I will be tapping on desks very rapidly with my pointer and middle finger. This is build up necessary strength. To finger pick break downs. (To non musicians this probably sounds dirty and disgusting.) Also begins the vocal training that I've been putting off. The CD's all around with so many great exercises. My excuse could be the dry air and my dusty throat. I feel I've swallowed fragments of sand paper. (When I'm casual and feel like nothing is at stake I take more comfortably with pretty women.) Let's go on a hike and get lost in the woods together. We can build a fire to stay warm in our tent. (The fire goes outside, mind you.) We can pierce ourselves with sharp branches, disinfect with herbs, and wash in mountain rivers before they become polluted by man. We will have to get really high to make this happen. Above the treeline perhaps. But we want the subtle shade of trees the comfort among the giants the dormant sleeping monstrosities some zapped and cracked down the center by rogue lightning, the electric current dying underground somewhere, probably burning and killing insects at least a few feet burrowed near the scene, or the tree consumes all electricity, it is like ten thousand cow tazers if touched directly with infant hands, like downed power lines, like legless bobbing alcohol counselors, like the great apes who would have freely roamed this forest had the climate stayed as warm and calm as it is at the equator. (SO who is going to watch me die?) So much green in this evergreen sanctuary where running out in the road represents your true nature. (the southwest desert is dusty and restrictive. They fine you for J-walking off campus. They scare tactic you into submission and piss on you when you're down.) The girl who made fun of my beloved northwestern wilderness, the other girl who makes fun of my homesickness, the upstairs neighbors whose raucous sex spans the early morning hours in 15 minute sections, quick and violent. 'Move your bed away from the damn wall!' I want to say. Don't they hear the noise they're making at 2 am on a wednesday and then at 7 am. They are big people. Amorphous, loud, and perfect for each other. I hope they get married. Otherwise. I crank up the amp that doesn't belong to me. But the guitar and the pedal do. Made a personal press kit. Smiled.
I will have a good day today. It will be full of life and momentum
Wednesday, February 29, 2012
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
feb 28
Buddha, why are you laughing at me? What symbolism must I seek out before it all becomes real, the symmetry. Until that gap closes and I'm left with a circular perspective. Create a interstellar mandala. Which is a geometric sacred pattern representing the whole of the universe in its infinite circular illusion. Originally the word Mandala meant a chapter of verses of mantras but the Indo-European culture, the Vedic chanting ceremonies, expressed these hymns as the beginning of life and the root of existence. Manda means essence. La means container. Roughly 'container of essence.' The center is a dot (the 'seed' where all live develops) and from the symbolic center are triangular, interwoven geometric patterns. The border circle represents the 'dynamic consciousness of the initiated.' To complete a mandala means to grasp the essence. Technical and artistic training are required of monks before any attempt at the creation of the mandala can be made.
The lack of earthly attachment. The seek of self-peace which is equivalent to world peace. If you can be at peace with yourself you can be at peace with the world despite all attached atrocities. We don't need this weight on our backs. It is not cruel indifference, it is helplessness to the void. It is the consuming light and the thoughts no one wants, that interfere with daily happenings. We are animals in a cage. There is no zoo keeper. There is no zoo. There is no cage.
The world would be brighter if everyone went off alone into the woods to find a big flat rock for yoga. For meditation and patience training. Make the commitment, after practice in less demanding environments, to never descend that mountain peak until fulfillment. Once that 'aha!' moment hits you like a great boulder and you descend, you float down the mountain, with a peaceful, detached smile, a new initiate. A new bhikkhu. One full of nirvana and urges others to find their rock. Nothing pushy.
The world would be less polluted with garbage and ignorance if everyone sounded their triumphant yawp off of rooftops. If everyone yelled their darkest and most brooding secrets from the tops of parking garages or high rises, with megaphones. A collective unraveling of the lies we've woven together to keep our lives together, like a blind knitter, the pieces are of off color and do not match. One lie replaces another and the truth becomes blurred to the point that not a soul knows who you are. The collective sigh of relief! Get this off your chest! The silence that follows would be answered with shouts of joy and lovemaking. Everyone would feel brave and strong at once and real change could be made. Everyone forgets about the appeal of alcohol and fast food and fast sex. Everyone helps one another to clean up the dusty sky.
Confess. Let them know you have a human heart beneath the layers of pop culture trash. Everyone acts so stupid. Conditioned to believe they are special without effort. No one deserves to be special without any effort. (This is too easy for me. Then do something else.) Challenge yourself to find a personal philosophy that does not conform to anything ever devised before. (Shit. Let's be the gods of a new religion. One that is all-inclusive. Everyone. Come on in. Our outdoor church is warm and green and you do not have to say a prayer at all. The issues of etiquette and chastity are destroyed. The rampant moralizing destroys people. They question every action and fold into themselves a weak and wounded warrior. Who never put up a fight to stop the cycle.) They are spread out through oblivion like scattered ashes. Many of us never even attempt to lead a unique life. One that makes oneself happy and spreads this happiness to others.
I said hello. I confessed a nervousness. And no one responded.
The lack of earthly attachment. The seek of self-peace which is equivalent to world peace. If you can be at peace with yourself you can be at peace with the world despite all attached atrocities. We don't need this weight on our backs. It is not cruel indifference, it is helplessness to the void. It is the consuming light and the thoughts no one wants, that interfere with daily happenings. We are animals in a cage. There is no zoo keeper. There is no zoo. There is no cage.
The world would be brighter if everyone went off alone into the woods to find a big flat rock for yoga. For meditation and patience training. Make the commitment, after practice in less demanding environments, to never descend that mountain peak until fulfillment. Once that 'aha!' moment hits you like a great boulder and you descend, you float down the mountain, with a peaceful, detached smile, a new initiate. A new bhikkhu. One full of nirvana and urges others to find their rock. Nothing pushy.
The world would be less polluted with garbage and ignorance if everyone sounded their triumphant yawp off of rooftops. If everyone yelled their darkest and most brooding secrets from the tops of parking garages or high rises, with megaphones. A collective unraveling of the lies we've woven together to keep our lives together, like a blind knitter, the pieces are of off color and do not match. One lie replaces another and the truth becomes blurred to the point that not a soul knows who you are. The collective sigh of relief! Get this off your chest! The silence that follows would be answered with shouts of joy and lovemaking. Everyone would feel brave and strong at once and real change could be made. Everyone forgets about the appeal of alcohol and fast food and fast sex. Everyone helps one another to clean up the dusty sky.
Confess. Let them know you have a human heart beneath the layers of pop culture trash. Everyone acts so stupid. Conditioned to believe they are special without effort. No one deserves to be special without any effort. (This is too easy for me. Then do something else.) Challenge yourself to find a personal philosophy that does not conform to anything ever devised before. (Shit. Let's be the gods of a new religion. One that is all-inclusive. Everyone. Come on in. Our outdoor church is warm and green and you do not have to say a prayer at all. The issues of etiquette and chastity are destroyed. The rampant moralizing destroys people. They question every action and fold into themselves a weak and wounded warrior. Who never put up a fight to stop the cycle.) They are spread out through oblivion like scattered ashes. Many of us never even attempt to lead a unique life. One that makes oneself happy and spreads this happiness to others.
I said hello. I confessed a nervousness. And no one responded.
Monday, February 27, 2012
feb 27
nearly forgot. at the end of my day. to write.
Forty minutes through alarm this morning. Wrote up deviance project, satisfied with the professor response. He's from Washington. Finished my chapter of Lolita with a vanilla latte outside the bookstorm where I watched tour groups pass by with seniors in high school and parents, post graduate, either to begin a new legacy or to continue an old one. I want to warn them. (The backwards walking guides spew garbage out of their mouths about how great everything is. For them, I imagine, it is all golden sunshine and bedazzled ponies.) Rove to class, anthropology. Saw a girl a slept near twice but looked away. White bright legs, everything hurting my eyes, hide behind sunglasses. Failed to sit near mystery girl # five thousand. Noticed her sure. I sit a row back somewhere everyday. (I held the door open and no one said thank you. I said hello to two girls from my balcony and they barely responded. Somehow my request of have a nice day came off as perverted. I puffed and cigar and had a coffee cup in the windy sunshine, there is dirt in my throat.) We talked of primates, territories and mating. Test approaching. I am not prepared. But I will try to be. No fake ID. Despite the world of the unknown it opens. For this one, ridiculously, I won't go in on it unless I have someone backing me up. I need to know exactly how they did it and that it worked for them. Then I can do it. (I remember smoking out of an apple in my car, full of people, in the sisters driveway. listening to music, Animal Collective and they complained that it wasn't going anywhere). I bounced to English. Lied accidentally to a quiet girl who was picked up over the shoulder by a sunday morning drunken lunatic and brought into a bar, nearly, before comically being thrown to the curb. She is attractive, sure. My conversation feels forced though I don't know why. I'm honest. I tell people my blood is too thick for this climate. My hair is matted with dust and my lungs are sand bags. Achieved a decent grade on the paper, Therese Raquin my dear love. You shouldn't be such a moral martyr my dear. You should revel in your love and your passion, despite shifting temperament. Laurent could be an artist but he is choked, frustratingly, by guilt. I got a good grade, probably more than I deserved but I realize he is not a tough grader in the process. I know now what it takes for an A. Read Write Read Research Write. Longboard through wind home. Apartment. Eat taco soup. Sandwich. Cigar and coffee. Print off copies of things for the next class. Feign interest (I wrote about my experiences in this class in my notebook. It was a stifling feeling and I felt like I appeared as an asshole if not a human). Computer class. Some sarcastic comments. Left without a hurry. The girl who lives somewhere in this complex takes a different route home than I. I thought I left before her but she is ahead of me now. I cross the street before an awful conversation can happen. (Why?? Why??) Shade my eyes from the wind the sun and the shame. I feel like pounding a beer when I walked up my stories. But instead I blow off steam at the gym, lifting incredible weights and sweating and grunting like everybody else. (yeah fuck you! I scream). Eat dinner (have a fiesta in the kitchen). Shoot some hoops. Play guitar for an hour or two. (Every Time I Die riffs and contemplate a guitar notation resource). Talk to mother on phone. Try mike. (I think. I hope I'm not drunk when I'm told it happens because I have the feeling it will not be I who discovers). Drunken discovery would be the worst, but I would never be in that predicament. More guitar. That beer at the same time. Read in bed. Take out trash. Brush teeth. Drink tea. Feel faint and type for a while. Pounding headache coaxing me horizontal. I have a big day tomorrow.
Forty minutes through alarm this morning. Wrote up deviance project, satisfied with the professor response. He's from Washington. Finished my chapter of Lolita with a vanilla latte outside the bookstorm where I watched tour groups pass by with seniors in high school and parents, post graduate, either to begin a new legacy or to continue an old one. I want to warn them. (The backwards walking guides spew garbage out of their mouths about how great everything is. For them, I imagine, it is all golden sunshine and bedazzled ponies.) Rove to class, anthropology. Saw a girl a slept near twice but looked away. White bright legs, everything hurting my eyes, hide behind sunglasses. Failed to sit near mystery girl # five thousand. Noticed her sure. I sit a row back somewhere everyday. (I held the door open and no one said thank you. I said hello to two girls from my balcony and they barely responded. Somehow my request of have a nice day came off as perverted. I puffed and cigar and had a coffee cup in the windy sunshine, there is dirt in my throat.) We talked of primates, territories and mating. Test approaching. I am not prepared. But I will try to be. No fake ID. Despite the world of the unknown it opens. For this one, ridiculously, I won't go in on it unless I have someone backing me up. I need to know exactly how they did it and that it worked for them. Then I can do it. (I remember smoking out of an apple in my car, full of people, in the sisters driveway. listening to music, Animal Collective and they complained that it wasn't going anywhere). I bounced to English. Lied accidentally to a quiet girl who was picked up over the shoulder by a sunday morning drunken lunatic and brought into a bar, nearly, before comically being thrown to the curb. She is attractive, sure. My conversation feels forced though I don't know why. I'm honest. I tell people my blood is too thick for this climate. My hair is matted with dust and my lungs are sand bags. Achieved a decent grade on the paper, Therese Raquin my dear love. You shouldn't be such a moral martyr my dear. You should revel in your love and your passion, despite shifting temperament. Laurent could be an artist but he is choked, frustratingly, by guilt. I got a good grade, probably more than I deserved but I realize he is not a tough grader in the process. I know now what it takes for an A. Read Write Read Research Write. Longboard through wind home. Apartment. Eat taco soup. Sandwich. Cigar and coffee. Print off copies of things for the next class. Feign interest (I wrote about my experiences in this class in my notebook. It was a stifling feeling and I felt like I appeared as an asshole if not a human). Computer class. Some sarcastic comments. Left without a hurry. The girl who lives somewhere in this complex takes a different route home than I. I thought I left before her but she is ahead of me now. I cross the street before an awful conversation can happen. (Why?? Why??) Shade my eyes from the wind the sun and the shame. I feel like pounding a beer when I walked up my stories. But instead I blow off steam at the gym, lifting incredible weights and sweating and grunting like everybody else. (yeah fuck you! I scream). Eat dinner (have a fiesta in the kitchen). Shoot some hoops. Play guitar for an hour or two. (Every Time I Die riffs and contemplate a guitar notation resource). Talk to mother on phone. Try mike. (I think. I hope I'm not drunk when I'm told it happens because I have the feeling it will not be I who discovers). Drunken discovery would be the worst, but I would never be in that predicament. More guitar. That beer at the same time. Read in bed. Take out trash. Brush teeth. Drink tea. Feel faint and type for a while. Pounding headache coaxing me horizontal. I have a big day tomorrow.
Sunday, February 26, 2012
feb 26
Somewhere in the dark, after arranging a whole new room I find that most old friends and relatives, those who I kept contact with through the end of high school, have settled nicely into the trends and plagues of college life. Sororities and frats. Give me a good example of one of these institutions deviating from the norm. (and if you're partial to the night sky, if you're vaguely attracted to rooftops). I went outside until I had enough 'inspiration' to come back inside. Very few people had faith in me that anything positive would happen in my conquests. The police car on the boardwalk offers up quick and deliberate confiscation of illicit materials. They put their foot down at 3 am. Just as long as all around them are golden.
Drunken directions yelled from balconies. Stumbling barefoot with a group of friends towards apartment building that is cracked out, with a garbage can to obstruct full closure. I said hello they said nothing. I lean against a green fence, forest green perhaps, but no forest to compare it to, they mistake me for a creep or a cretin apparently. I must talk to those old loves and see what they are doing. I must inquire into the lives of those who affected me in a way that should last beyond random post-high school courting. That existence is fragile and at our stage we all separet into a million different beautiful pieces, as if each piece of the puzzle was as glorious and complete as the whole. (laugh at band names. this music makes me sleepy.) I've put on a movie. That means, 'I'm going to fuck this girl now. You guys can leave' as politely as possible. The culture shock for me is as tough and hard-boned as that from the study abroad programs, where abroad is here, in this blasted desert scenario. (My room is out of order but this should comfort me in a way. The disrepair of comfort is a positive thing.) Will I be called for rock climbing in Sedona? Will I be called for weed and metal guitar riffs? will I be asked to stand at the alter while a moral sacrifice is preformed? Will I stand before a judge and plead innocence? Certainly. I will lie and say that I am innocence although in my heart I feel this classification unjust. Surely I've done some arrest-worthy things but nonetheless I feel cheated out of my experience. (truly a 'nate' moment when I smoked the rest of that bowl and decided to write and draw instead of play kickball. the damned foe inside of my heart). If I could battle anyone it would be the person in control of my heart.
--------
Suddenly, in a flash, that familiar feeling of panic rising in my chest, it is Sunday night and I've forgotten to think about something. To set the wheels spinning in my mind for the proposed deviant act. I have roughly 11 hours to mull it over, mostly through dreams, as I sleep. I will use a sleep aid to provide me vivid dreams. Images of successful projects and fireproof subway tunnels. I will extract the essences of the weekend (today, where the fuck did today go?) We played two hours of music in a sweet building next to a club. Old man in suspenders helped us out. Patch cable. Instrument cable.
I must write out and sign away my idea for the sociology breaching project. (This is to act deviant and take note on the social reactions.) The pressure is not in coming up with an idea in general (lots of things like that. playing volleyball with a basketball or etc.) But to come up with an idea that will test a certain theory and is able to morph through 12 pages of writing. First idea was to sing songs about people as they go about their business, tempe market place perhaps. Most likely to get kicked out of shops and retailers but for innocent song creation. Observational songs about certain things. Descriptive things but in lighthearted humor. Something that eases into your bones rather than rattles them. Sing about these observations. (Main concern is cold feet. Or accidentally offending somebody, due to the improvised nature of the lyrics). I can study the reactions through use of a confederate/my ride to the location. They might laugh. They might scoff or insult poor me.
My other idea is to acquire lab coats and to go up to individuals as they are going about their business and invade their personal space with 'field research' while ignoring any direct remarks they make. Taking measurements, whispering to each other, and vigorously writing in notebooks. (The subject is growing agitated and for fear of experimental bias we must exit close observation and return to more discreet ways for spying. Fall back, men.)
