitation. Yelling. Throwing voice. Make noises consistent. Fail to call friends. Great old friends. Why???? What the fuck is the matter>

sept 29th

Have the courage to write badly.

Graham Greene wrote 500 words a day. No more no less. Strangely enough Greene shares my birth day (october 2nd) and died on my birthyear, peacefully mind you (1991).

A few quotes from Graham Greene. His favorite novel being "The Fallen Idol" or the more famous "The Third Man." Also known for "Brighton Rock," and adapting books to screenplay.


“The sense of unhappiness is so much easier to convey than that of happiness. In misery we seem aware of our own existence, even though it may be in the form of a monstrous egotism: this pain of mine is individual, this nerve that winces belongs to me and to no other. But happiness annihilates us: we lose our identity.” 

“Writing is a form of therapy; sometimes I wonder how all those who do not write, compose, or paint can manage to escape the madness, melancholia, the panic and fear which is inherent in a human situation.”  

“I wish sometimes you had a few bad motives, you might understand a little more about human beings.”  

And so on and so forth. Dark Side of The Moon, transition from the sax solo in 5 beats over 4 to an easier rhythm to follow in 4 beats over 4. Sleep in the planetarium, despite how lame and tacky that one old thing was, stuck on top of some building, an old space nerd confined to the dome shaped dots and darkness, lines drawn in the sand, to be washed away by time, his old sense of humor with obvious attempted draws at pop culture. He feels as small as the rest of us although we are hiding and he is in the spotlight, so to speak, in a dark room. We sit back, he controls the ohs and ahs and we announce ourselves properly, picks on the cute foreign girl to point out a star based on constellations with a laser point, her hands shaking, cruel nervousness, but the other girl, the punk rock mexican looking one, with pierced everything and a bro tank and deeper voice, her chubby, abrasive friend, and all of those who look to me for a laugh, with my self-deprecating humor and surprise wit and charm. It's not all a joke people. Decipher it. Take two minutes and you will figure it out.

 NEW GOAL. Join a writing club of some kind. A community of theoretical young authors. A gild.

always stick around for that last drink, that's when things happen

Finish the day's writing when you still want to continue.
 
“Smile, breathe and go slowly.” - Thich Nhat Hanh

Where have you been? How does it feel to be a ghost? If you knew when I wrote. When I tore out every word from my head and destroyed the pages soon thereafter. Whatever whatever. No poetic violence here. Just astronomical devices, clever songs about girls, care packages in the mail for birthday surprises, and gandhi. The good things in life, of mankind. Invite only girl party where our neighbors are dressed like garbage. Meaning they look great. Tasteful makeup. Dresses shorter than straight armed fingertips. (Whereeeee haveee youuu beeeen??) The fuck have you been?? Rub sleeplessness into my eyes and revise sentences I wrote early as if this outlet was something more than mental vomit. Literally vomit last night. Woke up instinctively two minutes before my loud intrusive alarm. Cold shower to revitalize skin and wash off whatever died in my sleep. Take my vitamins, smile. 50 cent coffee. Read about music and well-being. The usage of soothing music in medical settings to help procure a more relaxed environment for both doctor and patient. While drawing a child's blood for instance. I wish they conditioned me out of fear with some symphony. Some drops of jupiter, some mercury poisoning neptune. In this latitude! This 33 degrees of separation from the equator. 12 degrees off from my old life. Numerous climates. (above the floor pounding. either sex or dancing) Ate some fast food breakfast, a winning smile, and some big man attempts to hit a high falsetto note from a repetitious pop song. Facilitate discuss in a music lab, a quiet loyal asian man helps me set up electronic kit, itching to play but no real skill to show, but it isn't about that. Play while she talks, slight bursts of "holy christ I hate my job" and all of these fucking kids. I smile and wink and nothing comes of it. I wink harder, more noticeably. Something is wrong with me. They play sad songs and I sing like a creep. Walk back away from that classroom, that suffocating prism. Discuss music and birthday situation. Sent off to lunch or lab time. Applied fro graduation, she did. Died. A bike accident. Some raspberries to remember. To photograph and document. Ran over my a bike or something such. Gets to drive a golf cart around, physically living the manifestation of my dream. Campus Cab. Five dollars. A Fix me up. Van Wilder. Talk. Tool talked about how his mom showed up with two handles of vodka. Shit for brains. Astronomy. Slaps on backs. Cute girl hushed by my curious glance. I must have looked offended or mad and she left. I will never understand that gender. Never. But say. Maybe I am that jerk. That terrible neighbor and difficult friend. The one who believes in nothing and everything and cannot explain a day in any great detail. Do you feel enlightened now? Did you step inside this window I opened and see a glimpse of what my day might have been? Do you believe me? Do you believe that I haven't slept anywhere but in my own bed, and alone?  

