Match the source formatting. Music and smoke in neutral vibes, where colors bounce off the walls in bland color. Beers down the hatch in a fresh full fridge. Speaking in rhymes without trying, much easier than when thought out. That openness. That ability to translate the thoughts at the quickest possible burn speed. Neurons firing all around at faster velocity. Closer to the speed of light. Closer to god. Contemplate big courageous decision. Which atmosphere to enter. Where will I tread lightly, with enough effort, maybe summer classes, that momentum is killed and so is the work ethic, my gosh, this can't happen, I must remain busy reading and bettering myself in as many ways as humanly possible, turn on the after burners, and the fireworks will erupt from our fingertips like wishes granted. Hailing comets in a storm drain. Down where the garbage flows. And government rats crawl over the ashes. Hope dwindling. Sheer minutes to spare before concrete dries. The ink pen stops. All doubt is diminished and a full acceptance of future role happens. No Seattle connections. Barely looking into it but if it happens and the process is sent back into my court I will call the contacts get the localities and dig for fossils. Sort out the deserted coordinates onto a map. Translating the landscape in romantic swirls of color and well-thought detail. The shading on the naked woman is museum worthy. This is a culmination of days deprived and unsettled, the forbidden fruit shining just out of reach, at full extension, not enough, fall off the ladder and spiral into uncertainty, dark and awe-inspiring... Where the cup fills up and, overflowing, spills. The result of a pretty, happy mess. The distractions disappear somehow as mistakes are chronicled. It is about pushing the body and the mind to the extreme outer limits. No reason for cautionary tales. Throw caution to the wind. Wake up all of your neighbors in your neighborhood. Rattle picture frames of departed relatives from the mantle. Above the fireplace. The chimney blocked from circulation. A body perhaps preventing smoke to exit. And the family dies in their sleep. Of sugar plums and diabetes. Of nightmares and angels, beckoning for eye lids to open to extreme the full potential of your discovered dream world. Nightingales building nests in the corner of English classroom. Yelling hooligans on balcony, playing ukelele and spilling the beans, drunk and amateur, a facade, mist evaporating, like a steam-dried, massage parlor bath house. A step towards drastic changes in the evolutionary sequence of mankind. Creatures adapting to the woods. To the wilderness of city existence and pressures from media, from satellite, from liars in red or blue, with white faces, drained of color, previously flushed, a change in color like change of seasons, rippling tidal markings, moving buoys slowly across the surface of water. The mirror glistens and reflect, blinding truth and reality. This is what we look at, no time for offensive anatomy. You and I are built of the same basic pieces, the same formula came true, and we walk upright, with a care in the world for an opened use to play the guitar. I hypothesize that A. afarensis adapted the trait of bipedalism due to selective environmental pressures requiring knowledge of instrument. They beat rocks together to make rhythms and they still echo somewhere. In some limestone cave system, where sink holes pull cars and telephone wires into, and under, the ground. Caverns where modern fossils begin to decay. Leaving only radioactive elements. Singing off the deep skinned knee, knee deep, forever, the free play of this free form life form. No one would understand and that is okay and that is fine. I spent very little time reexamining the writing to make it sound like prose or verse. No thought there. This is a different venting and damn it. Someone might be interested one day. Hold the clock and set your watch. here we go boys and girls. The progress begins with a simple step, continues with a moderate step, and ends, diminishing into blue dust, with the most progressive step, of expertise. Of reckless abandonment. Full adaptation to environment. We can only tell their bones apart. What about their personalities? Their quirks?
Friday, March 30, 2012
march 30
no meat on fridays for the eastern and stringent religious sect. all of those sects are the same and when someone says they had sex last night know it is a lie. first question the circumstances and return to the void. need to keep my eyes open
Match the source formatting. Music and smoke in neutral vibes, where colors bounce off the walls in bland color. Beers down the hatch in a fresh full fridge. Speaking in rhymes without trying, much easier than when thought out. That openness. That ability to translate the thoughts at the quickest possible burn speed. Neurons firing all around at faster velocity. Closer to the speed of light. Closer to god. Contemplate big courageous decision. Which atmosphere to enter. Where will I tread lightly, with enough effort, maybe summer classes, that momentum is killed and so is the work ethic, my gosh, this can't happen, I must remain busy reading and bettering myself in as many ways as humanly possible, turn on the after burners, and the fireworks will erupt from our fingertips like wishes granted. Hailing comets in a storm drain. Down where the garbage flows. And government rats crawl over the ashes. Hope dwindling. Sheer minutes to spare before concrete dries. The ink pen stops. All doubt is diminished and a full acceptance of future role happens. No Seattle connections. Barely looking into it but if it happens and the process is sent back into my court I will call the contacts get the localities and dig for fossils. Sort out the deserted coordinates onto a map. Translating the landscape in romantic swirls of color and well-thought detail. The shading on the naked woman is museum worthy. This is a culmination of days deprived and unsettled, the forbidden fruit shining just out of reach, at full extension, not enough, fall off the ladder and spiral into uncertainty, dark and awe-inspiring... Where the cup fills up and, overflowing, spills. The result of a pretty, happy mess. The distractions disappear somehow as mistakes are chronicled. It is about pushing the body and the mind to the extreme outer limits. No reason for cautionary tales. Throw caution to the wind. Wake up all of your neighbors in your neighborhood. Rattle picture frames of departed relatives from the mantle. Above the fireplace. The chimney blocked from circulation. A body perhaps preventing smoke to exit. And the family dies in their sleep. Of sugar plums and diabetes. Of nightmares and angels, beckoning for eye lids to open to extreme the full potential of your discovered dream world. Nightingales building nests in the corner of English classroom. Yelling hooligans on balcony, playing ukelele and spilling the beans, drunk and amateur, a facade, mist evaporating, like a steam-dried, massage parlor bath house. A step towards drastic changes in the evolutionary sequence of mankind. Creatures adapting to the woods. To the wilderness of city existence and pressures from media, from satellite, from liars in red or blue, with white faces, drained of color, previously flushed, a change in color like change of seasons, rippling tidal markings, moving buoys slowly across the surface of water. The mirror glistens and reflect, blinding truth and reality. This is what we look at, no time for offensive anatomy. You and I are built of the same basic pieces, the same formula came true, and we walk upright, with a care in the world for an opened use to play the guitar. I hypothesize that A. afarensis adapted the trait of bipedalism due to selective environmental pressures requiring knowledge of instrument. They beat rocks together to make rhythms and they still echo somewhere. In some limestone cave system, where sink holes pull cars and telephone wires into, and under, the ground. Caverns where modern fossils begin to decay. Leaving only radioactive elements. Singing off the deep skinned knee, knee deep, forever, the free play of this free form life form. No one would understand and that is okay and that is fine. I spent very little time reexamining the writing to make it sound like prose or verse. No thought there. This is a different venting and damn it. Someone might be interested one day. Hold the clock and set your watch. here we go boys and girls. The progress begins with a simple step, continues with a moderate step, and ends, diminishing into blue dust, with the most progressive step, of expertise. Of reckless abandonment. Full adaptation to environment. We can only tell their bones apart. What about their personalities? Their quirks?
Match the source formatting. Music and smoke in neutral vibes, where colors bounce off the walls in bland color. Beers down the hatch in a fresh full fridge. Speaking in rhymes without trying, much easier than when thought out. That openness. That ability to translate the thoughts at the quickest possible burn speed. Neurons firing all around at faster velocity. Closer to the speed of light. Closer to god. Contemplate big courageous decision. Which atmosphere to enter. Where will I tread lightly, with enough effort, maybe summer classes, that momentum is killed and so is the work ethic, my gosh, this can't happen, I must remain busy reading and bettering myself in as many ways as humanly possible, turn on the after burners, and the fireworks will erupt from our fingertips like wishes granted. Hailing comets in a storm drain. Down where the garbage flows. And government rats crawl over the ashes. Hope dwindling. Sheer minutes to spare before concrete dries. The ink pen stops. All doubt is diminished and a full acceptance of future role happens. No Seattle connections. Barely looking into it but if it happens and the process is sent back into my court I will call the contacts get the localities and dig for fossils. Sort out the deserted coordinates onto a map. Translating the landscape in romantic swirls of color and well-thought detail. The shading on the naked woman is museum worthy. This is a culmination of days deprived and unsettled, the forbidden fruit shining just out of reach, at full extension, not enough, fall off the ladder and spiral into uncertainty, dark and awe-inspiring... Where the cup fills up and, overflowing, spills. The result of a pretty, happy mess. The distractions disappear somehow as mistakes are chronicled. It is about pushing the body and the mind to the extreme outer limits. No reason for cautionary tales. Throw caution to the wind. Wake up all of your neighbors in your neighborhood. Rattle picture frames of departed relatives from the mantle. Above the fireplace. The chimney blocked from circulation. A body perhaps preventing smoke to exit. And the family dies in their sleep. Of sugar plums and diabetes. Of nightmares and angels, beckoning for eye lids to open to extreme the full potential of your discovered dream world. Nightingales building nests in the corner of English classroom. Yelling hooligans on balcony, playing ukelele and spilling the beans, drunk and amateur, a facade, mist evaporating, like a steam-dried, massage parlor bath house. A step towards drastic changes in the evolutionary sequence of mankind. Creatures adapting to the woods. To the wilderness of city existence and pressures from media, from satellite, from liars in red or blue, with white faces, drained of color, previously flushed, a change in color like change of seasons, rippling tidal markings, moving buoys slowly across the surface of water. The mirror glistens and reflect, blinding truth and reality. This is what we look at, no time for offensive anatomy. You and I are built of the same basic pieces, the same formula came true, and we walk upright, with a care in the world for an opened use to play the guitar. I hypothesize that A. afarensis adapted the trait of bipedalism due to selective environmental pressures requiring knowledge of instrument. They beat rocks together to make rhythms and they still echo somewhere. In some limestone cave system, where sink holes pull cars and telephone wires into, and under, the ground. Caverns where modern fossils begin to decay. Leaving only radioactive elements. Singing off the deep skinned knee, knee deep, forever, the free play of this free form life form. No one would understand and that is okay and that is fine. I spent very little time reexamining the writing to make it sound like prose or verse. No thought there. This is a different venting and damn it. Someone might be interested one day. Hold the clock and set your watch. here we go boys and girls. The progress begins with a simple step, continues with a moderate step, and ends, diminishing into blue dust, with the most progressive step, of expertise. Of reckless abandonment. Full adaptation to environment. We can only tell their bones apart. What about their personalities? Their quirks?
march 29
speaking out. tyr to prevent the eminent vomiting
but the night is still young. i will listen to the new mars volta as i sleep
but the night is still young. i will listen to the new mars volta as i sleep
Wednesday, March 28, 2012
March 28
Strange dreams. All of the things I consumed before my sleep came up in them. A bit of alcohol. I discussed a catchy melody with Elliott Smith. Everything means nothing to me. He smiled but was shy about it. I discreetly hide away with a body. Helped a friend out or something. Someone was accidentally murdered in cold blood. The Browning poems I read had a sort of theme like that. Girl escapes from party to enter the arms of narrator. How can I preserve this moment? he asks himself. Strangles her with her blonde hair. "She is mine forever" The other is a man showing off his things, warning of what happened with his last duchess. vague. could have been killed. there were commands involved. she smiled at everyone. had no respect for his name.
Otherwise. Professor quit early because people were talking. About what?
Sing and sing and sing. throat dry. but felt strong. sounds better while singing and playing then listening to a recording of me singing and playing. (go flat a little too often. no warm up. the needle and the damage done.)
we're drunk with guitars
in charge of personal transportation
things with wheels
but that do not go fast enough (on flat land)
to hurt any other person
it is a blister
not a callous
I am callous to call it a blister
my fingers sore
in the best possible way.
who cares when I sleep
if I don't
I will study into early hours of morning
because it might give my soul a sense of ease
justify my actions to my father
he backs me up
ask for help from my mother
she backs me up
but can sometimes confuse me
given too many options
and so much money
a thought in the back
(this money could have been spent on that fake ID)
or half of a new bass
because that's what I am now.
I slept on it and I want it.
Sorry for you my dear beloved
I'm aiming for the stars in other galaxies
move into Korea town
on a month by month lease
and a shit job
and christian lyrical mysticism
no interest in green card
I will be content with my reading and my music.
Might make friends
Might be a hermit.
Writing from strange corners of the landscape
I will learn where not to go by going there
there is no other way than experience
for such simple matters.
Otherwise. Professor quit early because people were talking. About what?
Sing and sing and sing. throat dry. but felt strong. sounds better while singing and playing then listening to a recording of me singing and playing. (go flat a little too often. no warm up. the needle and the damage done.)
we're drunk with guitars
in charge of personal transportation
things with wheels
but that do not go fast enough (on flat land)
to hurt any other person
it is a blister
not a callous
I am callous to call it a blister
my fingers sore
in the best possible way.
who cares when I sleep
if I don't
I will study into early hours of morning
because it might give my soul a sense of ease
justify my actions to my father
he backs me up
ask for help from my mother
she backs me up
but can sometimes confuse me
given too many options
and so much money
a thought in the back
(this money could have been spent on that fake ID)
or half of a new bass
because that's what I am now.
I slept on it and I want it.
Sorry for you my dear beloved
I'm aiming for the stars in other galaxies
move into Korea town
on a month by month lease
and a shit job
and christian lyrical mysticism
no interest in green card
I will be content with my reading and my music.
Might make friends
Might be a hermit.
Writing from strange corners of the landscape
I will learn where not to go by going there
there is no other way than experience
for such simple matters.
Tuesday, March 27, 2012
March 27
The easiest self help? reading. But some people buy into things that make no sense. Cult mentality, everyone isolated from the rest of society to fulfull a dream.
Pop balloons full of confetti
turn yourself into a pinata
write poetry in dark corners
and watch reactions through colored lenses
but ever since eye surgery fans hurt
ridiculous costs for ankle check up
fine though as long as it is okay
call the girl at the library
make it with her
(I read weird stuff. It's not contemporary.)
Underground. That popular stuff. They don't need me.
They have enough readers.
(there's no dialogue in this book.)
There is a psychological lesson in all this I'm sure.
Some key viewpoint into human nature,
we can't quite see now
but will come into full clarity later
on a screen through a projector
your whole childhood neighborhood in attendance
(Everything reminds me of her this evening. So if I seem a little out of it. I'm sorry.)
the dog from down the street that wandered over
we fed her scraps of things, pet her and sent her back home
doubtless she stopped at other locations
more or less friendly
but it is okay, she was on retirement
living up the remaining months of her existence
somehow, intuitively, she knew when it was time to disappear
acting estranged from her normal patterns
it just didn't seem right
a winding clock
unwinding
the chalk on the ground connecting dots
arrows pointing towards neighbors houses
dumb games in the woods
when we should have been greatly injured
but we are fine we are fine we are fine
(cheating on girlfriends and what not)
Not I.
Power goes out we are left isolated and dead to the world
sudden isolation hurts the heart like a sudden tumor
malignant up to a point
talk of old girls
old haunts and ghostly apparitions of friends
brown hair and a warped memory
no glasses no blonde hair
light brown and a winning smile
thrift store sensibilities
heart ache
lean on me lean on me
lean on me lean on me
four times for me
six times for them
they were there ten minutes or so before I
coffee and ice cream sandwich
I could have changed the record
just ask and you shall receive
no one remembers me
but I act like I don't remember them
Why do I act like that?
Probably because they all do
and I've been contaminated.
At least a bit. A little bit of contamination goes a long way.
For me to be corrupted means immediate creative death.
But I can still love.