The singing with the guitar one would be the most fun I believe. Or palm walk. Walk up behind people and scare them with a song. Their reactions to my deviance must be recorded. This is not quite an invasion of privacy but something more 'out of place'. Or I could sit and sing somewhere as people walk past me, and sing aloud parts of their eavesdropped conversations, if they are innocent and without fowl language. Through song, with this technique, I could comment on the use of such swear words and improvising a song about dropping the naughty F-bomb.
For my project I will study the societal reactions of improvised music in different settings. For lyrical content I will eavesdrop on conversations and (like a parrot) sing back to them. For this version of the idea I would be seated in a stationary, yet strategic position with a fair amount of traffic flow. (Added for effect, the open guitar case or the jar for donations. but as this is an experiment, the profit is unethical. money in a jar might be involved as a prop but it would contain my own money. people would have to ask themselves, who gave this kid money?) Down further, the pathway of this idea, would be for me to mobilize this very same technique (meaning to put a strap on my guitar and walk around, commenting on appropriate things I notice people say or do). As I will be a certain mirror to them.
Drunken directions yelled from balconies. Stumbling barefoot with a group of friends towards apartment building that is cracked out, with a garbage can to obstruct full closure. I said hello they said nothing. I lean against a green fence, forest green perhaps, but no forest to compare it to, they mistake me for a creep or a cretin apparently. I must talk to those old loves and see what they are doing. I must inquire into the lives of those who affected me in a way that should last beyond random post-high school courting. That existence is fragile and at our stage we all separet into a million different beautiful pieces, as if each piece of the puzzle was as glorious and complete as the whole. (laugh at band names. this music makes me sleepy.) I've put on a movie. That means, 'I'm going to fuck this girl now. You guys can leave' as politely as possible. The culture shock for me is as tough and hard-boned as that from the study abroad programs, where abroad is here, in this blasted desert scenario. (My room is out of order but this should comfort me in a way. The disrepair of comfort is a positive thing.) Will I be called for rock climbing in Sedona? Will I be called for weed and metal guitar riffs? will I be asked to stand at the alter while a moral sacrifice is preformed? Will I stand before a judge and plead innocence? Certainly. I will lie and say that I am innocence although in my heart I feel this classification unjust. Surely I've done some arrest-worthy things but nonetheless I feel cheated out of my experience. (truly a 'nate' moment when I smoked the rest of that bowl and decided to write and draw instead of play kickball. the damned foe inside of my heart). If I could battle anyone it would be the person in control of my heart.
--------
Suddenly, in a flash, that familiar feeling of panic rising in my chest, it is Sunday night and I've forgotten to think about something. To set the wheels spinning in my mind for the proposed deviant act. I have roughly 11 hours to mull it over, mostly through dreams, as I sleep. I will use a sleep aid to provide me vivid dreams. Images of successful projects and fireproof subway tunnels. I will extract the essences of the weekend (today, where the fuck did today go?) We played two hours of music in a sweet building next to a club. Old man in suspenders helped us out. Patch cable. Instrument cable.
I must write out and sign away my idea for the sociology breaching project. (This is to act deviant and take note on the social reactions.) The pressure is not in coming up with an idea in general (lots of things like that. playing volleyball with a basketball or etc.) But to come up with an idea that will test a certain theory and is able to morph through 12 pages of writing. First idea was to sing songs about people as they go about their business, tempe market place perhaps. Most likely to get kicked out of shops and retailers but for innocent song creation. Observational songs about certain things. Descriptive things but in lighthearted humor. Something that eases into your bones rather than rattles them. Sing about these observations. (Main concern is cold feet. Or accidentally offending somebody, due to the improvised nature of the lyrics). I can study the reactions through use of a confederate/my ride to the location. They might laugh. They might scoff or insult poor me.
My other idea is to acquire lab coats and to go up to individuals as they are going about their business and invade their personal space with 'field research' while ignoring any direct remarks they make. Taking measurements, whispering to each other, and vigorously writing in notebooks. (The subject is growing agitated and for fear of experimental bias we must exit close observation and return to more discreet ways for spying. Fall back, men.)
The singing with the guitar one would be the most fun I believe. Or palm walk. Walk up behind people and scare them with a song. Their reactions to my deviance must be recorded. This is not quite an invasion of privacy but something more 'out of place'. Or I could sit and sing somewhere as people walk past me, and sing aloud parts of their eavesdropped conversations, if they are innocent and without fowl language. Through song, with this technique, I could comment on the use of such swear words and improvising a song about dropping the naughty F-bomb.
For my project I will study the societal reactions of improvised music in different settings. For lyrical content I will eavesdrop on conversations and (like a parrot) sing back to them. For this version of the idea I would be seated in a stationary, yet strategic position with a fair amount of traffic flow. (Added for effect, the open guitar case or the jar for donations. but as this is an experiment, the profit is unethical. money in a jar might be involved as a prop but it would contain my own money. people would have to ask themselves, who gave this kid money?) Down further, the pathway of this idea, would be for me to mobilize this very same technique (meaning to put a strap on my guitar and walk around, commenting on appropriate things I notice people say or do). As I will be a certain mirror to them.
Saturday, February 25, 2012
feb 25
Dive into art like an Olympic swimmer. Let it cleanse my body. The hot spring air burns and the water washes off dead skin. Just another moment longer in the spotlight and I would have been blinded. Shooting straight at the sun with chaotic aim. There is no scope on my forearms but we rearrange the plot from here, the ploy, the bow and stern of the story. The captain's chamber, the heart of the matter, the dark matter in the corners of pandora's box, we are shipwrecked without such instantaneous creation. Or the careful application of music theory and rudiments from latin cultures, but sped up, into song structure, some without choruses. The expertise in action, jamming, crazy rhythms and melodies. Every instrument causing a stir not to be reckoned with. A tsunamic tidal force shifting the weight of the globe from east to west. Your own accomplishments get washed away. All for naught. For art fiend. Some day you will enter that world, or creative people, all combining collective talent to speak their minds without talking. Put me in a room with jazz musicians and a drumset and I will be the happiest person alive. I want to get that feel. Become shades. The sunglasses to help hide my red eyes or my racy stare. Jazz in general has lightened up my life a bit, dropped out some negativity and strictness, the melodies and instrumentation take me somewhere less organized, somewhere instantaneous and felt from the very soul of each member, (let's play in B flat, syd). Mr. Barrett. Which one of them is pink?
There are so many beautiful women in the world. Consider the source of the stimulus. Their attitudes often ruin their appearance. They know what they look like and they know what they are supposed to act like. But god damn. My neck nearly broke. My tongue tied and tied again. A double square knot, it would be most unfortunate to choke on this tangle in my throat. But you make my heart stop for a minute. I say 'fuck' to myself, under my breath, like I lost a bet. Like I'm late for an appointment. And I disappear, into thin air. Into and exiting the hostile atmosphere. I was a scared little puppy, a deer in the headlights, whereas I simply panicked and sat in the comfortable shade avoiding the sun and the women basking in it. Keeping my fear of embarrassment from them, but thankfully my appetite told my legs to bring me to get a sandwich. I obliged and left that mess behind. They read and laughed and let the sun burn them like toast. 'Christ' I say under my breath. I say to my shoes. And the things I step over. Skinny, creatures of young boy fantasies, but that mindset dies if neglected. If malnourished the attraction becomes self loathing.
There are so many beautiful women in the world. Consider the source of the stimulus. Their attitudes often ruin their appearance. They know what they look like and they know what they are supposed to act like. But god damn. My neck nearly broke. My tongue tied and tied again. A double square knot, it would be most unfortunate to choke on this tangle in my throat. But you make my heart stop for a minute. I say 'fuck' to myself, under my breath, like I lost a bet. Like I'm late for an appointment. And I disappear, into thin air. Into and exiting the hostile atmosphere. I was a scared little puppy, a deer in the headlights, whereas I simply panicked and sat in the comfortable shade avoiding the sun and the women basking in it. Keeping my fear of embarrassment from them, but thankfully my appetite told my legs to bring me to get a sandwich. I obliged and left that mess behind. They read and laughed and let the sun burn them like toast. 'Christ' I say under my breath. I say to my shoes. And the things I step over. Skinny, creatures of young boy fantasies, but that mindset dies if neglected. If malnourished the attraction becomes self loathing.
Friday, February 24, 2012
feb 24
Slept through the history of primate diversity and the sociological theories tied with personal identity as well as an adequate (assumed) description of the deviancy project in all its glory. I missed something, I feel like, but also I am very well rested and I needed that nearly more than the hundred minutes of class time. (thankfully these are classes where attendance is not taken, thereby I only missed whatever the professor said today. Both classes have lecture slides.)
"Keep an eye on the front. I'll be in the vault."
A disgruntled mother and kid lose their truck and blame these harmless coffee shop dudes. (The manager is the front man of a dance/rock band). They are merry and pacifists, mostly.
Buddha laughs at me for my troubles. I move him and his doppelganger from my headboard onto my desk and it seems their poetic influence shifted the events of the day. (give me a juggernaut heart and a japanese car). But I networked. Mountains might be climbed, weed might be smoked. Rocks to be climbed. In sedona somewhere. The red shining rocks afar. (Playing chess while parachuting). And now I try to type in rhythm with the music. Iron & Wine. In three four. "if I counter the counter threat..." (this is too difficult. I fell off the rhythm quickly.) Lanky fellow in a business suit, "All I need is a little name tag and a book of mormon." They seem confused. The impatient customer would not handle this. $12 a pound or some such. They network and call each other. Trying to sell a pound of coffee. "Hey how much is a pound of coffee?" 2 cents off.
"Keep an eye on the front. I'll be in the vault."
A disgruntled mother and kid lose their truck and blame these harmless coffee shop dudes. (The manager is the front man of a dance/rock band). They are merry and pacifists, mostly.
Buddha laughs at me for my troubles. I move him and his doppelganger from my headboard onto my desk and it seems their poetic influence shifted the events of the day. (give me a juggernaut heart and a japanese car). But I networked. Mountains might be climbed, weed might be smoked. Rocks to be climbed. In sedona somewhere. The red shining rocks afar. (Playing chess while parachuting). And now I try to type in rhythm with the music. Iron & Wine. In three four. "if I counter the counter threat..." (this is too difficult. I fell off the rhythm quickly.) Lanky fellow in a business suit, "All I need is a little name tag and a book of mormon." They seem confused. The impatient customer would not handle this. $12 a pound or some such. They network and call each other. Trying to sell a pound of coffee. "Hey how much is a pound of coffee?" 2 cents off.
Thursday, February 23, 2012
feb 23
943-1003
In a fit of passion, someone wrote 'sing' on my left knuckles. As a reminder perhaps of the awful attempt at vocals I tried in the studio the night prior. Some ghost came through my dreams and wrote it out. Good advice and I will heed it. (Maintenance! Cleaning out your dryer vent.) Loudest group of people ever. They realize they are waking people up and laugh. It's their job and they can't help it. This feeling might be different if there was only one shaking and rattling the dryer and vacuuming out the back. He might mutter to himself and feel like an asshole. Three of them it's different. Revel in the disruption of all of these uptight assholes with collections of empty bottles, bongs, fake tans, std's, and protein shakes. Yo what do you fools want? (Apparently our dryer was the cleanest out of all of them so far.)
Flat notes. Possessive personalities.
Jazz fretless strings on a squier.
Make it happen; make it work.
Bass player joke. Whatever.
(dissent in the band)
I leave. Guitarist stays more for girlfriend than anything else.
Take her with you. out of this dustbowl.
Unprofessional. Although the studio was a colorful cave
Held out back up vocals so long.
I hear something more aggressive.
I want to hear something more aggressive.
haunted by your ghost!
we cannot help but recreate
the messes that we've made
out paths our not predetermined
we are masters of our fate
escape, escape that haunted place
Heads or tails (for my future)
Play catch with a frisbee across the colorado river.
(when it becomes a small distant sliver, far, far below).
Young lovers become licentious liars.
Pretty patterns of promiscuous proprieties.
Existential ecstasy, erecting evidence from the earth.
Treat yourself to a word on plays.
You deserve nice something.
Special something.
You exercise my patience, dear woman. Your whispering voice swells through me like a sleeping pill and I am forced to doodle labyrinths on my notebook and sink into them.
My hand goes without my conscious thought.
The day I got my head stuck inside my notebook.
And this is what I'm supposed to be studying the hardest!
Just breath and relax.
You have superhuman days ahead of you my friend.
(yesterday was surely one of them... 9-5 day plus a 4 hour recording/practice session)
You will have days that you test your physical strength and endurance.
That MC ever hits you back. To hike shit.
You will test your capacity for sleeplessness.
Test patience and reading endurance.
Until your eyes become crossed.
Cross my eyes and hope to die.
You will get stuck like that. In that pose.
Full days of guitar scales. Vocal lessons (self-taught for now)
One more English paper. A midterm of some kind.
A couple more Anthropology exams.
A couple more Sociology exams.
One Soc paper and deviance project.
(Need to figure that shit out, boss).
Days full of planning and preparation and execution.
Days full of friendly women and fun dates.
(pf chang's gift certificate from october...)
Days of art. Nights of rest.
Keep it tight. Keep it clean.
Days in Los Angeles. Trying to get a feel.
Self-sacrifice to make the fall tour happen.
An album.
The crazy bass player.
I will sing back up damn it all.
Teach me how to practice.
And teach me how to make that a habit (as I've made THIS a habit, finally).
Such as regular sleep and exercise.
No one believes me to be such a "scheduled" guy.
I don't like my days to be the same.
But if I can do something such as work on my voice for an allotted time every day... This will benefit my soul more than hurt it.
There is something discomforting in repetition. But.
In a fit of passion, someone wrote 'sing' on my left knuckles. As a reminder perhaps of the awful attempt at vocals I tried in the studio the night prior. Some ghost came through my dreams and wrote it out. Good advice and I will heed it. (Maintenance! Cleaning out your dryer vent.) Loudest group of people ever. They realize they are waking people up and laugh. It's their job and they can't help it. This feeling might be different if there was only one shaking and rattling the dryer and vacuuming out the back. He might mutter to himself and feel like an asshole. Three of them it's different. Revel in the disruption of all of these uptight assholes with collections of empty bottles, bongs, fake tans, std's, and protein shakes. Yo what do you fools want? (Apparently our dryer was the cleanest out of all of them so far.)
Flat notes. Possessive personalities.
Jazz fretless strings on a squier.
Make it happen; make it work.
Bass player joke. Whatever.
(dissent in the band)
I leave. Guitarist stays more for girlfriend than anything else.
Take her with you. out of this dustbowl.
Unprofessional. Although the studio was a colorful cave
Held out back up vocals so long.
I hear something more aggressive.
I want to hear something more aggressive.
haunted by your ghost!
we cannot help but recreate
the messes that we've made
out paths our not predetermined
we are masters of our fate
escape, escape that haunted place
Heads or tails (for my future)
Play catch with a frisbee across the colorado river.
(when it becomes a small distant sliver, far, far below).
Young lovers become licentious liars.
Pretty patterns of promiscuous proprieties.
Existential ecstasy, erecting evidence from the earth.
Treat yourself to a word on plays.
You deserve nice something.
Special something.
You exercise my patience, dear woman. Your whispering voice swells through me like a sleeping pill and I am forced to doodle labyrinths on my notebook and sink into them.
My hand goes without my conscious thought.
The day I got my head stuck inside my notebook.
And this is what I'm supposed to be studying the hardest!
Just breath and relax.
You have superhuman days ahead of you my friend.
(yesterday was surely one of them... 9-5 day plus a 4 hour recording/practice session)
You will have days that you test your physical strength and endurance.
That MC ever hits you back. To hike shit.
You will test your capacity for sleeplessness.
Test patience and reading endurance.
Until your eyes become crossed.
Cross my eyes and hope to die.
You will get stuck like that. In that pose.
Full days of guitar scales. Vocal lessons (self-taught for now)
One more English paper. A midterm of some kind.
A couple more Anthropology exams.
A couple more Sociology exams.
One Soc paper and deviance project.
(Need to figure that shit out, boss).
Days full of planning and preparation and execution.
Days full of friendly women and fun dates.
(pf chang's gift certificate from october...)
Days of art. Nights of rest.
Keep it tight. Keep it clean.
Days in Los Angeles. Trying to get a feel.
Self-sacrifice to make the fall tour happen.
An album.
The crazy bass player.
I will sing back up damn it all.
Teach me how to practice.
And teach me how to make that a habit (as I've made THIS a habit, finally).
Such as regular sleep and exercise.
No one believes me to be such a "scheduled" guy.
I don't like my days to be the same.
But if I can do something such as work on my voice for an allotted time every day... This will benefit my soul more than hurt it.
There is something discomforting in repetition. But.
Wednesday, February 22, 2012
Feb 22
9-920
Cornered into compliance. Trapped in a recording studio with no heads up. We aren't ready to lay anything down. It's going to sound like a garbled jam band. (Fat ass upstairs neighbor creaks out of bed. I hear his alarm clock through the ceiling. He loves designer drugs.) Garbled jam band it is. All the 21+ shows I have no access to. Go to mexico for spring break. With the English. Skydive with monkeys on madagascar. Snorkle with parakeets at the great barrier reef. Taunt sharks. (What man? This makes no fucking sense. But hey anyway. I'm not much of a reader, are you?) Yes I'm a reader you idiot. This is what I do. I feel like your sanity relies on consistency from me but I don't feel any commitment towards this band. A sick recording studio, sure. Scratch tracks? Live recording? Am I supposed to be indifferent to all of this? Because I was not consulted I have a hard time giving a damn.
