10:00 - 10:20am
Unexplainable burn marks on my grey sheets. I do not smoke anymore. Never in the bedroom. The grey matches thin lines on the comforter. The comforter matches the color of the walls, but that is happenstance. By some miracle of chance the way light is absorbed or reflected is shared between two objects. A hardening distance between myself and the draw of sleep. I am alive again. There are tiny holes in most of my t-shirts near where a belt buckle might be. This is indicative of fowl play. Twisting off bottle caps. The little ridges tear holes through shirts and I seemed to have tainted all of my shirts with evidence of partying. What sickening disgrace. Bending bottle caps, beer strictly... Bending bottle caps backwards. Into a taco.
Who do I want to write about? A sad, life-weary middle aged man... Not necessarily sad, but thoughtful. He thinks of his entire life and wonders how he can restore vigor into the present. He is in an awful repetitious rut. His only son off to college somewhere warm. He is in forced isolation because he never got along with his snobby neighbors. His name is Gary. His son is a side character.
What happens to Gary? During a storm, a bad one. The worst of the last ten years perhaps... A tree falls through the tall fence through an unknown neighbors yard. Secretly Gary is excited by the storm. He wants to go to the waterfront to see what kind of damage the storm is doing to the expensive houses and bulkheads and boats down there. But his wife drags him in front of the television. Where images of a large house being destroyed by a rogue wave are displayed. They have the generator running so their fridge continues to work. And so television stills blares nonsensically into the quiet house. Gary cheers and says 'nice!' when this house is destroyed. Secretly ashamed he did not see this in person. It would have been a five minute drive to this part of the shore. His wife says 'isn't that awful!' in reaction to it. (this will be a scene... expressing character traits of each.... Gary craves exciting things in his life because of a growing sense of monotony... his wife, Cheryl, how bout.... Is content with her comfort and talking to her girlfriends on the phone....)
Gary does what he can to shake things up... The next day... Cheryl calls a friend to gossip about the destroyed house, Gary takes the other line and says something like 'those people deserved it'. And laughs and goes outside to wander through the wreckage... The downed powerlines that zap curious birds. turning them invalid to ever fly again. Exciting stuff he thinks.
The tree into the neighbors lawn. He inspects this and sees the man's backyard for the first time... Something strange here... like what?? First inclination was for Gary to discover that his neighbor appears to have been conducting experiments in his yard. The small, innocent looking toolshed was also smashed through... and appears to be a type of control room. Or a laboratory. Central to this is what looks like an operating table. Gary is not afraid of all of this though, he thinks it strange. Walks around to the front gate... The perimeter of the house is impenetrable. He tries to buzz himself in, to discuss a neighborly effort to remove the tree from their yards. No response for awhile. Then suddenly... a voice. What do you want? Speak up!
This is the idea of a creepy... evil professor sort of neighbor. but the true nature of the experimental devices are shrouded and we can't tell if they are for good or for bad....
Another idea could be that the tree crashes through and the other side of the fence is a grow operation. Fields of marijuana exposed into the air. (This requires a warmer climate... Washington would not suffice.... Nor Cal? Oregon?) Plants as tall as humans... Gary hadn't touched the stuff since his 20's.
Also there is a skateramp.... The owner of the house is a single man a few years younger than Gary. Living a dream life. He opens Gary's eyes.
Okay so... Gary is protagonist. He is bored. Storm happens and that introduces him to his eccentric neighbor and they form a friendship of sorts. Perhaps a drug cartel. Perhaps something more drastic. Simple experiments... or "project mayhem" style efforts.
Working title
Tuesday, January 31, 2012
Monday, January 30, 2012
Jan 30
8:45-9:05
(I hate this damn enlightenment)
Sunday night sleeplessness, the kind the bed feels like cardboard, a small stack of it. I feel my arm through layer of pillow as if it weren't there. My mind wanders to ridiculous lengths from here to there and mostly I just lay there and think about shutting off my brain. Friday and Saturday night I stay up too late to have this problem. Also, no concerns about productivity in the early morning. My mind wanders from Portland posters, signed by some famous people I've never heard of, to desert oasis. Crawl through the hot sand like oven heated tiny rocks and scabs on the body lots of scolding and scorching, as the abuse transferred from feet to hands and knees and suddenly there is a green tree and a significant body of water. Rather than allowing me to continue my brain turns blank and I don't move, simply die from be transformed into human toast. Pick at me, vultures. Take your fill.
Some misunderstanding of grandeur. I wanted a big change. I wonder why I left Portland. An apartment anywhere would have been nicer. The sunlight. The hot girls. The cold personalities. I realize I have the power to interact with anyone and everyone. I can network and market myself. The complaints I have about my life here and just dramatized versions of past complaints. Portland complaints. The way I can't seem to be understood real closely by anyone. This is greatly different because I had a handful of friends with deep history there and we could just talk and reminisce. I have new friends, save one, here. They look at my humor with disapproval. Sometimes I feel like I'm contending for my very existence in a passing conversation with a friend. This is not what a casual conversation with a friend should ever feel like. As if I don't say something important or smart I am a useless human being. These thoughts ruin pure reactions to events because I am so trapped in my head. I am tongue-tied and fuck it all up. I sometimes avoid the conversations altogether like a little girl who eats her lunch in the bathroom because she feels no sense of belonging in the ruthless cliques. I will never grow into that recluse. The type daddy loves and gives money to for make up and drugs and sex. You became the town whore because your dad was always too drunk to know if boys were over. At least the whore of the island. I dreamed of setting charges on the bridge. How would life continue? People would have to swim. But perhaps they all are rich enough to have their own personal boats therefore no outside contact and community spirit would be necessary. Those soccer boys. Those musicians. Those art school kids. The kind you want to take home to mom to make her jealous. The kind you want to persuade to do your evil bidding. You always get what you want when it comes to people but you are never satisfied. You like to leech them of their individuality but asking to open up beyond means....
I wonder how. I can change. Completely. Began with a haircut. Something symbolic of cutting my old life off. The old whores left behind. The old houses and tall green trees crashing through fences in the yard. Began with a haircut and an established jog route. Ideas in mind to work on things, to cultivate various talents with repetitious exercise. I believe this time could be spent to make myself awesome at some things. Awesome at life in general, so I can return triumphant to the Northwest. With my chest puffed out and my head held up high to the sky. A swagger. I saunter over to the tobacco shop and say 'you won't hurt me no more!' I enter the saloon and ask for a double. I lose the feeling in half of my face and crash the family car. No, no. Bad thoughts. Important story maybe.... But now it's about triumphant recovery from months of deformity through depression and deep hopeless social failure. It is about getting my life back into my hands and making up for all of that time I've lost in the last few months. Do away with the awful. Embrace something more positive and life affirming. Procrastination is a mortal enemy and I will die with projects half done.
(I hate this damn enlightenment)
Sunday night sleeplessness, the kind the bed feels like cardboard, a small stack of it. I feel my arm through layer of pillow as if it weren't there. My mind wanders to ridiculous lengths from here to there and mostly I just lay there and think about shutting off my brain. Friday and Saturday night I stay up too late to have this problem. Also, no concerns about productivity in the early morning. My mind wanders from Portland posters, signed by some famous people I've never heard of, to desert oasis. Crawl through the hot sand like oven heated tiny rocks and scabs on the body lots of scolding and scorching, as the abuse transferred from feet to hands and knees and suddenly there is a green tree and a significant body of water. Rather than allowing me to continue my brain turns blank and I don't move, simply die from be transformed into human toast. Pick at me, vultures. Take your fill.