sept 28 part 2

lump in my throat that sinks to stomach
and devours inside out
my breath is stomach acid
whatever lie I swallowed is working its way up
out through my face
I listen to cute little songs
about love and sleeping and dreaming
and take notes about delusions of romance

one love replaced another
mistake not to be believe both love

to throw up now would keep me awake
the sleeping pills would not digest
and I would lay cradling the toilet
with a look of disgust
a venomous feeling of unhealth
fuck. what did i eat

sending nice gestures in boxes from mail trucks
more mail delivered to the misplaced pile
it's illegal to open someone's mail
but i can't resist a birthday card
from grandma
from grandpa
from the both of us

treatments that focus on cognition

length of fingernails, prominence of callouses represents character
weak soft hands...
the double sided axe that represents a double beheading

and I pause here to vomit

oops, false alarm
just dry heave and spit a few times
examine the cleanliness of porcelain
leave the sink running to mask sound
but nothing comes out

disinterest in humanity
not all of the time
you remind me of a friend in high school
who hated everyone
yeah and what happened to him
you don't want to know

the acid is thick in my throat
i feel it burning like i swallowed a match
that ignited something in my stomach
it's happening
im salivating and my head spins
help me jen wood
this awful disease
this food poisoning
this mistake
!!
will my body reject or accept whatever i do to it

will your body reject or accept whatever i do to it
will your mind, the serotonin, the feel good happy neurotransmitter, feel any moral dilemma
will the cigarette afterwards be regretted
will you compliment and kiss
or shudder and distance yourself
the money on the table
the knife cut pills in halves, in quarters, in eighths, in sixteenths, into tinier particles that can be inhaled, with effort, through a straw cut in half, or a ten dollar bill, or a fifty if you wish to do it right, will the lights fade and the black light switched on, will you walk or float into his arms, will you accept or reject the awful consequences of your actions.

will they feel like consequences at all

sept 28

stress fractured mind, where demons come and go as they please in motor neuron ruins. floating heads, speaking in held tongues like the sound of love, nothing no sound no one anywhere close, the words spill like battery acid and burn small acidic holes in the carpet. listening to this self titled album my uncle bought me on a whim at some tacoma sixth ave coffee shop, it was displayed and a new song was playing when we walked in, Perth... maybe... I don't know. I love it but I feel like I could ruin it if I talk more of it. Did any of my studying help? Where is the penmanship. The sleep button. A knife to sharpen lead pencils and rotten eggs to throw at garbage cans. I pick myself up with the promise of melatonin, solid rest. For a big whole day of huge expectations... Fucking.... GIVE YOURSELF A BREAK


and again... in my confusion I reset my alarm to give myself more sleep and less morning. pay a life counselor and play blackjack with monopoly money, convinced by peer pressure to witness a spectacle that I will try not to allow disappointment. fucking grammar.

"I've risked everything for this??" 

 Something needs to happen. Something huge. The taking over of something, a building, a city, a country. We should all be armed and taking over small countries. Or rioting. Or no: an orgy. There should be an orgy.

But this---this is obscene. How dare we be standing around, talking about nothing, not running in one huge mass of people, running at something, something huge, knocking it over? Why do we all bother coming out, gathering here in numbers like this, without starting fires, tearing things down? How dare we not lock the doors and replace the white bulbs with red and commence with the massive orgy, the joyous mingling of a thousand arms, legs, breast?