My confusion. My unsettled opinion. I cannot register for a study abroad program unless I'm fully certain because of the steep application fee. This means that if I apply I must go and it does not become a secondary option. Don't let me look back and ask myself why I didn't go study in London, or New Zealand, or Spain. (summer abroad programs at UW?) Ideally I can pause my college life for a year or so. Tour the world with a band from Los Angeles. I received the call. The knock on the door in the middle of a fowl and tasteless dinner. How could you ignore such timing? No summer abroad if I must move to LA to write a record to tour with. How quickly these things happen in the music industry. I need this eye opening experience. A good old friend. Despite the problems that seem evident with such a project. (ie: I become a puppet... difference of opinion through musical creation. alcoholism. religiosity... etc) this would be a life-changing experience. I'm sold on the idea. It's not about money for me. It's about returning to a life of music but with the ability to redeem myself for all of the aspects I destroyed on my last run. This is full immersion into music. As a bass player once again, of course. That label always on top of my head. Yes, I'm a bass player, but it seems like a passive instrument. Not all of the time, sure. I can think of tons of examples of bass players with presence. I have a feeling I will be more of a dancer than a fancy bass player. I might buy myself a pedal tuner or some slight distortion. Something crunchy. Mess with effects and have a grand old time. Nothing stops you from becoming a bass player with presence. You don't need to acquiesce to the boring old standards that someone implemented so many years ago. Break things. Be the solid opening act with an insane bassist. Learn acrobatics. Cartwheels, somersaults. Bass flips. Posi-jumps. Gang vocals. Spin that fucker around. And smash faces. Slight deviation from the puppet mastery. Wear a hat or sunglasses. Bandana. Who would we be opening for? (I say we. Who are you opening for?)
Cornered into compliance. Trapped in a recording studio with no heads up. We aren't ready to lay anything down. It's going to sound like a garbled jam band. (Fat ass upstairs neighbor creaks out of bed. I hear his alarm clock through the ceiling. He loves designer drugs.) Garbled jam band it is. All the 21+ shows I have no access to. Go to mexico for spring break. With the English. Skydive with monkeys on madagascar. Snorkle with parakeets at the great barrier reef. Taunt sharks. (What man? This makes no fucking sense. But hey anyway. I'm not much of a reader, are you?) Yes I'm a reader you idiot. This is what I do. I feel like your sanity relies on consistency from me but I don't feel any commitment towards this band. A sick recording studio, sure. Scratch tracks? Live recording? Am I supposed to be indifferent to all of this? Because I was not consulted I have a hard time giving a damn.
My confusion. My unsettled opinion. I cannot register for a study abroad program unless I'm fully certain because of the steep application fee. This means that if I apply I must go and it does not become a secondary option. Don't let me look back and ask myself why I didn't go study in London, or New Zealand, or Spain. (summer abroad programs at UW?) Ideally I can pause my college life for a year or so. Tour the world with a band from Los Angeles. I received the call. The knock on the door in the middle of a fowl and tasteless dinner. How could you ignore such timing? No summer abroad if I must move to LA to write a record to tour with. How quickly these things happen in the music industry. I need this eye opening experience. A good old friend. Despite the problems that seem evident with such a project. (ie: I become a puppet... difference of opinion through musical creation. alcoholism. religiosity... etc) this would be a life-changing experience. I'm sold on the idea. It's not about money for me. It's about returning to a life of music but with the ability to redeem myself for all of the aspects I destroyed on my last run. This is full immersion into music. As a bass player once again, of course. That label always on top of my head. Yes, I'm a bass player, but it seems like a passive instrument. Not all of the time, sure. I can think of tons of examples of bass players with presence. I have a feeling I will be more of a dancer than a fancy bass player. I might buy myself a pedal tuner or some slight distortion. Something crunchy. Mess with effects and have a grand old time. Nothing stops you from becoming a bass player with presence. You don't need to acquiesce to the boring old standards that someone implemented so many years ago. Break things. Be the solid opening act with an insane bassist. Learn acrobatics. Cartwheels, somersaults. Bass flips. Posi-jumps. Gang vocals. Spin that fucker around. And smash faces. Slight deviation from the puppet mastery. Wear a hat or sunglasses. Bandana. Who would we be opening for? (I say we. Who are you opening for?)
Tuesday, February 21, 2012
Feb 21
Feeling dumb and blind reading Nabokov. Contradicting advice from classmates on how to better my story. I will make it better, yes. (Below the desk my foot knocks over the stack of their assessments). Their pretensions brought blood to my face. Oh yeah yeah. For sure. I don't belong with them. I fell into a schizophrenic mimetic fallacy. I slipped behind some curtains and wrote a story about passion and tension. Dominating response was that the story was too fast paced, like an intense movie. This is how I wanted it. Apparently I can't use metaphors unless they make sense with the narrator. Apparently I can't enter other heads. I can't even write grammar good. I still don't know how to notate dialogue. Am I right? I don't know when to use a semi-colon. This is a big world of literature. I close myself off and write frantically, like it will determine the fate of the world. The fate of my world. Writing until the tendons in my wrists ache and plead to stop. But no. I will continue through the cries for abstinence. I will fill my belly full of adjectives and pronouns and superlatives and verbs and vomit on the pages for you. I will color myself in. My characters are black and white but not stack. I overstated their love, certainly. I overstated many things. I will edit and revise in insane nights of sleepless agonizing. I will write a song. I will die.
The sustainable forestry initiative.
Oh so you care about the environment?
Why don't you ever speak up in class, lovely young lady?
Not one word. As far as I'm concerned.
Check her phone like a heart monitor.
If the messages, the bleeps, slow down and level out, she's dead. Her heart has stopped because no one cares about her or what happens to her.
Maybe she will live happily in Italy. Maybe she will discover greatness in man. Maybe she will be kidnapped and systematically destroyed by foreign governing agents, in black suits, and black hearts.
We thought the walk was incredibly long but it seems shorter now.
WE NO LONGER HAVE A LOVELY WALK AHEAD OF US
Squeeze your eyes shut and try to block out those voices. The ones that remind you of me. The ones that remind you of false sentiments about 'home'. Home is the road. Home is not a location on a map.
Kill the lights and extinguish your burning desires. Become a monk in the high mountain canopy. Smoke opium in opium dens with those who will never understand what it is like.
The sustainable forestry initiative.
Oh so you care about the environment?
Why don't you ever speak up in class, lovely young lady?
Not one word. As far as I'm concerned.
Check her phone like a heart monitor.
If the messages, the bleeps, slow down and level out, she's dead. Her heart has stopped because no one cares about her or what happens to her.
Maybe she will live happily in Italy. Maybe she will discover greatness in man. Maybe she will be kidnapped and systematically destroyed by foreign governing agents, in black suits, and black hearts.
We thought the walk was incredibly long but it seems shorter now.
WE NO LONGER HAVE A LOVELY WALK AHEAD OF US
Squeeze your eyes shut and try to block out those voices. The ones that remind you of me. The ones that remind you of false sentiments about 'home'. Home is the road. Home is not a location on a map.
Kill the lights and extinguish your burning desires. Become a monk in the high mountain canopy. Smoke opium in opium dens with those who will never understand what it is like.
Monday, February 20, 2012
Feb 20
Spitting blood up from an unknown source (my lungs?). There is a demon inside of us and it travels like a slow spider, a great immobile blues cannon. The way the sky looks open makes us cringe with inferiority. We are plump and breath polluted air as if it connected us to the earth. The grey volcanic ash does nothing positive in the blood stream. (The marijuana flown in across the seas that is intermixed with volcanic ashes. A spiritual trip where one is high as sagarmatha and still climbing. But this high you don't need oxygen tanks. You need to listen to the doobie brothers.) Just realized I missed Dance Gavin Dance last night without any thought. This is what alcohol can do. You pay for it and nurture it with different concoctions of light and dark liquids, sometimes ice, sometimes latte flavoring, sometimes beer. Kamikaze. We bombed some tanks. You get along just fine as it heightens certain aspects of socializing. You are a confidence exuding machine. Don't get tongue tied. Don't lose your footing. Don't lose your head. One wrong move and everyone will be under the assumption, although soon forgotten, that you are too drunk. Why get so plastered without purpose? Not even a real story to tell. I vomited up confessions at the end of a night. It is always sad to see that last spark in me attempt to write something as the sunrises. There is a demon that wants out and it claws through my skin from the inside out. My fingernails get dirty. I fall on my face. That liquid confidence is now liquid shame. It is the socialization. I will never sculpt a summer bod if I keep this up. Contradiction here in that I will obtain new identification shortly and I will be old enough to go out with a bang. I believe, in my heart, that I will have more fun and waste more money given different environments and people. Go out! Do it! There's live music to be seen. There are drinks to order for 5 dollars a piece. There are all sorts of deals and coupons to be discovered. There are girls to flirt with. There are fights to provoke. Bouncers to sneak past. (A fuzzy navel sounds pretty good right now doesn't it?) Only if you have one with me baby doll. You show off your flat stomach, wearing a too-short shirt. Too small. It fits like skin and seductively, light is shown onto her shape. There are curves and straight lines. Contrast shadow and interdimensional depth. The shirt is black with some sort of design. I read the shirt but it appears I am ogling. In a lecherous manner, they say. I lose myself in a daydream with this lady but nothing in me has the confidence to make a move or say anything so I stumble. No confidence. Down the street to get to work on my next debauchery of a conversation, with some other girl with a nice shirt design. The pressure here is felt so much harder. One must actively seek out relationships otherwise they will never happen. I've tried, sure. But I am not happy at the moment.
I must exit the desert with stories. With warm nostalgia. With no regret. I will have climbed and conquered many things. I will have exercised those demons and filled the sleeper agents with caffeine. I will have amazing marks, my body a piece of work, my mind full and my eyes wide. I will have gone to an art show or a music show in Phoenix. Why haven't spent any time in Phoenix??
I must exit the desert with stories. With warm nostalgia. With no regret. I will have climbed and conquered many things. I will have exercised those demons and filled the sleeper agents with caffeine. I will have amazing marks, my body a piece of work, my mind full and my eyes wide. I will have gone to an art show or a music show in Phoenix. Why haven't spent any time in Phoenix??
Sunday, February 19, 2012
Feb 19
I slide down a water slide last night. In my head, this image is the chaotic tube that enters a bowl at the casino in between Portland and Seattle. The Great Wolf Lodge or something similar. It looks fun, yeah. There are tiny ridges that scrape your clothes off as you gain momentum. Minutes before you were hesitant. Suspicious of the churning dark water, warm as it is. Afraid to be a pioneer. The test driver. The stunt man. With the wind at your sails you dive. It is relatively flat at the top and I am disappointed at the result. I want more speed. I was afraid of this, but why? Bored for a minute. The rushing water is traveling faster than I and I wait for it to gather me up in its blue arms and cast me through the tubes at speed. The sections are contrasting colors. Red and green red and green. Then purple orange purple orange and so forth. The sections get shorter and the colors changing give the impression I am traveling much faster than I am. There are lights along the inside like neon strips in the bottom of designer vehicles. The type that dance and shake with loud bad music. I am gaining speed. I can feel it in my gut. I'm keeping pace with the water. Each corner it sloshes higher up the sides. The red and green sides. I feel the bottom drop out. This is it. This is the rush I signed up for at the dispensary. The colors blur into brown. The neon lights are like single bands of light, like painted lines on the highway. The dotted lines spaced out just so, otherwise at 60 mph they would appear as a constant streak. The ridges on the edges of the highway to keep truck drivers awake. Change the height of these ridges and space them out accordingly and they would play a sort of atonal song. About the rhythm, the relative distance, the speed of the vehicle and the material which the ridges are made of.
Saturday, February 18, 2012
Feb 18
12:00-12:20
Play until fingers bleed and wrists cramp up awkwardly. When your forearms are huge. I want to take a night away with a lovely girl. I want to create and hold on and drink and paint by candlelight. I want to bask in the warm reflective glow of innocent kids. Mix drinks for each using random things from the fridge, recently filled. Make up names while handing them to each other. Try to pick out the juice and alcohol used. Just to see if your tastebuds are acute enough to date. Mine's called the white and black out. White Russian with an extra five shots. Those drawing, craning my neck, watching a movie between exasperated gulps of air. The rain makes things dirty and I feel like I'm inhaling mud or dust. You're red face and your tan hands. I will get revenge. You steal girls and I am celibate. I am a monk in a monastery but without a primary focus. I am a scatterbrained monk of many different disciplines. I study the air and the water. The fellow hermits are test subjects and we enter and return from Plato's cave in regular succession. Read up about the thinkers. The Einstein's and the DaVinci's. Most eccentric artists of the renaissance period are fascinating in their insanity or their incredible bodies of work. Their incredible work of bodies. (inhaling thrills through 20 dollar bills).
Vivid existentialism. If only literary theory revealed itself to me in a language I can read and feel. (from the cascades to puget sound). Dress up in a suit to sit at a computer and drain life fluids from your ears. Let your face become paralyzed into the screen, into the void we climb higher still. Nobody knows what happened to the one with no legs they just help him into and out of cars or buildings. Good riddance he says and hopes they get run over by a train. Shit.
Nose ring. Feathers in hair. Beautiful singing voice. It appears they all just live in a type of commune. They have sex with each other and smoke dope in peaceful harmony. All the while brushing up on music theory.
5:08 am
this is technically the 19th but if anyone argued i would kick their ass, i am holding my tongue between my teeth to keep out the evil intrusive thoughts that plague this existence in frame. I am sinking farther into my keyboard and it is frankly getting hrader to type but there were lines waiting to be smoked and to be written about. There were genuine moments that could partially be enhanced by the sheer proximity and moment, transient, as it is. We all miss it and I type without any real meaning. Hollow and holy words that will help me pass the night alone in a coffin.
Play until fingers bleed and wrists cramp up awkwardly. When your forearms are huge. I want to take a night away with a lovely girl. I want to create and hold on and drink and paint by candlelight. I want to bask in the warm reflective glow of innocent kids. Mix drinks for each using random things from the fridge, recently filled. Make up names while handing them to each other. Try to pick out the juice and alcohol used. Just to see if your tastebuds are acute enough to date. Mine's called the white and black out. White Russian with an extra five shots. Those drawing, craning my neck, watching a movie between exasperated gulps of air. The rain makes things dirty and I feel like I'm inhaling mud or dust. You're red face and your tan hands. I will get revenge. You steal girls and I am celibate. I am a monk in a monastery but without a primary focus. I am a scatterbrained monk of many different disciplines. I study the air and the water. The fellow hermits are test subjects and we enter and return from Plato's cave in regular succession. Read up about the thinkers. The Einstein's and the DaVinci's. Most eccentric artists of the renaissance period are fascinating in their insanity or their incredible bodies of work. Their incredible work of bodies. (inhaling thrills through 20 dollar bills).
Vivid existentialism. If only literary theory revealed itself to me in a language I can read and feel. (from the cascades to puget sound). Dress up in a suit to sit at a computer and drain life fluids from your ears. Let your face become paralyzed into the screen, into the void we climb higher still. Nobody knows what happened to the one with no legs they just help him into and out of cars or buildings. Good riddance he says and hopes they get run over by a train. Shit.
Nose ring. Feathers in hair. Beautiful singing voice. It appears they all just live in a type of commune. They have sex with each other and smoke dope in peaceful harmony. All the while brushing up on music theory.
5:08 am
this is technically the 19th but if anyone argued i would kick their ass, i am holding my tongue between my teeth to keep out the evil intrusive thoughts that plague this existence in frame. I am sinking farther into my keyboard and it is frankly getting hrader to type but there were lines waiting to be smoked and to be written about. There were genuine moments that could partially be enhanced by the sheer proximity and moment, transient, as it is. We all miss it and I type without any real meaning. Hollow and holy words that will help me pass the night alone in a coffin.
Friday, February 17, 2012
Feb 17
Rations dwindle. Third Friday. Totally empty on my calendar. I dreamed in vivd detail about sleeping through classes today and only realizing as I was getting ready after 2 o clock. This would be my thursday schedule where I have class at 3 but today it's 9:40 - 12:45 or something like that. I had a vision of other people watching tv in my bedroom at home and never stopping to wonder what that would feel like. To watch tv or a movie with someone you truly enjoy. Lay in bed and hold on tight while the world tries to spin us off of each other, in its malice.
Vision of myself laying in bed and drinking beer. Playing guitar loud enough to initiate sound complaints and social relationships. The loudest and the best get laid. I can shake the plates out of your cabinets. The figurines off of your shelves and the coasters and magazines off of your coffee table. Your apartment is not immune to me. You block yourself off if you'd like and subject me to the sounds of your adultery. That's very inconsiderate of you. Likewise, the guitar. It is my only redemption. (lifting weights, muttering about revenge after every rep). I want to learn fall of troy songs or the intro to go your own way by fleetwood mac or some classic zeppelin. christ i should get some guitar books. some stuff to have laying around. scales and chords and a couple classic, difficult songs. Also a piano book with scales and chords. Sit down and play. Learn. Practice. Become good. All of this free time. What will you do with it? Since you are not making friends and that seems unlikely to just all of a sudden start happening... cultivate your talents bro. Let everyone else fuck each other. You are immune to that. Just keep your chin up and learn how to be the best. College is about getting good at things.