Some misunderstanding of grandeur. I wanted a big change. I wonder why I left Portland. An apartment anywhere would have been nicer. The sunlight. The hot girls. The cold personalities. I realize I have the power to interact with anyone and everyone. I can network and market myself. The complaints I have about my life here and just dramatized versions of past complaints. Portland complaints. The way I can't seem to be understood real closely by anyone. This is greatly different because I had a handful of friends with deep history there and we could just talk and reminisce. I have new friends, save one, here. They look at my humor with disapproval. Sometimes I feel like I'm contending for my very existence in a passing conversation with a friend. This is not what a casual conversation with a friend should ever feel like. As if I don't say something important or smart I am a useless human being. These thoughts ruin pure reactions to events because I am so trapped in my head. I am tongue-tied and fuck it all up. I sometimes avoid the conversations altogether like a little girl who eats her lunch in the bathroom because she feels no sense of belonging in the ruthless cliques. I will never grow into that recluse. The type daddy loves and gives money to for make up and drugs and sex. You became the town whore because your dad was always too drunk to know if boys were over. At least the whore of the island. I dreamed of setting charges on the bridge. How would life continue? People would have to swim. But perhaps they all are rich enough to have their own personal boats therefore no outside contact and community spirit would be necessary. Those soccer boys. Those musicians. Those art school kids. The kind you want to take home to mom to make her jealous. The kind you want to persuade to do your evil bidding. You always get what you want when it comes to people but you are never satisfied. You like to leech them of their individuality but asking to open up beyond means....
I wonder how. I can change. Completely. Began with a haircut. Something symbolic of cutting my old life off. The old whores left behind. The old houses and tall green trees crashing through fences in the yard. Began with a haircut and an established jog route. Ideas in mind to work on things, to cultivate various talents with repetitious exercise. I believe this time could be spent to make myself awesome at some things. Awesome at life in general, so I can return triumphant to the Northwest. With my chest puffed out and my head held up high to the sky. A swagger. I saunter over to the tobacco shop and say 'you won't hurt me no more!' I enter the saloon and ask for a double. I lose the feeling in half of my face and crash the family car. No, no. Bad thoughts. Important story maybe.... But now it's about triumphant recovery from months of deformity through depression and deep hopeless social failure. It is about getting my life back into my hands and making up for all of that time I've lost in the last few months. Do away with the awful. Embrace something more positive and life affirming. Procrastination is a mortal enemy and I will die with projects half done.
Sunday, January 29, 2012
jan 29
1:51 - 2:11
Who is that stranger hovering five feet over your back porch? They are not attached with strings. They are not hanging. Neck broken. Tongue blue and poking out through teeth clenched teeth. Severing ties and wounds grow bigger without healing because modern medicine has a cap. Not everything can be fixed with duct tape yet you try to reattach your common sense. Lost limbs, ghostly sensation that it is still there functioning and grotesquely friends have to watch you flail around your stump in attempt to pick up a beer. I have a phantom limb. Its the one that comes out of my chest and pushes things away from me without my knowing. Like a shield. My heart is safely behind my bones and brawn.
Free concert at a coffee shop. Good music. Pretentious indie folk. Orchestral. Then some sort of half ska half rap hip music. It turned into a dance party and the shit was catchy. Then indie. Acoustic chords and sounds. A nice little voice and multi-instrumentalists. Then a more punk folk deal. Some yelling into the mic but absolutely solid harmonies. High ones. Really good. I'll see them again at the clubhouse down the street. MIxed crowd. Paper machete bird masks, a man painting a bird on the back wall, positive bathroom graffiti which I find obscene and unsanitary, next time ill just piss on the wall out back. the one that every pisses on. girl with pink hair. a lot of prescription glasses, tattoos and flannel. the underground indie scene of tempe is rich and diverse and the music is good. i will attend more things like this, mr social with his short hair. networking man its all about networking, but something in me stirs when folks discuss the future. my future. your future. oh yeah we might need someone to fill in for our summer tour. can i wing this? what about the stoner band, or the hopes of further HBO specials in California? what about growing some balls and writing a solid emotional acoustic set. the type of music that shifts something inside of the listeners. like the turning of a dial. a response. autonomic. something moves around and the person shutters as a cold ghost passes through them. their hand stands up on their back and they change their evil ways. its about confidence and simply going for it. not caring what they think. its about the success. the brooding corner shopper who never sings in front of crowds is suddenly alive and victorious. practice enough. four times a week. and get better and better. make the music and then things will happen. where will you go in seattle. could you live alone? in the filthy city that so many rap about. could i become the artist i wish to be. the genius. the genesis of all of my ideas. where can these pieces fit together best for me? here, not so much. but i'm not jumping on it. i had shots at open mics in portland, even tacoma when i still lived at home. but no courage. no back up. now do i have that wild compulsion? do i have the wide eyed motivation to create change. to create things in general and make the most of a dulling and sedative life. my lifestyle is slowly turning me into a cave troll. someone who cowers where there is sun or pretty women. the types of things going on all around me that i can't change but wish to have a part in anyway. im comfortable feeling so left out. because to be let in is to give up on my ambition which i wish to keep with me and take to the grave (carling rolling around in his grave). comedy genius. musical genius. artistic genius. literary genius. relationship guru. math professor. club owner. detective. famous actor and director. screenplay author. camera man for comedic shorts. mountain climber. if i could be all and do all.... its not about prior experience to show others, hey ive done this a million times, its about the courage, the investment into life and expansion.... to just plunge in. dive into the deep end where you can't dream about the bottom. the end. it doesn't exist. its just the here and now and its forever and always and if you dont jump, even contemplate it for a second you will forever regret the time lost in your hesitation.
Who is that stranger hovering five feet over your back porch? They are not attached with strings. They are not hanging. Neck broken. Tongue blue and poking out through teeth clenched teeth. Severing ties and wounds grow bigger without healing because modern medicine has a cap. Not everything can be fixed with duct tape yet you try to reattach your common sense. Lost limbs, ghostly sensation that it is still there functioning and grotesquely friends have to watch you flail around your stump in attempt to pick up a beer. I have a phantom limb. Its the one that comes out of my chest and pushes things away from me without my knowing. Like a shield. My heart is safely behind my bones and brawn.
Free concert at a coffee shop. Good music. Pretentious indie folk. Orchestral. Then some sort of half ska half rap hip music. It turned into a dance party and the shit was catchy. Then indie. Acoustic chords and sounds. A nice little voice and multi-instrumentalists. Then a more punk folk deal. Some yelling into the mic but absolutely solid harmonies. High ones. Really good. I'll see them again at the clubhouse down the street. MIxed crowd. Paper machete bird masks, a man painting a bird on the back wall, positive bathroom graffiti which I find obscene and unsanitary, next time ill just piss on the wall out back. the one that every pisses on. girl with pink hair. a lot of prescription glasses, tattoos and flannel. the underground indie scene of tempe is rich and diverse and the music is good. i will attend more things like this, mr social with his short hair. networking man its all about networking, but something in me stirs when folks discuss the future. my future. your future. oh yeah we might need someone to fill in for our summer tour. can i wing this? what about the stoner band, or the hopes of further HBO specials in California? what about growing some balls and writing a solid emotional acoustic set. the type of music that shifts something inside of the listeners. like the turning of a dial. a response. autonomic. something moves around and the person shutters as a cold ghost passes through them. their hand stands up on their back and they change their evil ways. its about confidence and simply going for it. not caring what they think. its about the success. the brooding corner shopper who never sings in front of crowds is suddenly alive and victorious. practice enough. four times a week. and get better and better. make the music and then things will happen. where will you go in seattle. could you live alone? in the filthy city that so many rap about. could i become the artist i wish to be. the genius. the genesis of all of my ideas. where can these pieces fit together best for me? here, not so much. but i'm not jumping on it. i had shots at open mics in portland, even tacoma when i still lived at home. but no courage. no back up. now do i have that wild compulsion? do i have the wide eyed motivation to create change. to create things in general and make the most of a dulling and sedative life. my lifestyle is slowly turning me into a cave troll. someone who cowers where there is sun or pretty women. the types of things going on all around me that i can't change but wish to have a part in anyway. im comfortable feeling so left out. because to be let in is to give up on my ambition which i wish to keep with me and take to the grave (carling rolling around in his grave). comedy genius. musical genius. artistic genius. literary genius. relationship guru. math professor. club owner. detective. famous actor and director. screenplay author. camera man for comedic shorts. mountain climber. if i could be all and do all.... its not about prior experience to show others, hey ive done this a million times, its about the courage, the investment into life and expansion.... to just plunge in. dive into the deep end where you can't dream about the bottom. the end. it doesn't exist. its just the here and now and its forever and always and if you dont jump, even contemplate it for a second you will forever regret the time lost in your hesitation.