WE ARE WASTING THIS

------------------------
above this line was last night, and this is now, right now. 8:05:56 PM on September the 28th 2011, the year of the rabbit, representing hope, it is tender and lovely, the zodiac image dances and sways with celebratory movement. The pet of mythic moon goddess. "they like to communicate with each other in a humorous manner" They cannot bear dull life, they can create romantic spice and zest. Zest and gusto. I am the year of the sheep. Seems unfortunate, but apparently this means I have a symmetrical figure and that my tenderness allows others to feel warmth and comfort. My weakness is that I am puzzled by life and that I don't dare to openly express my love, and that I obsess over strange theories.

But I missed one third of one problem in my math unit test that I was stressing over. 98.75% on the test which pretty much drags my other test's lazy ass up to a passing grade. This I am excited about. The art history test, in the realm of ancient egypt was also an A, for which I am equally proud considering I feel like I actually learned something. Enough personal narrative. Delve back into myth and strange belief.

The labyrinth, the minotaur and the death of M.C Escher. Perverted feelings of entitlement, that undiscovered girl the one who expresses her virginity openly on national television, a raw marketing plow to increase the number of college viewers, hey he wore a shirt from our shitty little college... Wow! Well in other news, I will write a paper about the cause and effect relationship between elements that are seemingly unrelated. What causes death? Too vague perhaps. I will brainstorm and let lightning strike my fingertips when writing. That downer of a conversation yesterday worked as an enlightenment for me to get off my ass and create some good things out of all of this stress and confusion. The kitchen sink, the bag of bones or bricks, the not-serious suicide note on the altar of a pagan god, the relationship advice through wire telephone with cups and strings, where I am plugged in to some network behind my wildest craved dream of power, the shift and the struggle, where strings are pulled and yanked, tablecloths pulled out from under dishes and cups without the realization, until we notice the nice smooth wood and compliment the owner for such good taste. The greek artists and bronze age assholes who believed in the fall of troy and the myth of poseidon with a staff and a thousand god-sons. From the water aquatic scenes of distilled life. Red wine blues.

sept 27

Insomnia. That bright blinking light, persistent consciousness. All facts about sleeping habits circulating, flowing, breathing. Bite the bullet, brother. This nights train left the station awhile ago. You'll have to catch the next flight. If you don't fall asleep within 7 minutes. Get out of bed and do something relaxing, never listen to music, never think about all of your mistakes and try to reestablish a good relationship with your decisions you will sink that labyrinth far beneath our feet where all people suffer and are kept awake but bumping monday night tuesday morning bass, thud thud, and questions that pull open my eyelids and quicken a heart rate. confused like a philosopher. seeking searching, finding disconnected madness. alcoholism. sinking into chairs and the armchair bear hugs me, need jaws of life to disengage, need to resuscitate and revive the dying particles, the articles that have gone blue with oxygen neglect and the blood stains that dry black, but these injuries sustained are exclusively external, my high expectations shattered, drop the ball off into a ravine, a globe, a snowglobe, the tinge of excitement at a weathermans approaching cold front, fuck maybe it will snow here for the first time in all of history, and we can write scripted reality tv about our lives and call it something fancy like a clip on tie, like a pit stained tuxedo and a drunk limo driver, like the head on collision that ends our wondrous prom night, like all the kids everyone has been having, the marriages and life decisions, confusion and abortion, feeling useless like a mom in a counseling session, a van where the side doors slide open to necessitate muddy little kids and their sports equipment, my mind is racing a thousand laps per second in this dark corridor of a party sanctioned, heartless college campus. It seems all sleep peacefully in their bliss with idiot smiles and acid in the kool aid. No one would catch that reference. Everyone is stupid and happy. There are no book stores close. No walk in venues for coffee and music and art. I am a chameleon. Once to be called a hipster, now a bro. And I hate the weight all labels cast on my. Like pitiless eyes of vultures watching prey die on the side of the highway. Get your kicks, child. Feel happy and feel warm but not too hot. Feel the air conditioning but drop the electricity bill by small fractions. The people here complain. The new best friends. The drunken fighter. I have my issues. I rest my case. I don't like these people. They don't like me. I am a prototype they understand. And I don't understand them. The rave culture. The mentally retarded climate that perpetuates bad sex and terrible motives. The cycle continues and I am left in some backwater aftermath where people spend 70 dollars to get sunburned and watch blink 182 slog through a set with fans aimed at their faces. all of us die in the sweltering heat. they make dick jokes and my smile fades in the summer. i listen to radiohead. and no one understands a god damn intention of mine. i fucking hate it. where i swallow my tongue before i can speak. where i look upon others for action but everyone looks at the tv or the girls or the guys and their muscles, backwards hats, shorts and sandals, tank tops. they are a different degenerate breed. and i came here for the writing program??? astrophysics, set theory, ancient egypt, rhetorical analysis, psychoanalytic music therapy and spectra. the question haunting and lingering... what am i doing here