Also. Mill Ave. Insanity. Might have to check that out later, just hang around and see what goes down. Head out to zia or to FYE and buy some music. Some classic rock.
Vision of myself laying in bed and drinking beer. Playing guitar loud enough to initiate sound complaints and social relationships. The loudest and the best get laid. I can shake the plates out of your cabinets. The figurines off of your shelves and the coasters and magazines off of your coffee table. Your apartment is not immune to me. You block yourself off if you'd like and subject me to the sounds of your adultery. That's very inconsiderate of you. Likewise, the guitar. It is my only redemption. (lifting weights, muttering about revenge after every rep). I want to learn fall of troy songs or the intro to go your own way by fleetwood mac or some classic zeppelin. christ i should get some guitar books. some stuff to have laying around. scales and chords and a couple classic, difficult songs. Also a piano book with scales and chords. Sit down and play. Learn. Practice. Become good. All of this free time. What will you do with it? Since you are not making friends and that seems unlikely to just all of a sudden start happening... cultivate your talents bro. Let everyone else fuck each other. You are immune to that. Just keep your chin up and learn how to be the best. College is about getting good at things.
Also. Mill Ave. Insanity. Might have to check that out later, just hang around and see what goes down. Head out to zia or to FYE and buy some music. Some classic rock.
Thursday, February 16, 2012
Feb 16
Resign to a life of fruitless labor with resin caught under your finger tips. No officers. No officers I'm sorry, it will never happen again I swear. Do you know how scared I am? Thank you merciful officer, thank you savior. My life is such that you have governance over me and I want you to live in my heart.
Run, rabbit, run.
Yes. Queen. The Dear Hunter.
I asked the girl what time it was and ended up walking her home.
I saw stars fall onto fields and erupt into flame.
The village turns yellow and orange and hot.
Relapse into evil wishes. Granted with hands capable of murder.
The list goes... on and on and on and on and on
They figured out how to mix such random riffs and time signatures.
He's not a reader. Knows a lot of cover songs. If I had time on my hands to waste getting stoned and playing guitar, I probably would. And it wouldn't be a waste of time. I consider it a waste of time now only because I have to ration my time out wisely for a solid education. If I were to spend a day smoking and playing guitar I would have to make up for it with an overworked day the next. Until spring break or something like. One day I'm free I will buy that guitar effects station I've been thinking about. Something under 200 bucks. Something sick that has everything and that is intricate in its design. But not so much that I can't figure it out. Mental note: Learn how to use every part of the loop pedal. The...
What's in store for me in the direction I don't take?
Map out my desires and predict what happens once I reach the light at the end of the tunnel. This chart must be concise and accurately labelled. To save from any possible confusion. Maybe I'll work out to make myself feel a bit better. Add random vocal accents. Here and then. Easy going day for me. What with a list of peaceful errands. Commands. Fix a pipe. Pick up an incense burning. Buy some music. Probably classic rock...
ideas... King Crimson, Yes, Jimi Hendrix and other classic rock.
also jazz... duke ellington, buddy rich. gene krupa.
the dave brubeck quarter
oceansize
neil young
marvin gaye
van morrison - astral weeks
bobby dylan
old flaming lips
forgive durden
dave matthews
john mayer
strung out
johnny cash
jayhawks
cursive
elvis costello
doomtree
flotation toy warning?
omar rodriguez lopez
-------------------------
"If I ventured in the slipstream, between the viaducts of your dream, where immobile steel rims crack, and the ditch in the backroads stop."
Killing two birds with a boulder. An avalanche of motivation. The lower back aches. Lumbar. The neck aches. Cervical. Seven invertebrates. Write a full song with a 4/4 drum beat underneath a 3/4 pattern on the other instruments. Slow. Peeling the skin off. Burning off fingerprints with a searing iron. A boiling pan of water. Or cut them off with laser precision. Your legal identity disappears but I bet your blood record is somewhere on file. The time you got mono when you were 17. The time you spread it unintentionally to one person for no reason at all other than boredom. Another was asking for it, in your sisters house, in the back bedroom. A drunk mess who turns the shower on. Hey your cigars are here. A friend says. And the girl leaves unscathed. What about the night I could not even walk I was so drunk. I never put down a fifth and woke up with the last person I ever wanted to see. Low moment. This is one I repressed because of my shame but the heart of storytelling... of good storytelling... is to expose yourself or your character's self and their deepest regrets or motivations. Those low moments where pride is concerned. Wake up with blood in your hair, shards of glass in your backpack. Wake up next to a nasty girl. Slice off the top of your thumb with a knife. It grew back. Cover your face from the impact of the embankment. Hitchhike in the snow with a thumb up signalling speeding, angry, cars. Resign to walk. 'I'm looking for my sister.' Hitchhike in dark unknown streets. So comfortable in his bubble, even a short walk away is suddenly vicious and dangerous and the people are shady. They don't understand his fear. He shakes for no good reason and leads them to ruin. Sun dials. Falling off the garage and knocking yourself out. Sleeping with pine needles on the dirty old couch. Walking the girl home and kissing her out of some necessity. Stumbling back through safe darkness trying to understand what was happening with the shifting universe. The neighbor's lift shifts back and forth and we threw our bottles into the woods, at trees, to smash them up. Go out to the water tower with a swisher and a can of axe body spray. Put a shirt on to smoke while wearing but then leave it somewhere away from the noses of parents. Drench ourselves in cologne and wear air fresheners around our necks like medallions. Driving trucks straight into the garage. Wake up annoyed. Embarrassed and paranoid high. The fear. The dinner with family ruined to an extent. It's simply rude. Writing in notebooks with chicken scratch. 'he chokes as I sleep.' Filming pranks and shoving people in recycling bins. Skateboards and lawn chairs behind bikes. We could have been killed. Probably. The car accidents and the drunken stumbling. A lot of self-actualization in these nights. He puked on himself in a pink bed. Wearing an interesting purple shirt and posing like a model. Everyone is in college now or working. We don't do these stupid things anymore because our innocence was destroyed and we can't quite compete with those old dreams. That's fine. We can be reckless in other ways than shoving junk bikes off of jumps in the woods. As a test run before taking the bike down with a kid on it. Snowangel into the hot tub and back and forth. Zipline and trampoline. Destructive childhood through adolescence. Now on the cusp of something else entirely. I will be 21 this year. And so will many of my best friends. If someone could explain this to me I'd be happy to listen.. I don't even have any tattoos! I haven't climbed mt everest! I'm too old to be a prodigy unless something big happens write fucking now!
Those embarrassing moments are the best to recollect. The bass strap that falls off at an attempted spinning move. No back up vocals. Too nervous. Need to be tough and hard blooded. If I am in a rock band ever again of that hyper type, I promise to go nuts on stage. Plan moves and learn to play every song upside down and backwards. Simple practice and you can be a badass! the youthful abandon is also a solid lesson
Run, rabbit, run.
Yes. Queen. The Dear Hunter.
I asked the girl what time it was and ended up walking her home.
I saw stars fall onto fields and erupt into flame.
The village turns yellow and orange and hot.
Relapse into evil wishes. Granted with hands capable of murder.
The list goes... on and on and on and on and on
They figured out how to mix such random riffs and time signatures.
He's not a reader. Knows a lot of cover songs. If I had time on my hands to waste getting stoned and playing guitar, I probably would. And it wouldn't be a waste of time. I consider it a waste of time now only because I have to ration my time out wisely for a solid education. If I were to spend a day smoking and playing guitar I would have to make up for it with an overworked day the next. Until spring break or something like. One day I'm free I will buy that guitar effects station I've been thinking about. Something under 200 bucks. Something sick that has everything and that is intricate in its design. But not so much that I can't figure it out. Mental note: Learn how to use every part of the loop pedal. The...
What's in store for me in the direction I don't take?
Map out my desires and predict what happens once I reach the light at the end of the tunnel. This chart must be concise and accurately labelled. To save from any possible confusion. Maybe I'll work out to make myself feel a bit better. Add random vocal accents. Here and then. Easy going day for me. What with a list of peaceful errands. Commands. Fix a pipe. Pick up an incense burning. Buy some music. Probably classic rock...
ideas... King Crimson, Yes, Jimi Hendrix and other classic rock.
also jazz... duke ellington, buddy rich. gene krupa.
the dave brubeck quarter
oceansize
neil young
marvin gaye
van morrison - astral weeks
bobby dylan
old flaming lips
forgive durden
dave matthews
john mayer
strung out
johnny cash
jayhawks
cursive
elvis costello
doomtree
flotation toy warning?
omar rodriguez lopez
-------------------------
"If I ventured in the slipstream, between the viaducts of your dream, where immobile steel rims crack, and the ditch in the backroads stop."
Killing two birds with a boulder. An avalanche of motivation. The lower back aches. Lumbar. The neck aches. Cervical. Seven invertebrates. Write a full song with a 4/4 drum beat underneath a 3/4 pattern on the other instruments. Slow. Peeling the skin off. Burning off fingerprints with a searing iron. A boiling pan of water. Or cut them off with laser precision. Your legal identity disappears but I bet your blood record is somewhere on file. The time you got mono when you were 17. The time you spread it unintentionally to one person for no reason at all other than boredom. Another was asking for it, in your sisters house, in the back bedroom. A drunk mess who turns the shower on. Hey your cigars are here. A friend says. And the girl leaves unscathed. What about the night I could not even walk I was so drunk. I never put down a fifth and woke up with the last person I ever wanted to see. Low moment. This is one I repressed because of my shame but the heart of storytelling... of good storytelling... is to expose yourself or your character's self and their deepest regrets or motivations. Those low moments where pride is concerned. Wake up with blood in your hair, shards of glass in your backpack. Wake up next to a nasty girl. Slice off the top of your thumb with a knife. It grew back. Cover your face from the impact of the embankment. Hitchhike in the snow with a thumb up signalling speeding, angry, cars. Resign to walk. 'I'm looking for my sister.' Hitchhike in dark unknown streets. So comfortable in his bubble, even a short walk away is suddenly vicious and dangerous and the people are shady. They don't understand his fear. He shakes for no good reason and leads them to ruin. Sun dials. Falling off the garage and knocking yourself out. Sleeping with pine needles on the dirty old couch. Walking the girl home and kissing her out of some necessity. Stumbling back through safe darkness trying to understand what was happening with the shifting universe. The neighbor's lift shifts back and forth and we threw our bottles into the woods, at trees, to smash them up. Go out to the water tower with a swisher and a can of axe body spray. Put a shirt on to smoke while wearing but then leave it somewhere away from the noses of parents. Drench ourselves in cologne and wear air fresheners around our necks like medallions. Driving trucks straight into the garage. Wake up annoyed. Embarrassed and paranoid high. The fear. The dinner with family ruined to an extent. It's simply rude. Writing in notebooks with chicken scratch. 'he chokes as I sleep.' Filming pranks and shoving people in recycling bins. Skateboards and lawn chairs behind bikes. We could have been killed. Probably. The car accidents and the drunken stumbling. A lot of self-actualization in these nights. He puked on himself in a pink bed. Wearing an interesting purple shirt and posing like a model. Everyone is in college now or working. We don't do these stupid things anymore because our innocence was destroyed and we can't quite compete with those old dreams. That's fine. We can be reckless in other ways than shoving junk bikes off of jumps in the woods. As a test run before taking the bike down with a kid on it. Snowangel into the hot tub and back and forth. Zipline and trampoline. Destructive childhood through adolescence. Now on the cusp of something else entirely. I will be 21 this year. And so will many of my best friends. If someone could explain this to me I'd be happy to listen.. I don't even have any tattoos! I haven't climbed mt everest! I'm too old to be a prodigy unless something big happens write fucking now!
Those embarrassing moments are the best to recollect. The bass strap that falls off at an attempted spinning move. No back up vocals. Too nervous. Need to be tough and hard blooded. If I am in a rock band ever again of that hyper type, I promise to go nuts on stage. Plan moves and learn to play every song upside down and backwards. Simple practice and you can be a badass! the youthful abandon is also a solid lesson
Feb 15
Tied some purple around my neck and a spotted suitcoat. We will be the best dressed and this is not a concern of me. Write a song about happy people. Sleep with eyes open, looking into the void of a screen. Words entering eyes. Rather than write. my body pleads for rest. a soft bed. plenty of handwriting to make up for the lackadaisical ethic. It has to be morning. That's the only time it worked for me. It is a good way to wake up the brain. Rather than complication the mind before it rests which such questions and inquiries.. is due to stimulant dreaming of a kind or another. The inspiration hits in late nights where sobriety is questionable. The dark rooms with spinning faces and in attempt to accurately portray this scenario. I want a snapshot of many things. This all collaborates and creates a climactic curve where my life begins. It's simple innocence into exposure. The case of a butterfly. Fat off of romantic sweets. He sits lazily half naked writing manic like there are reasonable thoughts at this hour after 18 hours of being awake since my head last graced pillow and then I was able to witness, with my ears, a classic case of debauchery coming through the ceiling, the bastards consummate their valentines crush. Otherwise I lived a happy day and received compliments and got shut down and tripped over my words and felt inferior and felt really funny and cool and felt like i have an anxiety disorder when i realized my intentions will never fully come through, when i realize how much of a hermit ive become im absolutely going to say yes to go jam on some music and generally kick it and be a pretentious music fuck now and then. I need to learn theory. Feels like ive eaten a turkey. Goodnight. But you're so far away and you couldn't possibly know that it was YOU I was referring to all along. You don't know what records I want to hear. Cool jazz for a cool dude in different kind of shades.
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
Feb 14
Met Zion on the street. From seattle. God bought his plane ticket. A cold day in Arizona. He found god knocking on his heart after a four days binge on heroin and cocaine. I found my calling in being a host body for him. He moves me across the country, if our paths meet again, if you see me strumming my guitar outside on the street, or landing a kickflip, or smoking a cigarette, you will know that it has come true. That wish that you were granted but haven't yet wished.
He thought I had a bible under my arm. It is simply a journal. I sat near him to write and listen to some music. I was not paying attention to the lyrics. The air is cold for fingers to act appropriately. They slide slow across nickel would strings. Even nylon for classical. He seems to not be making mistakes though. Street noise blocks a lot of the sound, probably for his benefit, due to temperature, so I give him the benefit of the doubt.
What were you singing about?
God
Those were songs you wrote?
Yes
Oh
-------------
Moral support more than comic relief. Mixture I suppose. ('No pets...' Fuck you! I love my dog.) Breakfast at starbucks, thanks a latte for your fair trade policies, the stock nearly invested in. My father and I know so very little about stocks and such investments. Free money I suppose. Shares in stocks. But evergreens are more important. That kind of green. In our society it pays to have money. The wanderer. The journeyman. The cross country homeless adventurer. Is less possible. To simply take off without looking back. Somewhere impossibly free and without judgment. Not heaven. (I wonder what Zion would have said if I told him after he asked me, "what do you believe in?" if i had said, "i tend to stay away from religion. if anything, i lean towards buddhism.") So no. I cannot be labelled as an agnostic. For one reason... as south park demonstrated... it is a silly thing to preach or to outwardly discuss. Otherwise I hate how people must believe in their own religious view. The label they choose for themselves. (It is not chosen for you, fools. Unless you were forced and conditioned into it as a child.)... People believe in their own religious views, mostly, closing off other positive elements from different 'outside' religions. It doesn't make sense to me. Why do you think your side of the coin is the only side? Why do you think there is nothing on the otherside of that mountain range?
There are storms everywhere. Freak storms where normally mild temperature.
TO be a tramp. Someone searching for himself across America. On that great journey through danger and insolence. On the highways, walking until the soles of shoes wear out. Filling your cup with philosophies. Filling your head with a mental clarity and calmness. The simple living, subtracting the outer elements, the distractions that entertain/plague our current culture... the simple living of random movement paired with clever intuition... the right rock... resort back to basic animal needs. A writer's journey through america with a very limited amount of money coming in. I know what city I need to be in to receive a certain amount of money in the mail. Or is this too much? Maybe I'll write a letter or use someone's phone for a minute and let them know where I will be and that I will need the cash. Wander with all belongings on my back. The bare essentials. Find lockers before entering cities and picking up fliers for the local music venues where I will meet nice people who will help and support me, realizing that I am in no way a homeless or crazy person. (Unfortunately I will probably have to say. You know. Like Chris McCandless. Into the Wild. and they will say oh okay. so you aren't a murderer or a weirdo or anything. you can sleep on my couch without stealing things and we will trust you mostly. you can buy us alcohol or something. that might cross the line. no good logic being arrested in some strange city.) bring ID unlike mccandless. never kill an animal. avoid heavy drugs like hunter thompson. The ideal journey is with friends, wild enough. Dean Moriarty. Except instead of jazz it's rock. Miscellaneous rock or rap or punk or folk. Whatever is passing through the town or city. The most important thing is to know which areas of cities to avoid for one reason or another. Some danger is unavoidable but one must exercising caution when intermingling with other freaks who are on a savage journey with you. Maybe one that includes incredible drug use and murder. No time for that.