jan 28
3:42 - 4:02 am
There are not enough days left to bring balance to the ratio of nights spent alone as opposed to nights with company. Wake up sunday and find remains of the weekend in the trash. Fragments of lost time. The throw away enchiladas, coffee cugs, banana peels, pineapple juice for hawaiian sea breezes straight from the warm beaches of waikiki. mahola. as the ancient hawaiians once said... the tree that bears only spoiled fruit is not worthy of the ground its seed were planted. Sections of memory, important and isolated at the time. In that moment. As they appeared and before they disappear like ghosts in foggy passageways. The ones that get away. These are ruined with summary words. My weekend was good was fine. This expresses close to nothing. This expresses 'i do not wish to speak of my weekend.' You have to read 100 pages in one sitting. You have to become a genius. The one who is capable of all theory. The theory of everything. The one with four eyes pointed each direction and is always first to respond to a crisis call on his telephone hotline. I sleep in my bed so soundly perhaps because i dont touch head to pillow without chemicals reducing me into a sack of potatoes. dragging behind its reluctant body the unexpected protagonist struggles with vague messages regarding his existence. a death struggle, in deep throes, a guttural outburst, flames licking his teeth, he must exist and he must understand his limited time as a sense of urgency, palpable, where he can get things done whereas others flounder and get left behind, basking in the warm glow of their old memories while the stronger ones forge forward into unknown, potentially hostile environment. plunging forward like arrows through apples. the spirit spears it and shipwrecks sink to the bottom of marianas trench. deep below our understanding. a plea for life. a plea for sanity. he must be released and if he is something close to enlightened he must be exposed to the elements of his path. the truth and the warmth of his light. if there is a spark of curiosity yet to be extinguished in his eyes, may he walk through condescending forests, where great trunks shutter with disapproval, in the eyes of nature we are all pests and no matter how close to nature you get, they are not on your side. i climb mountains and sit by creeks examining what the emptiness and fullness both of my surroundings, what is translated into my head, for these thoughts are closer to some sort of spiritual enlightenment, because of the purity of the moment involved. this spiritual shit im not sure i buy but the emptiness of mind out there in the forest, the at home peaceful removal of home, the windowless domain of green and lush gardens, natural tendencies for beautiful arrangements of things, but yet.... but yet.... yet the forest groups you in with the tree cutters and the environment killers, the evil and anti-forest people. you are no different than them to them. they are no different than you to them. they are indifferent to any distinctive characteristics that separate you as individuals, with your own lungs and opinions, and style of dress and skin color. only the specialists. the ones that enter the city to gather samples. the ones that send soaring radiation messages through rain cycles to forestry. sleepytime music sounds through this dark green forest, the deep dark green of moss in the absence of light, angelic voices, almost inhuman in their realness, their authentic human tones and cracks. the type to make the sky split open and gold pour out. the one that makes volcanoes erupt in defiance because we call them dormant. dead. if i were constantly called weak or obsolete. i might also blow my top. ...aaaaaaaand time!
There are not enough days left to bring balance to the ratio of nights spent alone as opposed to nights with company. Wake up sunday and find remains of the weekend in the trash. Fragments of lost time. The throw away enchiladas, coffee cugs, banana peels, pineapple juice for hawaiian sea breezes straight from the warm beaches of waikiki. mahola. as the ancient hawaiians once said... the tree that bears only spoiled fruit is not worthy of the ground its seed were planted. Sections of memory, important and isolated at the time. In that moment. As they appeared and before they disappear like ghosts in foggy passageways. The ones that get away. These are ruined with summary words. My weekend was good was fine. This expresses close to nothing. This expresses 'i do not wish to speak of my weekend.' You have to read 100 pages in one sitting. You have to become a genius. The one who is capable of all theory. The theory of everything. The one with four eyes pointed each direction and is always first to respond to a crisis call on his telephone hotline. I sleep in my bed so soundly perhaps because i dont touch head to pillow without chemicals reducing me into a sack of potatoes. dragging behind its reluctant body the unexpected protagonist struggles with vague messages regarding his existence. a death struggle, in deep throes, a guttural outburst, flames licking his teeth, he must exist and he must understand his limited time as a sense of urgency, palpable, where he can get things done whereas others flounder and get left behind, basking in the warm glow of their old memories while the stronger ones forge forward into unknown, potentially hostile environment. plunging forward like arrows through apples. the spirit spears it and shipwrecks sink to the bottom of marianas trench. deep below our understanding. a plea for life. a plea for sanity. he must be released and if he is something close to enlightened he must be exposed to the elements of his path. the truth and the warmth of his light. if there is a spark of curiosity yet to be extinguished in his eyes, may he walk through condescending forests, where great trunks shutter with disapproval, in the eyes of nature we are all pests and no matter how close to nature you get, they are not on your side. i climb mountains and sit by creeks examining what the emptiness and fullness both of my surroundings, what is translated into my head, for these thoughts are closer to some sort of spiritual enlightenment, because of the purity of the moment involved. this spiritual shit im not sure i buy but the emptiness of mind out there in the forest, the at home peaceful removal of home, the windowless domain of green and lush gardens, natural tendencies for beautiful arrangements of things, but yet.... but yet.... yet the forest groups you in with the tree cutters and the environment killers, the evil and anti-forest people. you are no different than them to them. they are no different than you to them. they are indifferent to any distinctive characteristics that separate you as individuals, with your own lungs and opinions, and style of dress and skin color. only the specialists. the ones that enter the city to gather samples. the ones that send soaring radiation messages through rain cycles to forestry. sleepytime music sounds through this dark green forest, the deep dark green of moss in the absence of light, angelic voices, almost inhuman in their realness, their authentic human tones and cracks. the type to make the sky split open and gold pour out. the one that makes volcanoes erupt in defiance because we call them dormant. dead. if i were constantly called weak or obsolete. i might also blow my top. ...aaaaaaaand time!
Friday, January 27, 2012
jan 27
8:56-9:16am
Was going to get down on fried eggs, fried eggs, but I lost my appetite for them as well as patient to make it happen. Woke up drowsy from that night time cold medicine that knocked me on my ass. Pulverized me and I could barely turn my light off in time. Nearly lost consciousness with the light on. Would have illuminated my dreams. Made oatmeal instead. Yeah, no story here, I know. Bad coffee. Flaming Lips t-shirt. Jeff Beck guitar licks. How to train your brain to become a superbrain. "We sit and discuss god on lawn chairs."