sept 26

After laborious hours spent hunched over cut up notebook paper converted into flash cards, full of ancient egyptian art history, my information drains from both ears and I reside in a deflated balloon. Fill the cup to keep it overflowing always. Always replacing. Recycling old information by taking it out of dusty old boxes in closets, painting the box a different color, rearranging the scattered trivia, labeling it all as something else and push it further among deceased piles. Even if I can't remember everything, something is happening in my brain. Some previously inactive neurons are firing or prepping for fire, and my brain builds up. Bulky. Stronger neck to hold up all the weight. Akhenaten is responsible for a brief (out of the entire history of ancient Egyptian art) revolution in the arts and religion of Egypt. During what was called the Armana period (because he moved the capitol city from Thebes to Armana). The artwork shifted from classic Egyptian proportions, the grid system created by counting 18 spaces from feet to head and idealizing the human form to ensure permanence over realism, to more flowing and strangely shaped human form. They began to worship the sun god Aten and until he became Osiris in death, and the new Horus replaced him bringing back all old kingdom conformity. The intricate jewelry out of some tombs. The accidental discovery of burial chambers by having the horse you are riding fall through the sand into a hidden underground causeway.
Well we all know something. Now working on writing in hieroglyphics. Translating the Rosetta Stone into English. Getting sand in my eyes and becoming blind to the full spectrum caused by our boiling sun. Astrophysics. The explanation of wavelengths of lights. Which combination of gas causes which color through a clear prism. As we all know, white light is really every color combined. I asked... Is it possible that there could be unknown colors that exist outside our visible spectrum that we simply cannot see? Could these invisible wavelengths be visible to something or someone? In the mean time writing hardcore emo songs for fun and a false catharsis. Cracking knuckles on the hardwood. Asking to take pictures.

'You stopped making sense two or three drinks ago'

Revising drafts for improvised conversation. Instantaneous action and guilt. A strange bubbling sensation like a too hot spring. A too cold pool of rainwater, step knee deep and count the people laughing. The artsy renderings of meaningless advertisements.

This is the time of year to avoid touching your face. I cross off days faster than tasks. And the sun will melt my ice cold blood. Riveting in rivets. River flowing in flower pattern rugs. Carpet circles around and pulls at my feet until I vacuum up all the particles. Existing in a vacuum. The dust of retreat. The dark bands of light extending from one end of the universe to another, moving so slow from our perspective... but the universe is expanding faster than we can ever catch up to it.

Therapeutic drum circles. Coffin texts & the book of the dead. Quiet utterances in dark stuffy rooms. This worker did not attend his job at pyramid today because he had a hangover. Nile river boozehounds. the life of a narcissist by dave eggers. Lots of sports on tv. Set theory and converting measurements from america to the rest of the world. measuring crater diameters and exploring possible trajectory speeds. gathering light from telescopic stars and contemplating the hue and the heat. saving the apes and the chimpanzee populations across the globe.

