My best intentions are writhing about on the floor like a small child in tantrum and I can't seem to comfort him whatsoever. I am at a loss and full of real animal fear for the lackluster images of my day, the terrible social disconnect and pained felt magnet love, the proposed paper massacre like little folded airplanes meticulously created and through into a great big book fire of all of the literary masterpieces I'll never read and have no power to decipher if in foreign languanges, hands over the yes and gripping with shock then tearing with a self burrowing motion like drill bits or jack hammers, those ten lane highways backed up completely for miles and some driver, in a self road rage, has gone and hung himself by his tie in the passenger seat of his life... his death...
"jumpstart my sputtering heart"
herbal supplements in the form of india pale ale, how peachy and boozy in this inclimate scene, where the bed seems awful, the floor better if not for the half blown speaker and the rhythmless horror of the clicking heat device, like the rhythmless horror of society and the world outside, here we are safe, I and fucking I. Head games defeated in last place. Try to decipher precisely why I felt so terribly against myself earlier, so utterly devoid of beautiful poetry, combative and exceptionally misguided into a coarse shifted off by those golden hours of sensation where no sequestration can divert the ultimate death of ecosystems, this ecosystem is one of mental health for me, go insane god damnit. let that flag fly above the desecrated remains of all of your to do lists, let them all cry and yawn disappointed... fortunate that we couldn't kill those devilish beasts in the chest of them without gorgeous taciturn emotional discontent, god almighty, if I could just go home and feel out a niche for my terrors, that Whitman anthology to steal, those old notebooks to peruse, that globe spun and landed on with wide stance. My mother cries and we run together like crazy specimens caught in a petri dish, but I'll bring my unfinished painting to my grandmother like a kid who goes to his scientist relative for help on a baking soda peroxide science fair experiment because the missing ingredient is at a terrible cost, for here we are left to our sour devices alone amidst all our shattered dreams.... maybe it is best for it to be a surprise for the closer family. maybe it would do well to learn without boundaries.. maybe, maybe, maybe.
saddened by the weight of responsibility lost to the ether. this is foolish to feel. give it up. forget it. grasp life with the ferocity of bears attacking anything deemed a threat to their cubs. here I am exist with a fully functioning heart and mind... the body is a piece of historical evidence for fierceness. the writerly life is one of cup filling and emptying... why only filling doesn't work is the reason that 'natural gas' is not a solution for fossil fuels. what the frack.
beaten battered bodies, cemented celestial crowds, dark devious deeds, erases everything else, forget fucking failures, grow great generosity, have heroic heart, invent...
"I'm wondering around and feel out of place."
How to be a monster torn free from society until the end of time. How to make use of this distinction and what might be implied about a personal manifesto.
Today with hesitancy I rose from bed, with coffee and the finishing of Jekyll & Hyde... notes in red pen like a journal editor, though I have no idea what that entails because I haven't the training, everything needs training. (why do my fingers feels so cold and dead when I play guitar sometimes? is it nerve damage?) here the blood runs thin and can't handle such terrible posture without an influential friend. take an introductory yoga class with the awkward hesitance of a first kiss though my body and mind would grow so happily with such a prospect, and the words come out faster than they have in quite a while, the wrists ruined by typing posture, the eyes dimmed by the 2006 computer screen, the inability to keep up with the technological times because I have no formidable bank account... speaking of... after coffee and the novella... scrambled eggs and Grieves... I put on a rain coat and jet down to the bank for a cashier's check for late rent, there goes those dreams of small living and cutting down from the enormity of my material possessions already. I couldn't even see everything I own at once if I laid them in this living space. I would be surrounded and the items would encroach to topple upon me with intrepid guilt and passionate revenge. Here Satan reaches for the gun like always but God has not left it there loaded, for everyone knows how it works out in the end and good and evil fight incessantly with no true victor until the consciousness that contemplated the battle is once and for all deceased.
The damp walk to the silent, crowded, hot radio station. No one speaks and I left after researching for awhile, that warmth and friendly comraderie did not exist in the slightest apprehensive version. We glared around the room, shoved headphones in and pretended to work on this or that. New hair cuts and trampled underfoot ideals, god help us for our awkward terror of personal hate and awful intent to sabotage oneself at the expense of protective another's comfort. none of us comfortable, all of us in the throes of an awkward balloon, like the vomiting stranger at your feet in the bathroom stall or a loud mouthed children's bus driver, or a president that ever told the truth, the fruit is at the bottom of the well here, and we can't reach without futuristic technologies. develop. develop. develop.
cross legged work on thematic intent for future musical blog posts for the University of Washington radio station though lazily run. no real conversation here made any sense. waved at a few old acquaintances. those classmates I met once or twice. talked or exchanged information though the friendship expires or is based on my terms of brief and insipid thoughts without the intended girls and lips to kiss, those red objects of desire and the alcohol that pours between them, here the hats are tilted back, the sleep is instilled in their eyes like a fire cloud... god damn, we fucked up the world and our ideas for the salvation of it are pretty ridiculous so far. oceans are screwed and our ideas to fix it all by ruining them is a temporary fix with dire consequence.
then I walked around aimless, like a ghost of campus. talked to my sister about the state of the world. she said intelligent things that gave me hope. 'extremists at anything suck' she says. fuck yes. coffee shop with free refills. a few hours spent on looming Frankenstein essay. some planning though I'm confused about what the hell I want to write about still. either the social differences between the doctor and his creation or the danger of knowledge in the world of the novel. I already started on the social differences topic so I shouldn't change now. that would make me review and revise unnecessarily.
the transference of anxious, anti social, behavior from 'parent' to 'child' even though this is a virgin birth and without the 9 month host body. the child is disfigured and huge, though born benevolent. the mad scientist is so consumed by his studies that he neglects his loving family while away in his studies in college. he becomes kind of a monster himself because of his cruel removal from the society that loved him, especially since the death of his mother because she took care of his faux-cousin while she had scarlet fever, contracted it and died of it. This faux-cousin was basically an arranged marriage wife for the mad scientist, though his passions made him kill everything around him vicariously through the monster.
all I really need is a few claims that can be addressed and assessed from the novel and the framework of the paper details.
tend to try a little hard to pick a topic that excites me on a level deeper than the assignment alone.