She worries what to write. Who might maliciously reveal all of her deepest secrets and most violent fears. 3 cups of coffee, her small body shaking. She is tall but not basketball height. No meat on her bones really. Just bones. There is a beauty about how she carries herself, always aware of some sort of flaw that no one else could have seen or noticed. I want to hurt whoever made her think like this. Whoever conditioned this self-deprecating awareness. Unless it's all her creation. Then I will give her a hug and move on. Shivering when it is 60 degrees outside. Inside. Cold black hearts surround her and suffocate her creativity with drugs and guns and sex. Before marriage, yes. Learn how to smoke weed from a pro. This bowl is cashed. These brain cells are cashed. Brain growth. Don't stunt yourself. You'll need a wheelchair and develop black lungs by the time you move out of this hazy little city we all grew up in. Grow out of it. This phase. Go to the gym. Guarantee you could be beautiful. More beautiful. She smiles and says thank you, strictly out of some forlorn etiquette. I must have seemed intimidating. Sitting in the cold, on a bench outside of the post office, in shorts and a wife-beater and a new haircut. A nice hair cut. Over a month ago he says. The last time they touched and squirmed under the moonlight. The last time advantage was taken. Drunk and sad and lonely. No one considers those things good for a man. Usually most people consider these traits dangerous. He is going to do something stupid. Something regrettable that can't be taken back. Maybe get in a fight. Get an STD from a notorious whore. Puke on the sidewalk and end up arrested. Cannonball the hot tub when some fucker is making out with two girls at once. With laundry detergent packs in pockets. They erupt and explode in the hot tub and clean everything up. Ridiculous lengths for the prank. The dollar store before halloweekend. We still haven't and probably won't. Climb camelback mountain. Ladders. Ropes. Trail mix. Water. Fruit. Camera. Headache. Missed a whole bunch of life music due to a lingering cold. Saturday. Tomorrow. No Bragging Rights at the Underground with a bunch of hardcore punk bands. The ASU basketball team is playing Washington State. The Phoenix Suns are playing against the Memphis Grizzlies. There is a Monster Truck show at Chase Field. Gravedigger. There is a free show at the coffee shop, the Fixx. Most likely I will end up at the Fixx unless some miracle inspires a driver to take me to another event. Off into my day now. Bye.
Was going to get down on fried eggs, fried eggs, but I lost my appetite for them as well as patient to make it happen. Woke up drowsy from that night time cold medicine that knocked me on my ass. Pulverized me and I could barely turn my light off in time. Nearly lost consciousness with the light on. Would have illuminated my dreams. Made oatmeal instead. Yeah, no story here, I know. Bad coffee. Flaming Lips t-shirt. Jeff Beck guitar licks. How to train your brain to become a superbrain. "We sit and discuss god on lawn chairs."
She worries what to write. Who might maliciously reveal all of her deepest secrets and most violent fears. 3 cups of coffee, her small body shaking. She is tall but not basketball height. No meat on her bones really. Just bones. There is a beauty about how she carries herself, always aware of some sort of flaw that no one else could have seen or noticed. I want to hurt whoever made her think like this. Whoever conditioned this self-deprecating awareness. Unless it's all her creation. Then I will give her a hug and move on. Shivering when it is 60 degrees outside. Inside. Cold black hearts surround her and suffocate her creativity with drugs and guns and sex. Before marriage, yes. Learn how to smoke weed from a pro. This bowl is cashed. These brain cells are cashed. Brain growth. Don't stunt yourself. You'll need a wheelchair and develop black lungs by the time you move out of this hazy little city we all grew up in. Grow out of it. This phase. Go to the gym. Guarantee you could be beautiful. More beautiful. She smiles and says thank you, strictly out of some forlorn etiquette. I must have seemed intimidating. Sitting in the cold, on a bench outside of the post office, in shorts and a wife-beater and a new haircut. A nice hair cut. Over a month ago he says. The last time they touched and squirmed under the moonlight. The last time advantage was taken. Drunk and sad and lonely. No one considers those things good for a man. Usually most people consider these traits dangerous. He is going to do something stupid. Something regrettable that can't be taken back. Maybe get in a fight. Get an STD from a notorious whore. Puke on the sidewalk and end up arrested. Cannonball the hot tub when some fucker is making out with two girls at once. With laundry detergent packs in pockets. They erupt and explode in the hot tub and clean everything up. Ridiculous lengths for the prank. The dollar store before halloweekend. We still haven't and probably won't. Climb camelback mountain. Ladders. Ropes. Trail mix. Water. Fruit. Camera. Headache. Missed a whole bunch of life music due to a lingering cold. Saturday. Tomorrow. No Bragging Rights at the Underground with a bunch of hardcore punk bands. The ASU basketball team is playing Washington State. The Phoenix Suns are playing against the Memphis Grizzlies. There is a Monster Truck show at Chase Field. Gravedigger. There is a free show at the coffee shop, the Fixx. Most likely I will end up at the Fixx unless some miracle inspires a driver to take me to another event. Off into my day now. Bye.
Thursday, January 26, 2012
jN 26
12:02-12:22
The road to advanced jazz harmony is paved with honey-roasted peanuts.
He felt his pupils dilate and his head spin, wondering if his whole day would feel just like this. So far, a few hours in, there are no signs that it will cease. He downs a bottle of water, a breakfast sandwich, vitamins C and B12, and a free medium coffee. And waits. Lazy enough to start working on anything after noon. Stop kicking yourself. He writes this on a notecard and thumbtacks it onto some free space on the wall in front of him. When he sits at his desk he will see this and hopefully it might remind him that to feel guilty about every commitment dropped or lapsed would be a detriment. For instance, he made some goals about becoming a better guitarist. Someone who knows an awful lot of music theory and can conjure up a solo in any particular key. This requires daily dosage and he can't get anger with himself if he skips a day. This is like the exercise routine he planned to engage in for the term. Roommates and friends drinking pre workout and post work out protein shakes to build solid muscle. He is interested in a more natural pursuit of fitness, although he doesn't practice what he preaches. An irony here, he attempted a health kick, bought salad and carrots and bananas and a water bottle and vitamins and croutons and apples but got sick not 4 days after beginning. Something cruel here. He wants to believe that if his body is happy his mind becomes happy. He wants to believe whatever evils stir around in his skull can be tamed. If not, he is doomed. If not, he is doomed to become a cog in a great wheel of indifferent faces. All traveling in circles, a daily repetition, until replaced by someone younger and more agile, until he too is crippled by time and destroyed by the machinery. He thinks eating more spinach might reduce these thoughts. They find release in poetic expression, but he has never been good at poetry or much of anything artistic. Dust plays his guitar more than he does. His girlfriend, I mean ex-girlfriend, used to get so mad at him for being so paralyzed and inactive in the face of so many possibilities. Now he gets mad at himself because she is dead to him. He wonders numbly if it's better to be paranoid his ex is sleeping with his friends, or from her perspective, that he is sleeping with absolute strangers. Blonde ones at that. His sense of humor gets him in trouble sometimes but he doesn't change his ways. Often, he feels like a bad impersonation of himself. Like an undertrained actor portraying a well-known character and butchering every other line. No one believes the actor is anyone but the actor when seeing the movie. He can safely say he took command of his life enough to stop smoking cigarettes. They are bad for you. Bad for the singing voice he dreams about one day having. A beautiful singing voice. Beautiful in its darkness and proximity to pure emotional screaming. He wants simply to make his voice sound a little bit better so he can sing tighter harmonies, and eventually, if he ever becomes the artist he wishes to be, write his own important songs. Songs that jab at the hearts of the wicked and cheap. Songs that make honest love birds feel. Songs that make cold nights warmer and also warm nights colder. Happy and sad songs. A whole spectrum of emotion. There are these dreams that he has. He tilts his head to the left a bit and zones out, seeing himself becoming this person. Then reality comes back to focus and he turns on the television.
---later----
"whoah buddy, how bout some lights or somethin'?"
The road to advanced jazz harmony is paved with honey-roasted peanuts.