how my schedule is so disconnected. i cannot write about how well the subjects flow. instead i have to formulate. guess and check. consider the facts and in third person discuss personal feelings. 'the personal feelings'

sept 25 4:22.28 AM

Another night I end up drunk and alone. Wonderful start full of fireworks and celebration, the sonic and mesmerizing yells that came from our throats in the heat of such a battle. Our battalion held strong. We lost no ground. My friends relished the fact that I am starting to become that guy who gets salty after a night of hard drinking but nowhere to night cap it. An unresolved major scale. That last hanging seventh before full resolution. A sleepy girl. The older sisters friends. Remembered for my humor. Little does she know how dark it can get once I have enough alcohol and empty space in between myself and a goal. Talking led zeppelin and other good music like normal human beings. A man wearing a motorcycle helmet in the back of a nice looking convertible. Awaiting eminent car accident. Where he will be the only left alive. Such morbid thoughts manifest as laughable jokes. A late night in excess where we prank those who do not deserve pranking and get bad karma sent towards us. Although the minute I realized I am being pranked I will feel like I deserved it, if not earned it. I will enjoy the embarrassment in front of people who try to impress each other while I dance to some dubstep at the expense of my self-esteem. And unfortunately, no girls attempted to pick me up on this late night. No late night six pack. No day time poolside six pack. We are flabby and full of skin. We are full of that summer heat that cannot die. The mirth and the merriment that held us so closely together after the years. We cannot go back. And the connections we made, we almost realize must be kept in the past for us not to spoil. The deletion of a thread. That girl who pokes at my brain every day. Who is nowhere near physical contact. Who deserves nothing less than absolute affection and happiness. The one who haunts me and makes me call strangers sluts although this strange slut got to me in a way I never thought possible. The keyboard on fire. Where words don't have to make absolute sense. Where the grammar doesn't matter and where my handwriting is not indicative of my sobriety. here typing, I've written much less somber sober sentences than at the level I now sit. After ten minutes I still feel as if nothing has been said. visited the dollar store, my apologies, the 99 cent store and picked up various trinkets to host certain allotted spaces in our dorm, a sunday night party, the cigarette burns will eventually hurt the skin, the exterior plowed over and replaced my a hardened shell of outside opinion. where body shots mean much more than accidental intimate contact. where each beer and conversation counts for more than a failed date rape attempt. where posing as a brother can actually work towards some true advantage, where drinking games are illuminated by lighters burning off miscellaneous std's off of red or blue cups, one broken I refused to play, simply wanted to talk, to draw the bridge, to draw the bird and to impress others with awesome intrinsic motivation.. That which I might have if I were more committed to one thing over another. After playing guitar, at first feeling insecure, no talent... ave you been practicing? A nice backhanded compliment, apparently... But maybe not because I had nothing to base the unreality of the comment on. I played. I received compliment. And maybe I should accept it. Maybe I need to understand that once I pass a certain age I lose all self respect for such parties I never felt a part of. These situations where all people met are transient or jail bait or jail birds. the people whose future is behind solid iron bars. those who give their hearts up explaining past situations in a jail cell, a wrecked car, a nearly wrecked future, dad as lawyer, fixed it all as if there was no curtain to hide all behind the scenes participation. a slid stream of words influenced by the alubm. the portugal the man. the vibe. the salt. the friendships and the desolate isloation that I feel when I say goodbye to a friend who is about to share a bed with a recently ex girlfriend. the roommate who moves in with her. the lack of game but the abundance of words. removing clothes by layers but for attention and nothing else. the deletion of such meaningful pictures of paint strewn canvas and naked bodies, the feminine figure displayed before a canvas to be translated by observant and patient eyes, a patient and obedient woman, to feel comfortable in her own skin without realizing she is a trainwreck, without realizing that old habits die hard and that to be a worthless slut once is a hard trend to depart from. to workout to no avail. to make valuable connections although after drunk i lose all confidence in all my supposed friends and i watch them all fall by the wayside as i travel forward towards drunken donut, dunkin donut breakfast and four points study sessions where i rewrite a solid sunday hypothesis, where my age matters to the extent i cannot have the amount of fun the rest has. but i digress. i yelled at strangers probably seeking attention for myself. probably picking a fight to see if i could live up to outside expectation. to see if i have any real courage or if it is all a huge facade.