Unfortunate glares up stares where beautiful girls wander
towards camera lit bedrooms and closet rapists
one million hits online
your future down the drain
vomit and hair in a tangle
hunching over computer screen
with eyes to a future
but because I am undecided
drifting
I need not destroy myself to get the perfect education
of course I care about
what happens inside my brain
and how to optimize the performance
for efficient thinking and dreaming
creation and execution
I am a loner, a drifter, a wanderer
I must have the most fun possible
my last and final month
build callouses
make meaningless contacts
replace cotton balls with iron ones
courage in my stare
I had enough gusto to sit at the bar
at red robin and order three different beers
tall glasses
big tip
huskies lose
My account lost today.
Damage done.
same magnetism I was so afraid of
continues to draw me back
to same old trends
the beauty of a sad girl
who you know you can make happy
the pity of impossibility
I know I could be there
but I chose the pipe dream every time
I am predictably unpredictable
given a pipe dream
I will chase it.
I will chase my tail.
but this has promise of ultimate success
an incredible journey.
make a minor commitment to improve
the beer ruined my calorie counting
but I love her
I also fell in love with the girl in the coffee shop
my god she can sing
and the blonde I crashed into on palm walk
rather she crashed into me
out of her little text world
and into my arms
a jaded mindset
I used to give the benefit of the doubt all of the time
for these tan girls in shorts
very short
but more and more I automatically place them in a category
of trash
of useless and needless conversation
a new way to talk using a certain vocal chord rhythm
it is catching on like wild fire and must be stopped
how can I discontinue without involvement to begin with?
not an acute rhetorical question
it is all a game
and somehow someway I will understand what I do not today
given time I will see where I fucked up
and where I excelled
but now I am too deep. My heart guides my mind
my circadian rhythm guides my eyes
the devil guides my fingers.
Goodnight sweet angel
for most amateur writers begin their stories in the morning and end in the evening
so now I will leave you alone
at this juncture we probably should not be talking at all
but there is a house fire somewhere
consuming memories
photographs
bars bras brawls hockey
beer black bruises hotel
airplane shots
morning teleportation
and all in between the years
keep us separate.
we would end up hating each other.
for some reason we just did not get our fill given the time we had
we are insatiable
despite who you take home
you aggressive tiger
(no one cared for my story of virginity lost)
it was not relevant.
did not happen in the car we currently sat.
tried and tired again
gave up
gave in
enough.
Pop balloons full of confetti
turn yourself into a pinata
write poetry in dark corners
and watch reactions through colored lenses
but ever since eye surgery fans hurt
ridiculous costs for ankle check up
fine though as long as it is okay
call the girl at the library
make it with her
(I read weird stuff. It's not contemporary.)
Underground. That popular stuff. They don't need me.
They have enough readers.
(there's no dialogue in this book.)
There is a psychological lesson in all this I'm sure.
Some key viewpoint into human nature,
we can't quite see now
but will come into full clarity later
on a screen through a projector
your whole childhood neighborhood in attendance
(Everything reminds me of her this evening. So if I seem a little out of it. I'm sorry.)
the dog from down the street that wandered over
we fed her scraps of things, pet her and sent her back home
doubtless she stopped at other locations
more or less friendly
but it is okay, she was on retirement
living up the remaining months of her existence
somehow, intuitively, she knew when it was time to disappear
acting estranged from her normal patterns
it just didn't seem right
a winding clock
unwinding
the chalk on the ground connecting dots
arrows pointing towards neighbors houses
dumb games in the woods
when we should have been greatly injured
but we are fine we are fine we are fine
(cheating on girlfriends and what not)
Not I.
Power goes out we are left isolated and dead to the world
sudden isolation hurts the heart like a sudden tumor
malignant up to a point
talk of old girls
old haunts and ghostly apparitions of friends
brown hair and a warped memory
no glasses no blonde hair
light brown and a winning smile
thrift store sensibilities
heart ache
lean on me lean on me
lean on me lean on me
four times for me
six times for them
they were there ten minutes or so before I
coffee and ice cream sandwich
I could have changed the record
just ask and you shall receive
no one remembers me
but I act like I don't remember them
Why do I act like that?
Probably because they all do
and I've been contaminated.
At least a bit. A little bit of contamination goes a long way.
For me to be corrupted means immediate creative death.
But I can still love.
Unfortunate glares up stares where beautiful girls wander
towards camera lit bedrooms and closet rapists
one million hits online
your future down the drain
vomit and hair in a tangle
hunching over computer screen
with eyes to a future
but because I am undecided
drifting
I need not destroy myself to get the perfect education
of course I care about
what happens inside my brain
and how to optimize the performance
for efficient thinking and dreaming
creation and execution
I am a loner, a drifter, a wanderer
I must have the most fun possible
my last and final month
build callouses
make meaningless contacts
replace cotton balls with iron ones
courage in my stare
I had enough gusto to sit at the bar
at red robin and order three different beers
tall glasses
big tip
huskies lose
My account lost today.
Damage done.
same magnetism I was so afraid of
continues to draw me back
to same old trends
the beauty of a sad girl
who you know you can make happy
the pity of impossibility
I know I could be there
but I chose the pipe dream every time
I am predictably unpredictable
given a pipe dream
I will chase it.
I will chase my tail.
but this has promise of ultimate success
an incredible journey.
make a minor commitment to improve
the beer ruined my calorie counting
but I love her
I also fell in love with the girl in the coffee shop
my god she can sing
and the blonde I crashed into on palm walk
rather she crashed into me
out of her little text world
and into my arms
a jaded mindset
I used to give the benefit of the doubt all of the time
for these tan girls in shorts
very short
but more and more I automatically place them in a category
of trash
of useless and needless conversation
a new way to talk using a certain vocal chord rhythm
it is catching on like wild fire and must be stopped
how can I discontinue without involvement to begin with?
not an acute rhetorical question
it is all a game
and somehow someway I will understand what I do not today
given time I will see where I fucked up
and where I excelled
but now I am too deep. My heart guides my mind
my circadian rhythm guides my eyes
the devil guides my fingers.
Goodnight sweet angel
for most amateur writers begin their stories in the morning and end in the evening
so now I will leave you alone
at this juncture we probably should not be talking at all
but there is a house fire somewhere
consuming memories
photographs
bars bras brawls hockey
beer black bruises hotel
airplane shots
morning teleportation
and all in between the years
keep us separate.
we would end up hating each other.
for some reason we just did not get our fill given the time we had
we are insatiable
despite who you take home
you aggressive tiger
(no one cared for my story of virginity lost)
it was not relevant.
did not happen in the car we currently sat.
tried and tired again
gave up
gave in
enough.
march 26
possibility I may have to translate my writing from notebook. I am sorry. I wrote a lot. Woke at 8:20 shower and coffee and test. 55/60. Then anthro. Then English. Lunch. Salad. Newspaper. Phone number. Different english. Talk briefly. Only thing I said was calling out teacher. Contradiction. Then computers. Group project and trouble shooting powerpoint. Mail. Ran into old friend. Band practice. Thick callous. Fingers literally hurt. Popping blisters. Play through the pain.
Sunday, March 25, 2012
march 25
guitar player playing bass as opposed to born bass player. basic theory, couldn't read music but I know the scales and keys. (live and breath the bass). two months with songs. we aren't going to say no but we are going to explore other options. get sharp on theory and overall be better at the instrument. a-okay. we don't know. hours of practice a day. super investment and commitment from you. brush up on music skills. fit the image. the look. can't be musician. have to be bass. behind the scenes personality. learn by ear. the way I strike the strings was more like a guitarist than a bass player. shop for others. level-headed. smart. honest. agree with all of the things. (not at genius level). no prodigy here. a lapse in consciousness. a trip to california. honest questions. honest answers.
push each other. communication. not a monster player. passion for music > passion for bass. watch live show. bass over the rest of the band on stage. can i become better than fine. sleep with the bass and eat the bass. (love the instrument.) pay to practice. pay to play gigs. (practice 3-4 hours).
Have to prove worth again. And again. and again. and again. (learn things. take proactive steps towards becoming a better player.)
NOTE
put thought into deviance project. put deviance project into action. a week from tomorrow proof is required
study for anthropology (lecture slides and questions, review chapters)
- test in class next monday (studying is required: tests are hard)
soc 340 test tomorrow.
something about a power point project due either tonight or sometime. (nowhere to post it up yet. clarify in class?)
Seek out bass lessons. (Go to music building, ask around?)
Study music theory. Online. Musictheory.net. Plenty of enriching exercises there.
Work on voice. Daily workouts. No smoking.
some lyrics:
I am a total wreck
she is photogenic wherever she lives
still writes letters in cursive
brilliant red passion
flowing out of every pore the body holds
in a constant state of flow
but with nothing to show
you can't prove your genius
without evidence
she is an avant garde idiot savant
theres not a lot she wont try to love
------------
those are old lyrics. reopen that old song. make a real message.
I visited my old haunts. Kicked some rocks and resorted library cd's. Went over and across the bridge (the horror oh the horror). Dinner started poorly. Jealous and envious. SOBER. We stared out the window onto the grey harbor and watched tiny dots, dabs of color, approach then recede like waves they create. Drink to get drunk. She was a wreck but I was a seat belt. I was the air bag. I felt the affinity that has been there this whole year. Burning through foreign streets at this time last year. (What am I better at now?)
A whole damn year. Focus man. Focus focus. She is beautiful and there is a magnet in both of our chests pulling us towards each other. Run into things when not close. So clumsy and confused with my feet but again I am faced with a decision that separates the magnets so far they may no longer have a strong adhesive effect. We are so small in the world. There are dozens of perfect girls. I am an awkward romantic. A cynical lover who says, hey I hope we never break up aggressively. I hope we can just walk away. Cool? Yeah cool. I'll pack my stuff. See ya! Strong tea. Ceramic cups. I want to smash them. I want to get smashed and smash everything. The girl at the desk, the friend from Miami. My god. Is that another? The bridesmaids and grooms that we tried to rid ourselves of. Everywhere. Every friend wants you for her body. Admit it, coked out, teeth chattering, make out in the back room without recollection, then remember, brush teeth, and get back to me. Don't let me know though. You can remember if you tried but you choose to be passive on these stories of your unconscious motivations. There is poetry in self defeat. Hit bottom. See if it is possible to break the rock down there and crawl lower without also breaking in the process. Or being crushed by the weight of all responsibility high above you. In reality.
You live a dream. Wake up in my arms.
push each other. communication. not a monster player. passion for music > passion for bass. watch live show. bass over the rest of the band on stage. can i become better than fine. sleep with the bass and eat the bass. (love the instrument.) pay to practice. pay to play gigs. (practice 3-4 hours).
Have to prove worth again. And again. and again. and again. (learn things. take proactive steps towards becoming a better player.)
NOTE
put thought into deviance project. put deviance project into action. a week from tomorrow proof is required
study for anthropology (lecture slides and questions, review chapters)
- test in class next monday (studying is required: tests are hard)
soc 340 test tomorrow.
something about a power point project due either tonight or sometime. (nowhere to post it up yet. clarify in class?)
Seek out bass lessons. (Go to music building, ask around?)
Study music theory. Online. Musictheory.net. Plenty of enriching exercises there.
Work on voice. Daily workouts. No smoking.
some lyrics:
I am a total wreck
she is photogenic wherever she lives
still writes letters in cursive
brilliant red passion
flowing out of every pore the body holds
in a constant state of flow
but with nothing to show
you can't prove your genius
without evidence
she is an avant garde idiot savant
theres not a lot she wont try to love
------------
those are old lyrics. reopen that old song. make a real message.
I visited my old haunts. Kicked some rocks and resorted library cd's. Went over and across the bridge (the horror oh the horror). Dinner started poorly. Jealous and envious. SOBER. We stared out the window onto the grey harbor and watched tiny dots, dabs of color, approach then recede like waves they create. Drink to get drunk. She was a wreck but I was a seat belt. I was the air bag. I felt the affinity that has been there this whole year. Burning through foreign streets at this time last year. (What am I better at now?)
A whole damn year. Focus man. Focus focus. She is beautiful and there is a magnet in both of our chests pulling us towards each other. Run into things when not close. So clumsy and confused with my feet but again I am faced with a decision that separates the magnets so far they may no longer have a strong adhesive effect. We are so small in the world. There are dozens of perfect girls. I am an awkward romantic. A cynical lover who says, hey I hope we never break up aggressively. I hope we can just walk away. Cool? Yeah cool. I'll pack my stuff. See ya! Strong tea. Ceramic cups. I want to smash them. I want to get smashed and smash everything. The girl at the desk, the friend from Miami. My god. Is that another? The bridesmaids and grooms that we tried to rid ourselves of. Everywhere. Every friend wants you for her body. Admit it, coked out, teeth chattering, make out in the back room without recollection, then remember, brush teeth, and get back to me. Don't let me know though. You can remember if you tried but you choose to be passive on these stories of your unconscious motivations. There is poetry in self defeat. Hit bottom. See if it is possible to break the rock down there and crawl lower without also breaking in the process. Or being crushed by the weight of all responsibility high above you. In reality.
You live a dream. Wake up in my arms.
Saturday, March 24, 2012
March 24
Saturday.
Meeting people and making connections, like fuses and sockets, plugs into electronic outlets, the power of personal decision making and proud parents. Snow fall around a healthy girl, good style of life, tan might be necessary, inside too much soaking up those biology notes when the sun, the natural vitamins are right there, 21st schizoid man. Letting hair down and watching the reactions to drug addled dancing. Flash mob where suddenly everyone acts black out drunk at a bar. At like 7. Joke on bartender friend. ‘God you guys were annoying.’ Good-natured. Not one too handsome to know what’s right or wrong. Rotting teeth out with coffee and smokes. The conversations worked out well. Laughing and cleverly talking about things. Smart musicians, guitars that sound like lasers. Pointing towards far points. Depth of field. Seeing into the future. A laser pointer sees in the future. The laser scope on a rifle predicts the future of the person in frame. The immediate and intermediate future. Paths cross and uncross in such quick succession that one has to question how it is possible for both lives to mean something to the other.
-----
drowning out highs with underwater speakers and laughing hysteric at bad jokes with a good friend at expense of gullible stranger, we fall on the floor and remove our souls besides ourselves, the slight accents, nearly fall asleep at the wheel (the rolling and acrobatic cycle of the stages of grief) Of loss and removal, with intermissions of bliss and contentment. Back to the rampant alcohol dullness. that makes my mornings weak and un-monumental. Coffee necessary. Water evident. Breath bad. Gritting teeth to play certain guitar parts just now. But everyone is a great musician if they can manage the rhythm, even a complicated one, and sing and sing and sing. While keeping up the fingers.
-----
drowning out highs with underwater speakers and laughing hysteric at bad jokes with a good friend at expense of gullible stranger, we fall on the floor and remove our souls besides ourselves, the slight accents, nearly fall asleep at the wheel (the rolling and acrobatic cycle of the stages of grief) Of loss and removal, with intermissions of bliss and contentment. Back to the rampant alcohol dullness. that makes my mornings weak and un-monumental. Coffee necessary. Water evident. Breath bad. Gritting teeth to play certain guitar parts just now. But everyone is a great musician if they can manage the rhythm, even a complicated one, and sing and sing and sing. While keeping up the fingers.