He felt his pupils dilate and his head spin, wondering if his whole day would feel just like this. So far, a few hours in, there are no signs that it will cease. He downs a bottle of water, a breakfast sandwich, vitamins C and B12, and a free medium coffee. And waits. Lazy enough to start working on anything after noon. Stop kicking yourself. He writes this on a notecard and thumbtacks it onto some free space on the wall in front of him. When he sits at his desk he will see this and hopefully it might remind him that to feel guilty about every commitment dropped or lapsed would be a detriment. For instance, he made some goals about becoming a better guitarist. Someone who knows an awful lot of music theory and can conjure up a solo in any particular key. This requires daily dosage and he can't get anger with himself if he skips a day. This is like the exercise routine he planned to engage in for the term. Roommates and friends drinking pre workout and post work out protein shakes to build solid muscle. He is interested in a more natural pursuit of fitness, although he doesn't practice what he preaches. An irony here, he attempted a health kick, bought salad and carrots and bananas and a water bottle and vitamins and croutons and apples but got sick not 4 days after beginning. Something cruel here. He wants to believe that if his body is happy his mind becomes happy. He wants to believe whatever evils stir around in his skull can be tamed. If not, he is doomed. If not, he is doomed to become a cog in a great wheel of indifferent faces. All traveling in circles, a daily repetition, until replaced by someone younger and more agile, until he too is crippled by time and destroyed by the machinery. He thinks eating more spinach might reduce these thoughts. They find release in poetic expression, but he has never been good at poetry or much of anything artistic. Dust plays his guitar more than he does. His girlfriend, I mean ex-girlfriend, used to get so mad at him for being so paralyzed and inactive in the face of so many possibilities. Now he gets mad at himself because she is dead to him. He wonders numbly if it's better to be paranoid his ex is sleeping with his friends, or from her perspective, that he is sleeping with absolute strangers. Blonde ones at that. His sense of humor gets him in trouble sometimes but he doesn't change his ways. Often, he feels like a bad impersonation of himself. Like an undertrained actor portraying a well-known character and butchering every other line. No one believes the actor is anyone but the actor when seeing the movie. He can safely say he took command of his life enough to stop smoking cigarettes. They are bad for you. Bad for the singing voice he dreams about one day having. A beautiful singing voice. Beautiful in its darkness and proximity to pure emotional screaming. He wants simply to make his voice sound a little bit better so he can sing tighter harmonies, and eventually, if he ever becomes the artist he wishes to be, write his own important songs. Songs that jab at the hearts of the wicked and cheap. Songs that make honest love birds feel. Songs that make cold nights warmer and also warm nights colder. Happy and sad songs. A whole spectrum of emotion. There are these dreams that he has. He tilts his head to the left a bit and zones out, seeing himself becoming this person. Then reality comes back to focus and he turns on the television.
---later----
"whoah buddy, how bout some lights or somethin'?"
Wednesday, January 25, 2012
jan 25
8:08am-8:28am
This morning, coughing up familiar red stuff, sneezing up strange orange-yellow stuff, of course I miss you. My windowsill is not big enough for two humans to share a black n' mild. Wood tip, passing slobber back and forth like ravenous dogs fighting over the final bone of a week old kill. I swallowed my headache and it hurt my throat for awhile. I drank a lot of tea, green, chamomile, roibous, and whatever makes up her sleepytime formula. And my sore throat crawled up to my nose, blocking passage of air with thick mucus. Secondary effect was that my gums hurt. Incredible soreness. It felt like my teeth were relocating themselves to different parts of my mouth on their own accord. I haven't, nor has an orthodontic surgeon, advised these movements. I had horrible visions of my teeth moving to the sides of my cheeks, roots and all. For the tooth to be removed I would have to have a chunk of my cheek removed with it. My jaw is sore from either the subtle movements of my teeth or from anxious grinding. Top and bottom like two pieces of sandpaper until a finely ground dust. Cough this up it gets to my eyes and now I have pink eye. Of course I miss you when I know you could alleviate most of these symptoms. My anxieties would diminish. I would get everything done I wanted to. Also a neck massage to reduce building tension, the tension that risks to explode my brain like a stack of dynamite. The pressure that builds the deeper towards the center of the earth you go. The pressure that reduces in the high Andes mountains of south america. The ones with the plane crash, cannibalism movie based in them. Always snow. Cocaine everywhere. Nose running red like high mountain river. Any slight movements in bed from my fat upstairs neighbor can be heard. Paper thin walls. A lot of things I'd rather not hear. Those lovebirds getting at it. What was your name again? Oh yeah. Cool. Put the bed half in the closet and a girl will grip the cross beam your nice shirts hang on and ride until all occupants of building complain about the noise. Heat up old coffee. Wipe the sleep dust out of my eyes. Turn on my brain. I dreamed about pastel colored houses and whirlpools. The creatures that hide 100 feet under a layer of ice. An ecosystem that has never experience the conditions of the world outside of their bubble. Americans wish to break through and discover, dying, the beautiful possibility of life down in these cold depths. There are creatures. Life will find a way. Or I dream about dying dogs and college kids who contemplate what type of folk song to write. Maybe this kid breaks up with his girlfriend and records a demo in time for a small concert at the same time. His vulnerability will be on display and after his set, in dark brooding complication, cute girls will come talk to him. I understand your songs, they speak to me. I fall in love with every girl who smiles at me. Hold your head up champ. These days are fantastic. You will look bad and sigh as you did not yet understand this fact. You are living a 20 year old dream. Many wish to be you now. And what's gotten into you? Do you understand that nearly 99% of the people you have ever known have to wear more than a t-shirt to be comfortable for their day? This is warm weather. It needs warm persona. Warm countenance. Warm aura. Don't mope. Sit and write, sure, but look happy at least. There is no time like now and fuck all that stuff about 'not fitting in'. This has been established. You will never fit in with the majority here. They are shallow and will never understand you. You are not superior though.... Find a comfortable niche where your anxiety disappears with time spent here. And time's up.
This morning, coughing up familiar red stuff, sneezing up strange orange-yellow stuff, of course I miss you. My windowsill is not big enough for two humans to share a black n' mild. Wood tip, passing slobber back and forth like ravenous dogs fighting over the final bone of a week old kill. I swallowed my headache and it hurt my throat for awhile. I drank a lot of tea, green, chamomile, roibous, and whatever makes up her sleepytime formula. And my sore throat crawled up to my nose, blocking passage of air with thick mucus. Secondary effect was that my gums hurt. Incredible soreness. It felt like my teeth were relocating themselves to different parts of my mouth on their own accord. I haven't, nor has an orthodontic surgeon, advised these movements. I had horrible visions of my teeth moving to the sides of my cheeks, roots and all. For the tooth to be removed I would have to have a chunk of my cheek removed with it. My jaw is sore from either the subtle movements of my teeth or from anxious grinding. Top and bottom like two pieces of sandpaper until a finely ground dust. Cough this up it gets to my eyes and now I have pink eye. Of course I miss you when I know you could alleviate most of these symptoms. My anxieties would diminish. I would get everything done I wanted to. Also a neck massage to reduce building tension, the tension that risks to explode my brain like a stack of dynamite. The pressure that builds the deeper towards the center of the earth you go. The pressure that reduces in the high Andes mountains of south america. The ones with the plane crash, cannibalism movie based in them. Always snow. Cocaine everywhere. Nose running red like high mountain river. Any slight movements in bed from my fat upstairs neighbor can be heard. Paper thin walls. A lot of things I'd rather not hear. Those lovebirds getting at it. What was your name again? Oh yeah. Cool. Put the bed half in the closet and a girl will grip the cross beam your nice shirts hang on and ride until all occupants of building complain about the noise. Heat up old coffee. Wipe the sleep dust out of my eyes. Turn on my brain. I dreamed about pastel colored houses and whirlpools. The creatures that hide 100 feet under a layer of ice. An ecosystem that has never experience the conditions of the world outside of their bubble. Americans wish to break through and discover, dying, the beautiful possibility of life down in these cold depths. There are creatures. Life will find a way. Or I dream about dying dogs and college kids who contemplate what type of folk song to write. Maybe this kid breaks up with his girlfriend and records a demo in time for a small concert at the same time. His vulnerability will be on display and after his set, in dark brooding complication, cute girls will come talk to him. I understand your songs, they speak to me. I fall in love with every girl who smiles at me. Hold your head up champ. These days are fantastic. You will look bad and sigh as you did not yet understand this fact. You are living a 20 year old dream. Many wish to be you now. And what's gotten into you? Do you understand that nearly 99% of the people you have ever known have to wear more than a t-shirt to be comfortable for their day? This is warm weather. It needs warm persona. Warm countenance. Warm aura. Don't mope. Sit and write, sure, but look happy at least. There is no time like now and fuck all that stuff about 'not fitting in'. This has been established. You will never fit in with the majority here. They are shallow and will never understand you. You are not superior though.... Find a comfortable niche where your anxiety disappears with time spent here. And time's up.