sept 22

Long good day here. Started with discordant feminist improv. Something about german politics and the score from any movie involving a haunted house. I felt she must have practiced in a ghost-ridden dungeon. Where the dissonant chords summon sundered spirits. Kindred spirits beware. The silent hill motif. printed off picture of denzel to make a sign for chris young and the dbacks. drink on the light rail and travel light years towards an ominous destination. spoke briefly to many different apparitions. of tv show pitches about some anxious dark comedy self portrait of this girls life. of influence and of slow doctors increase awkward situations. long drawn out pauses after serious questions, meaning no harm. i picture a title with a single word. maybe her name. maybe the kids name. maybe some off-kilter pop culture reference. maybe some professor that she becomes infatuated with. fucking everybody. couldn't say the character was slutty considering how autobiographical it was. admit to my anxiety and my writing as catharsis. I hope you exist! Karma in return for a dollar. Some print offs. Some free coffee. Talking the shit. Measuring spectra. The chemical fingerprints of different sources of light. You guys realize we are paying a thousand dollars for this class? Block it out. Start anew. Learn the materials and become a master at all arts. Fill up my cup with everything possible. The philosophical questions. Hero? My dad when he was younger. Very little inspiration comes from his actions NOW. Loser. I don't know where his head is. Maybe some mid life depression. Lift yourself up dad. Smile and be kind to your body as you used to. The vigor and the fire disappeared. Maybe it's me.. I think out of simple paranoia. Me out of the equation. No longer talking. The updates. The nuances. The health related dream issues. I dreamed of a grumpy old man he would become. Truly I witnessed the light coming in to enter his spouse (not my father and mother.. these people were strangers in their personalities and actions... only a resemblance of my grandfather.... perhaps a future vision). I witnessed the light hitting this woman as she held my hand and told me how it felt. This man was rushing to get there beside her but was trapped up in something. Some inferiority. Thicker than air. Trying to pass through this density to replace me at her side. But I saw the light with her. Like a laser. Like a train of light. Passed into her through her heart and took the soul out of her body. Rendered her physical body useless. He became mad that I was there. That I was undeserving. More so jealous about what I witnessed because he felt he would die soon and that snapshot of the light that I saw somehow would be the key to his salvation and his happiness. Rather his preparation. You know what it felt like! he screamed. By the time it matters for you, you will forget he fumed. And jumped into a waterfall.

sept 20th

Tear out the last page of every good book before returning it to the library. Throw a party because a portion of your feet could be seen on national television among male nudity and vomiting. Pick away at tiny scabs a baby rattlesnake might have left in right thumb, a decent space apart, the poison takes 70 years until it grabs hold of the heart and twists, but for now it is a lurking evil. Sewing synapses shut. Ruining opportunities for stronger socialization. The loud popping hips and cracking knuckles. The dents in the wall from collisions. 'off this mountain now I'm entering orbit' pressure wash the living room, wake up the dead and give them ancient egyptian ceremonial catacomb burial rite of passage pharaoh death, hieroglyphic labyrinth, where statues are made in exact size and likeness, with wet eyeballs that shine in expedition flash light, the drunk white dancing scene, on top indian graves, where someones ancestor died in a lavish and heroic way, (nothing short of comic book heroism).. A well though out metaphor for the comic book guy. mean high school kids. picking at scabs so they never form right and my hands look more like one from the coal mines. the japanese naked swimmers with head bobbin statues, while mine again, provoked by impure thoughts or self-defeat, fell from my desk back and decapitated onto the ground, an omen of something both good and bad. lastly the message represented a life turning point early this year, where one love transferred onto another, the broken hearted statuesque vision of fidelity and happiness, the grotesque distortions caused by sexual enzymes and chemical releases in the head, where the carelessness increases, neurotransmitters swim through the body like tiny dancing light bulbs, heating each part and helping the body adapt to full functional capacity of this undiscovered human form to either side... left to pry spirit from a relative to use as her own, more along the lines.. incentive to establish a double life, a triple life, a fearless approximation of the american dream, in the context that it is a positive life and achievement, the american dream now is warped by television and violence, but true living, true grit and spirit, cum and thunder, spit and blood, gingerly sliding through the delicacies, the flower pots and cloud headed optimists, smiling and shaking the head, to force self to become strong to set example of how one should behave once falling into weakness, to live a double life. To live so much that others cannot help but become determined to pull themselves up out of their own slumber and grab the reigns beside her. Christening followers as leaders in their own right. A buddhist temperament. Holding composure. Keeping the negative behind internal bars, black and white defenses visual barcode, the spectral light of returning ghosts, drifting in through foggy marshes and sand swept beaches in dark quiet early morning hours, wandering to find a comfortable place to lie down and rest, human urns converted into soil for trees, bad souls create haunted trees, let us form a new western belief of the afterlife. Once I die my body will be ground into soot or some such, mix with particular seeds and soil to create a human tree sort of.. Curious if the tree would share my living tissue, my DNA strands if somehow possible. In some sense I could live forever. If the original tree creates seeds that grow others and so on. My own soul tree would remain the only single, non-permutated, non-sharing tree among forest that replaces graveyard. borderline morbid thoughts but i digress from whatever intended meaning i could have believe I had at the beginning of this rant. but hey the wheels are spinning and i am alive oh yes!

