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.