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
jan 24
A taste adventure, deep in the Arizona wilderness. The darker sand usually tastes less dry. And the cacti shake their heads at our desperation, for they hold abundant water and could be deep fried and dipped into prickly pear sauce. Cactus fries. I slept 15 years last night. I dreamed about many people or things I once loved and they passed by me like cars on the freeway in slow motion. Infinite time to get a word out but I held my tongue and watched. Everything was in a police line up and I was supposed to make a decision. Who would remain and who would disappear. One I could make vanish. I want to forget some things I used to love. Some girl maybe. Some cat who ran away. No woman no cry. Simple messages. The fact I'm writing these words represents a contradiction, a confluence of motives, positive and negative. Writing is remembering. If I wished to forget about a person or a cat I would never write about them. This is impossible for me. What will benefit me?
What do I need to do to assert myself. I want to ride out into the sunset on horseback with my cowboy brethren. Gambling with guns and whiskey. Ten gallon hats. Blue jeans, boots and spurs. A lasso. In command of the time and the environment. I wouldn't abuse my power. I wouldn't hurt the innocent for fun. Okay. Well I have a pair of jeans and I drink enough whiskey. I gamble with emotions like a bipolar shock patient. A russian roulette table where red represents happiness and contentedness and black represents pure cosmic misery.
Yesterday the last remains of the superglue on my left thumb scraped off. This was from Halloween when I glued a fake spider into the corner of the elevator. It must have scared someone. But if it didn't the lingering glue has represented my failure.
Begin 20 minutes of writing every morning.
What do I need to do to assert myself. I want to ride out into the sunset on horseback with my cowboy brethren. Gambling with guns and whiskey. Ten gallon hats. Blue jeans, boots and spurs. A lasso. In command of the time and the environment. I wouldn't abuse my power. I wouldn't hurt the innocent for fun. Okay. Well I have a pair of jeans and I drink enough whiskey. I gamble with emotions like a bipolar shock patient. A russian roulette table where red represents happiness and contentedness and black represents pure cosmic misery.
Yesterday the last remains of the superglue on my left thumb scraped off. This was from Halloween when I glued a fake spider into the corner of the elevator. It must have scared someone. But if it didn't the lingering glue has represented my failure.
Begin 20 minutes of writing every morning.
Sunday, January 22, 2012
January 22nd
Sometimes I have visions of myself as a perfect model citizen. 'How does he do it?' they whisper to each other, astounded. I wear nice yet modest clothes. Nothing name brand or flashy, just clean. Lint-rolled. Conscious of appearance for reasons that no one could mistake as vanity. My jeans, when I wear them, are not ripped up at the 'cuffs'. They fit and I don't tread on them. On a rainy day I don't have to worry about my ankles getting wet due to my pants fitting over my shoes completely. Or I intervene with the problem and roll them up slightly. I wear colors that work together. Maybe there is something more innocent and beautiful in the fact I wear ripped up pants. I'm not sure.
Either way I'm smiling a wide knowing smile. I smile like I am conspiring with the world to promote positive social change. I'm the reliable, innovative man whose extensive knowledge of people and situations helps me to fit soundly in with any group of people, while at the same time standing out. In this vision, I have an aptitude for reading people that borders telepathy. Rivals clairvoyance. The word is TASTEFUL. I know what to say and I know how to say it. I help get things moving and am always available to assist friends launch their ideas. When my mind wanders, it wanders to the right places. The places where answers can be found. I can think on my feet. I am confident. In this vision I exude an air of confidence. I completely understand thick accents and know how to reply to make the other people feel comfortable. I have a mastery of how words are used in the English language. I never stutter. When I wave it does not look accidental or sardonic.
I spend time cultivating various talents. In this vision I am good enough at the things I love to share my talent with others. I can write beautiful poetry. I can write symphonies based on feeling alone, with no academic knowledge of music theory. I can paint naked portraits on sinking ships before a cold and imminent death tears us away from each other. I can focus on a single project until its completion before moving on to the next. I am an efficient perfectionist. I don't hinder myself by flirting with erroneous detail. I speak clearly without mumbling and when I speak off of my guard I still do not sound sarcastic. My self-esteem is high enough that is raises the hearts of all around me. Hey it's not so bad after all, thanks Nate for comforting me, they say. I can patiently listen. I can fix my broken skull candies. I have at least partial mechanical knowledge. you know. To know the things a modern man needs to know if he wishes to save some money. I do not squander money, in this dream. I am aware of my bank account balances and the compounding interest. I find loopholes in the system to make modest profit off of simple things. Counting cards. Stock market. Sending in stories to be published in literary journals, to be torn apart by bored critics who wish to release alcohol-withdrawal anger on some poor newcomer.
I usually imagine myself walking into some sort of high tech building where everyone knows who I am, as if I own a business or something. We have ethical concerns about how to run a business. I am in charge and I make damn sure that we never embezzle or steal or borrow unlawfully or work with shady individuals. I would implement a rigorous application process where the final test is to go out to brunch with me, in a casual suit without a tie. Because we have ethical concerns we will never come out on top. That is not what it is about. For me, it's about keeping my head, and my employees heads above water. The dark churning waters of darker temptations. My reputation precedes me and I always smell nice.
I eat healthy and fair trade products. My body is a biological example of the perfect body. I have a rare blood type and I donate regularly, directly at the hospital so it can save lives faster. My knuckles don't crack. (Where my dream, my image, my idealization of myself becomes troublesome is the fact that the majority of these things, to come true, require a certain commitment and a regularity, a set in stone schedule that I live by in order to achieve these goals.)
In the dream. This perfection. My aspiration. I am committed to every goal I can conjure up. Every little idea I execute to some extent. Simply to try out perhaps. If I like the rough draft then I can rewrite the script, revise the experiment, and try again with more gusto. More zest. I have myriad ideas. I realize these ideas and bring them straight from my head into reality. Once there I can hold meetings with esteemed colleagues to revise and edit the ideas. So many ideas. I have the courage to present ideas to board meetings. I have courage to ask women on dates and many of them are decently successful although I'm not in it for a lay. I could get laid if I wanted to, mostly based on how genuinely nice I am. Amiable. Amicable. They want to be around me and I try to dish out my time to all of those who are important to me. I never "try too hard." I always try just hard enough but tend to appreciate when a relationship simply falls into my lap. Some cosmic connection between a sovereign heart and my own. Something that snaps and scatters like a bottle rocket. In this dream I am given the decision to choose exactly who to hang out with regardless of where in the world they may be. I invite a teleportation agency perhaps. I have extensive knowledge of the universe and its inhabitants. I sleep well every night and wake refreshed every morning drinking coffee as a reward rather than an inclination.