sept 18th

Should I be listening to music while I work? Or the soft almost rhythmic clicking of my ceiling fan... Anyway.. Last night was amazing. Sand everywhere. had a conversation with some drunk asses and a segway cop. Attempted to lure feral cats back to domestication. Although they probably hang out in the sewers. Football with unplanned routes. Have no idea what anything means. Left slant at least. Then first to score won, we won. Our drunk team. Touchdown! Fucking yes. Running around like assholes flapping our arms and yelling things mostly incoherently. I'm glad I'm not alone in this. Then we watched the second half of the game. Watched our team lose. Then we went to go jump in the pool. And then volleyball. Our group of friends circulating. Gettin weird on this dry campus. Shotgunning beer poolside and playing a never ending game of volleyball with a midget on our team. I rock at serving. Played catch in the pool and hottub. Strongest jet on my back. Probably would be good for me to go in their more often. My old mans back.  Splashing cute girls with unattractive cannonballs. Dry off without sun. Wanna see Jupiter? (cops smoking cigarettes) I say hey guys I've always been wondering.. How fast does that thing go? Someone more skilled could go 35 mph. Wow. So if I were to start running, you could run me down for sure? Oh without a doubt. You wouldn't stand a chance. You might get ten strides in. Oh alright. Let's try it. On three..  Talked to convenience store worker... A lot of drunk asses tonight? (understanding the irony)

sept 15th

If I'm here in isolation. Studying myself into corners of the room where others get to laugh and enjoy passing grades. This new experience is killing me so far. I have been hitting the books hard but apparently not hard enough. I have no friends and still failed my first math test. This makes me question myself harder. Scrutinizing. I have no idea where I am. Where to go. How to relax. Fucking shit. This is my relaxation. After a solid four hours of fucking up my GPA now I'm here writing/ranting. not smiling. not socializing. 'nate shhh you're doing fine' If I were to write out my aggression I would paint fuck you in contrasting colors. white font black background. tasteless. scare off anyone. let it go let it go. need a ride to this show this weekend. loud depressed music. purchased thrice ticket. who knows how the fuck i get there or who with. help me. if I am unhappy. have bad grades. have no important social connections. have no idea how to get to guitar center or any show venue. have no access to the college radio station. etc. that is all proof this transition has been a failure.
astronomy test. missing daniel tosh's underwhelming campus invasion. be jealous you fucks as i sit alone in my room while it happens.