March 23
March 23
No internet again. But here I am. Successful lighting matches onto a pile of money. Heart in hands. My fingertips are raw and the drums were like extensions of new personality. I became something exciting and new. Artistic and innovative. Multi-instrumental like the rest. Makings of a wonderful connection. High jams. And food and snacks. Wander through the streets, at least I headed in the right direction. Far far far. Tell the truth why not. Wonder. Lone day. Everyone stays in their comfort zone. I am a free spirit. I do things for myself. I am a go getter. The ego coming into play. Truly the traits are incongruent. Feeling around the inside of a building to understand where it is. Navigate the store. He really opened my eyes. My god that sounds a horrible pun but I never thought of this before. Never had a blind friend. Cool. I’ve written. Having fun. Crazy times in crazy places. A relationship on hiatus. Not indefinite. We are separate but there is a strong magnetism glaring in the empty bedrooms (or full it’s never the same). Even with company the memory lingers. The tilt and angle. But I may enter a progressive crazy life. Wishing me to stay back and figure it out in due time in Portland. But If I can tour with these fellas and rock out on stage. I can do anything I set my mind to. Why don’t I decide, without suggestion, what to do with myself, for myself? I know this couch is comfortable. The band is nice and very good. The draw is strong. But how would I live here? If I had a place and somewhere easy to work I would be fine. Lining this up would be hard if indeed everyone says yes on me despite the wait. (Skype? Or what?) I will be distant. How is it possible to wait that long. The momentum seems to have already started. (Ride it out?) God if only they do, I will have no way of backing out safely. No more girl. No more shivering late nights. Sideways rain. The colors, all hazy here. Rest easy tonight. Missing the opportunity all around, they all are.
Friday
A lost story through a lens of past preferences. We all right. We all like to write. He was a an imposter a far fetched ghostly double, all coiled up in snake coils, snake skin leather, a headache and a heart ache, honey bbq crunchy fries, cooking and coaching in the kitchen, talking about make up and joking about it or not they wouldn’t admit it. Beer snacks, bass conversation, cheeseburgers and go to the gym, before la brea, crunch, oh my gosh and leather jacket vs jean jacket, dinner time in los angeles, somewhere unknown, take five guys, juicy burger, patterned carpet turn on side, wallpaper, black sheet, eating meat, advice and laughter in the kitchen, street hawk band, all my love, play every week during a month, ep release month, which is sweet and big news. Rock band hotel, that cool guitar solo, bring the crunch down a bit, they are more technical and up to date, sounding like new prototypes, for once I am involved with real amateur shit, my simple introduction into a world like no other I’ve been a part of. An ADHD life if I end up moving down here to study music and blindness, music therapy for broken heart, your sex date, look at this,
Thursday, March 22, 2012
March 22
The bus looks claustrophobic and diseased. Illness transferred through the quiet, polluted air. (no one goes to college anymore.) Old high school principal arrested for driving under the influence after a supposed hit and run collision. Lose job. Lose credibility. Move town. Move to L.A.
No one looks happy on the bus. They look unwilling but they face the void the same direction. The rolling hills shrouded in smog. Hair conscious. (15 month lease. Remember that. Would have to find a roommate.) Roll a joint on the cover of a bible. Bong hits for jesus. Recording sacred, worship music. People will listen in dark rooms with swaying candles, heads down turned and bobbing to the beat, feeling the holy spirit infiltrate their spinal columns.
No greater feeling of 'being outside'. Unfamiliar. The heat and the hate. The eternal artisan water. The french roast imported from South America where slave children are doubled over in the unforgiving equatorial sunlight. But no fear. Fair/free trade.
Huge billboards communicating acquiescence. (How much money does it take to dissolve a soul?) I miss a sad girl who blacks out more than she should. Her jealousy comes from my environment, my jealousy comes from her nature. I am at storefront windows in one city. She dances behind them in another. She wakes up disoriented in my bed wondering aloud if she had just made another mistake. But rather than be vocal about the reasons of this thought, she sighs, relaxes visibly (she tightened up with a gasp when she awoke) and puts her arm over me, hair in my face, head on my chest. Feel each others heartbeats and train them, through patient repetition, to be in tune. Her memory is not, unfortunately for her and my heart I guess... her memory is not going to persuade into or out of a decision. (How can we coordinate so far away?) How can we wind up our wristwatches to click at the same time? (Life is so much more with the touch of someone's skin tonight.) I will go through the cycle of missing her again. If she was in my life more prominently, more physically, I would have to tell her to shy away from drinking. Tell her that it is all okay and that the thirst bottles of wine once satisfied are now in my hands. The drinks on occasion are fine. But it's not a party if it happens every night. (step into the sunshine). We would reinforce each other. Build me up, I'll build you up. Paint my picture, I'll write you a song. Convince me to try crazy things. New things. The courage to grow. But we are far away now in as many senses as I can recall. You are heroin. You are the pusher. Self-sabotage would not happen if we were in close proximity. But my worry is undeserved. She worries because of the beautiful orange women who swarm hot desert streets and sit by pools pretending to be studious to prove to their parents they deserve this life and they deserve to return and return and return. I left her off near the place I met her. A brief kiss in the sideways rain. God damn what a strong bond. Something adhesive something awful.
Image is huge here. Everyone has a pocket mirror. Selling bouquets and oranges on street corners. Had a problem exiting compound. Apartment compound. (Any sense of unity? Consistency?) Everyone has an attitude, an ego. I may not be easily corruptible but this environment becomes poison to anyone if experienced for too long. (I can't freeload for this trip. Would have to work somewhere for a living. Resume sucks. Might have to lie.) 2 years of college paused to chase a pipe dream. I got high and had a dream. We jam out parts and make important connections. Speak of movie deals. A big performance at the end. A CD/DVD package. New technology. No one from L.A. is from L.A. They come in to make it big, to make a name for themselves, no matter how many others they have to stomp on to reach the first wrung of the ladder. To paradise. To fame. The ultimate goal is to make it onto a billboard. Or to be found on a flyer for a big show. To drive an old ferrari. Lines of good coke on the back seat. Living so full and so safe. "Nation's largest clean-air fleet."
Plan. Not to get robbed.
Girls. Music. School. My disdain for Arizona may lead to a rash decision much like what happened, for some reason, to Portland. Where I miss my life. I miss my life. I miss my life. I miss my life. And because it will never come back even if I move back.... I must move forward. (The fuck have I been searching for??). I don't care about the money. I hate the idea of a commonplace job, working in a shop selling bullshit to blind folks. I don't want to buy a wife. I don't want her to have shiny things unless she is deserving. Merit. Earn. Warrant. Rate. Justify. Be worthy of. Be entitled to. Have a right to. Be qualified for.
There is one I would buy something shiny for. She is cynical and will hate the gesture. I am cynical and will love the gesture. Wow. Isn't it so strange.
Danger in my veins. Fill up my cup until I've had more than enough. I miss you. I miss all of you. I desire to learn. I desire to travel. But I distrust everyone and everything. How could I last in this environment? With sometimes crappy lyrics. (I will help for now on)
Don't be timid motherfucker. This is your time to shine shine shine shine shine shine.
Impress and decompress. Kill it. Everyone will love you. Don't be forgotten. Here we go now. Band stylist. Nice bass. Fucking sick.
-------
Later that day, having walked a few miles toward success. Entering and exiting stores with over priced clothes. I'm wearing clothes and have a suitcase full a few miles back. I was in the coffee bean on 3rd and Hauser I believe. Now. Melrose and Stanley ave. Cuties in here. My body soon requires a nice meal. Apparently there are neat shops around here but mostly it is independent shops that offer expensive shit to compensate for their overall lack of things to sell. Study the rudiments. The acknowledgement. Joke around but not about vertigo or blind spells or blind luck or something. A house far away but not nearly accidental. They plan to move up in the world next week or so. Drums and bass. Eyes like diamonds. I miss her. I miss my pets. I miss my family. Some of these I will miss forever but many I will see again and this should not discourage me as long as they all back me up. A shit job. Difficult lyrical content. That christian band mindset. "a huge draw" but it is not a crowd I wish to be involved with. Be nice and kind. Do your thing. Get out of my face about it. Thick rimmed glasses, dark coffee from Seattle. From my hood. But no one knows. (Ray Allen on the Sonics?) What happens next?
Decision to be made. They like me apparently. I learned most parts by ear. (She loves perfume and I hate her.) They will call me in an hour and sweep me up. Beam me up. Drag me along with hopeful attitudes (I probably just kept walking and walking because my medication makes me care very little.) I'm a writer. Yes I am. Very interesting. Shit. Now is a good time to edit my old story. Here in this coffee shop a million miles from any street I know the name of outside of movies and television. (L.A. sucks if you recognize no celebrities. Good for you I say. You're famous.)
No one looks happy on the bus. They look unwilling but they face the void the same direction. The rolling hills shrouded in smog. Hair conscious. (15 month lease. Remember that. Would have to find a roommate.) Roll a joint on the cover of a bible. Bong hits for jesus. Recording sacred, worship music. People will listen in dark rooms with swaying candles, heads down turned and bobbing to the beat, feeling the holy spirit infiltrate their spinal columns.
No greater feeling of 'being outside'. Unfamiliar. The heat and the hate. The eternal artisan water. The french roast imported from South America where slave children are doubled over in the unforgiving equatorial sunlight. But no fear. Fair/free trade.
Huge billboards communicating acquiescence. (How much money does it take to dissolve a soul?) I miss a sad girl who blacks out more than she should. Her jealousy comes from my environment, my jealousy comes from her nature. I am at storefront windows in one city. She dances behind them in another. She wakes up disoriented in my bed wondering aloud if she had just made another mistake. But rather than be vocal about the reasons of this thought, she sighs, relaxes visibly (she tightened up with a gasp when she awoke) and puts her arm over me, hair in my face, head on my chest. Feel each others heartbeats and train them, through patient repetition, to be in tune. Her memory is not, unfortunately for her and my heart I guess... her memory is not going to persuade into or out of a decision. (How can we coordinate so far away?) How can we wind up our wristwatches to click at the same time? (Life is so much more with the touch of someone's skin tonight.) I will go through the cycle of missing her again. If she was in my life more prominently, more physically, I would have to tell her to shy away from drinking. Tell her that it is all okay and that the thirst bottles of wine once satisfied are now in my hands. The drinks on occasion are fine. But it's not a party if it happens every night. (step into the sunshine). We would reinforce each other. Build me up, I'll build you up. Paint my picture, I'll write you a song. Convince me to try crazy things. New things. The courage to grow. But we are far away now in as many senses as I can recall. You are heroin. You are the pusher. Self-sabotage would not happen if we were in close proximity. But my worry is undeserved. She worries because of the beautiful orange women who swarm hot desert streets and sit by pools pretending to be studious to prove to their parents they deserve this life and they deserve to return and return and return. I left her off near the place I met her. A brief kiss in the sideways rain. God damn what a strong bond. Something adhesive something awful.
Image is huge here. Everyone has a pocket mirror. Selling bouquets and oranges on street corners. Had a problem exiting compound. Apartment compound. (Any sense of unity? Consistency?) Everyone has an attitude, an ego. I may not be easily corruptible but this environment becomes poison to anyone if experienced for too long. (I can't freeload for this trip. Would have to work somewhere for a living. Resume sucks. Might have to lie.) 2 years of college paused to chase a pipe dream. I got high and had a dream. We jam out parts and make important connections. Speak of movie deals. A big performance at the end. A CD/DVD package. New technology. No one from L.A. is from L.A. They come in to make it big, to make a name for themselves, no matter how many others they have to stomp on to reach the first wrung of the ladder. To paradise. To fame. The ultimate goal is to make it onto a billboard. Or to be found on a flyer for a big show. To drive an old ferrari. Lines of good coke on the back seat. Living so full and so safe. "Nation's largest clean-air fleet."
Plan. Not to get robbed.
Girls. Music. School. My disdain for Arizona may lead to a rash decision much like what happened, for some reason, to Portland. Where I miss my life. I miss my life. I miss my life. I miss my life. And because it will never come back even if I move back.... I must move forward. (The fuck have I been searching for??). I don't care about the money. I hate the idea of a commonplace job, working in a shop selling bullshit to blind folks. I don't want to buy a wife. I don't want her to have shiny things unless she is deserving. Merit. Earn. Warrant. Rate. Justify. Be worthy of. Be entitled to. Have a right to. Be qualified for.
There is one I would buy something shiny for. She is cynical and will hate the gesture. I am cynical and will love the gesture. Wow. Isn't it so strange.
Danger in my veins. Fill up my cup until I've had more than enough. I miss you. I miss all of you. I desire to learn. I desire to travel. But I distrust everyone and everything. How could I last in this environment? With sometimes crappy lyrics. (I will help for now on)
Don't be timid motherfucker. This is your time to shine shine shine shine shine shine.
Impress and decompress. Kill it. Everyone will love you. Don't be forgotten. Here we go now. Band stylist. Nice bass. Fucking sick.
-------
Later that day, having walked a few miles toward success. Entering and exiting stores with over priced clothes. I'm wearing clothes and have a suitcase full a few miles back. I was in the coffee bean on 3rd and Hauser I believe. Now. Melrose and Stanley ave. Cuties in here. My body soon requires a nice meal. Apparently there are neat shops around here but mostly it is independent shops that offer expensive shit to compensate for their overall lack of things to sell. Study the rudiments. The acknowledgement. Joke around but not about vertigo or blind spells or blind luck or something. A house far away but not nearly accidental. They plan to move up in the world next week or so. Drums and bass. Eyes like diamonds. I miss her. I miss my pets. I miss my family. Some of these I will miss forever but many I will see again and this should not discourage me as long as they all back me up. A shit job. Difficult lyrical content. That christian band mindset. "a huge draw" but it is not a crowd I wish to be involved with. Be nice and kind. Do your thing. Get out of my face about it. Thick rimmed glasses, dark coffee from Seattle. From my hood. But no one knows. (Ray Allen on the Sonics?) What happens next?
Decision to be made. They like me apparently. I learned most parts by ear. (She loves perfume and I hate her.) They will call me in an hour and sweep me up. Beam me up. Drag me along with hopeful attitudes (I probably just kept walking and walking because my medication makes me care very little.) I'm a writer. Yes I am. Very interesting. Shit. Now is a good time to edit my old story. Here in this coffee shop a million miles from any street I know the name of outside of movies and television. (L.A. sucks if you recognize no celebrities. Good for you I say. You're famous.)
March 21
Wake up with dry throat from the smog in the air, confused what state and why. Stories told of depth but not much is proven beyond a shadow of a doubt. We all guess each others ulterior motives and move on to other ventures. All for one. Feeling draught through a sleight of hand. Suddenly I’m tacking cities on a map. I’m meeting and greeting the people I might be stuck with. Not a problem, mostly. Given a shot at the music. I feel good but it feels false. I feel like behind the scenes is a terrible monster that no one has warning me about. (Most complicated music ever written. House full of genius musicians in Seattle. Many living on the floor in corners.) Prove worth. Record album. Graffiti tag an overpass and write your name in black paint on the surface of white objects. Ties that hold ideas together with twine. We are the unacceptable exception from the rule. I will not be corrupted. Everything feels kind of dirty. Simple life, more Buddhist than I in practice. Sacrifice for the headache on the ceiling. But outside of the limits. All the stars in space misaligned and they have special sealed books. She had blue hair. She had blonde legs to match a short skirt, beers before sushi, stoned in a strange city, attempt to get a sort of mental layout. Originally it is vain. I’m here to discover. (mute the doubt mute the doubt). A guitar and a dreamcast. Overcast a look over your shoulder blade. Sharpen the aggression and tighten up on those notches. Relax and realize all that passing potential. (Everyone is connected. An outsider. Trying to hump the American dream. Rich. 5 dollar coffee. Work for it. Me as a waiter. Impossible to navigate.)