I keep dreaming about this person. And if, one day in a mirror, I will be introduced to him. I'm trying but it seems I don't have enough hours in the day. This man is a stranger to me. He never procrastinates and always knows how to react to a situation. He has experience. Life experience. Genuine life experience and he doesn't cry when others need him to be strong but he has shoulders to cry on when he needs them. These reliable friends. The favors are reciprocal. He is organized, clean. Wastes nothing. Never wastes time. Wears a watch if he cares to know exactly what time it is. Mostly he operates on gut instinct because he is so incredibly tuned in to the world that every action seems to be catered to his way of operation. The world was made for him. Billions of years of evolution. Failed prototypes of human beings. He is the real thing. He is real, tangible. Radiant. There is a positive glow about him. He is god. He avoids conversation about religion but tends to nod towards the Eastern ways of thought. The Buddhist mantra. And of course, loving thy neighbor. Strangers in the street rush to greet him because he looks like such an interesting person to talk to. Strange and beautiful girls do not shy away into their phones or their oblivion as he walks by them. He is polite and obeys the rules of etiquette that he believes in. He does not say bless you when someone sneezes but says thank you if someone says bless you for him.
He is a walker and a talker. A go getter. A spark plug. The essential comic relief in any solid group of lifelong friends. He never tries to hurt any living creature. He will hurt himself to avoid trampling some poor cricket hopping across the sidewalk. He is a martyr to his beliefs. He has unconventional but realistic beliefs about the world but never shoves his opinion down anyone's throat. If someone insults him, he counters smartly but non combative. He always knows what to say and how to say it.
I make lists. Constantly lists. To bridge the gap between myself and him. To take those first steps. I would be a waste of existence. I must become the model citizen. The model citizen in my own eyes. Not what others project. They project bad things. Drugs and tasteless jokes.
Either way I'm smiling a wide knowing smile. I smile like I am conspiring with the world to promote positive social change. I'm the reliable, innovative man whose extensive knowledge of people and situations helps me to fit soundly in with any group of people, while at the same time standing out. In this vision, I have an aptitude for reading people that borders telepathy. Rivals clairvoyance. The word is TASTEFUL. I know what to say and I know how to say it. I help get things moving and am always available to assist friends launch their ideas. When my mind wanders, it wanders to the right places. The places where answers can be found. I can think on my feet. I am confident. In this vision I exude an air of confidence. I completely understand thick accents and know how to reply to make the other people feel comfortable. I have a mastery of how words are used in the English language. I never stutter. When I wave it does not look accidental or sardonic.
I spend time cultivating various talents. In this vision I am good enough at the things I love to share my talent with others. I can write beautiful poetry. I can write symphonies based on feeling alone, with no academic knowledge of music theory. I can paint naked portraits on sinking ships before a cold and imminent death tears us away from each other. I can focus on a single project until its completion before moving on to the next. I am an efficient perfectionist. I don't hinder myself by flirting with erroneous detail. I speak clearly without mumbling and when I speak off of my guard I still do not sound sarcastic. My self-esteem is high enough that is raises the hearts of all around me. Hey it's not so bad after all, thanks Nate for comforting me, they say. I can patiently listen. I can fix my broken skull candies. I have at least partial mechanical knowledge. you know. To know the things a modern man needs to know if he wishes to save some money. I do not squander money, in this dream. I am aware of my bank account balances and the compounding interest. I find loopholes in the system to make modest profit off of simple things. Counting cards. Stock market. Sending in stories to be published in literary journals, to be torn apart by bored critics who wish to release alcohol-withdrawal anger on some poor newcomer.
I usually imagine myself walking into some sort of high tech building where everyone knows who I am, as if I own a business or something. We have ethical concerns about how to run a business. I am in charge and I make damn sure that we never embezzle or steal or borrow unlawfully or work with shady individuals. I would implement a rigorous application process where the final test is to go out to brunch with me, in a casual suit without a tie. Because we have ethical concerns we will never come out on top. That is not what it is about. For me, it's about keeping my head, and my employees heads above water. The dark churning waters of darker temptations. My reputation precedes me and I always smell nice.
I eat healthy and fair trade products. My body is a biological example of the perfect body. I have a rare blood type and I donate regularly, directly at the hospital so it can save lives faster. My knuckles don't crack. (Where my dream, my image, my idealization of myself becomes troublesome is the fact that the majority of these things, to come true, require a certain commitment and a regularity, a set in stone schedule that I live by in order to achieve these goals.)
In the dream. This perfection. My aspiration. I am committed to every goal I can conjure up. Every little idea I execute to some extent. Simply to try out perhaps. If I like the rough draft then I can rewrite the script, revise the experiment, and try again with more gusto. More zest. I have myriad ideas. I realize these ideas and bring them straight from my head into reality. Once there I can hold meetings with esteemed colleagues to revise and edit the ideas. So many ideas. I have the courage to present ideas to board meetings. I have courage to ask women on dates and many of them are decently successful although I'm not in it for a lay. I could get laid if I wanted to, mostly based on how genuinely nice I am. Amiable. Amicable. They want to be around me and I try to dish out my time to all of those who are important to me. I never "try too hard." I always try just hard enough but tend to appreciate when a relationship simply falls into my lap. Some cosmic connection between a sovereign heart and my own. Something that snaps and scatters like a bottle rocket. In this dream I am given the decision to choose exactly who to hang out with regardless of where in the world they may be. I invite a teleportation agency perhaps. I have extensive knowledge of the universe and its inhabitants. I sleep well every night and wake refreshed every morning drinking coffee as a reward rather than an inclination.
I keep dreaming about this person. And if, one day in a mirror, I will be introduced to him. I'm trying but it seems I don't have enough hours in the day. This man is a stranger to me. He never procrastinates and always knows how to react to a situation. He has experience. Life experience. Genuine life experience and he doesn't cry when others need him to be strong but he has shoulders to cry on when he needs them. These reliable friends. The favors are reciprocal. He is organized, clean. Wastes nothing. Never wastes time. Wears a watch if he cares to know exactly what time it is. Mostly he operates on gut instinct because he is so incredibly tuned in to the world that every action seems to be catered to his way of operation. The world was made for him. Billions of years of evolution. Failed prototypes of human beings. He is the real thing. He is real, tangible. Radiant. There is a positive glow about him. He is god. He avoids conversation about religion but tends to nod towards the Eastern ways of thought. The Buddhist mantra. And of course, loving thy neighbor. Strangers in the street rush to greet him because he looks like such an interesting person to talk to. Strange and beautiful girls do not shy away into their phones or their oblivion as he walks by them. He is polite and obeys the rules of etiquette that he believes in. He does not say bless you when someone sneezes but says thank you if someone says bless you for him.
He is a walker and a talker. A go getter. A spark plug. The essential comic relief in any solid group of lifelong friends. He never tries to hurt any living creature. He will hurt himself to avoid trampling some poor cricket hopping across the sidewalk. He is a martyr to his beliefs. He has unconventional but realistic beliefs about the world but never shoves his opinion down anyone's throat. If someone insults him, he counters smartly but non combative. He always knows what to say and how to say it.
I make lists. Constantly lists. To bridge the gap between myself and him. To take those first steps. I would be a waste of existence. I must become the model citizen. The model citizen in my own eyes. Not what others project. They project bad things. Drugs and tasteless jokes.
Tuesday, January 17, 2012
jan 17
Leave discouraging messages in fortune cookies. Call them misfortune cookies. Apply the same idea to the discarded message in a bottle. I have stared through the bottom of hundreds if not thousands of bottles and have never found a message of comfort. The prevailing message: to grab another beer. Brewskis with the broskis....