A journey with the good old boys. Across the sea and back. Looking for kicks and life lessons. Looking for inspiration. Set out with a group of English degrees. Spanning the countryside looking for trouble. A solid group of people who are trustworthy and reliable enough. Not safe and boring people though no. No way. The type of people who laugh and cry. The ones who are as hungry for life as I and are not hindered by sudden desires. They go for it. They push you to go for it. While maintaining discretion that the act will not ruin ones life. The act may very well be deviant. Jumping off a pool into a roof. Planning a hoax. Etc. But not hard drugs. No harm can be caused onto others without just reason. To have a friend punch someone in the face at a bar without a word, means to inadvertently enter a fight. I would have to put down my drink, exit the conversation I am having with a sad and cute girl with glasses as politely as possible and try to break it up. I have your back, man but that guy did nothing to you. I don't like needlessly fighting. He would shove me off and say that i was a pussy buddha lovin pacifist and take it outside without me. So you're a buddhist the girl would ask? He thinks I am, yeah.
The problem with a group of good old boys is that strangers would have a much harder time allowing us into their homes or apartments. Their humble abodes. Because in a group, especially the insane riotous writing types, we would be loud. They would be annoyed and disinclined to give us shelter. Two friends with self control and a wild spirit.
------------
Yes I understand it is valentine's day. But I have no candles to light. No altar to sacrifice anything on. No heart to roll up my sleeve. It's conditional. Suddenly, due to societal pressure... relationships have to compete. They have to try to out-do each other in elaborateness or expense. It's all dollars and cents. Whoever looks nicest and spends the most wins. Whoever pretends to be happiest wins and lessens the date experienced by other couples. Say you want to spoil your girl and make others feel their relationship is inferior to yours because you appear so fucking happy.... take her out with same romantic intention on some random night. buy her a card and flowers for shits. take her out somewhere nice and dress casual. pounce in the faces of those who dissent. let them see your happiness work like a bubble around the both of you. let them know you care more than one day out of the year and then the others will be jealous and nag their significant others in secret. why can't you make yourself look nice? why can't you take me out like that instead of drinking with your friends then having sex once their too drunk to notice where we went?
Heart shaped chocolates and rose pedals are the keys to shallow hearts. There is something agreeable in conforming to the childlike idea of valentines day. The exchange of cards with nice messages in them. If by entering the cliche and loving each other in some candle lit bedroom... is outside your comfort zone like... 'i can't believe we're actually having a date night on valentines day... this is so funny that we are conforming haha' then it's good... It is harmless.
It is harmful for those with expectations. For those with heart shaped eyes. They want chocolate on their tongue and they want you to spoil them. Girls want you to impress others with your treatment of her. They want to be spoiled. Guys want special sex and to show off their girlfriend they are going to have special sex with tonight.
It's all sex and candy. Singles awareness day. Today spits in your face a bit. But it is not heartbreaking. I know where I stand and I am aware I've made very effort to have company today. To have a buddy to go sneak into White Denim with. A girlfriend to be a friend for the night. Oh hell. Let's go out and find some fun. Laugh at the couples and scoff in the face of those who believe we are on a date. With you? Please. hahah
He thought I had a bible under my arm. It is simply a journal. I sat near him to write and listen to some music. I was not paying attention to the lyrics. The air is cold for fingers to act appropriately. They slide slow across nickel would strings. Even nylon for classical. He seems to not be making mistakes though. Street noise blocks a lot of the sound, probably for his benefit, due to temperature, so I give him the benefit of the doubt.
What were you singing about?
God
Those were songs you wrote?
Yes
Oh
-------------
Moral support more than comic relief. Mixture I suppose. ('No pets...' Fuck you! I love my dog.) Breakfast at starbucks, thanks a latte for your fair trade policies, the stock nearly invested in. My father and I know so very little about stocks and such investments. Free money I suppose. Shares in stocks. But evergreens are more important. That kind of green. In our society it pays to have money. The wanderer. The journeyman. The cross country homeless adventurer. Is less possible. To simply take off without looking back. Somewhere impossibly free and without judgment. Not heaven. (I wonder what Zion would have said if I told him after he asked me, "what do you believe in?" if i had said, "i tend to stay away from religion. if anything, i lean towards buddhism.") So no. I cannot be labelled as an agnostic. For one reason... as south park demonstrated... it is a silly thing to preach or to outwardly discuss. Otherwise I hate how people must believe in their own religious view. The label they choose for themselves. (It is not chosen for you, fools. Unless you were forced and conditioned into it as a child.)... People believe in their own religious views, mostly, closing off other positive elements from different 'outside' religions. It doesn't make sense to me. Why do you think your side of the coin is the only side? Why do you think there is nothing on the otherside of that mountain range?
There are storms everywhere. Freak storms where normally mild temperature.
TO be a tramp. Someone searching for himself across America. On that great journey through danger and insolence. On the highways, walking until the soles of shoes wear out. Filling your cup with philosophies. Filling your head with a mental clarity and calmness. The simple living, subtracting the outer elements, the distractions that entertain/plague our current culture... the simple living of random movement paired with clever intuition... the right rock... resort back to basic animal needs. A writer's journey through america with a very limited amount of money coming in. I know what city I need to be in to receive a certain amount of money in the mail. Or is this too much? Maybe I'll write a letter or use someone's phone for a minute and let them know where I will be and that I will need the cash. Wander with all belongings on my back. The bare essentials. Find lockers before entering cities and picking up fliers for the local music venues where I will meet nice people who will help and support me, realizing that I am in no way a homeless or crazy person. (Unfortunately I will probably have to say. You know. Like Chris McCandless. Into the Wild. and they will say oh okay. so you aren't a murderer or a weirdo or anything. you can sleep on my couch without stealing things and we will trust you mostly. you can buy us alcohol or something. that might cross the line. no good logic being arrested in some strange city.) bring ID unlike mccandless. never kill an animal. avoid heavy drugs like hunter thompson. The ideal journey is with friends, wild enough. Dean Moriarty. Except instead of jazz it's rock. Miscellaneous rock or rap or punk or folk. Whatever is passing through the town or city. The most important thing is to know which areas of cities to avoid for one reason or another. Some danger is unavoidable but one must exercising caution when intermingling with other freaks who are on a savage journey with you. Maybe one that includes incredible drug use and murder. No time for that.
A journey with the good old boys. Across the sea and back. Looking for kicks and life lessons. Looking for inspiration. Set out with a group of English degrees. Spanning the countryside looking for trouble. A solid group of people who are trustworthy and reliable enough. Not safe and boring people though no. No way. The type of people who laugh and cry. The ones who are as hungry for life as I and are not hindered by sudden desires. They go for it. They push you to go for it. While maintaining discretion that the act will not ruin ones life. The act may very well be deviant. Jumping off a pool into a roof. Planning a hoax. Etc. But not hard drugs. No harm can be caused onto others without just reason. To have a friend punch someone in the face at a bar without a word, means to inadvertently enter a fight. I would have to put down my drink, exit the conversation I am having with a sad and cute girl with glasses as politely as possible and try to break it up. I have your back, man but that guy did nothing to you. I don't like needlessly fighting. He would shove me off and say that i was a pussy buddha lovin pacifist and take it outside without me. So you're a buddhist the girl would ask? He thinks I am, yeah.
The problem with a group of good old boys is that strangers would have a much harder time allowing us into their homes or apartments. Their humble abodes. Because in a group, especially the insane riotous writing types, we would be loud. They would be annoyed and disinclined to give us shelter. Two friends with self control and a wild spirit.
------------
Yes I understand it is valentine's day. But I have no candles to light. No altar to sacrifice anything on. No heart to roll up my sleeve. It's conditional. Suddenly, due to societal pressure... relationships have to compete. They have to try to out-do each other in elaborateness or expense. It's all dollars and cents. Whoever looks nicest and spends the most wins. Whoever pretends to be happiest wins and lessens the date experienced by other couples. Say you want to spoil your girl and make others feel their relationship is inferior to yours because you appear so fucking happy.... take her out with same romantic intention on some random night. buy her a card and flowers for shits. take her out somewhere nice and dress casual. pounce in the faces of those who dissent. let them see your happiness work like a bubble around the both of you. let them know you care more than one day out of the year and then the others will be jealous and nag their significant others in secret. why can't you make yourself look nice? why can't you take me out like that instead of drinking with your friends then having sex once their too drunk to notice where we went?
Heart shaped chocolates and rose pedals are the keys to shallow hearts. There is something agreeable in conforming to the childlike idea of valentines day. The exchange of cards with nice messages in them. If by entering the cliche and loving each other in some candle lit bedroom... is outside your comfort zone like... 'i can't believe we're actually having a date night on valentines day... this is so funny that we are conforming haha' then it's good... It is harmless.
It is harmful for those with expectations. For those with heart shaped eyes. They want chocolate on their tongue and they want you to spoil them. Girls want you to impress others with your treatment of her. They want to be spoiled. Guys want special sex and to show off their girlfriend they are going to have special sex with tonight.
It's all sex and candy. Singles awareness day. Today spits in your face a bit. But it is not heartbreaking. I know where I stand and I am aware I've made very effort to have company today. To have a buddy to go sneak into White Denim with. A girlfriend to be a friend for the night. Oh hell. Let's go out and find some fun. Laugh at the couples and scoff in the face of those who believe we are on a date. With you? Please. hahah
Monday, February 13, 2012
Feb 13
Leech to the ideas expressed in extreme aggressive/progressive music. Maybe some of the technicalities will seep into my pores like LSD on a bandana in the heat. On stage and regurgitating in a bathtub somewhere in Europe, all haggard. A low E and B string below the standard tuning. Experiment the chord various present if you tuned your guitar (with floyd rose maybe) tune every string G or B. The combinations of chords apparent and the fingers more simple. It takes simple rehearsal. It takes something to master standard. Who gives a shit about what's standard? To make a face as a guitarist these days, it's about innovation and strange enduring sounds. Or a persona. Mostly humble or rhythmic... Men lifting weights behind me. Girls tanning in front of me (in tanning beds) I sit on a half circle couch and my weight has made an imprint. Comedy to my right. Blue and red flannel in the corner, engrossed in studies like a young lady I conjured up for a story. I never truly explained their appearances and wonder if that will be a major complaint for the readers. The lack of concrete imagery possibly detracts from the story because we get a glimpse of character but no indications of their actual appearances. They look scared or loving but we don't know what color their hair is.
The blue and red flannel to my left. Far across at a round table, sitting on a bean bag. Her computer has a bright pink case. Her ears are pierced in multiple places. Brunette ponytail. Causal. Texting somebody. A friend? A lover? I wonder if she has plans for Valentine's day. I wonder if I could summon the courage to give her some candy. Now talking on the phone, animated. Talking through the wire with her hands. Writing down things the person is saying. taking careful notes because this phone call determines so much more than simply the rest of her life. what if this where I meet her? some special bond forms and white denim becomes a lovely experience. I will die to be holding someone's hand if they play street joy. I will fall over and hope someone warm catches me. I will fall through the ceiling into a carefully planned layout of mixed races and genders. I hate approaching people here. It is too difficult and embarrassing.
The blue and red flannel to my left. Far across at a round table, sitting on a bean bag. Her computer has a bright pink case. Her ears are pierced in multiple places. Brunette ponytail. Causal. Texting somebody. A friend? A lover? I wonder if she has plans for Valentine's day. I wonder if I could summon the courage to give her some candy. Now talking on the phone, animated. Talking through the wire with her hands. Writing down things the person is saying. taking careful notes because this phone call determines so much more than simply the rest of her life. what if this where I meet her? some special bond forms and white denim becomes a lovely experience. I will die to be holding someone's hand if they play street joy. I will fall over and hope someone warm catches me. I will fall through the ceiling into a carefully planned layout of mixed races and genders. I hate approaching people here. It is too difficult and embarrassing.
feb 12
Forgive me for my lapse this weekend. It was not because I was drunk. It is because I was writing a story for a class and my energies were dedicated to the accomplishment of a presentable draft. I avoided typing anything before and after that work. This right now is nearly unbearable, I worked for many hours on this project today.
Sunday, February 12, 2012
feb 11
Although it is 3:25 in the morning on Sunday, I will count this towards my Saturday. At the start I combat a hangover, because I got too jiggy with it. We left the children alone and kept a safe distance from any real conversation with them. Talk about stealing girls from each other. Listen to bright eyes while making lunch, a sandwich with lettuce and onions, salt pepper, ham cheese, a dash of ranch, in the george foreman. tons of coffee, and a few hits of weed. to empty the mind like a recycling bin and refresh the haze for the next day. i time traveled once again. tonight I could have finished things but I fooled around. I am rather coherent now just tired. very tired. looking forward to laying down in my clean bed with clean teeth and clean thoughts. i will be on drugs tomorrow with the amount of work i have to do... Mom's home cooking. That shows something about me if I don't end up going. A secret life perhaps. Anxiety if I don't go. But hey. Cold war kids. I witnessed an elimination dodge ball tournament. A group of high school senior girls on a team of so kind, discussing the possible options presented in the cafeteria, i wish i had fallen in front of them, would have been hilarious, i had expensive things in my backpack though, just trying to get by you know. Beer with the british folk, a bro weekend. but i stay up too damn late. shirtless on the couch. i am notorious for falling sideways out of sanity. for tripping over my big feet in attempts at making progress. pizza for tomorrow if i cant go to dinner. why can't i cancel these intrusive thoughts? you think too much. its all like this. perfection. close to it. good. quality. and quantity. the philosophy is that if I create a lot of things, if I paint so many abstract blobs, or draw so many amateur animals, with lines, then I will have a bigger and more diverse skill set when applied to more important jobs. my continual writing should create something like this. but I don't study dialogue. i don't know how to write it without sounding too clunky. and forget it about the past tense or present progressives. the roommate with a date to sleep in with. the kid upstairs. two big people. the cross cultural mix. i am a sap of energy and good intention. hookah in the living room. tequila and a free concert. coffee. more coffee. never enough coffee. caffeine wrote this story for me. if you only knew what pains it caused me. it would make sense for me to have to stay back. i can't coast at a leisurely pace this sunday boys. i must work. i spent the whole damned week playing catch up and i will continue to limit myself. come on man. you need to motivate yourself. you're wasting away and you have not even climbed A mountain, once. papago park is apparently a joke. i need to experience all this fucking desert has to offer. and all the while create well formulated hypotheses regarding the nature of existence and scratch the mad rantings onto tombstones, and cave painting scenes of modern history, impersonate so many famous people that the english folk had never even heard of, the accents and the tastes, they probably will hate this. i struggled with myself today. i entered my own personality into the story and shook it all around. tomorrow i must discover the results. A dusty guitar. Depression. Simpleton. if we are unique snowflakes i want to shake the globe and shroud the city skyline in our blinding influence. we will topple gravity and attend lectures written by gods. bacchus will fill our cups with wine and the devil will transform it into water like magic. dark magic. suddenly we are full and squishy soft humans and fully aware of our surroundings which is a place no one wishes to be. someone lives in a city for ten years and has nothing interesting to say about it. do you like it? i don't know. i just know that it has not been good to me so far. "a self hindering drug". Cross my river. Sending me messages from telegrams. I am so alone waiting for the bobsled team to arrive. I am so cold and thoughtful waiting for the wire. The train to come and take me away. What a wonderful world. I am so alone like a bored ghost. drifting in between planes of existence. seriously text about potential self murder. terrifying implications of a drunken night. ashamed of my foolishness. we are all aware. you idiot. i cant be stupid. i can't allow myself to be stupid once. jump on it. i am a shaking coward and you will all read my exposed story with red eyes, stoned like the devil. and we will have to face each other with your new knowledge of me until may. i will say fuck and shit. i will write a story that gets me credit as a decent author. i fucked up though because i needed to be where i am now two weeks ago and i have to fill 40 or so hours with the content of 4 days. my head will explode and i will have horrible kidney stones. until pain overcomes and paralysis. mental paralysis. caffeine is a lifeline in this state. you dont care what homework i have to do. i just keep writing it down because it interests me. oh, i have to do this too! i could have stayed in tonight to be diligent but i like beer too much and the thought of meeting interesting new people. i am the sad one there anyway but at least i went damn it. last time i was sick. and i drank so much that i feel fat and stupid but not drunk. fat stupid and tired. if i keep this up i will never be allowed to grwo into myself. my hair will turn blue magically one day three years ago. at least one part of it for one week and it felt like wax in my hair. faux hawk. went to the game or just chilling smoking bowls everyone is predictable and boring. why i didnt simply work through my homework i will never understand. i have this huge contradiction in my head. have fun and be easy going or me stringent and focused. tonight. if i stayed up this late, nearly 4 am, working on hw i would all day tomorrow to party. but i fucking messed that up. goodnight now my love. i miss you and your ghost never vists anymore. you dont scratch on my window like i wish you would. watching comedy for a smart man on the tv on the desk while we lay in my bed giggling like babies, constantly smiling. holding hands maybe. the physical sensation grew beyond simple words. i talked of throwing myself in front of a bus. in jest of course, there is a thin line between losing yourself and finding yourself. i love you gorgeous. you half wit. superbowl sunday a day or two before full moon. and now i enter darkness.