Tuesday, March 20, 2012
March 20
I laughed and lapsed through a weekend and the edges right before and after. Skirting these edges I filled my eyes with sights and sounds I wished to see for the sake of sanity. Sanity. Horror-scopes and premonitions. Cold shoulders and cigarettes blackening the lining of our throats. We can still yell. Just less loud. Attack each other in a bed room and turn a smile into a sad contemplation after we realize what is all at stake. Our sanity. Our balanced levels when near each other. Proximity to heat keeps you warm or bury yourself in layers. Repressing dreams with the desires of another type of person. We looked at gold watches and drank to get drunk. Pouring liquid cocaine in the cups of enemies. Watching them fuck and fight through binoculars later. Once they return to the limestone cave system from which they were reborn. (Talk to you. Talk with you.) There was a sad glimmer in her eyes when I left an appropriate sized tip, at risk of my life perhaps, ripped with a fake italian accent. Talking it up because everyone puts white powder in their nostrils and rubs their gums. With a diet like that, black outs are a consequence. Wake up with no realization of activity. A strange city and a familiar but impossible face. Never mind. Mirage. One of the sluts. One of the dudes she leaves in the morning without waking them purposefully. (Ice-sweep picking.) Three warm nights. A natural connection. Focus on the positive. The business end. Feel undeserving of all the praise and grades. Raise me up higher, god. My god. My god.
(I will not go to my grave yearning for what could have been)
What moves you makes me dizzy.
Hands are tied to bedposts
avid dreamer, making the most
natural elements in unnatural cities,
green oxygen and litter bugs,
infestation of such parasites.
Abuse of mainline drugs.
Crazed look in the eyes.
(She seemed nice but she seemed fake)
The funny one is projecting wit to cover a terror, a sadness. A grief-stricken stretch of the imagination in dark corners of dark streets where my body was found between unwelcoming trees. Swallowing silence like sleeping pills, made a bed that made me so nervous to begin with. My psychology comes from a spoiled childhood. All of the best, absolutely. They did all they could for me to give it to me straight and honest. I am grateful, though I often make guilty faces, repelling women, when I do something, anything. When I do things I am nocturnal-hearted. Bipolar-ity. in the city. Our magnetism. (Where is this going with the forks?) A childish thing to do. To explain. Our intermittent conspiring. We plan for back rooms and beds made of broken glass and glow in the dark stars. Hookahs with fiery coals, a drum set. Playing entirely too loud. A solid sense of rhythm. (barely had sex). Molested the two nights we went out. Lends herself out. Self-deprecating behavior. (A mirror? How could I be so much better? Perhaps it's not women. It's my liver. My lungs. My brain.) I contradict my intentions of sobriety with one drink two drink three drink four. Conspire to drink myself dry. No no. Negativity here. Hates my cynicism.
Diverse reading. Snow, sleet, marijuana, rain, blankets, chattering teeth, stomach aches. My nerves feel shot. Perhaps the excitement, through the nervous system, is causing connections to time out in my head. Leaving me empty like a dry well. Thaoist thought in the corner of the airport terminal. Gate N8. Nate. Perfect.
"Good stuff right there."
Line is growing. People moving. Hustling. I am ready for the new life. Something unknown, beautiful. Insane. A concert. A best friend. A Lip ring. God am I excited for such life. Such great life. Meet the members tonight. (Bathroom now. PLane waiting. I'll let you know how it goes.)
(I will not go to my grave yearning for what could have been)
What moves you makes me dizzy.
Hands are tied to bedposts
avid dreamer, making the most
natural elements in unnatural cities,
green oxygen and litter bugs,
infestation of such parasites.
Abuse of mainline drugs.
Crazed look in the eyes.
(She seemed nice but she seemed fake)
The funny one is projecting wit to cover a terror, a sadness. A grief-stricken stretch of the imagination in dark corners of dark streets where my body was found between unwelcoming trees. Swallowing silence like sleeping pills, made a bed that made me so nervous to begin with. My psychology comes from a spoiled childhood. All of the best, absolutely. They did all they could for me to give it to me straight and honest. I am grateful, though I often make guilty faces, repelling women, when I do something, anything. When I do things I am nocturnal-hearted. Bipolar-ity. in the city. Our magnetism. (Where is this going with the forks?) A childish thing to do. To explain. Our intermittent conspiring. We plan for back rooms and beds made of broken glass and glow in the dark stars. Hookahs with fiery coals, a drum set. Playing entirely too loud. A solid sense of rhythm. (barely had sex). Molested the two nights we went out. Lends herself out. Self-deprecating behavior. (A mirror? How could I be so much better? Perhaps it's not women. It's my liver. My lungs. My brain.) I contradict my intentions of sobriety with one drink two drink three drink four. Conspire to drink myself dry. No no. Negativity here. Hates my cynicism.
Diverse reading. Snow, sleet, marijuana, rain, blankets, chattering teeth, stomach aches. My nerves feel shot. Perhaps the excitement, through the nervous system, is causing connections to time out in my head. Leaving me empty like a dry well. Thaoist thought in the corner of the airport terminal. Gate N8. Nate. Perfect.
"Good stuff right there."
Line is growing. People moving. Hustling. I am ready for the new life. Something unknown, beautiful. Insane. A concert. A best friend. A Lip ring. God am I excited for such life. Such great life. Meet the members tonight. (Bathroom now. PLane waiting. I'll let you know how it goes.)
Monday, March 19, 2012
march 18
portland, 'hail to the thief' 'is this weird' naked young youthful gestures, hail of a blizzard, rain and water marks on torrential markers, just discipline in between the lines because all guarantees prove false in this backdrop. Young and reckless in borad daylight, the motions hidden less and less. Moving from states chasing an old dream, we used to have the gleaming mountain top peak, critical analysis. Wake up paralyzed from the neck down. Writing to relieve that tension built up in the day spent so quickly. Challenge the notion. No poetry worth of fuck. My scattered brain could not comprehend.
(Apology for a lack of content, conflicting matters to attend to)
(Apology for a lack of content, conflicting matters to attend to)
Saturday, March 17, 2012
march 17
Today I wear green blood with more subtle earth tones somewhere underneath. (Why did I just lie about an assignment when I'm going to write and play drums and live happy?) Poker game tonight. Better not steal the good old boys beer. They would be green with rage. But I am set with my happy lime napkins and lucky coins, to put into slots. I imagine casinos to be full of luckless irishmen and irishwomen, drinking themselves into blurred frenzy and breaking pints onto heads, throwing darts as far as they can to a dart board, football fields away. Wheelchair handshake and old friend of a photographer, real meticulous. (I felt so gay in that photo shoot, I'd want to kick my own ass.) Following rainbows to fool's gold in underground mines. Dig up the earth and see what happens. Writing with an excitement and a lack of commitment because I have so much I WANT to do today. I want to pack just the right things for this brief Portland excursion. I want to say all of the right things and I will. I'll tell the truth about my experiences and how jaded I am with the place the majority of my life has been spent (physically at least, my mind has been elsewhere). I will shoot thunderbolts from my fingertips and send shock waves through the general public with my denouncements. Or I will move to Los Angeles for a pipe dream a sudden realization of some college education, vacation. A different kind of learning. Exciting and dangerous street learning. Lighting technicians. Murderers. Drug lords. Antipathy. A beautiful moment we watch the same moon rise from different cliffsides. Across the globe with waterfalls in front of us though if I had your waterfall and you had mine gravity would be reversed and the water would pour up with such a massive force (yours) or such a light and inconsistent trickle (like mine). It will all look green soon. As I wear my green heart on my green sleeves and refuse to change an article of clothing for the greater humanity. Abusive relationships across statelines. We are immortal and eternal! My god! I am so happy!
Friday, March 16, 2012
march 16
Crisp fresh air, like refilling my lungs to full capacity again and again. Balloons in my chest, residue of all black smoke shake around like ash in a can. Nice young (spoiled) girl on the airplane. She slept through her essay (still has an hour, good luck my dear). Her bobbing head at rhythm with the turbulence, but opposite, to prevent her from falling, although she bumped her head on my shoulder multiple times. We are trapped in this environment as such and if you don't simply accept your surroundings as they are, with all of the characters and identities intact, you will be powerless. (Strange feeling to be able to leave the blinds open and have no anxiety that someone might be looking in.) The silence is... (phone call interrupts train of thought but this last sentence is appropriate enough.)
Strange. In a moment of serenity. Compiling my feelings of the day. The morning, the flight, the evening, and the people, the enlisting bearded truck driver, the business major, the Arizona girls visiting Seattle for the first time, talking and talking, the stewardesses smashing my left elbow with the cart of drinks and peanuts. I'm writing and thinking warm or cool of these moments, this mind freeing bliss of creation, where time at the moment ends and I am recollecting. A statement of fact. I am not currently in a state of do-nothing but it is an approach. The buddhist, mind-collecting like tiny rivulets of water, or grains of sand, raked in a garden, smoking weed and recording music for a few scenes of a film. A car scene. Driving down, passing fields. (Perhaps competing with other musicians for the spot?) I am called and interrupted from calm and passive revelry. Letting the words happen rather than think about each one individually, like an essay. Give a fuck about conventions or rhetorical appeals, or grammar or punctuation, this very sentence has defiled many and the uncolorful use of language should send me to a young literary grave. But it is oh so liberating. (From this I am reminded of my outside world tasks of learning songs. Learning them and playing them next week. Then work on the voice. The fingers and the voice and the shades.)
A virus in my hands, a physical growth representing a natural nervousness, a healthy nervousness, blemishing skin all over. Blood and guts and heavy skin. Weigh down with sunlight. Soak up so much my shoes leave yellow footprints with smiles like the children's drawings of suns with glasses on around pools full of cool jello or soda or marshmellows. Use your imaginations kids. It will be beat out of you by a large and unholy world if you are so naive to stifle yourself.
Right now I felt it again. I miss my big dog, my little cat. I like my little dog but she doesn't seem the same when she is playing with sam or chasing harry, who hisses and bats at her, for her insolence. I wonder if she realizes that they are missing. (Beer consumption. Card games and a family night.) May I be so patronizing to acknowledge a parental plateau. They have begun to rise again. And of course I look up to them. My bed is made and incredibly inviting. No company to keep. Simple approximations of warmth and heroic love. Nonsense now of course but we are all so susceptible to such whims. My mind is everywhere and I feel like laying down and mulling over some notes, so I will. A phone call can't ruin a night (though I stopped for about a half hour to practice the parts. A healthy diversion I must say).
Strange. In a moment of serenity. Compiling my feelings of the day. The morning, the flight, the evening, and the people, the enlisting bearded truck driver, the business major, the Arizona girls visiting Seattle for the first time, talking and talking, the stewardesses smashing my left elbow with the cart of drinks and peanuts. I'm writing and thinking warm or cool of these moments, this mind freeing bliss of creation, where time at the moment ends and I am recollecting. A statement of fact. I am not currently in a state of do-nothing but it is an approach. The buddhist, mind-collecting like tiny rivulets of water, or grains of sand, raked in a garden, smoking weed and recording music for a few scenes of a film. A car scene. Driving down, passing fields. (Perhaps competing with other musicians for the spot?) I am called and interrupted from calm and passive revelry. Letting the words happen rather than think about each one individually, like an essay. Give a fuck about conventions or rhetorical appeals, or grammar or punctuation, this very sentence has defiled many and the uncolorful use of language should send me to a young literary grave. But it is oh so liberating. (From this I am reminded of my outside world tasks of learning songs. Learning them and playing them next week. Then work on the voice. The fingers and the voice and the shades.)
A virus in my hands, a physical growth representing a natural nervousness, a healthy nervousness, blemishing skin all over. Blood and guts and heavy skin. Weigh down with sunlight. Soak up so much my shoes leave yellow footprints with smiles like the children's drawings of suns with glasses on around pools full of cool jello or soda or marshmellows. Use your imaginations kids. It will be beat out of you by a large and unholy world if you are so naive to stifle yourself.
Right now I felt it again. I miss my big dog, my little cat. I like my little dog but she doesn't seem the same when she is playing with sam or chasing harry, who hisses and bats at her, for her insolence. I wonder if she realizes that they are missing. (Beer consumption. Card games and a family night.) May I be so patronizing to acknowledge a parental plateau. They have begun to rise again. And of course I look up to them. My bed is made and incredibly inviting. No company to keep. Simple approximations of warmth and heroic love. Nonsense now of course but we are all so susceptible to such whims. My mind is everywhere and I feel like laying down and mulling over some notes, so I will. A phone call can't ruin a night (though I stopped for about a half hour to practice the parts. A healthy diversion I must say).
March 15
Strange how among my list of goals today and work ethic, there could be a forgotten objective. Something with much consistency in practice. An ego defense against the idea of repetition.
The crowd knows how blood can boil when stuck in a rut.
How, like a turning wheel, we fail to see any true shades of color
(those colors are hidden in stage lights)
Exaggerate the nature of the original compliment.
Destroy sanity with a kiss.
Burn teeth with tea.
Carve notches into them, become a fossil, and baffle future scientists.
Preservation of the dead.
(Like a song. A poem. A gravestone)
Build false tombs around the sleeping.
Triangles pointed at an acrid sun.
The work is alien. Of interstellar origin.
Orient my body to the cardinal points.
Give me a watch and a compass and I'm set.
I will dig away without fear of others.
I need a six foot rectangle around me at all times.
That's where thought is calm and detached,
the worldly feelings of sinking into the earth,
disappear likes moths to flame.
Extinguish the thought, the light, make the cadaver smile.
Jut out from the smooth edge.
As adequate as we feel; we are.
Let the spontaneous melodies play themselves to death, but it a fleeting and happy existence. With good thoughts, good friends, and a sense of urgency, thick, in the cold air.
Irish beer and our questions about each other lives.
Rainfall should not be looked down on.
One insane impulse leads to another and the night trudges on.
Bludgeon drink cups with broken beer bottles.
Jut out from the smooth edges
and cut fine lines in their memories.
Go about and be happy and thoughtful.
it seems as I become more busy I do less thinking in general. Just acting.
Meaning moving, doing, being, feeling.
Now is the time to reflect on those feelings anyway. I may miss small details but right now is better than any other time in the future.
The lights and the dances. The smoke coming from the audience, lighters illuminate, the purple-green stage colors and speakers stacked, television screens hanging from the ceiling and moving around, choreographed like a puppet, like a marionette, guiding them along with ghost fingers like the fake ivory keys, plugged through many sources of deviant sound. The vibrations in the notes but in perfect planned cadence, all of the interesting music, getting into it all and let them do their british thing, of a 20 year catalog, but it is about the newest stuff anyway, keeping it interesting to them, most importantly, otherwise they get damn tired of playing the same old songs but they have so many that they could prove to play well enough to entertain a stadium full of screaming people. Car fire and a highway exit crash, necks break at the sight of flashing blue and red lights, car fires are reminiscent of childhood campfires, with the singing and the dancing and the marshmellows, your own favorite creek, fill in the blanks here, the green canopy, thick undergrowth near the back, but a perfect clearing settled into, no neighbors with this altitude, none close anyway, close enough to talk to and tell ghost stories or ask for graham crackers. Add your own churning river, or wet grassland, marshy little lake beside an old middle school, or a rocky beach park somewhere with fireworks in the immediate background. Bring yourself there and believe that it is real. Convince your mind that you are physically there, in this warmth and infinitely pleasant moment, and your body will follow. You time travel back into your own past and spectate on your behaviors. Inside the body without much say in the matters. As it should be. All individual moments combined. No use for regret when studying these self-presentations. Cherish all of the feelings, the whole spectrum of emotion, it will help you be creative. It will help you summon words and characters for further research. Or ideas of combine notes. Within yourself you get beside yourself. Laughing at those little intricacies. I would take notes and study and figure out how to love my life more efficiently.
The crowd knows how blood can boil when stuck in a rut.
How, like a turning wheel, we fail to see any true shades of color
(those colors are hidden in stage lights)
Exaggerate the nature of the original compliment.
Destroy sanity with a kiss.
Burn teeth with tea.