fuck fuck fuck

sept 14th

Given rise to the occasion. A desert(ed) mindset. These sun streaked folks and their waking concussions. Eyes upwards or sideways neither here nor there. Forward backward. Meeting people who don't understand pop punk, like me a few years ago. 'whiney bitches' considering the voice I picture a viaduct crowd of 20 max, banging their shaved or tattooed heads against one another in a ritual death struggle of some kind. some fashion. limber up champ this fight is yours. prepare to take a math test in a tie dye shirt. depart from conventions and make some real friends. skipping along in isolation, I am imagine the mistakes and drama from the far north. weird how people never leave high school. one foot in the grave one foot in the sky. intellectually spayed. palm trees blonde fake tits, daddy's little girls, big sister little sister, addiction to adderal, sad to hear such a narrative, the only reason this girl is succeeding in college is because of the amount of speed she has been taking. I remind her to eat. She assures me she knows what she is doing. I assure her I know what I am talking about. And she shuns me because I know nothing of sororities and she is two and a half weeks older than me.
The big move. The change. The fear and consequence. Tan bodybuilder, wifebeaters, drunken abuse, semi-sobriety. (it's a long way down before you reach the ground.... it's not all so orchestrated)
in the heat of a heartless disorder, i peek over the edge of a hole in the ground, a smile infiltrates rough exterior, influence me to buy custom license plates for a car I will never see again. sun devil huh? also known as a dust devil without the dust. simply a devil. character analysis reveals that a minion of walt disney created the beloved sparky. probably in some mushroom trip delirium watching lights flicker from the outside of an office building, flicking a zippo on and off, watching the hottest blue flame appear to go invisible in front of his eyes, sunburnt eyes, without polarization those light blues will get burned and hell turn dark blue? that's even cooler. and something I have never seen
(I'll keep my friends)
The appeal of iced coffee in the morning. A cold shower. In the midst of these cold personalities. I might start enjoying myself. I like to be busy. That anxiety swells up when I am docile dormant useless a characature of who I want to be... car salesman from dallas. count up the things I love and continue adding to that list as apparent as we can tolerate. no meaning. garbage writing. i am typing without thinking mostly. such huge thoughts in my head I can't even scratch the surface at the moment. such monumental repercussions for delay. caffeine or god help me

read about the book of the dead. james bond struggling with the death of the love of his life and alcoholism. reviewing all the parts of a cool inner chamber of scribe's tomb. with wealth I will build pyramids. i wore the tie dye and nearly cried on my walk home. livid with computer complications. at that point my brain mostly shut off and I've been drifting along in my section of my apartment listening to the diamondbacks lose and the thumping bass of some asshole listening to his music louder than necessary. a college full of attention whores. tools with tribal tattoos all around me. i meet people who show glimpses of potential. a flash here or there. but I hesitate. I compare too often this environment to my past environment and my brain is dead. I will sleep early and well tonight and I will write continually. dead brain skin cell tumor. scrape that bitch off and move on with yourself.  well in all the story i want to tell is that of confusion. I've met people sure. but what am I doing wrong that makes everything turn away from me? listen to the helio sequence and plan a long day for thursday. feeling like i have accomplished very little on this lonely wednesday. i retire to my studies early where all of my anguish grows like a fungus. certain light gets rid of it. an extermination. a melatonin, xanax, caffeine pill delirium. with three tests, i am hardly nervous. i will find the hayden building before enter the music therapy classroom to plan a route for my math test. my inner monologue repeating terrifying sentences. not worth repeating. worthless worthless. kill. but hey im semi-happy now. 

test post

I'm used to free-writing in my assorted notebooks and journals but I'd like to try a new format... One reason is that I can type much faster (and more efficiently) than I can write by hand. The downside is that I feel the internet is a huge impersonal barrier which is not how I wish to have any of my thoughts received. But there is no other solution for the moment (considering that I will not published my journals any time soon).


Most likely I just want somebody to listen. To read. I want to keep up a consistent regimen of writing somewhere. Used to be my facebook profile, in the 'notes' section, but that felt SUPER artificial. Then again, only my friends could see. Not the whole world.

Okay. Third strong point. Sell point. Turning point. My writing feels stronger through my old internet or word document ramblings. I can type longer than write without fatigue. I hate staring at a computer screen. Point-counterpoint. I can never make errors here that go undetected. The very human natural mistakes are reduced. BUT the final point which will start me blogging (a term I hate) is that the time it takes me to write certain word combinations is considerably less causing a more sporadic, spur of the moment, stream of subconscious-style writing that I love and appreciate. (as long as I never edit the free writing)

that is all.

if so motivated I will start writing things and posting them on the internet. unthemed. day in the life. random inspirations. lets not add any fucking labels here folks. im not fighting for anything specific at the moment.