Friday, February 10, 2012
Feb 10
Anomalies all yesterday evening and this morning. Three girls interrupted my sleep to tell me they want to come over next time I'm playing guitar, to listen and kick it. Although they might be lying, it was a pretty moment. I was kind of numb and confused by I might have made them laugh. When they knocked I was in bed in my boxers, that would have been hilarious if that was how I opened the door. I put shorts on. Wake up to the bed in the room above mine squeaking violently, around the same time a lovely young lady from far north sends a well formulated drunk text, thursday night brew, staying thirsty. It was sincere and there was an apology although I don't know what it was for. The apology. The violent squeaking continues and I pray for sexually transmitted diseases. Wake up confused. I don't remember if my alarm went off but I was awake two minutes after it should have. Shower. Old coffee. English muffin and peanut butter. Red bull in back pack. Fear it will explode. Reminder this had happened before in high school, with a Monster. And I have to throw away by back pack in front of a silent classroom. I don't remember which one though. Longboard to class. Find out it is cancelled because the professor's daughter slammed a door on her hand. Her hand in a door, whatever. I'm hopeful that this will be a nice weekend. I will be busy yes but I will stand up for myself. No I will not drink tonight. I must study. Etc.
---------
3:34am
The last man standing. Too drunk to handle a pen. I will write my will here. The Englishmen left and I left my roommate after some solid and personal shots. we both felt something real beneath the rhetorical taunts. I will stay awake as long as possible but I'm having a hard time typing coherently. I seem to have full blown dyslexia. Where i shift words around. If I were a dyslexic author I would leave specific errors in my stories to give a sense of authority just to fool with people.
---------
3:34am
The last man standing. Too drunk to handle a pen. I will write my will here. The Englishmen left and I left my roommate after some solid and personal shots. we both felt something real beneath the rhetorical taunts. I will stay awake as long as possible but I'm having a hard time typing coherently. I seem to have full blown dyslexia. Where i shift words around. If I were a dyslexic author I would leave specific errors in my stories to give a sense of authority just to fool with people.
Thursday, February 9, 2012
Feb 9th
957-1017
Yesterday after my sleepless night. My day. Learn about drug scares and systematics in regards to species then discussed a novel and quick and deliberate passion. I came back for lunch to order transcripts. Then left again. To nearly dose off learning about character development and then an introduction to a google docs project. Pretentious. I bit my tongue. Somebody's sweetheart in a subtle floral dress, maybe with a genuine interest in the subject that I generally lack. I can't skip a class without thinking about how much money I am wasting. So I don't skip classes. I want to talk to her. Say hello and least and smile. Not shooting arrows across the room and all the while our professor gathers his thoughts to repeat the information on the slides. The 'very very important' elements present. Handwritten notes. Is that the best way? Review powerpoint after lecture and see what happens. It's not this. Stupid thoughts. No beauty in a self-satisfying goal to be a good student. It's about being social. I lost myself in my studies already. Here this may be indicated, this freewrite. I was beginning about a sweet looking girl, who smiles in my direction from time to time, but then I went off a bit about grade griping and the most effective study habits. Whatever who cares. I need the freedom. My heart leans towards women but my mind focuses on the content. How animals became other animals. In a hypothetical scenario, we all would have to choose a mate in the room for breeding, and everyone looked around. The smell of lust in the air like a high school dance. Breathe in. Black hair, black thin rim glasses, a tattoo on her neck, something illegible, she elbowed me one day on accident and I froze, stricken, ya'll good I said. Damn it. Soc? Too early to flirt. Simple as that. Shakespearian women in English classes, trolls of one kind or another. Beauty in the movement of their wrists on paper. Beauty hidden inside. Surgically combine the talent and the superficial attractiveness I seek. The body and the mind combined and I have a dream girl. I saw the ghost of some girl I once held the door for. She is skinny, with glasses, red tipped hair, beautiful musician I think, I want her to be... I fucked up any chance of that. How to talk to someone like this? I knew her briefly in a class last year. I don't know her name though I know it starts with a K. Or a C. She might not recognize me. I want to network. To talk with her and realize what she dreams about. What she aspires to become. I miss deep talk of any kind. I talk superficial like it is an impulse. I love all of them. I want to marry all of them. I wish I could bypass first impressions and go straight to a closer understanding. I am the worst first impressionist. And I hate myself for it. And this cloud is carried along with me in such a demeanor. Give me a god damn chance!!
Realizing now that I dreamed about her, or a girl who looked like her. In this dream I was some old friend. We had a deep connection, as we had known each other for so long. Sometime in this deep past I chose another girl over her for some reason or another. Hurt her. But now, years and years later. She comes crying to me because her boyfriend or someone of a similar role died. Hit by a truck or something. I comforted her quietly, never having liked the boy. Having nothing to say. Crushing bones and sobbing on my shoulder. It's okay it's okay. Everything is going to be alright.
------------------
Save up the change for a tummy tuck.
You are not beautiful.
Make sure the coins are heads.
There is a 50/50 chance your goal will take twice as long as it should.
Now dye your hair like a rainbow
and flaunt it
Clean your dirty fingernails
with a bloody knife
(you were born with the sun and you will die with the moon)
coffee stains in my stomach
the acidic liquid burning through the lining
in my stomach
but this makes me warm and awake
I feel superhuman
after 15 cups
and i know its working when I can feel my teeth yellowing
like the pages of an old newspaper
given time
funny how no one brought in an actual newspaper clipping
everything was an article printed from some website
favoritism, she based decisions on flashy headlines
not content
but my story had all of the elements
a political struggle
muslim extremists
one of the world's most popular honeymoon spots
and it is sinking slowly, into the indian ocean
rather. the indian ocean is rising
11 on thursday.... i have 84 hours or so.. to write a 15 page story
I have the outline
The conflict and the ideas
but its in fragments
the dialogue is not convincing
these characters are yelling at me
Make me seem more realistic! Please god (for I am their god) don't make me boring!
Also a computer project. Elementary, my dear watson.
A discussion board post.
A sociology exam.
40 pages of a Therese Raquin to read. (choose prompt for future essay... )
A sociology of deviance project. I must choose my deviant act.
all in all
i have a lot to do
and i want drugs to assist my studies
i want drugs to write the papers for me
using my brain and my hands
in unison like i can't seem to do alone
the drug is a ghost who guides my body to extremes
these extremes create good art
these extremes are essential to being human
all in all
i need to focus
i need to stay calm and work above the influence
of anything but a four pack of redbull
all in all
i need wings
----------------
It felt like someone twisted off a pressure valve inside my skull and that delicate physiology was bursting at the seams. But I released all pressure with a simple ingredient. My characters were strangled me as I strangled them. But because I turned off my filter, I can seem they clearly and they are alive like my peers now, my invisible peers. I stepped outside my apartment and instantly fell to hating every sound around me like it was a knife into my forehead. The triviality of these things people say. The BBQ and the sluts. And all of their skin. Their revealed skin, simply lounging in the sun and becoming stupid. It feels good sure, that vitamin D. But who the hell invited the 'tan is pretty' norm? Why do we do this? They don't read, just talk sometimes about things that sound awful to me. Something I'll never understand. They discuss such garbage. I will never understand. But then again I'll be lonely and deprived if I avoid this talk all of the time. What if I wish to write a story with one of these awful creatures in it as a character? I would need to know at least one. And study it. I hated the air I breathed until it wasn't oxygen. Then I loved it and fixed mistakes. That self-limiting herb also expands opinion. They don't want us thinking revolutionary ideas so they make it illegal. They tie it to poor underclass and it is banned. Self-serving. Tea time. I'm tired of writing this freely. I will go back to monotonous structure issues of my damned story. But I killed my filter. My critic is chuckling and watching cartoons somewhere deeper in my subconscious. While he is away and distracted I can get my story done.
------------
technically friday.... 12:10 am
Self sabotage
pretty girls make graves
I'm digging a coffin sized hole to bury the shovel
I gave away a phone charger
and looked away when we made eye contact
I was so dumb and confused
Yeah, come on in for a second.
Nice digs.
Nice eyelashes.
I practically live next door, my best friend ever does.
I opened the door like a troll, seeing sunlight for the first time in so many months.
Or a hermit deep in the woods. It has been many months since I've seen another breathing human.
Elliot Smith and Therese Raquin. An anxious novel.
Parallels many of many current anxieties and past desires.
Not to the point of murder. Just emotional similarity.
(I've have half a mind to drag the sunset down)
Listen to crimson and clover because of elliot smith.
I froze with this girl. I was an automaton.
(don't dare disturb me, don't complicate my peace of mind)
Why do I shoot myself?
In the kneecaps. Nothing ever deadly or serious.
Just enough to get me physically weak and in no shape to tackle the idea of talking coherently to women.
Today was the first day in a long time, beautiful women everywhere. I'm crazy. I'm an ass.
Etc.
I felt like I was walking up the stairs to a tomb earlier. The sun's out. It's beautiful.
The sun is always out.
Help me.
That's my refrain. I feel like I can't do this on my own. I can't change without a helping hand. Someone reach out or something.
I need an influence.
Some force to push me forward. As I am miserable in my monotony.
This weekend. No pleasure seeking. All work and no play makes jack a smart boy.
Last weekend I was a dull boy. No one will see the Swellers with me. Or Dance Gavin Dance.
OR Radiohead for that matter. I won't bring someone who will complain.
I couldn't do it.
I'm surrounded by weak people. In essence I am becoming weak. Socially. I die slow in my bedroom. And no one gives a flying fuck about what I am doing in here.
Yesterday after my sleepless night. My day. Learn about drug scares and systematics in regards to species then discussed a novel and quick and deliberate passion. I came back for lunch to order transcripts. Then left again. To nearly dose off learning about character development and then an introduction to a google docs project. Pretentious. I bit my tongue. Somebody's sweetheart in a subtle floral dress, maybe with a genuine interest in the subject that I generally lack. I can't skip a class without thinking about how much money I am wasting. So I don't skip classes. I want to talk to her. Say hello and least and smile. Not shooting arrows across the room and all the while our professor gathers his thoughts to repeat the information on the slides. The 'very very important' elements present. Handwritten notes. Is that the best way? Review powerpoint after lecture and see what happens. It's not this. Stupid thoughts. No beauty in a self-satisfying goal to be a good student. It's about being social. I lost myself in my studies already. Here this may be indicated, this freewrite. I was beginning about a sweet looking girl, who smiles in my direction from time to time, but then I went off a bit about grade griping and the most effective study habits. Whatever who cares. I need the freedom. My heart leans towards women but my mind focuses on the content. How animals became other animals. In a hypothetical scenario, we all would have to choose a mate in the room for breeding, and everyone looked around. The smell of lust in the air like a high school dance. Breathe in. Black hair, black thin rim glasses, a tattoo on her neck, something illegible, she elbowed me one day on accident and I froze, stricken, ya'll good I said. Damn it. Soc? Too early to flirt. Simple as that. Shakespearian women in English classes, trolls of one kind or another. Beauty in the movement of their wrists on paper. Beauty hidden inside. Surgically combine the talent and the superficial attractiveness I seek. The body and the mind combined and I have a dream girl. I saw the ghost of some girl I once held the door for. She is skinny, with glasses, red tipped hair, beautiful musician I think, I want her to be... I fucked up any chance of that. How to talk to someone like this? I knew her briefly in a class last year. I don't know her name though I know it starts with a K. Or a C. She might not recognize me. I want to network. To talk with her and realize what she dreams about. What she aspires to become. I miss deep talk of any kind. I talk superficial like it is an impulse. I love all of them. I want to marry all of them. I wish I could bypass first impressions and go straight to a closer understanding. I am the worst first impressionist. And I hate myself for it. And this cloud is carried along with me in such a demeanor. Give me a god damn chance!!
Realizing now that I dreamed about her, or a girl who looked like her. In this dream I was some old friend. We had a deep connection, as we had known each other for so long. Sometime in this deep past I chose another girl over her for some reason or another. Hurt her. But now, years and years later. She comes crying to me because her boyfriend or someone of a similar role died. Hit by a truck or something. I comforted her quietly, never having liked the boy. Having nothing to say. Crushing bones and sobbing on my shoulder. It's okay it's okay. Everything is going to be alright.
------------------
Save up the change for a tummy tuck.
You are not beautiful.
Make sure the coins are heads.
There is a 50/50 chance your goal will take twice as long as it should.
Now dye your hair like a rainbow
and flaunt it
Clean your dirty fingernails
with a bloody knife
(you were born with the sun and you will die with the moon)
coffee stains in my stomach
the acidic liquid burning through the lining
in my stomach
but this makes me warm and awake
I feel superhuman
after 15 cups
and i know its working when I can feel my teeth yellowing
like the pages of an old newspaper
given time
funny how no one brought in an actual newspaper clipping
everything was an article printed from some website
favoritism, she based decisions on flashy headlines
not content
but my story had all of the elements
a political struggle
muslim extremists
one of the world's most popular honeymoon spots
and it is sinking slowly, into the indian ocean
rather. the indian ocean is rising
11 on thursday.... i have 84 hours or so.. to write a 15 page story
I have the outline
The conflict and the ideas
but its in fragments
the dialogue is not convincing
these characters are yelling at me
Make me seem more realistic! Please god (for I am their god) don't make me boring!
Also a computer project. Elementary, my dear watson.
A discussion board post.
A sociology exam.
40 pages of a Therese Raquin to read. (choose prompt for future essay... )
A sociology of deviance project. I must choose my deviant act.
all in all
i have a lot to do
and i want drugs to assist my studies
i want drugs to write the papers for me
using my brain and my hands
in unison like i can't seem to do alone
the drug is a ghost who guides my body to extremes
these extremes create good art
these extremes are essential to being human
all in all
i need to focus
i need to stay calm and work above the influence
of anything but a four pack of redbull
all in all
i need wings
----------------
It felt like someone twisted off a pressure valve inside my skull and that delicate physiology was bursting at the seams. But I released all pressure with a simple ingredient. My characters were strangled me as I strangled them. But because I turned off my filter, I can seem they clearly and they are alive like my peers now, my invisible peers. I stepped outside my apartment and instantly fell to hating every sound around me like it was a knife into my forehead. The triviality of these things people say. The BBQ and the sluts. And all of their skin. Their revealed skin, simply lounging in the sun and becoming stupid. It feels good sure, that vitamin D. But who the hell invited the 'tan is pretty' norm? Why do we do this? They don't read, just talk sometimes about things that sound awful to me. Something I'll never understand. They discuss such garbage. I will never understand. But then again I'll be lonely and deprived if I avoid this talk all of the time. What if I wish to write a story with one of these awful creatures in it as a character? I would need to know at least one. And study it. I hated the air I breathed until it wasn't oxygen. Then I loved it and fixed mistakes. That self-limiting herb also expands opinion. They don't want us thinking revolutionary ideas so they make it illegal. They tie it to poor underclass and it is banned. Self-serving. Tea time. I'm tired of writing this freely. I will go back to monotonous structure issues of my damned story. But I killed my filter. My critic is chuckling and watching cartoons somewhere deeper in my subconscious. While he is away and distracted I can get my story done.
------------
technically friday.... 12:10 am
Self sabotage
pretty girls make graves
I'm digging a coffin sized hole to bury the shovel
I gave away a phone charger
and looked away when we made eye contact
I was so dumb and confused
Yeah, come on in for a second.
Nice digs.
Nice eyelashes.
I practically live next door, my best friend ever does.
I opened the door like a troll, seeing sunlight for the first time in so many months.
Or a hermit deep in the woods. It has been many months since I've seen another breathing human.
Elliot Smith and Therese Raquin. An anxious novel.
Parallels many of many current anxieties and past desires.
Not to the point of murder. Just emotional similarity.
(I've have half a mind to drag the sunset down)
Listen to crimson and clover because of elliot smith.
I froze with this girl. I was an automaton.
(don't dare disturb me, don't complicate my peace of mind)
Why do I shoot myself?
In the kneecaps. Nothing ever deadly or serious.
Just enough to get me physically weak and in no shape to tackle the idea of talking coherently to women.
Today was the first day in a long time, beautiful women everywhere. I'm crazy. I'm an ass.
Etc.
I felt like I was walking up the stairs to a tomb earlier. The sun's out. It's beautiful.
The sun is always out.
Help me.
That's my refrain. I feel like I can't do this on my own. I can't change without a helping hand. Someone reach out or something.
I need an influence.
Some force to push me forward. As I am miserable in my monotony.
This weekend. No pleasure seeking. All work and no play makes jack a smart boy.
Last weekend I was a dull boy. No one will see the Swellers with me. Or Dance Gavin Dance.
OR Radiohead for that matter. I won't bring someone who will complain.
I couldn't do it.
I'm surrounded by weak people. In essence I am becoming weak. Socially. I die slow in my bedroom. And no one gives a flying fuck about what I am doing in here.
Wednesday, February 8, 2012
feb 8
9-920
Try sleeping on my back because it's good for the spine, also good coffin practice.
I would have slept better in an electrical fire.