Carve notches into them, become a fossil, and baffle future scientists.
Preservation of the dead.
(Like a song. A poem. A gravestone)
Build false tombs around the sleeping.
Triangles pointed at an acrid sun.
The work is alien. Of interstellar origin.
Orient my body to the cardinal points.
Give me a watch and a compass and I'm set.
I will dig away without fear of others.
I need a six foot rectangle around me at all times.
That's where thought is calm and detached,
the worldly feelings of sinking into the earth,
disappear likes moths to flame.
Extinguish the thought, the light, make the cadaver smile.
Jut out from the smooth edge.
As adequate as we feel; we are.
Let the spontaneous melodies play themselves to death, but it a fleeting and happy existence. With good thoughts, good friends, and a sense of urgency, thick, in the cold air.
Irish beer and our questions about each other lives.
Rainfall should not be looked down on.
One insane impulse leads to another and the night trudges on.
Bludgeon drink cups with broken beer bottles.
Jut out from the smooth edges
and cut fine lines in their memories.
Go about and be happy and thoughtful.
it seems as I become more busy I do less thinking in general. Just acting.
Meaning moving, doing, being, feeling.
Now is the time to reflect on those feelings anyway. I may miss small details but right now is better than any other time in the future.
The lights and the dances. The smoke coming from the audience, lighters illuminate, the purple-green stage colors and speakers stacked, television screens hanging from the ceiling and moving around, choreographed like a puppet, like a marionette, guiding them along with ghost fingers like the fake ivory keys, plugged through many sources of deviant sound. The vibrations in the notes but in perfect planned cadence, all of the interesting music, getting into it all and let them do their british thing, of a 20 year catalog, but it is about the newest stuff anyway, keeping it interesting to them, most importantly, otherwise they get damn tired of playing the same old songs but they have so many that they could prove to play well enough to entertain a stadium full of screaming people. Car fire and a highway exit crash, necks break at the sight of flashing blue and red lights, car fires are reminiscent of childhood campfires, with the singing and the dancing and the marshmellows, your own favorite creek, fill in the blanks here, the green canopy, thick undergrowth near the back, but a perfect clearing settled into, no neighbors with this altitude, none close anyway, close enough to talk to and tell ghost stories or ask for graham crackers. Add your own churning river, or wet grassland, marshy little lake beside an old middle school, or a rocky beach park somewhere with fireworks in the immediate background. Bring yourself there and believe that it is real. Convince your mind that you are physically there, in this warmth and infinitely pleasant moment, and your body will follow. You time travel back into your own past and spectate on your behaviors. Inside the body without much say in the matters. As it should be. All individual moments combined. No use for regret when studying these self-presentations. Cherish all of the feelings, the whole spectrum of emotion, it will help you be creative. It will help you summon words and characters for further research. Or ideas of combine notes. Within yourself you get beside yourself. Laughing at those little intricacies. I would take notes and study and figure out how to love my life more efficiently.
Wednesday, March 14, 2012
March 14
853-913
Closing in on the date of departure, where I will see thousands of sad leaving/happy returning faces melt into each other. Perplexing complexion. Some look absurd, like they arrived in the wrong city or have just realized a horrible mistake. They chased the sunrise or the sunset or keep parallel with it until their destinations spill out on the landscape in the front of them. That moment of awe, forever. (oh god I'm a terrible mess today). Rum advertisements on the walls. Repainting the ceiling on speed for fun. Where can I get a ladder to walk under? Tons of stray black cats. Not the fireworks. Here? Fires would consume the entire state if dust could serve as kindling. Tiny reproductions of famous pieces of artwork. Skeletons with disco balls for eyes... The long day ahead. But I do not fear. I will make it out of this alive and you will see what happens for me. For me. Not to me.
Good vibes on a stubborn wednesday. Yours truly, clean-shaved, shirtless, typing along with the blinds closed, streaks of morning sunlight shine through although there still might be a bite in the air that carried over from the night. No use taking another layer. Will have to carry it around the rest of the day if I did that. Anyway. Colorful swirls of compliments, a room full of the socially awkward 'we'. Who is that jazz musician? I love jazz. I love art. I love insanity. I love what buddhism has to offer. I can never be devout. But what a waste of a life anyway. There is so much sinning and insanity to do. All those relevant gestures that no one mistakes for frugal half-enlightenment.
We are very much aware that our ship is sinking into the mud. Worse than drowning is drowning in mud. It is thicker. Like quicksand, to swallow you whole, the more you struggle the faster you sink into oblivion. So don't struggle. Call for help. Let snakes slither over your exposed head, they don't weigh enough to be trapped unless they are digesting some poor large animal, whom possibly is still alive, dissolving in stomach acids. No innovation could take us there. No new photography with his crazy ideas is going on that journey. To the bottom of the pile and the sand.
Words fall out like leaves. Falsetto and yelling. From yosemite. Beautiful area. I wonder where exactly. They probably write songs in caves or on cliffsides. The misty california mornings.
12:50
Do what you do my man. Hip hop. Random fusion. Progressive.
Higher than a cliffside. Watching the shore lap the shoreline in slow intervals. The valley trees pointed in all different directions due to preliminary wind currents. The freedom to create without filter sheer hours from an evening spent in company of the king of limbs. Close myself off to the world completely to enter a fenced off region for the purposes of creative propensities. Not such much a born characteristic rather a strong old habit. Old habits dies hard. And this one would be sad to die. In a grey haze. Like volcanic ash. So I cull and cultivate. I feed and anger potentially rising. The swirling animal nature of things that proceed through tribulation. Those time trials where speed helps the isolated. The means of exit three plane tickets. Gain perspective. Feel my fingers burn. Holes in them. A nice usage of time. Getting in to the execution of correct notes. Guitar neck waiting for the feeling sometime later. Listen with headphones to a metal song for fun. Here if any panning occurred.
Closing in on the date of departure, where I will see thousands of sad leaving/happy returning faces melt into each other. Perplexing complexion. Some look absurd, like they arrived in the wrong city or have just realized a horrible mistake. They chased the sunrise or the sunset or keep parallel with it until their destinations spill out on the landscape in the front of them. That moment of awe, forever. (oh god I'm a terrible mess today). Rum advertisements on the walls. Repainting the ceiling on speed for fun. Where can I get a ladder to walk under? Tons of stray black cats. Not the fireworks. Here? Fires would consume the entire state if dust could serve as kindling. Tiny reproductions of famous pieces of artwork. Skeletons with disco balls for eyes... The long day ahead. But I do not fear. I will make it out of this alive and you will see what happens for me. For me. Not to me.
Good vibes on a stubborn wednesday. Yours truly, clean-shaved, shirtless, typing along with the blinds closed, streaks of morning sunlight shine through although there still might be a bite in the air that carried over from the night. No use taking another layer. Will have to carry it around the rest of the day if I did that. Anyway. Colorful swirls of compliments, a room full of the socially awkward 'we'. Who is that jazz musician? I love jazz. I love art. I love insanity. I love what buddhism has to offer. I can never be devout. But what a waste of a life anyway. There is so much sinning and insanity to do. All those relevant gestures that no one mistakes for frugal half-enlightenment.
We are very much aware that our ship is sinking into the mud. Worse than drowning is drowning in mud. It is thicker. Like quicksand, to swallow you whole, the more you struggle the faster you sink into oblivion. So don't struggle. Call for help. Let snakes slither over your exposed head, they don't weigh enough to be trapped unless they are digesting some poor large animal, whom possibly is still alive, dissolving in stomach acids. No innovation could take us there. No new photography with his crazy ideas is going on that journey. To the bottom of the pile and the sand.
Words fall out like leaves. Falsetto and yelling. From yosemite. Beautiful area. I wonder where exactly. They probably write songs in caves or on cliffsides. The misty california mornings.
12:50
Do what you do my man. Hip hop. Random fusion. Progressive.
Higher than a cliffside. Watching the shore lap the shoreline in slow intervals. The valley trees pointed in all different directions due to preliminary wind currents. The freedom to create without filter sheer hours from an evening spent in company of the king of limbs. Close myself off to the world completely to enter a fenced off region for the purposes of creative propensities. Not such much a born characteristic rather a strong old habit. Old habits dies hard. And this one would be sad to die. In a grey haze. Like volcanic ash. So I cull and cultivate. I feed and anger potentially rising. The swirling animal nature of things that proceed through tribulation. Those time trials where speed helps the isolated. The means of exit three plane tickets. Gain perspective. Feel my fingers burn. Holes in them. A nice usage of time. Getting in to the execution of correct notes. Guitar neck waiting for the feeling sometime later. Listen with headphones to a metal song for fun. Here if any panning occurred.
Tuesday, March 13, 2012
March 13
Panic. The vibes spinning slowly around my head, of ease, quickening tightening and spinning faster like an ice skater who pulls her arms in. I slept through the ongoing horrible scene above where the noises are either nightmare or freakish reality. Sound like an axe falling on someone's neck. Now the machinery. The buzzing machinery and I have no one to take with me to the show. The show. The show. I leave for break but feel as though I might be gone forever. As if I'm already not fully here. Today. Today. Today. The sun is out and smiling. The sky is probably blue. I haven't looked outside. I made good coffee with double filtered water and a correct proportion of grounds. I worked on some pictures but for some reason they are all tiny. This I cannot help. Some day I will fix or delete. Who will care in a thousand years? But hey it's my life and I need constant stimulation or evidence or else it's not here.
On the day off. Playing tunes. Oh shit.
No writing for the wicked.
Boy I have been a bit too active for long sessions of writing. Active in daydream or something like it. Nearly done with a project. Read a kids story. Maybe work on lap top on airplane.
On the day off. Playing tunes. Oh shit.
No writing for the wicked.
Boy I have been a bit too active for long sessions of writing. Active in daydream or something like it. Nearly done with a project. Read a kids story. Maybe work on lap top on airplane.
march 12
fate on my side. side of the wind. poetry and examination of plants. potted and otherwise.
and now ill give excuses for why I'm allowing myself to skip an honest session of writing...
(holes in the plot. the story continues. I am aware I wrote by hand earlier for it is now technically the 13th. 2:00am)
slept through alarm. sped to second and third class. lunch and then poetic contemplation. listen to the band i will try to join. over and over. crimson and clover. class four and five then a rush home for dinner. catch lightrail to mesa. to the end of the tracks. then walk past the farthest stoplight you can see. (a few miles certainly) great show. great music. ran to catch the last train returning to campus. dead legs. metal jam. south park full volume.
i lived a full day and the winds blew at my back, propelling me along. over the bumps and hills. an x on my hand. "xenophobia" and the random meeting of the band. the perfect timing with the dude with the bike. or else I would have been stupid and needed a ride.
this all happened because i only had vague outlines of plans for what i wished to do. i got done what i needed to. no more no less. despite all that fell through cracks I cannot deny the fact my day was so full and so long and that i am now exhausted and my heart is beating so slow
and now ill give excuses for why I'm allowing myself to skip an honest session of writing...
(holes in the plot. the story continues. I am aware I wrote by hand earlier for it is now technically the 13th. 2:00am)
slept through alarm. sped to second and third class. lunch and then poetic contemplation. listen to the band i will try to join. over and over. crimson and clover. class four and five then a rush home for dinner. catch lightrail to mesa. to the end of the tracks. then walk past the farthest stoplight you can see. (a few miles certainly) great show. great music. ran to catch the last train returning to campus. dead legs. metal jam. south park full volume.
i lived a full day and the winds blew at my back, propelling me along. over the bumps and hills. an x on my hand. "xenophobia" and the random meeting of the band. the perfect timing with the dude with the bike. or else I would have been stupid and needed a ride.
this all happened because i only had vague outlines of plans for what i wished to do. i got done what i needed to. no more no less. despite all that fell through cracks I cannot deny the fact my day was so full and so long and that i am now exhausted and my heart is beating so slow
Monday, March 12, 2012
March 11th
Another late night confusion of a sunday where I missed things and did extra unnecessary things and accidentally drank tea with loads of caffeine at 1130. It is dark tea (and that laughter never exists outside of a headset). to offset that balance and coax me to sleep i boil water for sedative tea. the prose and cons. the train whistle representing forward moving masculinity. I awoke and went to the library and finished two assignments due on wednesday. 'on top of it' says tacoma taylor. i will remember now. she never read the story. they are closing up shop and she is at home relaxing with a cup of tea and maybe some facebook chatting. one can only dream of the possibilities. i cant continue. i wrote three essays on this computer in this seat. ate three burgers by the lake and took a ride to christmas island. the ducks we avoid. the strange observations. we all talk behind each others backs. im blissfully oblivious. believe the lies i give a damn. the blooming flowers and architecture. my eyes hurt. the broken cigar and the brutal cough. the asthma and the reggae. the guitar and the triumph. i did not even play much. redemption or do i care? in this case i'd say let it slide. slip and slide. be a monkey. play the songs they want to hear. something random and isolated. how do days go by me without forward motion? today i accepted the zen of a red convertible with the good old boys. the top down and we are crazy. nice fellas. beer and gossip. a birthday wish come true. insulting a dumb individual to her stupid face. 'man its 2012 isnt it. you guys all on your phones.' and done. for real now.
Where he was better than me in technical skill I will make up for it in heart. I feel it. I am a musician. A magician. I can drop everything and become a passable bass player. With the finger tapping and etc. I'll make up for it in heart. In stage presence. Intelligence maybe. A reformed idea of what I am doing with my life. The shining and rising phoenix of an opportunity
Where he was better than me in technical skill I will make up for it in heart. I feel it. I am a musician. A magician. I can drop everything and become a passable bass player. With the finger tapping and etc. I'll make up for it in heart. In stage presence. Intelligence maybe. A reformed idea of what I am doing with my life. The shining and rising phoenix of an opportunity
Saturday, March 10, 2012
March 10th
The fragile voice and the floating, effervescent, body high. Watch they fall into a sexy tangle on the floor. Melt into each other like acid freaks on a hot street. In a blind streak of color and confusion, tying and untying string lights on balconies and along the edge of the top of the wall, where it connects at a right angle with the ceiling. This illuminates all in a warm and nostalgic light. The effort obvious in the resulting mess and damages. We could be heard from the stairway some 50 paces from our door. Was it ever locked? An open door policy on how we all feel. Tight syncopated rhythms, the secondary language barriers, we have to use subtitles. I would like some better coffee and a tobacco fix and a writing fix. I would like things to happen as the thc metastasizes, the liver fails but is given a second shot, two shot, three. The glasses that make many look smaller and less adorable. Why sit in corners without socializing. Why not enter the conversation as a human being and a part of the human race. Regardless of what trite or true or trivial topic. We speak our hearts louder with our mouths hanging wide open like salivating creatures. So hungry to perform. Dying to be understood as something more than a lesser body in a grander schematic choreography. We're dancing along in our routines, with light feet, shuffling through the blues with or without partners, depends on body shape and the adaptions that makes us more like puzzle pieces than anything else. Have to watch steps and count aloud, backwards from a hundred, the number of breaths each maneuver requires, without hesitation. It must be difficult to lead such a double life. Flirting with success and disaster. All of those dreams I'll never see. All of those harmonics that are capable when your guitar tech is responsible for the tuning of 5 different instruments throughout your set. Standing on light boxes, saluting the gaping universe, who exhales and shudders, opening shutters, closing down pipelines and, in states of prolonged rest, tear benevolent life into violent pieces. Glue them back up. Stitch them together like intersecting spider webs, a great vast net that captures the hearts and the minds. A heart grabbing and roasting storyline. We have everything, the familial dispute, the stubborn and hard working face, the fingers of fury, the solid and stolid, quiet drummer, the type who goes off without saying much and returns easy on his toes. You could not lie and tell me this would not be fun. (Those who do not seek out challenges on their on will are destroyed by sudden challenges. Those sudden changes of fate that no one can predict or prevent, in challenging the self, the mind is awakened, all eyes are bright and full of color spectrums, full of reflective prism.) Leap through the burning hoops, the ones that are fueled by all of your past happiness, your past revelry. All those philosophical nights beside bonfires. Talking pure metaphysics. Letting cold mountain air or gently crashing sea-waves soothe out all worry. The fire burns away trouble and furrow brows unfurl. Comfort of darkness, of black, of blank. Waves of conversation and laughter, the throwing knife lost in the woods, and the half mile walk down to a secret beach. Strange memories on this dying day. Live music missed. Coffee lips. Girls are so easy and terrifying here. I wish to return to the beach, the mountain creek, a tree with a hundred pairs of shoes tied together and launched over. Like the sneakers on power lines that signify a spot that is reliable (depending on the age of the shoes) for drug deals, of minor or major consequence. We aren't talking storage rooms full of white powder. Psychology warfare. They should inject adderrall into all of the streams of drinking water throughout the world. Those with nervous disorders would shake and clean out old drawers. Houses would paint themselves. Weeds would commit suicide by digging themselves out from the warm and providing, motherly soil. Hands would clean until blood. Fingers get dirty with work. Evidence of progress in general. (My stupid saturday. I know now that I won't be doing much in light of productivity but I will relax and enjoy myself awhile. Work on finger strength and laundry and the carcasses of balloons that litter my apartment.)
