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>