I tried to pinpoint the causes of my pain. Not just why but how.
But this task became impossible like counting stars in space with your fingers.
(If it pleases you to leave me, just go)
I will call Portland and bother them with a legislative concern.
Summer in Switzerland, in Spain, in London, in Florence, Italy.
Design and contemporary societal functions of design.
German language and culture, Regensburg.
Burning 1 grand a week. Times six.
Design & Context in Rome, Paris, and Amsterdam.
Italy, Rome, Netherlands.
London Literature & Theatre.
Read the plays then go see them at the Globe Theater.
Get a comprehensive overview of cross-cultural psychology and immigration phenomena.
In Spain. Spanish not being a requirement because we will be tourists and we will stick together like legal obligation holding marriages together, stay together for the kids.
Too afraid to contemplate going to Kuwait.
I would want to go somewhere and talk to people.
A summer abroad. What about a rock and roll band tour abroad?
No college credit there but shit. If I prove myself worthy.
An experience like that would help a reputation. Oh yeah, I took a year off to tour europe.
Or a semester off. If tension builds and we hate each other by the end.
Fancy bass work. Why must I feel inferior to be a bassist. It is what I tend to land on. The safe bet. The guitar far too scary and complicated for a simpleton....
I'm listening to you talking
but I ain't see you walking
I'm a participant but you just watching
from the sidelines, your whole crews blind
you can't tell the city from the skyline
etc...
Woke up with a start and a pain. An all over pain. That reminds me nothing of why I came here. That reminds me how alone I feel amidst 70,000 students, many of them my age. I should be interacting smoothly but it seems something awful happens every time I talk. And I can't blame them all, if everyone reacts to me the same way. Whatever it is I do, I feel as though I will forever be doomed to this loneliness and isolation as long as I live here. The state or the sky is brown and when it rains your car gets dirtier. The racist city. Pound through pre conceived notions of a party school and end up studying alone in the library again and again. Some attend the school for many years and never end up even stepping foot into the library. I must. I must gain access and success and find myself somewhere. If I don't bury myself in my studies or in training to cultivate talents outside of class.. then I would be wasting my time thoroughly and irreparably. Because I cannot get this time back and it would have all been wasting because I was frowning the whole time. It doesn't matter if I'm happy as long as I am accomplished and receive accolades and all of that nonsense.
Try sleeping on my back because it's good for the spine, also good coffin practice.
I would have slept better in an electrical fire.
I tried to pinpoint the causes of my pain. Not just why but how.
But this task became impossible like counting stars in space with your fingers.
(If it pleases you to leave me, just go)
I will call Portland and bother them with a legislative concern.
Summer in Switzerland, in Spain, in London, in Florence, Italy.
Design and contemporary societal functions of design.
German language and culture, Regensburg.
Burning 1 grand a week. Times six.
Design & Context in Rome, Paris, and Amsterdam.
Italy, Rome, Netherlands.
London Literature & Theatre.
Read the plays then go see them at the Globe Theater.
Get a comprehensive overview of cross-cultural psychology and immigration phenomena.
In Spain. Spanish not being a requirement because we will be tourists and we will stick together like legal obligation holding marriages together, stay together for the kids.
Too afraid to contemplate going to Kuwait.
I would want to go somewhere and talk to people.
A summer abroad. What about a rock and roll band tour abroad?
No college credit there but shit. If I prove myself worthy.
An experience like that would help a reputation. Oh yeah, I took a year off to tour europe.
Or a semester off. If tension builds and we hate each other by the end.
Fancy bass work. Why must I feel inferior to be a bassist. It is what I tend to land on. The safe bet. The guitar far too scary and complicated for a simpleton....
I'm listening to you talking
but I ain't see you walking
I'm a participant but you just watching
from the sidelines, your whole crews blind
you can't tell the city from the skyline
etc...
Woke up with a start and a pain. An all over pain. That reminds me nothing of why I came here. That reminds me how alone I feel amidst 70,000 students, many of them my age. I should be interacting smoothly but it seems something awful happens every time I talk. And I can't blame them all, if everyone reacts to me the same way. Whatever it is I do, I feel as though I will forever be doomed to this loneliness and isolation as long as I live here. The state or the sky is brown and when it rains your car gets dirtier. The racist city. Pound through pre conceived notions of a party school and end up studying alone in the library again and again. Some attend the school for many years and never end up even stepping foot into the library. I must. I must gain access and success and find myself somewhere. If I don't bury myself in my studies or in training to cultivate talents outside of class.. then I would be wasting my time thoroughly and irreparably. Because I cannot get this time back and it would have all been wasting because I was frowning the whole time. It doesn't matter if I'm happy as long as I am accomplished and receive accolades and all of that nonsense.
Tuesday, February 7, 2012
Feb 7
11:29-11:49
Rev up the engine, flip the switch from stand-by to 'on' and feel the pistons begin pumping. The boiler heats up and the water starts to churn. Let it warm up first before we take it out for the day. Replace the oil and the batteries. Wash the hair off. Cough in the night and get woken up by a teleportation. And suddenly, momentary, I am not alone in bed. Then I remember where I am. Shine the shoes, pick the gum out of your hair, the cereal between your teeth, listen to something uplifting and warm. Is this anxiety due to the fact I can't find a New York Times anywhere? Or maybe because I didn't exercise. Flip me over like a police car. Explain my weird medical conditions. Explain my nervous tics and help me minimize my conditioned response to certain stimuli. It's like somebody rings a bell and I shrink. I become small after a certain pattern of sounds. Not physically. Mentally. Which is worse? I shrink and unravel into a lesser human being. Constantly worried. I need to get hit with a truck full of unconditioned responses. Give me new fixations. Conditioned myself into believing I am god. This would be the other end of the spectrum. (I would like to take this time to thank the big guy downstairs.) Pinch a nerve. Swollen scar tissue. You performed an acrobatic feat like none before. And none saw it. You would have won points. Trick points.... Valentine's day approaching. On the tenth my agenda says 'buy your girlfriend flowers'. And I am brought back to a place I was last year. In the arms of a beautiful, emotional woman. Rather she was in my arms. I don't know. It was probably mutual. We melted like heart shaped chocolate and vanilla incense wafting through a cold dorm room with an open window. Sticky notes with names on them, in the shape of a heart. Christmas lights, year-round. We were irresponsible sure sure. Fine for a college first. There is always an allotment of freedom for the 'first' time for something. You can be sloppy and stupid and silly. Eventually you learn how to avoid these degrading moments. The ones that possibly harm others more than yourself. The ones that leave scar tissue on their eyes and ears but they will never understand. They will be upset that they have to listen or watch. And for the first times you can be stupid oblivious in love and not care at all what the others are doing and how they are reacting. You can be cute and innocent. That's a front though. That innocence is rare and is destroyed as soon as someone hears about it. Destroyed until there are no fragments left. Everyone wants to see someone experience something for the first time. First joint. First shot. First lay. First lay up. First kiss. First half court shot. First guava. First hookah. First hike. etc. And we all try to open each others eyes. Well it used to be like that. Nowadays everything seems too safe and sane. I miss the disorganization and chaos of a million first-time experiences. Though the quality of experience diminishes and you can ruin yourself and the activity in progress.
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The girl who ties herself to the train tracks and waits. The boy who gets drunk and wanders lost through the streets trying to get home. He crosses the train track and sees her attempting to tie herself down. He falls over a few times and cuts his hands. She says what do you want get away from me. He says looks like you need a hand and ties her securely before walking off again in the wrong direction. He realizes what he has done and he runs back to the tracks. He can't remember where they are. He puts his ear to the ground to listen for the train. He shushes cars (I'm trying to find the train tracks by listening for the rumbling) as the speed by until their soft sounds lull him to sleep. On the hard pavement. He wakes stripped of dignity but wallet is intact and he discovers no stab wounds to speak of. Train sounds in the distance. He tries to focus and locate the direction of the sound while yelling at cars to stop moving for a damn second. Pick me up fools. I am a forlorn hitch hiker trying to save a girl who tied herself to the tracks. I helped her, therefore I am responsible. She wanted to be tied so there could be no going back. If she is slaughtered I have no grounds to fight the charges and will be hung from the gallows like a southwest cowboy cliche. The type that rolls into town guns drawn and everyone is afraid. A good old fashioned murder. I don't want that. I made a drunk mistake. Please drive me to the train tracks, or god deliver them to me so I can save this doomed sad girl and move in with her and live with her in infinite peace. We will love like romance novels. And we will say cliche things about the love we share but it won't be cliche because it will be true and honest. From the heart. We will say things like from the heart. If I save this lovely girl from the hurtling death of the train carrying god knows what to god knows where and why this late I'll never understand. I just know that it is traveling much too fast to attempt to hop about towards the west. California on their lips. I would hold her when she wanted to cry but not in public because we would lose ourselves blind. PPPEEEOPLE like US WE JUST EXXISTT. I am in love with this girl. My drunken idiocy, such as pulling a knife on a harmless attendant or puking onto the face of a priest of defecating on a blind grandmothers back porch, near the rocking chair she sits and weaves, stabbing her wrinkled fingers from time to time, now smelling shit. These awful things could very well have happened already. But all of the worst combinations of events will occur if I don't save this girl. This beautiful beautiful girl who wishes to die until I rescue her like a cowboy. Like that spill canvas song. Self conclusion.
Rev up the engine, flip the switch from stand-by to 'on' and feel the pistons begin pumping. The boiler heats up and the water starts to churn. Let it warm up first before we take it out for the day. Replace the oil and the batteries. Wash the hair off. Cough in the night and get woken up by a teleportation. And suddenly, momentary, I am not alone in bed. Then I remember where I am. Shine the shoes, pick the gum out of your hair, the cereal between your teeth, listen to something uplifting and warm. Is this anxiety due to the fact I can't find a New York Times anywhere? Or maybe because I didn't exercise. Flip me over like a police car. Explain my weird medical conditions. Explain my nervous tics and help me minimize my conditioned response to certain stimuli. It's like somebody rings a bell and I shrink. I become small after a certain pattern of sounds. Not physically. Mentally. Which is worse? I shrink and unravel into a lesser human being. Constantly worried. I need to get hit with a truck full of unconditioned responses. Give me new fixations. Conditioned myself into believing I am god. This would be the other end of the spectrum. (I would like to take this time to thank the big guy downstairs.) Pinch a nerve. Swollen scar tissue. You performed an acrobatic feat like none before. And none saw it. You would have won points. Trick points.... Valentine's day approaching. On the tenth my agenda says 'buy your girlfriend flowers'. And I am brought back to a place I was last year. In the arms of a beautiful, emotional woman. Rather she was in my arms. I don't know. It was probably mutual. We melted like heart shaped chocolate and vanilla incense wafting through a cold dorm room with an open window. Sticky notes with names on them, in the shape of a heart. Christmas lights, year-round. We were irresponsible sure sure. Fine for a college first. There is always an allotment of freedom for the 'first' time for something. You can be sloppy and stupid and silly. Eventually you learn how to avoid these degrading moments. The ones that possibly harm others more than yourself. The ones that leave scar tissue on their eyes and ears but they will never understand. They will be upset that they have to listen or watch. And for the first times you can be stupid oblivious in love and not care at all what the others are doing and how they are reacting. You can be cute and innocent. That's a front though. That innocence is rare and is destroyed as soon as someone hears about it. Destroyed until there are no fragments left. Everyone wants to see someone experience something for the first time. First joint. First shot. First lay. First lay up. First kiss. First half court shot. First guava. First hookah. First hike. etc. And we all try to open each others eyes. Well it used to be like that. Nowadays everything seems too safe and sane. I miss the disorganization and chaos of a million first-time experiences. Though the quality of experience diminishes and you can ruin yourself and the activity in progress.
-----------
The girl who ties herself to the train tracks and waits. The boy who gets drunk and wanders lost through the streets trying to get home. He crosses the train track and sees her attempting to tie herself down. He falls over a few times and cuts his hands. She says what do you want get away from me. He says looks like you need a hand and ties her securely before walking off again in the wrong direction. He realizes what he has done and he runs back to the tracks. He can't remember where they are. He puts his ear to the ground to listen for the train. He shushes cars (I'm trying to find the train tracks by listening for the rumbling) as the speed by until their soft sounds lull him to sleep. On the hard pavement. He wakes stripped of dignity but wallet is intact and he discovers no stab wounds to speak of. Train sounds in the distance. He tries to focus and locate the direction of the sound while yelling at cars to stop moving for a damn second. Pick me up fools. I am a forlorn hitch hiker trying to save a girl who tied herself to the tracks. I helped her, therefore I am responsible. She wanted to be tied so there could be no going back. If she is slaughtered I have no grounds to fight the charges and will be hung from the gallows like a southwest cowboy cliche. The type that rolls into town guns drawn and everyone is afraid. A good old fashioned murder. I don't want that. I made a drunk mistake. Please drive me to the train tracks, or god deliver them to me so I can save this doomed sad girl and move in with her and live with her in infinite peace. We will love like romance novels. And we will say cliche things about the love we share but it won't be cliche because it will be true and honest. From the heart. We will say things like from the heart. If I save this lovely girl from the hurtling death of the train carrying god knows what to god knows where and why this late I'll never understand. I just know that it is traveling much too fast to attempt to hop about towards the west. California on their lips. I would hold her when she wanted to cry but not in public because we would lose ourselves blind. PPPEEEOPLE like US WE JUST EXXISTT. I am in love with this girl. My drunken idiocy, such as pulling a knife on a harmless attendant or puking onto the face of a priest of defecating on a blind grandmothers back porch, near the rocking chair she sits and weaves, stabbing her wrinkled fingers from time to time, now smelling shit. These awful things could very well have happened already. But all of the worst combinations of events will occur if I don't save this girl. This beautiful beautiful girl who wishes to die until I rescue her like a cowboy. Like that spill canvas song. Self conclusion.
Monday, February 6, 2012
feb 6
857-917
Where does this negativity come from? The self talk. I hate my life. I hate my life. The first thought of the morning, rather than a beautiful homage to the awareness of life... The first thought Good god, today is going to be hard to endure. Why. Is it my diet? It hurts to sit down. I was a stupid and irresponsible child this weekend. I will pay. The execution of ideas. In the sense of completion. Not the murdering of ideas. I'm not a book burning. There is no price to pay for that type of intolerance. I have all of these millions of nice ideas. Most that would make people smile. Strangers. Friends alike. I am alone in this desert with my ideas. That oasis in the distance. Is still in the distance. And I am crawling like a snake through the scorching sand, boiling off my skin layer by layer. Until I am is tendons clinging to my skeleton. everything else melts away and vultures pick at my eyes before they dry up. We could be making people laugh. Gaining exposure for our silly ideas, executed perfectly. Why the negativity, fucker? I don't want to start something because I acknowledge the ways it could not turn out perfect. Jesus. I juggle flaming chainsaws with good intentions but eventually one might slip and slaughter an innocent bystander. I am at a loss. A loss of feeling and sensitivity. Somehow I become a ghost on campus and travel through people not passed them. I travel through lectures and the haze around my head stays until after five in the evening. I have a concert to go to at least, tonight. Attend this concert. Anthony Green and The Dear Hunter and Good Old War. Why wouldn't I? But I do need to practice my scales and my story is hardly an outline even, for a week of work. This writing... Will this help me with my draft of this story? Will this 15 page massacre do me justice? Will this prove I don't belong in the English program also? If so. If it's shit. What do I do... I know I can't be instantly good but given my disadvantage of almost two years twiddling my thumbs in dark classrooms of all topics... I need to latch on whatever my strength is and pick the easiest and most sensical route towards success and happiness and free living in the andes or the bahamas with beautiful women fanning me for wages or for their enjoyment their pleasure. I am a mess. I am a whining child. My life cannot possibly be as bad as it feels some mornings. That voice in my head. The one that says take another shot. The one that reminds me where I am and where I came from. The voice that does not tolerate my failure and let's me know. Oh, wow, dumbass. Nice going there. Nice shooting Tex. But I keep my nails clean. My hair short. Has anything else changed? Hit a low point after that party last Friday. That's for sure. Depraved and wild, rampant. Running through the streets. Shoes are wet. My head is spinning. Good morning. It's nearly 5 am. Crying. Yelling. Falling behind curbs and waiting for someone to stab me. Steal my wallet and all its contents. I would not remember exactly what was in there and I would be double lost. I hate the predicament. The predictability of everyone I've ever met here. The video games the weed the attempts at picking up girls. What's predictable about me other than a constant sense of anxious wandering. The type that kills conversation and I never know what to say. I talk without thinking and I believe that freedom should be shared. I hate being a mute. I hate so many things. Mostly aspects of my character that this desert is highlighting. The bad things in this bright light for all to see and to my dismay and disappointment. I'm turning into a recluse. One who says one thing yet does another. A meat head. Someone who never follows through. No Guitar Center. No comedy shorts. No mountain climbing. No first friday. That's probably why. God was angry watching me behave like an ant and decided to coax me into getting hammered rather than looking at art. "I don't really like art". I hate you too. No GNC. No rap songs. No lead guitar positions. It's all the same and its dreary. I am so unhappy here and I can't help express it. Why? Why? Why? Why am I so depressed and miserable? It is so beautiful outside.