------------
With a fat stomach, swelling under the weight on content of calories consumed, coming back to the basics, the boredom on couches in a 2 mile radius. Get off campus and away from those blinded by money. (Found a new band to love). I will write my story in outrageous ink. The invisible ink of this medium chosen.
------------
With a fat stomach, swelling under the weight on content of calories consumed, coming back to the basics, the boredom on couches in a 2 mile radius. Get off campus and away from those blinded by money. (Found a new band to love). I will write my story in outrageous ink. The invisible ink of this medium chosen.
Friday, March 9, 2012
March 9th
'Expect the best today as it may indeed be one of those days in which you are blessed with an unexpected revelation.'
'Oh yeah. She's a horrible person.'
'All I ever wanted was to pick apart the day and put the pieces back together my way.'
Favor parties. We will be majestic through the night. The only complaints would be about having too much fun. (Perhaps someone vomits happily off of the balcony). Stomping on balloons. 'I hate balloons' I'm thinking of how awesome it would be to have helium balloons. (damn. the first negative thought of the day. don't let it get to you, man. about a drawing the other weekend.) This time it will be different. It has been since my birthday we got a sound complaint. It's about time. It's all about time.
------
This technically counts as tomorrow but since I haven't slept I'll continue here some time past 5 am. Making food like I'm a saturday morning breakfast king. (twitch muscle fibers, every part of process governed by physical law. big bang, chemical laws, electrical laws, the big bang set up the initial conditions but the dignitiy comes under threat, the problematic quantum physical question. We can't understand it under, the probablilies, random swirling in a chaotic system. I'll incredible tired. Incapable of writing I feel like slumber.
'Oh yeah. She's a horrible person.'
'All I ever wanted was to pick apart the day and put the pieces back together my way.'
Favor parties. We will be majestic through the night. The only complaints would be about having too much fun. (Perhaps someone vomits happily off of the balcony). Stomping on balloons. 'I hate balloons' I'm thinking of how awesome it would be to have helium balloons. (damn. the first negative thought of the day. don't let it get to you, man. about a drawing the other weekend.) This time it will be different. It has been since my birthday we got a sound complaint. It's about time. It's all about time.
------
This technically counts as tomorrow but since I haven't slept I'll continue here some time past 5 am. Making food like I'm a saturday morning breakfast king. (twitch muscle fibers, every part of process governed by physical law. big bang, chemical laws, electrical laws, the big bang set up the initial conditions but the dignitiy comes under threat, the problematic quantum physical question. We can't understand it under, the probablilies, random swirling in a chaotic system. I'll incredible tired. Incapable of writing I feel like slumber.
Thursday, March 8, 2012
March 8th
We drink to good books. I blow up balloons and fill them (multi-colored) with heart shaped confetti. I predict a riot, a mess, and a hangover. Hopefully not too bad of one. It can't be the night I wander angry off into the dark. Pissing on palm trees and avoiding the late night spray of sprinkler systems. I am wavering with sleep now. I had simply forgotten to write today. Another one gone, passing by like a lazy crowd. Another day disappears. Into the void. (goddamn this boiling space!). Where is the evidence to back it? In the jungle undergrowth of my heart. Inside the temple and the golden shrine to your godless nature. Coffee and a contemplation. Two bottles of champagne, jello shots and Irish whiskey. Without fear. Riders on the storm. We'll coast this high and ease into the last saturday before I leave. For the greens of washington and the photographers of los angeles. This is my last saturday in Arizona before I decide what to do with my life. (Perhaps I'll be given some time once back after L.A. who can be sure?) Will I enjoy dressing as they dress me and standing on light boxes? (Who cares?) Be the lifestyle you wish to see in the world. (I hate the world 'lifestyle') Be the man. That guy. The winner and the champion of the weekend. Everything great will happen if you believe and do it right. Right now. Right now Right now.
Rest.
Rest.
Wednesday, March 7, 2012
March 7th
901-921
Balance the time. Minimize the daydreaming when my hands aren't working on anything. It is possible to daydream while dabbing paint on a canvas or while letting fingers fly past on a keyboard (a typewriter a computer screen, the meticulous white out process that I will never have to deal if I become a famous author) Muggy, warm, dusty and crowded. There are green things sprouting purple things and the scent is fantastic but I'm no botanist. One day I'll figure it out. I'll dip my foot in the river and realize the strength of the current, only then will I jump, or stay on shore. (It will be just fine). I throw a stick into the river and it glides easily over treacherous rocks and offshoots, my body is bigger than that and less buoyant I would be crushed against the rocks with ferocity. But my brittle bones must take the abuse so I can get on to calmer waters. The current is strong enough that at a point, in an effort at energy conservation, one may need to simply float on their back and watch the sky. (Constantly. I keep erasing sentences I don't like. I'm comparing myself to others now and my "subconscious" writing suffers. Write from the heart and fuck those dissenting classmates.)
In that case. Hide away your pretensions. You people are the same and I hate to voice my humble opinion among these intellectual vultures, they will pick your bones dry and use your story as an example for what not to do. (They said good luck and shook hands. They lied and said they won't be able to sleep now that their 12 page stories are out there. I read them, sure. Inescapable my disdain for the two. But I will try to be distanced from their awful characters (the authors themselves) when I write my reviews.
Daddy's little girl. Crush up the story into a ball and believe that a decrepit old house is more interesting than dinosaurs. The other talks like she knows all. Like she is Merriam Webster. (Keep the initial in the name). Confusion ambiguity. The mimetic fallacy. I fell victim to all of these and my story suffers and I haven't even looked at it since their reviews came back. Why?
Imagine the promiscuity, my humble servant, on mountaintop. Writing poetry out of wedlock and extinguishing fires of dissent. Turn off that damned editor. I nearly changed that last sentence already because I hate the construction of that metaphor. My god, I'm becoming a monster.
Have more sex, my chaste queen, with boys feeding grapes and fan her off her high throne. If you knew how tortuous the existence through these badlands could be for someone like little old me. The wounded boy effect. Pity me for I will be yours. My scars show in tan skin and bigger muscles. (I look exactly the same because I don't fucking drink protein. It turns you into a douche.) Workout twice a god damn day?
Okay. Calm down. Derail that train of thought.
Move to brighter things. Things that vibrate warmth in the sun.
Things that shock and awe in all the right ways.
Realized I still haven't dressed or finished breakfast.
These mornings are such blurs that I never understand how 830 becomes 930
Discuss party and make flyers potentially.
Roommate's face.
For his birthday.
Like mitch-a-palooza
But I feel the tinging regret
that I know ill never do this.
I must make an effort at invitations.
Girls?
Or else all goes to shit and the weekend remains the same as it has always been.
This one is the last one before spring break.
Mimosa's in the morning.
We have to rise like phoenixes.
And damn it. We will make memories.
I will not feel stupid and small and worthless.
Balance the time. Minimize the daydreaming when my hands aren't working on anything. It is possible to daydream while dabbing paint on a canvas or while letting fingers fly past on a keyboard (a typewriter a computer screen, the meticulous white out process that I will never have to deal if I become a famous author) Muggy, warm, dusty and crowded. There are green things sprouting purple things and the scent is fantastic but I'm no botanist. One day I'll figure it out. I'll dip my foot in the river and realize the strength of the current, only then will I jump, or stay on shore. (It will be just fine). I throw a stick into the river and it glides easily over treacherous rocks and offshoots, my body is bigger than that and less buoyant I would be crushed against the rocks with ferocity. But my brittle bones must take the abuse so I can get on to calmer waters. The current is strong enough that at a point, in an effort at energy conservation, one may need to simply float on their back and watch the sky. (Constantly. I keep erasing sentences I don't like. I'm comparing myself to others now and my "subconscious" writing suffers. Write from the heart and fuck those dissenting classmates.)
In that case. Hide away your pretensions. You people are the same and I hate to voice my humble opinion among these intellectual vultures, they will pick your bones dry and use your story as an example for what not to do. (They said good luck and shook hands. They lied and said they won't be able to sleep now that their 12 page stories are out there. I read them, sure. Inescapable my disdain for the two. But I will try to be distanced from their awful characters (the authors themselves) when I write my reviews.
Daddy's little girl. Crush up the story into a ball and believe that a decrepit old house is more interesting than dinosaurs. The other talks like she knows all. Like she is Merriam Webster. (Keep the initial in the name). Confusion ambiguity. The mimetic fallacy. I fell victim to all of these and my story suffers and I haven't even looked at it since their reviews came back. Why?
Imagine the promiscuity, my humble servant, on mountaintop. Writing poetry out of wedlock and extinguishing fires of dissent. Turn off that damned editor. I nearly changed that last sentence already because I hate the construction of that metaphor. My god, I'm becoming a monster.
Have more sex, my chaste queen, with boys feeding grapes and fan her off her high throne. If you knew how tortuous the existence through these badlands could be for someone like little old me. The wounded boy effect. Pity me for I will be yours. My scars show in tan skin and bigger muscles. (I look exactly the same because I don't fucking drink protein. It turns you into a douche.) Workout twice a god damn day?
Okay. Calm down. Derail that train of thought.
Move to brighter things. Things that vibrate warmth in the sun.
Things that shock and awe in all the right ways.
Realized I still haven't dressed or finished breakfast.
These mornings are such blurs that I never understand how 830 becomes 930
Discuss party and make flyers potentially.
Roommate's face.
For his birthday.
Like mitch-a-palooza
But I feel the tinging regret
that I know ill never do this.
I must make an effort at invitations.
Girls?
Or else all goes to shit and the weekend remains the same as it has always been.
This one is the last one before spring break.
Mimosa's in the morning.
We have to rise like phoenixes.
And damn it. We will make memories.
I will not feel stupid and small and worthless.
Tuesday, March 6, 2012
March 6th
Turning water into mimosas in the morning. (a genus of about 400 species of herbs and shrubs). Jameson and Coke in the evening, turning us into gold. Oh, the sacrifices I'm willing to make. Let's burn shit down and light shit up to celebrate. In wine there is truth. Walking up, skipping steps to the coffin. The corner I read and revised my edits and never got to the point. What did I do today?
In a brief list.
Wake up to alarm.
Sleep extra half hour.
Splash water on face.
Make fresh coffee.
Take vitamins and listen to Cymbals Eat Guitars.
Re-read the last chapter of Lolita.
Make peanut butter toast.
Breakfast drink with milk.
Review terms for English 200 midterm including In vino veritas.
I remember the meaning but not the context.
This takes awhile due to the amount of terms.
No need for justifications or an ugly reduction of truth.
Get drunk. Get to the point.
Bright Eyes - Fevers & Mirrors followed by The People's Key.
My memory lied already.
Before the terms and usage study session, I viewed many live videos of bands I've never heard of.
Some of them good.
Dear & The Headlights fantastic but his voice a bit hoarse.
White Denim. Always incredible.
Organize cd's into their own cases and put a few more in the thin black case.
Brush teeth.
Check email.
Read short stories and write summaries.
The horse with a broken leg, a crying father, and a mentally challenged daughter/narrator.
Blue curtains, a menace to childhood curiosity. A boy visits the movies by himself for the first.
Last a lifeguard reflects on the summer before his transition to college.
The neglected perfection. Good christ I should have lived it up! I wish I was there now!
This is on the couch. There is incense. One smelled of vanilla lotus or some such (from K)
Another, from the mystery pack, like peanut butter.
(we're all thirsty)
Make more coffee.
Let in the light.
Shave for no reason apparent.
Go to safeway and get some fruit and shit.
On foot this time.
Patient in the sunlight.
Damn was it windy.
I J-walked while a hundred cars waited for the train to pass.
I watched the graffiti. Close range.
"Posl" "Jamz" "Gringa"
Hip hop lives.
(Jello shots. Muscle Milk. Assault. Five hour energies)
Stash the goods.
Cook up some beef and noodle deal.
(Ate chili on the couch. With tortilla chips. For lunch)
Watch a segment of Fear and Loathing and eat meal.
Complete with salad.
Greens. Cheese. Crutons. ranch. salt and pepper.
Water.
I played guitar for an hour or two earlier.
Messing with effects and the effects of the those effects.
Go out to study area.
Read story about children and bubble gum.
Then adults in some forest, killing each other off with bows & arrows.
Then a stringent scholastic article about male cheerleaders.
Gender roles. The objectification of women to justify masculinity as a male cheerleader.
Walk back. Smile at someone's dad.
Walk up stairs to coffin.
Talk of weekend and plans for birthday.
I ate an apple and still pick out pieces from my teeth.
Now I listen to P.O.S.
I will review my Eng 200 notes.
Read another article, perhaps.
Maybe do a review of one of the stories.
Make plans for the weekend.
Bye bye.
In a brief list.
Wake up to alarm.
Sleep extra half hour.
Splash water on face.
Make fresh coffee.
Take vitamins and listen to Cymbals Eat Guitars.
Re-read the last chapter of Lolita.
Make peanut butter toast.
Breakfast drink with milk.
Review terms for English 200 midterm including In vino veritas.
I remember the meaning but not the context.
This takes awhile due to the amount of terms.
No need for justifications or an ugly reduction of truth.
Get drunk. Get to the point.
Bright Eyes - Fevers & Mirrors followed by The People's Key.
My memory lied already.
Before the terms and usage study session, I viewed many live videos of bands I've never heard of.
Some of them good.
Dear & The Headlights fantastic but his voice a bit hoarse.
White Denim. Always incredible.
Organize cd's into their own cases and put a few more in the thin black case.
Brush teeth.
Check email.
Read short stories and write summaries.
The horse with a broken leg, a crying father, and a mentally challenged daughter/narrator.
Blue curtains, a menace to childhood curiosity. A boy visits the movies by himself for the first.
Last a lifeguard reflects on the summer before his transition to college.
The neglected perfection. Good christ I should have lived it up! I wish I was there now!
This is on the couch. There is incense. One smelled of vanilla lotus or some such (from K)
Another, from the mystery pack, like peanut butter.
(we're all thirsty)
Make more coffee.
Let in the light.
Shave for no reason apparent.
Go to safeway and get some fruit and shit.
On foot this time.
Patient in the sunlight.
Damn was it windy.
I J-walked while a hundred cars waited for the train to pass.
I watched the graffiti. Close range.