Roses with hands made of weeds wrap around the double neck of a poorly drawn guitar. There are two sages in the corners, casting dirty spells. Rum advertisement although I've never had the brand. Stumptown coffee roaster postcards, stolen accidentally from the location downtown near the food carts. Magazine tear out of Omar Rodriguez Lopez. My guitar in the corner below with a bandana wrapped around the top. The source of my power. A token from someone I once loved. These words seem dry. Erasing punctuation now because this is about the flow of ideas rather than correction english, the strings are old and truthfully i dont know who the bandana belongs to. it is kind of a table cloth rainbow design and has been tied around the top of 'chenae' for nearly a year. maybe it was the night she left her clothes in the hallway/kitchen and we exchanged horrible stories about our families, waking up naked without having even kissed. some confounding variable. something we never saw happening again because we tended to give into foul temptation other times, never more graphic than a comic book. beside the guitar on the wall to my left is a strange little lyrical poster i made with words from the song 'sweet talk' by dear and the headlights. this was made in the heat of some sort of passion. i must have been sad and stoned and angry at whatever i was drawing so i wrote straight over it. the failure of a bouquet enters the background. on notecards quotes from thoreau and palahniuk. above a giant grateful dead poster that defies easy description. to its right is a stolen poster of buddha in his meditative pose surrounded by a sort of symmetry attributed to a mandala. a tattoo possibility. a mandala. buddhism. big shit. not bad to remember to be nice to people and peaceful. bad expression of character to say i need a reminder like this. speakers on top of stacked drawers. top drawer full of odds and ends. passport and headphones. sometimes money and candles. this assumes the role a desk drawer would have. hand sanitizer. a buck knife. duct tape. cds and cd cases. a picture of my dad and i in the woods. near a river. wine and cheese and marijuana. a box from haiti with my name carved into it. there are fortunes inside of it. a tiny paper crane. toothpicks. a mug used to hold change and my wallet and my keys. behind me is a fear and loathing in las vegas poster. just above my head, the wall i am leaning against. in front of me are my feet on my desk and my window. the blinds are almost always closed because the sun blinds me if i sit here while it is out. in the dark i feel like i am being watched, backlit, while they are shrouded in darkness. whoever they are, the bastards. i have a semi-color-coordinated giant calendar on my desk. a lap top case that says ASU in the corner. a color coordinated agenda with full semester syllabuses fleshed out from here until may. my biological anthropology textbook. my art of the story, intro to fiction book. a gatorade bottle with water filled up halfway up the label. i broke my water bottle by accidentally freezing it and then trying to break the ice apart. ended up cracking the side open. a mug with my favorite cat printed on it. full of pens and crayons and a pair of scissors. dusty lamp with vibrating light. gluestick, erasor, and hand held pencil sharpener. bottom level of desk has the other textbooks and art supplies. a few old psychology todays. (lets call them psychology yesterdays). some printer paper. a power strip. a small trash can with vanilla scented trash bag. my backpack is on the ground. next to it, under the bed is a collage in progress on drawing paper. two different incarnations of buddha hang out on the headboard of my bed. watching over things. a white bandana is tied to the post for no symbolic reason. above it two more note cards. must not sleep. must warn others. above all of this is a huge american flag with three tacks because when i turned the fan on it made an almost sexual slapping sound because of the air pocket, other side of bed is my sisters first painting, shoes and fire and a river, on the wall to my right is my closet which has sliding mirrors. i can see myself now i wished to look over there. for some reason when i am singing or playing guitar i look to see what i look like. im sure if i was with a girl in this empty bed i would be equally curious. could i be camera worthy. inside closet. longboard, laundry, tiny fan, best dad ever sweater, suitcase, t shirts, ties, back heater, to right of closet, shelves. books and old homeworks, miscellaneous hats and painting materials, weird christmas gifts, a frisbee, linens and a cooler that may still have water balloons in it. its only use thus far. there is also a dreamcatcher on my ceiling. a weird retro absinthe poster. a small drawing of mount rainier. the door to my bathroom. and the door to the outside. i can see the fridge from the second door. the first door i can see my van gogh poster. that is all for now
Roses with hands made of weeds wrap around the double neck of a poorly drawn guitar. There are two sages in the corners, casting dirty spells. Rum advertisement although I've never had the brand. Stumptown coffee roaster postcards, stolen accidentally from the location downtown near the food carts. Magazine tear out of Omar Rodriguez Lopez. My guitar in the corner below with a bandana wrapped around the top. The source of my power. A token from someone I once loved. These words seem dry. Erasing punctuation now because this is about the flow of ideas rather than correction english, the strings are old and truthfully i dont know who the bandana belongs to. it is kind of a table cloth rainbow design and has been tied around the top of 'chenae' for nearly a year. maybe it was the night she left her clothes in the hallway/kitchen and we exchanged horrible stories about our families, waking up naked without having even kissed. some confounding variable. something we never saw happening again because we tended to give into foul temptation other times, never more graphic than a comic book. beside the guitar on the wall to my left is a strange little lyrical poster i made with words from the song 'sweet talk' by dear and the headlights. this was made in the heat of some sort of passion. i must have been sad and stoned and angry at whatever i was drawing so i wrote straight over it. the failure of a bouquet enters the background. on notecards quotes from thoreau and palahniuk. above a giant grateful dead poster that defies easy description. to its right is a stolen poster of buddha in his meditative pose surrounded by a sort of symmetry attributed to a mandala. a tattoo possibility. a mandala. buddhism. big shit. not bad to remember to be nice to people and peaceful. bad expression of character to say i need a reminder like this. speakers on top of stacked drawers. top drawer full of odds and ends. passport and headphones. sometimes money and candles. this assumes the role a desk drawer would have. hand sanitizer. a buck knife. duct tape. cds and cd cases. a picture of my dad and i in the woods. near a river. wine and cheese and marijuana. a box from haiti with my name carved into it. there are fortunes inside of it. a tiny paper crane. toothpicks. a mug used to hold change and my wallet and my keys. behind me is a fear and loathing in las vegas poster. just above my head, the wall i am leaning against. in front of me are my feet on my desk and my window. the blinds are almost always closed because the sun blinds me if i sit here while it is out. in the dark i feel like i am being watched, backlit, while they are shrouded in darkness. whoever they are, the bastards. i have a semi-color-coordinated giant calendar on my desk. a lap top case that says ASU in the corner. a color coordinated agenda with full semester syllabuses fleshed out from here until may. my biological anthropology textbook. my art of the story, intro to fiction book. a gatorade bottle with water filled up halfway up the label. i broke my water bottle by accidentally freezing it and then trying to break the ice apart. ended up cracking the side open. a mug with my favorite cat printed on it. full of pens and crayons and a pair of scissors. dusty lamp with vibrating light. gluestick, erasor, and hand held pencil sharpener. bottom level of desk has the other textbooks and art supplies. a few old psychology todays. (lets call them psychology yesterdays). some printer paper. a power strip. a small trash can with vanilla scented trash bag. my backpack is on the ground. next to it, under the bed is a collage in progress on drawing paper. two different incarnations of buddha hang out on the headboard of my bed. watching over things. a white bandana is tied to the post for no symbolic reason. above it two more note cards. must not sleep. must warn others. above all of this is a huge american flag with three tacks because when i turned the fan on it made an almost sexual slapping sound because of the air pocket, other side of bed is my sisters first painting, shoes and fire and a river, on the wall to my right is my closet which has sliding mirrors. i can see myself now i wished to look over there. for some reason when i am singing or playing guitar i look to see what i look like. im sure if i was with a girl in this empty bed i would be equally curious. could i be camera worthy. inside closet. longboard, laundry, tiny fan, best dad ever sweater, suitcase, t shirts, ties, back heater, to right of closet, shelves. books and old homeworks, miscellaneous hats and painting materials, weird christmas gifts, a frisbee, linens and a cooler that may still have water balloons in it. its only use thus far. there is also a dreamcatcher on my ceiling. a weird retro absinthe poster. a small drawing of mount rainier. the door to my bathroom. and the door to the outside. i can see the fridge from the second door. the first door i can see my van gogh poster. that is all for now
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