Where does this negativity come from? The self talk. I hate my life. I hate my life. The first thought of the morning, rather than a beautiful homage to the awareness of life... The first thought Good god, today is going to be hard to endure. Why. Is it my diet? It hurts to sit down. I was a stupid and irresponsible child this weekend. I will pay. The execution of ideas. In the sense of completion. Not the murdering of ideas. I'm not a book burning. There is no price to pay for that type of intolerance. I have all of these millions of nice ideas. Most that would make people smile. Strangers. Friends alike. I am alone in this desert with my ideas. That oasis in the distance. Is still in the distance. And I am crawling like a snake through the scorching sand, boiling off my skin layer by layer. Until I am is tendons clinging to my skeleton. everything else melts away and vultures pick at my eyes before they dry up. We could be making people laugh. Gaining exposure for our silly ideas, executed perfectly. Why the negativity, fucker? I don't want to start something because I acknowledge the ways it could not turn out perfect. Jesus. I juggle flaming chainsaws with good intentions but eventually one might slip and slaughter an innocent bystander. I am at a loss. A loss of feeling and sensitivity. Somehow I become a ghost on campus and travel through people not passed them. I travel through lectures and the haze around my head stays until after five in the evening. I have a concert to go to at least, tonight. Attend this concert. Anthony Green and The Dear Hunter and Good Old War. Why wouldn't I? But I do need to practice my scales and my story is hardly an outline even, for a week of work. This writing... Will this help me with my draft of this story? Will this 15 page massacre do me justice? Will this prove I don't belong in the English program also? If so. If it's shit. What do I do... I know I can't be instantly good but given my disadvantage of almost two years twiddling my thumbs in dark classrooms of all topics... I need to latch on whatever my strength is and pick the easiest and most sensical route towards success and happiness and free living in the andes or the bahamas with beautiful women fanning me for wages or for their enjoyment their pleasure. I am a mess. I am a whining child. My life cannot possibly be as bad as it feels some mornings. That voice in my head. The one that says take another shot. The one that reminds me where I am and where I came from. The voice that does not tolerate my failure and let's me know. Oh, wow, dumbass. Nice going there. Nice shooting Tex. But I keep my nails clean. My hair short. Has anything else changed? Hit a low point after that party last Friday. That's for sure. Depraved and wild, rampant. Running through the streets. Shoes are wet. My head is spinning. Good morning. It's nearly 5 am. Crying. Yelling. Falling behind curbs and waiting for someone to stab me. Steal my wallet and all its contents. I would not remember exactly what was in there and I would be double lost. I hate the predicament. The predictability of everyone I've ever met here. The video games the weed the attempts at picking up girls. What's predictable about me other than a constant sense of anxious wandering. The type that kills conversation and I never know what to say. I talk without thinking and I believe that freedom should be shared. I hate being a mute. I hate so many things. Mostly aspects of my character that this desert is highlighting. The bad things in this bright light for all to see and to my dismay and disappointment. I'm turning into a recluse. One who says one thing yet does another. A meat head. Someone who never follows through. No Guitar Center. No comedy shorts. No mountain climbing. No first friday. That's probably why. God was angry watching me behave like an ant and decided to coax me into getting hammered rather than looking at art. "I don't really like art". I hate you too. No GNC. No rap songs. No lead guitar positions. It's all the same and its dreary. I am so unhappy here and I can't help express it. Why? Why? Why? Why am I so depressed and miserable? It is so beautiful outside.
Sunday, February 5, 2012
feb 5
12:40 - 1:00
Gary leads a boring and monotonous life. Now in his forties. This is contradictory to the youthful rebellious nature of his being in the past. It's like someone put xanax in his coffee every morning and rather than waking up with intentions for the day to be a beautiful and unique, interesting experience, he finds comfort in complacency and repetition. Sometimes he wonders though. Why has it come to this? This marriage is not necessarily failing but there is nothing cute about his relationship with Cheryl anymore. The sense of legal obligation maybe. They sleep in different beds and bicker occasionally, you know, just to do it. Gary works at the local newspaper for this small harbor town. He used to be an investigative journalist, curious and thriving, down in california. He grew up in Washington. And lives in Washington now. Gary and Cheryl. Their house is buried in an evergreen wilderness but they have neighbors on either side. A main road cuts through the front of their drive way and they hear horrible car accidents every couple of months. Their house is pushed back a hundred yards or so, up a gradual incline. The houses on either side follow the same formula, though tall wooden fences surround the yards of both of their neighbors. Gary and Cheryl do not have a fence around their property but their neighbors fences serve as a barricade from them at least. Behind their house is a few acres of Northwestern forest, evergreens and blackberry thistle, and Gary was adamant to keep this passageway open. Their son Jake used to play in the woods with his friends when he was little and used to take pride in maintaining trails. Time swallows this memory and the trail is irretrievably overgrown. Little resemblance to what might have been hidden back there. Since they began developing on the ridge above them, house lights can be seen cutting through the woods, just as tiny specks of light like stars in space. Jacob built half of a tree fort back there but never finished. Cheryl often took pride in maintenance of her flower garden beside the house but neglected to plant anything last spring. A strange way to test Gary to see if he ever noticed the little things anymore. A mischievous way. Gary never noticed or never told her that he noticed. Or didn't think twice and went to the liquor cabinet to mix an after dinner drink for the kung fu movie of the night. One day the weather turns dark and the wind picks up. The newspaper gets closed down early for the day. Someone makes a joke about calling the game on account of the rain. Someone else laughs, slightly muted. As if ashamed. The man responsible for the weather report talks to Gary. They've worked together for a long time. Friends enough to go on fishing trips with each others friends. Or for thursday night poker games at Gary's place. These nights Cheryl either locks herself away up in her room (a two story house) or invites a girlfriend to go out to a new romantic comedy with her. Gary does not like the weatherman. Stephen. But also doesn't see the point in burning an unnecessary bridge. He does not have the energy to try and make real friendships so he kind of passively accepts Stephen into his life. This decision happened many years ago. Back when Stephen and his stupid family moved up here and he first walked into the office. Gary knew they would end up as quasi-friends although they both kind of hated each other below the surface. The storm is supposed to be the biggest of the century. Gary knows Stephen to exaggerate and doesn't believe the sky will open up. Of course, it is rare to be dismissed from work early due to the weather but Gary takes this as a sign of good fortune. Quicker to get home and mix a drink. Driving home, listening to the classic rock station he used to listen to in high school, with a DJ he used to tune in to 'Spike'. Spike pauses in between songs, last one being bob seger, a song Gary never liked, to warn commuters of the approaching chaos of this storm. Spike repeats Stephens claim that the storm will be huge and devastating. He warns those who live on the water that they might get wet. Then he plays 'Riders on the storm' by the Doors. Gary calls Cheryl to tell her he is coming home. The power is flickering on and off. Gary gets home while the storm is nearing full swing. Trees sway madly like mosh pits. The grind and chafe against each other, threatening to smash through the living room windows. Sideways rain pelts the roof and windows in a chorus. They can't even hear themselves think. Gary knows trees will be going down all night, and that Cheryls room is probably the least safe place in the house due to the gigantic dead Evergreen that seems to be uprooting itself in the wind. There is thunder. There is lightning. Gary and Cheryl sleep in the master bedroom together for the first time in many months. Like mother nature is angry for the maltreatment of her beauty. Before they retire to the bedroom, Gary flips on the tv and they react to images of houses being bombarded by great waves. The shore was less than a mile away. Gary was nearly tempted by a wild impulse to make his way down to the shore to see the damage. He reacts with excitement. Wow! Look at this honey! Cheryl reacts with more empathy for the people and more precisely their destroyed possessions. My god, Gary... I hope they have insurance for that yacht. (They see a swell pick up a sailboat like a toy and throw it into the huge panel windows of a shoreline mansion.) Gary claps. Cheryl says 'that's horrible.' Then the power cuts out for good. They don't have a working generator so they must survive the night without power. Cheryl gets candles. Gary wonders how anyone could ever read by candlelight without worrying about setting the pages on fire. They sleep a fitful sleep, dreaming about being crushed to death by giant evergreens. Trees fall all night. The mighty collapse of ancient life. These trees have seen this place before human influence. If they had eyes. With a great crash sometime after midnight. A tree lands in the spare bedroom. Where Cheryl would have been sleeping. Gary gets up to see this, half asleep, and if careful to congratulate himself on his powers of intuition because he can't help but wonder what his life would be like had Cheryl been sleeping in there tonight. Nothing to be done about this tonight. And he goes back to sleep. In the morning, the sun shines and illuminates the wreckage of the night before. Gary gets dressed and explores his yard. If the sun was not shining, he might have guessed cataclysm. The Mayans were right, dear god! There is a gigantic evergreen in the spare bedroom, collapsing the roof on that side of the house. Further investigation of the wreckage... There are three tree trunks, criss crossing, into his neighbors yard. The fence is rendered useless and Gary can see his neighbors yard for the first time. He can see an unscathed halfpipe at the far side. There is a rusty barbeque. Outdoor speakers. A neglected pool. It's soft cover did nothing to prevent hundreds of tree limbs from entering. Against the back fence is a smashed greenhouse. The door hangs haphazard from its hinges and the whole thing looks rustic and unused. Gary notices tall, green plants inside. Some of them buried under giant branches. Gary cannot name the plants but they are vaguely familiar. The house itself unscathed. A one story deal. Perhaps a basement. Feeling like a snoop, Gary goes to his garage to find his chainsaw and begin clearing the yard. He will need help. He needs gasoline foremost. He walks through the gaping hole in the fence to his neighbors with intentions to ask for gasoline and a hand at removing the tree branches that breached both properties. The green plants catch his eye again. He walks closer to investigate. His heart races. These are gigantic marijuana plants. Tall as humans. He can't believe his eyes. From behind him a voice. Hey you! What are you doing in my yard! Gary turns to meet his neighbors eyes.
Gary leads a boring and monotonous life. Now in his forties. This is contradictory to the youthful rebellious nature of his being in the past. It's like someone put xanax in his coffee every morning and rather than waking up with intentions for the day to be a beautiful and unique, interesting experience, he finds comfort in complacency and repetition. Sometimes he wonders though. Why has it come to this? This marriage is not necessarily failing but there is nothing cute about his relationship with Cheryl anymore. The sense of legal obligation maybe. They sleep in different beds and bicker occasionally, you know, just to do it. Gary works at the local newspaper for this small harbor town. He used to be an investigative journalist, curious and thriving, down in california. He grew up in Washington. And lives in Washington now. Gary and Cheryl. Their house is buried in an evergreen wilderness but they have neighbors on either side. A main road cuts through the front of their drive way and they hear horrible car accidents every couple of months. Their house is pushed back a hundred yards or so, up a gradual incline. The houses on either side follow the same formula, though tall wooden fences surround the yards of both of their neighbors. Gary and Cheryl do not have a fence around their property but their neighbors fences serve as a barricade from them at least. Behind their house is a few acres of Northwestern forest, evergreens and blackberry thistle, and Gary was adamant to keep this passageway open. Their son Jake used to play in the woods with his friends when he was little and used to take pride in maintaining trails. Time swallows this memory and the trail is irretrievably overgrown. Little resemblance to what might have been hidden back there. Since they began developing on the ridge above them, house lights can be seen cutting through the woods, just as tiny specks of light like stars in space. Jacob built half of a tree fort back there but never finished. Cheryl often took pride in maintenance of her flower garden beside the house but neglected to plant anything last spring. A strange way to test Gary to see if he ever noticed the little things anymore. A mischievous way. Gary never noticed or never told her that he noticed. Or didn't think twice and went to the liquor cabinet to mix an after dinner drink for the kung fu movie of the night. One day the weather turns dark and the wind picks up. The newspaper gets closed down early for the day. Someone makes a joke about calling the game on account of the rain. Someone else laughs, slightly muted. As if ashamed. The man responsible for the weather report talks to Gary. They've worked together for a long time. Friends enough to go on fishing trips with each others friends. Or for thursday night poker games at Gary's place. These nights Cheryl either locks herself away up in her room (a two story house) or invites a girlfriend to go out to a new romantic comedy with her. Gary does not like the weatherman. Stephen. But also doesn't see the point in burning an unnecessary bridge. He does not have the energy to try and make real friendships so he kind of passively accepts Stephen into his life. This decision happened many years ago. Back when Stephen and his stupid family moved up here and he first walked into the office. Gary knew they would end up as quasi-friends although they both kind of hated each other below the surface. The storm is supposed to be the biggest of the century. Gary knows Stephen to exaggerate and doesn't believe the sky will open up. Of course, it is rare to be dismissed from work early due to the weather but Gary takes this as a sign of good fortune. Quicker to get home and mix a drink. Driving home, listening to the classic rock station he used to listen to in high school, with a DJ he used to tune in to 'Spike'. Spike pauses in between songs, last one being bob seger, a song Gary never liked, to warn commuters of the approaching chaos of this storm. Spike repeats Stephens claim that the storm will be huge and devastating. He warns those who live on the water that they might get wet. Then he plays 'Riders on the storm' by the Doors. Gary calls Cheryl to tell her he is coming home. The power is flickering on and off. Gary gets home while the storm is nearing full swing. Trees sway madly like mosh pits. The grind and chafe against each other, threatening to smash through the living room windows. Sideways rain pelts the roof and windows in a chorus. They can't even hear themselves think. Gary knows trees will be going down all night, and that Cheryls room is probably the least safe place in the house due to the gigantic dead Evergreen that seems to be uprooting itself in the wind. There is thunder. There is lightning. Gary and Cheryl sleep in the master bedroom together for the first time in many months. Like mother nature is angry for the maltreatment of her beauty. Before they retire to the bedroom, Gary flips on the tv and they react to images of houses being bombarded by great waves. The shore was less than a mile away. Gary was nearly tempted by a wild impulse to make his way down to the shore to see the damage. He reacts with excitement. Wow! Look at this honey! Cheryl reacts with more empathy for the people and more precisely their destroyed possessions. My god, Gary... I hope they have insurance for that yacht. (They see a swell pick up a sailboat like a toy and throw it into the huge panel windows of a shoreline mansion.) Gary claps. Cheryl says 'that's horrible.' Then the power cuts out for good. They don't have a working generator so they must survive the night without power. Cheryl gets candles. Gary wonders how anyone could ever read by candlelight without worrying about setting the pages on fire. They sleep a fitful sleep, dreaming about being crushed to death by giant evergreens. Trees fall all night. The mighty collapse of ancient life. These trees have seen this place before human influence. If they had eyes. With a great crash sometime after midnight. A tree lands in the spare bedroom. Where Cheryl would have been sleeping. Gary gets up to see this, half asleep, and if careful to congratulate himself on his powers of intuition because he can't help but wonder what his life would be like had Cheryl been sleeping in there tonight. Nothing to be done about this tonight. And he goes back to sleep. In the morning, the sun shines and illuminates the wreckage of the night before. Gary gets dressed and explores his yard. If the sun was not shining, he might have guessed cataclysm. The Mayans were right, dear god! There is a gigantic evergreen in the spare bedroom, collapsing the roof on that side of the house. Further investigation of the wreckage... There are three tree trunks, criss crossing, into his neighbors yard. The fence is rendered useless and Gary can see his neighbors yard for the first time. He can see an unscathed halfpipe at the far side. There is a rusty barbeque. Outdoor speakers. A neglected pool. It's soft cover did nothing to prevent hundreds of tree limbs from entering. Against the back fence is a smashed greenhouse. The door hangs haphazard from its hinges and the whole thing looks rustic and unused. Gary notices tall, green plants inside. Some of them buried under giant branches. Gary cannot name the plants but they are vaguely familiar. The house itself unscathed. A one story deal. Perhaps a basement. Feeling like a snoop, Gary goes to his garage to find his chainsaw and begin clearing the yard. He will need help. He needs gasoline foremost. He walks through the gaping hole in the fence to his neighbors with intentions to ask for gasoline and a hand at removing the tree branches that breached both properties. The green plants catch his eye again. He walks closer to investigate. His heart races. These are gigantic marijuana plants. Tall as humans. He can't believe his eyes. From behind him a voice. Hey you! What are you doing in my yard! Gary turns to meet his neighbors eyes.
Saturday, February 4, 2012
Feb 4th
4:20-4:40
Scatterbrained and disconnected. Lights are brighter still than when I saw stars for a few hours last night. I fell to my hands and knees. I yelled at the street lamps. Wake up and smell the roses. The watchful eyes of mother nature. Each momentary fragment. I wish to lay out in the sun and read or do something lovely. But I will probably waste away in the depths of physical weakness and give in to short sleep. My eyes glaze over with this deficit. I can't write I can't stay awake. I will commence later. And miss today's sunlight. Sadly.
Scatterbrained and disconnected. Lights are brighter still than when I saw stars for a few hours last night. I fell to my hands and knees. I yelled at the street lamps. Wake up and smell the roses. The watchful eyes of mother nature. Each momentary fragment. I wish to lay out in the sun and read or do something lovely. But I will probably waste away in the depths of physical weakness and give in to short sleep. My eyes glaze over with this deficit. I can't write I can't stay awake. I will commence later. And miss today's sunlight. Sadly.
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