"Posl" "Jamz" "Gringa"
Hip hop lives.
(Jello shots. Muscle Milk. Assault. Five hour energies)
Stash the goods.
Cook up some beef and noodle deal.
(Ate chili on the couch. With tortilla chips. For lunch)
Watch a segment of Fear and Loathing and eat meal.
Complete with salad.
Greens. Cheese. Crutons. ranch. salt and pepper.
Water.
I played guitar for an hour or two earlier.
Messing with effects and the effects of the those effects.
Go out to study area.
Read story about children and bubble gum.
Then adults in some forest, killing each other off with bows & arrows.
Then a stringent scholastic article about male cheerleaders.
Gender roles. The objectification of women to justify masculinity as a male cheerleader.
Walk back. Smile at someone's dad.
Walk up stairs to coffin.
Talk of weekend and plans for birthday.
I ate an apple and still pick out pieces from my teeth.
Now I listen to P.O.S.
I will review my Eng 200 notes.
Read another article, perhaps.
Maybe do a review of one of the stories.
Make plans for the weekend.
Bye bye.
Monday, March 5, 2012
March 5th
900
Editing composition. Decomposition. A dull knife, tries to cut wires. I should be memorize cladographic lineages and the origin of primate behavior based on osteoperosis and paleontology. I need to remember the biological names of creatures like us, including us. Pan. Pongo. Gorilla. Homo. Etc. No stress, studying, like last term. Open note. I can't afford to waste away studying the material so darn heavily. Burn my chest. Fall down the stairs. Stand up and it's St. Patrick's day. a thousand miles away. (Write in coffee shops?) Even if on vacation I cannot give up the writing. I am uninspired this morning and I feel like I have nothing special to say.
will resume.
1230am
found a free live white denim concert to watch and witness this night. after such a long and bipolar/split day. the one that goes from morning to evening in two entirely different colors, merging at the center in some brown haze of transformation, this day, (tempe campus purple flowers in trees scent) out, somewhere the sun brightened and jokes existed in a brighter foliage. A different haze of intellectual safeguards kept me from mouthing off about this or that. Mr. Smart Cross Fade. Her name was Nashville. The stories of gang bangers and the videos of screaming cartoons, spiraling out of control, a shroom trip nightmare. "I had an awakening." I dropped that class. I got kicked out of the dorms. I shove beer bottles in my jacket pockets and disappear into the night. The warm and unclear night. A wolf prepares to howl. Locates ideal position on an exposed hill. Long casting shadows. Dark impenetrable branches entangled like clasped hands. (go away you god damn self-editor). I will talk to myself as I listen to reggae and drink my tea. "skrillex through the car crash" although I truly meant to say "skrillex through the carwash" because I thought it was a novel idea, bro. Monkey chanting in the hidden temples of Cambodia. A silent documentary. Without narration. Supposedly, some visionary filmmaker decided his images of the world would be beautiful enough that they explain themselves. Beautiful Tibetan imagery, of cliffside tombs and dwellings with candles and flower pedals and straw mats. Hostess Bar or the W Lounge. The light of offering and Zen rock gardens. Supremely quiet and well kept. I think of peaceful exuberance (growing luxuriously or profusely) among small pagoda villages, but higher and farther isolated. Wandered off one day with high intentions to find and conquer inner quiet and peaceful organization. Vows of silence. Bowing and kissing the hats of the young initiates. Kissing a lock. Smoking vials down the stairway away from heaven. Waves crushing through the (grand intimidation at night when the sky and the sea look the same) large rock faces on the shows of big sir. A tiny white bridge. Some rusted car at the bottom where some poor drunken bastards suffered fiery deaths or drowning impacts with the seafloor. Making it in the car, they didn't make it. Another crawled under and wrote a book about it in scattered, tattered, freeway worn old shoes and a lunatic hangover after month-long, life-long, year-long benders and ragers. One day awake in a dark shivering mess, hearing and remembering stories of such adventures, possibly waking in a different city altogether. Skipping down the, bacon-cooking, railroad tracks. Near the drain that the gangs or spouse-murderers shove their victim's bodies. It's certainly dark enough. A five minute walk from here really. Near the orange fruit tree and the cracks in the sidewalk. Small ones. The joggers who dare to sprint across the road for fear of upsetting their rhythm of breathing and pace-keeping with the hot 40 playlists on infinite repeat crushing blood vessels together in your ears. Unpacking and repacking the suitcase. Take out some memories. Remove some old exciting feats that may pop back at the mention of a intermediate. An acquaintance remembers that one specific jaunt and leads you to speculation about your own understanding of the events described. Whatever spills out onto your conscious is recalled in a foggy glass frame. A watch with a blinding glare. Now I will watch a video. Coincidence met me on the street and I felt fully convinced of what sort of thing will happen if I allow fate to work in my favor. For the band to recognize me as stoner of a kind (stoner of a kid) and a musician. Workout twice like a guido. Test in the library, stunning elf-like girl seemed to be going for the same results, an A with an open notebook. I guiltily take on extra-curricular activities with the relief of an open notebook. But these are singing. Exercise. Reading. Writing. Playing guitar. Watching planet earth. Playing bass. Increasing finger strength. Watching music videos. Discovering bands. Vocal lessons. Errands. Chores. Cook. Clean. Make bed. Plan future events. Scratch my head and turn back to the burner.
Editing composition. Decomposition. A dull knife, tries to cut wires. I should be memorize cladographic lineages and the origin of primate behavior based on osteoperosis and paleontology. I need to remember the biological names of creatures like us, including us. Pan. Pongo. Gorilla. Homo. Etc. No stress, studying, like last term. Open note. I can't afford to waste away studying the material so darn heavily. Burn my chest. Fall down the stairs. Stand up and it's St. Patrick's day. a thousand miles away. (Write in coffee shops?) Even if on vacation I cannot give up the writing. I am uninspired this morning and I feel like I have nothing special to say.
will resume.
1230am
found a free live white denim concert to watch and witness this night. after such a long and bipolar/split day. the one that goes from morning to evening in two entirely different colors, merging at the center in some brown haze of transformation, this day, (tempe campus purple flowers in trees scent) out, somewhere the sun brightened and jokes existed in a brighter foliage. A different haze of intellectual safeguards kept me from mouthing off about this or that. Mr. Smart Cross Fade. Her name was Nashville. The stories of gang bangers and the videos of screaming cartoons, spiraling out of control, a shroom trip nightmare. "I had an awakening." I dropped that class. I got kicked out of the dorms. I shove beer bottles in my jacket pockets and disappear into the night. The warm and unclear night. A wolf prepares to howl. Locates ideal position on an exposed hill. Long casting shadows. Dark impenetrable branches entangled like clasped hands. (go away you god damn self-editor). I will talk to myself as I listen to reggae and drink my tea. "skrillex through the car crash" although I truly meant to say "skrillex through the carwash" because I thought it was a novel idea, bro. Monkey chanting in the hidden temples of Cambodia. A silent documentary. Without narration. Supposedly, some visionary filmmaker decided his images of the world would be beautiful enough that they explain themselves. Beautiful Tibetan imagery, of cliffside tombs and dwellings with candles and flower pedals and straw mats. Hostess Bar or the W Lounge. The light of offering and Zen rock gardens. Supremely quiet and well kept. I think of peaceful exuberance (growing luxuriously or profusely) among small pagoda villages, but higher and farther isolated. Wandered off one day with high intentions to find and conquer inner quiet and peaceful organization. Vows of silence. Bowing and kissing the hats of the young initiates. Kissing a lock. Smoking vials down the stairway away from heaven. Waves crushing through the (grand intimidation at night when the sky and the sea look the same) large rock faces on the shows of big sir. A tiny white bridge. Some rusted car at the bottom where some poor drunken bastards suffered fiery deaths or drowning impacts with the seafloor. Making it in the car, they didn't make it. Another crawled under and wrote a book about it in scattered, tattered, freeway worn old shoes and a lunatic hangover after month-long, life-long, year-long benders and ragers. One day awake in a dark shivering mess, hearing and remembering stories of such adventures, possibly waking in a different city altogether. Skipping down the, bacon-cooking, railroad tracks. Near the drain that the gangs or spouse-murderers shove their victim's bodies. It's certainly dark enough. A five minute walk from here really. Near the orange fruit tree and the cracks in the sidewalk. Small ones. The joggers who dare to sprint across the road for fear of upsetting their rhythm of breathing and pace-keeping with the hot 40 playlists on infinite repeat crushing blood vessels together in your ears. Unpacking and repacking the suitcase. Take out some memories. Remove some old exciting feats that may pop back at the mention of a intermediate. An acquaintance remembers that one specific jaunt and leads you to speculation about your own understanding of the events described. Whatever spills out onto your conscious is recalled in a foggy glass frame. A watch with a blinding glare. Now I will watch a video. Coincidence met me on the street and I felt fully convinced of what sort of thing will happen if I allow fate to work in my favor. For the band to recognize me as stoner of a kind (stoner of a kid) and a musician. Workout twice like a guido. Test in the library, stunning elf-like girl seemed to be going for the same results, an A with an open notebook. I guiltily take on extra-curricular activities with the relief of an open notebook. But these are singing. Exercise. Reading. Writing. Playing guitar. Watching planet earth. Playing bass. Increasing finger strength. Watching music videos. Discovering bands. Vocal lessons. Errands. Chores. Cook. Clean. Make bed. Plan future events. Scratch my head and turn back to the burner.
Sunday, March 4, 2012
March 4th
1053
On your birthday in your birthday suit. I'd pay money just to pay attention to you... somethin somethin.. take this other places.
The reflective glow from the hilltop filled my heart with an important and crucial peace. I feel like I've lost time now. Where the hell did my weekend go? (Sunday breakfast never happens because we are getting to hate each other) My blood doesn't blend here but he thrives. I'm probably just jealous but because I don't like it here, it's a warped jealousy. Wanting something that I never want. It's wanting what I can't have and don't have the heart to have. But damn, would this be fun if I was like him. Damn would college be interesting. I could sweet talk the princess. I could play pool in the pool and feel no regret about any singular action. I could lay in the sun and tan the spaces between my rock hard abs and let a bitch rub the lotion in. I could wear shades that match my shirt, on any day.
It'll be alright. It'll be alright.
Looking at art. Reading books on Thaosist philosophy. These people didn't waste away in institutions. They created masterpieces, distanced. Far from the collegiate conspiracy. Maybe in mental institutions where they would thrive like the geniuses they are but no one will realize until the future.
In Arizona, I am weird.
In Arizona, weird is bad.
Therefore, in Arizona, I am bad.
I am like a plague with my off-kilter comedy
my quips
(saying something and then saying, 'hey wouldn't it be fucked up if someone actually said that?')
Feeling helpless often enough
when i do something random and heartwarming
i get stomped on
I realize what this is
it is a microcosm of all of the worst aspects of my generation
the superficial
the materialistic
"capitalism at it's finest"
the fake tans the tanning beds the double beds
the orgies in dorm rooms
"I'm just trying to get home" says the homeless man without shoes
give him five dollars so he can get himself to a bar
melancholy smiles do nothing
techno music from cars
even a '56 chevy blasted rap
custom subs in the back
a cultural and generational clash of the titans
I wish I was 20 years old (at my prime? that's a terrifying thought)
during the beat generation
I want to live and love with crazy
idealistic writers
who burrow themselves
and hold out in high places through winter
come spring they travel like my legs are dying
I want to spend evenings in jazz clubs.
I want real conversations with real individuals.
I am intellectually stimulated
but NOT by the people
Not in direct conversation.
I stumble over myself.
It may take awhile for me to shake off the cowardice
spreading deep like cobwebs
this is a conditioning facility
and when someone rings that bell
you will slide up slobbering
I find abstract trains of thought
in the fragments of conversation I overhear
I think for our futures sake, my god, what are these cretins going to do with the world?
these people are subhuman
they live in caves
but everyone accepts this as standard
and high school politics all over again
who fucks who fucks who fucks who
gossip from two lips, push up tulips
tomorrow, traffic lights turn blue
who the fuck are you
strange vagrant wanderer
illicit star-eyed dreamer
when she falls i cant catch her
my arms two thousand miles longer
so gravity can't hurt her anymore
but i resist the temptation
bottle up frustration
and find that even my favorite,
most intimate moments are being systematically destroyed
by the sun and the days left in this trap
i feel the pressure from all directions
crushing me but not shaping a model body
leaving me disfigured, let me move to notre dame
it would probably feel the same
who cares if they are pretentious
i need to surround myself with people
who at least PRETEND to be smart
they can lift me higher
we can talk and learn from each other
here I have nothing
I have no one
and with a ticket for Radiohead up for grabs I wonder who I will ruin
On your birthday in your birthday suit. I'd pay money just to pay attention to you... somethin somethin.. take this other places.
The reflective glow from the hilltop filled my heart with an important and crucial peace. I feel like I've lost time now. Where the hell did my weekend go? (Sunday breakfast never happens because we are getting to hate each other) My blood doesn't blend here but he thrives. I'm probably just jealous but because I don't like it here, it's a warped jealousy. Wanting something that I never want. It's wanting what I can't have and don't have the heart to have. But damn, would this be fun if I was like him. Damn would college be interesting. I could sweet talk the princess. I could play pool in the pool and feel no regret about any singular action. I could lay in the sun and tan the spaces between my rock hard abs and let a bitch rub the lotion in. I could wear shades that match my shirt, on any day.
It'll be alright. It'll be alright.
Looking at art. Reading books on Thaosist philosophy. These people didn't waste away in institutions. They created masterpieces, distanced. Far from the collegiate conspiracy. Maybe in mental institutions where they would thrive like the geniuses they are but no one will realize until the future.
In Arizona, I am weird.
In Arizona, weird is bad.
Therefore, in Arizona, I am bad.
I am like a plague with my off-kilter comedy
my quips
(saying something and then saying, 'hey wouldn't it be fucked up if someone actually said that?')
Feeling helpless often enough
when i do something random and heartwarming
i get stomped on
I realize what this is
it is a microcosm of all of the worst aspects of my generation
the superficial
the materialistic
"capitalism at it's finest"
the fake tans the tanning beds the double beds
the orgies in dorm rooms
"I'm just trying to get home" says the homeless man without shoes
give him five dollars so he can get himself to a bar
melancholy smiles do nothing
techno music from cars
even a '56 chevy blasted rap
custom subs in the back
a cultural and generational clash of the titans
I wish I was 20 years old (at my prime? that's a terrifying thought)
during the beat generation
I want to live and love with crazy
idealistic writers
who burrow themselves
and hold out in high places through winter
come spring they travel like my legs are dying
I want to spend evenings in jazz clubs.
I want real conversations with real individuals.
I am intellectually stimulated
but NOT by the people
Not in direct conversation.
I stumble over myself.
It may take awhile for me to shake off the cowardice
spreading deep like cobwebs
this is a conditioning facility
and when someone rings that bell
you will slide up slobbering
I find abstract trains of thought
in the fragments of conversation I overhear
I think for our futures sake, my god, what are these cretins going to do with the world?
these people are subhuman
they live in caves
but everyone accepts this as standard
and high school politics all over again
who fucks who fucks who fucks who
gossip from two lips, push up tulips
tomorrow, traffic lights turn blue
who the fuck are you
strange vagrant wanderer
illicit star-eyed dreamer
when she falls i cant catch her
my arms two thousand miles longer
so gravity can't hurt her anymore
but i resist the temptation
bottle up frustration
and find that even my favorite,
most intimate moments are being systematically destroyed
by the sun and the days left in this trap
i feel the pressure from all directions
crushing me but not shaping a model body
leaving me disfigured, let me move to notre dame
it would probably feel the same
who cares if they are pretentious
i need to surround myself with people
who at least PRETEND to be smart
they can lift me higher
we can talk and learn from each other
here I have nothing
I have no one
and with a ticket for Radiohead up for grabs I wonder who I will ruin
Saturday, March 3, 2012
March 3rd
4:27 - 4:47 am
Establishing connections with art critics amidst a vast empty valley, incomparable to the Afar depression of Ethiopia. The sedimentary rock had been destroyed by a scorching stellar object floating somewhere, hot, above our crescent moon. The dust in the breeze layers the blue painted bike with a muted glaze. No one will be riding it tonight and only dust will gather as it sits, waiting patiently. After the waiting and the build up, the rider will dust off the seat with a cloth or a spare shirt from the backseat, trunk within reach. The man who could be made up into a gentleman through the contents of his trunk. The last time that happened... Artist endeavors, the predictable traits of new punks and old intellectuals discussion the musical smarts inherent in bands like Yes (of old) and BTBAM (of new). The same mindset is required. The same drafting ideas that they almost forgot to record. The inherent and believable feeling that a loss of old music is a loss of collective soul, no matter how informal or bestial the song. No matter how primitive and indistinguishable the voices, speaking gibberish rather than plain English, but this fact should not offend. The music is music is music is music. The beating drums that we don't understand is understood by many across cultures and sands. The universal music is required to unit and conquer. Our music, our melancholy voices through the transaction between our late high school/early college students and theirs, the musical and developmental differences might be noticed, filling in the blanks of the void, the ignorant chasm that constricts in our throats when we decide to play safe rather than be tranquilized by the standard or normal conditions of treatment. We are angry at the lack of miscommunication. The bloodshed and garbage produced from the delicacy of the procedure are evident in the strikes of hand. The overexposure of the wrist and muscles required to form meaning. The strain of playing bass beyond capabilities. (Iiiiii Wonnnnt beeee around heeere for toooo veryyy looooooooon). Get back to where you once came from, Chase the ace, quality control, room to move, wasted hours, all the sand in all the sea, hindsight, 'you got a death wish johnny truant', cold chillin', she came in through the bathroom window, little lover's so polite, nothing like you, mama, I'm swollen, assassin, graverobber, black wave, ten thousand words, the blinding light, you just haven't earned it yet baby, given the chance, crawl, local man ruins everything, victory, victory dance, miss the misery, stop whispering, 7 billion people all alive at once, your name here, plans, getting better, write your story now, church mouth, so lonely, against me, shine, another night in the rock, bats, grace, long live the queen.
Establishing connections with art critics amidst a vast empty valley, incomparable to the Afar depression of Ethiopia. The sedimentary rock had been destroyed by a scorching stellar object floating somewhere, hot, above our crescent moon. The dust in the breeze layers the blue painted bike with a muted glaze. No one will be riding it tonight and only dust will gather as it sits, waiting patiently. After the waiting and the build up, the rider will dust off the seat with a cloth or a spare shirt from the backseat, trunk within reach. The man who could be made up into a gentleman through the contents of his trunk. The last time that happened... Artist endeavors, the predictable traits of new punks and old intellectuals discussion the musical smarts inherent in bands like Yes (of old) and BTBAM (of new). The same mindset is required. The same drafting ideas that they almost forgot to record. The inherent and believable feeling that a loss of old music is a loss of collective soul, no matter how informal or bestial the song. No matter how primitive and indistinguishable the voices, speaking gibberish rather than plain English, but this fact should not offend. The music is music is music is music. The beating drums that we don't understand is understood by many across cultures and sands. The universal music is required to unit and conquer. Our music, our melancholy voices through the transaction between our late high school/early college students and theirs, the musical and developmental differences might be noticed, filling in the blanks of the void, the ignorant chasm that constricts in our throats when we decide to play safe rather than be tranquilized by the standard or normal conditions of treatment. We are angry at the lack of miscommunication. The bloodshed and garbage produced from the delicacy of the procedure are evident in the strikes of hand. The overexposure of the wrist and muscles required to form meaning. The strain of playing bass beyond capabilities. (Iiiiii Wonnnnt beeee around heeere for toooo veryyy looooooooon). Get back to where you once came from, Chase the ace, quality control, room to move, wasted hours, all the sand in all the sea, hindsight, 'you got a death wish johnny truant', cold chillin', she came in through the bathroom window, little lover's so polite, nothing like you, mama, I'm swollen, assassin, graverobber, black wave, ten thousand words, the blinding light, you just haven't earned it yet baby, given the chance, crawl, local man ruins everything, victory, victory dance, miss the misery, stop whispering, 7 billion people all alive at once, your name here, plans, getting better, write your story now, church mouth, so lonely, against me, shine, another night in the rock, bats, grace, long live the queen.
Friday, March 2, 2012
March 2nd
848-9008
A strange and intricate series of tents. Leaving blind corners all over, due to the sagging centers of material. (I see dark red, but something soft, unlike blood). This fabric has swirling good designs on it, tan mandalas and little Indian elephants herding groups of tan people towards enlightenment, pictographs, pictogram, hieroglyphics. The scenery is embroidered.
It is a hotel or motel. A series of canopy tents, like one great circus canvas enveloping the lower level areas, where personal rooms are formed out of the mold of fabric. (There are no doors, you have to trust everyone for your privacy, every is naked anyway.) There are naked people around some corners, or folds of this fabric, they seem to be beautiful and easygoing with their exposure. Swimming in a strange indoor pool (no doors) the red swirling canopy gives way to a clear blue fabric out here, a hint of the sun shows through and will tan you if you lay out for twice as long. The blue fabric acts like sun tan lotion.
This is simply a bad description of a good dream. There was a sense of fantasy and mystery. Also community spirit and I felt I belonged and was happily involved in this sanctum. (I pray that you are nothing like your photo at all). More than bodies, the women had gorgeous piercing eyes, but a good pierce like cupid's arrow, I walked around (floating on sandals) every minute pile of sand turned into a peaceful garden, there are small waterfalls and fountains everywhere, man made of course, but nature took over from our blueprints and shrubs of unknown origin have gathered in the corners of the main room (which is vast like a stadium). The eyes were inviting and not intimidating.
Apparently I was in a hurry to check out my room (simply a pile of dark purple blankets, a flashing clock with no apparent source of electric current, a mini fridge full of absinthe and lemonade, a flask available for rent for the public concealment of said items, ten incense burners all with a different scent filling the room with glorious scented haze that sticks to your clothes, sticks to your soul, and all of those inviting eyes might want to tangle up in this pile of blankets dependent of the scents the maids or gods or whomever selected.) There is a zen garden in the bathtub. When I tried the running water, lotus flowers bloomed out of the pipes. I left it running and came back, my bathroom full of these bright flowers. (But maintenance would later bill me for this 'spill' like a flooded tub). In this oasis I meet the women I have loved throughout my life. There is thick smoke that makes my head feel lighter and clears my sinuses. There are faucets that pour out (hot/cold) rose pedals. Everything is vibrant and vibrating, a perfect symmetry to the cosmos and the chaos outside of these tent walls. The evident danger in fire within is overlooked and there are no precautions taken to fight such fire. If it happens it happens. That is the motivation for all within this commune. Eyes pierce and we wrap up in rainbow blankets but never get too warm, we must be under a thousand tangled fabrics, many layers separating us. (there is 'a rat' in separate). But our eyes connect. They cut through the layers with laser precision. Diamond engraving. Emerald skin tone. Hand holding soul crushing warmth. The diabolic sun allows no uncharred remains of us. Gather up your friends and relatives we are moving to tent city.
A strange and intricate series of tents. Leaving blind corners all over, due to the sagging centers of material. (I see dark red, but something soft, unlike blood). This fabric has swirling good designs on it, tan mandalas and little Indian elephants herding groups of tan people towards enlightenment, pictographs, pictogram, hieroglyphics. The scenery is embroidered.
It is a hotel or motel. A series of canopy tents, like one great circus canvas enveloping the lower level areas, where personal rooms are formed out of the mold of fabric. (There are no doors, you have to trust everyone for your privacy, every is naked anyway.) There are naked people around some corners, or folds of this fabric, they seem to be beautiful and easygoing with their exposure. Swimming in a strange indoor pool (no doors) the red swirling canopy gives way to a clear blue fabric out here, a hint of the sun shows through and will tan you if you lay out for twice as long. The blue fabric acts like sun tan lotion.
This is simply a bad description of a good dream. There was a sense of fantasy and mystery. Also community spirit and I felt I belonged and was happily involved in this sanctum. (I pray that you are nothing like your photo at all). More than bodies, the women had gorgeous piercing eyes, but a good pierce like cupid's arrow, I walked around (floating on sandals) every minute pile of sand turned into a peaceful garden, there are small waterfalls and fountains everywhere, man made of course, but nature took over from our blueprints and shrubs of unknown origin have gathered in the corners of the main room (which is vast like a stadium). The eyes were inviting and not intimidating.
Apparently I was in a hurry to check out my room (simply a pile of dark purple blankets, a flashing clock with no apparent source of electric current, a mini fridge full of absinthe and lemonade, a flask available for rent for the public concealment of said items, ten incense burners all with a different scent filling the room with glorious scented haze that sticks to your clothes, sticks to your soul, and all of those inviting eyes might want to tangle up in this pile of blankets dependent of the scents the maids or gods or whomever selected.) There is a zen garden in the bathtub. When I tried the running water, lotus flowers bloomed out of the pipes. I left it running and came back, my bathroom full of these bright flowers. (But maintenance would later bill me for this 'spill' like a flooded tub). In this oasis I meet the women I have loved throughout my life. There is thick smoke that makes my head feel lighter and clears my sinuses. There are faucets that pour out (hot/cold) rose pedals. Everything is vibrant and vibrating, a perfect symmetry to the cosmos and the chaos outside of these tent walls. The evident danger in fire within is overlooked and there are no precautions taken to fight such fire. If it happens it happens. That is the motivation for all within this commune. Eyes pierce and we wrap up in rainbow blankets but never get too warm, we must be under a thousand tangled fabrics, many layers separating us. (there is 'a rat' in separate). But our eyes connect. They cut through the layers with laser precision. Diamond engraving. Emerald skin tone. Hand holding soul crushing warmth. The diabolic sun allows no uncharred remains of us. Gather up your friends and relatives we are moving to tent city.
Thursday, March 1, 2012
March 1st
1006-1026am
After Midnight. After Meridian. After Moonlight. Adverse Merriment. Etc.
Let's create something that will become a legacy. Let's do something, collectively, in hordes, that will be remembered and repeated for the rest of our lives. We can take personal satisfaction in beginning, now, in the present, the new hundred year traditions. I want to stampede with my brethren through dawn streets, unplugging traffic signals, uprooting small trees: basic anarchy until we are jailed. But there will be too many. They will stop some of us sure, but they sacrificed their freedom for the cause. What cause man? We will sit down at board meetings and invent a cause.
I imagine wild screaming youth scaling the sides of office buildings like slithering rodents. Like free climbers. Some will fall to death by gravity and ground but they sacrificed for the cause. The concrete below interrupts brief meditation regarding the feeling of weightlessness. But the brain is dead before it can react to that feeling. The spinning, swirling sky and the view decreasing as height decreases, the max velocity nearly achieved. One is left to think of their life and other moments they felt so weightless, wind through hair. Like first kisses or winning championships or anything from the heart.
Many of us will die simply searching for this cause. Die to the cause rather than physical death. These thoughts are too uncommon and any sense of organization be dashed. No one believes in anarchy anymore. My zippo is pure black now. No design. No purpose. Anarchy is dead. Let's create something else. Something where we can limited the barrage of mind numbing garbage that hovers around our planet like a plague. So many satellites beaming images onto computer screens and all of our phones always know where we are. We can look up our friends and we can catch them in lies. I knew you were with her! A 3 am wednesday night! Where are you? (I think it's best not to meet up. Remembering St Patty's day last year. Dress shirt and tie. Middle fingers, Lauren's apartment. I don't know if the cat existed yet. Weezy. New name now that I forget. Something cuter, warmer. We drank pure Irish brew and laugh jolly at the prospects of the future. Today I will go back in time and read my writings from then and reminisce fully. From this perspective I am just making up details. Possibly distorting the truth (but distorting the truth is entertaining and fun! we are all just actors!)
Kill your impression manager.
He is a bastard and has stifled you for too long. Oppression. Depression. At his conniving hands. He sits at his huge red oak desk with careful wood carvings for the oppressed to look at while sitting, vegetating, in the small chairs, uncomfortable, he provides for you while you have to wait for him to finish up with his afternoon secretary quickie in the master bathroom that she is only allowed to enter if he is allowed to enter her. He smiles a shit eating grin and places his huge hands on your shoulders and scares the living daylights out of you. You heard no approach. "Now about your appearance he says," evil, sardonic, the worst of mankind, "Don't you think people will judge you in negative light if you dress or act that way, if you try to be an individual?"
"I don't care what they think!" you want scream.
"Oh yes, yes you do." That's my job he smirks.
Before you reply he is strangling you, power crazed.
After Midnight. After Meridian. After Moonlight. Adverse Merriment. Etc.
Let's create something that will become a legacy. Let's do something, collectively, in hordes, that will be remembered and repeated for the rest of our lives. We can take personal satisfaction in beginning, now, in the present, the new hundred year traditions. I want to stampede with my brethren through dawn streets, unplugging traffic signals, uprooting small trees: basic anarchy until we are jailed. But there will be too many. They will stop some of us sure, but they sacrificed their freedom for the cause. What cause man? We will sit down at board meetings and invent a cause.
I imagine wild screaming youth scaling the sides of office buildings like slithering rodents. Like free climbers. Some will fall to death by gravity and ground but they sacrificed for the cause. The concrete below interrupts brief meditation regarding the feeling of weightlessness. But the brain is dead before it can react to that feeling. The spinning, swirling sky and the view decreasing as height decreases, the max velocity nearly achieved. One is left to think of their life and other moments they felt so weightless, wind through hair. Like first kisses or winning championships or anything from the heart.
Many of us will die simply searching for this cause. Die to the cause rather than physical death. These thoughts are too uncommon and any sense of organization be dashed. No one believes in anarchy anymore. My zippo is pure black now. No design. No purpose. Anarchy is dead. Let's create something else. Something where we can limited the barrage of mind numbing garbage that hovers around our planet like a plague. So many satellites beaming images onto computer screens and all of our phones always know where we are. We can look up our friends and we can catch them in lies. I knew you were with her! A 3 am wednesday night! Where are you? (I think it's best not to meet up. Remembering St Patty's day last year. Dress shirt and tie. Middle fingers, Lauren's apartment. I don't know if the cat existed yet. Weezy. New name now that I forget. Something cuter, warmer. We drank pure Irish brew and laugh jolly at the prospects of the future. Today I will go back in time and read my writings from then and reminisce fully. From this perspective I am just making up details. Possibly distorting the truth (but distorting the truth is entertaining and fun! we are all just actors!)
Kill your impression manager.
He is a bastard and has stifled you for too long. Oppression. Depression. At his conniving hands. He sits at his huge red oak desk with careful wood carvings for the oppressed to look at while sitting, vegetating, in the small chairs, uncomfortable, he provides for you while you have to wait for him to finish up with his afternoon secretary quickie in the master bathroom that she is only allowed to enter if he is allowed to enter her. He smiles a shit eating grin and places his huge hands on your shoulders and scares the living daylights out of you. You heard no approach. "Now about your appearance he says," evil, sardonic, the worst of mankind, "Don't you think people will judge you in negative light if you dress or act that way, if you try to be an individual?"
"I don't care what they think!" you want scream.
"Oh yes, yes you do." That's my job he smirks.
Before you reply he is strangling you, power crazed.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)