dec 22

Progressive guitar licks on a hand painted blue strat. Strap came off and I duct tape the input on the amp. It is a ghetto rig but the songs to keep are being written as we speak. Shy sexual young girl who does not know what a hookah is or how to play beer pong. Some other devil came out long before the others and if her looks had anything to do with it ill be damned. Hey babe. The blacklit dance floor. The potential for some late crazy exchange. The type we remember. Too often the type we forget. The lovely atmosphere of colored moving lights, some random, some repetitious, causing all designs on both corners to always change. The slightly movements of our eyes catch the intricacy as if we were studying under a microscope. If the house sways, it will probably smell like beer. Take out your measuring tape and your stethoscope and let's get a feel for this room. Let's analyze the history of the posters. The lack of resale value. The parents trapped in a conundrum. But it has become a long term goal in my life to help my parents move out of this mansion for two people. A house that is comfortable yet creates a rift. We all have our own spaces and our own lives. A sad lonely mother. A tired busy father. One sips wine one sips rum and orange juice. One has kids and minor work responsibilities. Paying bills and making sure that I can continue my education. One has 30+ kids and a new location to put team equipment. The donation box is full and finally some positive changes are being made. Both suffer the same silence and can't handle the house without the kids. The ghost of memories, we are running through the lawn, now that the fort has been overgrown. Built by a father figure I will never understand. Dad of dad. I never know how that dynamic worked out but I know how open I am with my parents and it is an anomaly what we have. How it is condoned. I have chosen the lesser path. One with discipline only every now and then. Incredibly, cigarette tobacco has entered my lungs today. This is beyond me. Some foreign hand with dark claws offered me the lighter. Some zippo with a faded design. Indicative of seasonal use. Progression. From here to there and back. Write about me puking and dying in the bathroom. I write about the feeling you get when you cannot forgive someone. That heartwrench. Destructive force behind evil images and thoughts. The ones they should put you away for. The thought crimes. Worthy of sin. Checkmarks in some giant, universal notebook. Naughty or nice party. We dress to unimpress. We dress in weird fashion to attract positive attention. The trend setting crowd the sees everything 5 minutes in the future. While us simpleton are stuck in the slow and desolate past. Or present rather. Still listening to Against Me! and miscellany of metal bands that no one else cares to here. A generation lower than At Night. Somehow someone does not know. Take a shirt. Advertise. Let them know we once existed. The album that could have been a ticket. Now passed off as some funeral handout. The event list. The event horizon. We are dark and spiraling in dark thought patterns. Avoiding boredom like the plague. But without any quantifiable evidence that it exists beyond our imagination. We dont know. So you dont know. The damage we cause our brains on regular basis. The energy in a crowded room compared to the energy in a different comfortable room. Early poker night. 25 people packed heavy and hot in a small garage space. Somewhere to dance and to drink and to be merry. To fight and to fondle. It does not happen, for me at least. Too timid. But there is a casanova somewhere, crawling to the surface. My personality awaits his arrival and the shenanigans he will pull. This new version. Still in working stages. In the prototype phase. the northwest the southwest. It will all really be incredibly similar. What if I don't want to hang around people I went to high school with forever. College friends have separate intentions. (get it in). Knowledge. Openmindedness. We hope for the best and cross our fingers when they are not clutching the waist of beautiful women, or the crutch of a hand rolled spliff, the half tobacco half marijuana joint. Once I meet this casanova, I will spend time learning his techniques and apply them at least to make girls smile in my direction. Write a resolution based on character. My habits. The tobacco, the marijuana. Controllable. Depression. Controllable. My social instability..? This must be manipulated or else I will never enjoy my peers, anywhere in the world. At 20 I should write a novel. Be in perfect shape. And flirt with women like its a career. Hours 7 am to 3 pm and sometimes 6 pm. This sounds like a terrible fucking transition. Extended high school. Calling us out. I wonder what it is like on the outside, this time of the year>

dec 21st

Punched out the advent calendar out of order. Only I will know that I did this when looking back at the empty shell. The hollow carcass of the month of build up. That sleepless night jolly old saint nick rappels down chimneys of 3.7 billion houses. Everyone gives everyone deserves. It's living here in this house among evergreens. Watching white, unique snow flakes fall into oblivion once they reach concrete with brethren. Fallen soldiers. Mostly clouds of condensed moisture releasing a more solid form of water than rain in certain temperatures. The majesty and glamor. I remember the year that a box appeared on the front doorstep. It had air holes and was making noise. A cat. A kitten. Made me curious how my parents were able to hide a little kitten. Especially one my dad picked out because it was the only one that attacked his face out of the litter. Dirty Harry. Toy train tracks delivering presents of ghosts. The presence of presents in the right pretense. The preposterous. Always a huge distinction between those who received christmas bonus and those who get laid-off. Hunting reindeer. Burning poison in the chimney. The cookies are laced with pcp. A tab of acid in the milk. Santa will be a drunk driver this year. Spend the holiday in a dirty cell. The most deprived and sad and desperate can be found in jailcells this christmas eve. These are the fresh criminals at the end of the rope. The lights, the atmosphere, the joyous nature, at least facade, the implemented smiles, is too much. The people smiling and drinking peppermint mocha in warm fireplace corners of coffee shops. They know little of disparity. (this city, man, it's really got a hold on you). I drink cold coffee out of a yellow mug and sit on the ground. listen to seattle downer hip hop.
i have some sense of loyalty to the northwest and although i can live anywhere in the world happily, part of me already decided to move back up to the trees and the beauty, the interesting people and the cold rainclouds. the depressed people, wandering streets looking for shade. looking for sun spots. burning up. phoenix is currently getting more rain than seattle and something seems wrong. i threw a couple snowballs. sat down on a snowbank. counted the tops of trees i could see through the fog. sky highlights blue. blue blue blue blue christmas. a small scale guitar. a book never returned. a girl never spoken to. only looked at but never confronted. hot girls are not scary if you know they. for me it would be to approach an absolute stranger. for you, you are familiar. friend zone man. take her out. through some wild display of spirit. hold her hand and walk her through a christmas lit downtown plaza. feel some warmth. the power of sincerity in the spirit of the holidaze. dazed and confused you smoke your way out of close contact with a beautiful confused young girl. she would be nice to kiss. nice to watch sunsets with from riverbeds. nice to relapse with. subsequently... too intimidating to date to date. she is still too confused to date to date. to this date. hard to wine and dine someone who does not enjoy eating or drinking. wed and bed. the tying of the knot. the rocket to the moon. the nice, small town girl whose eyes grow giant in the city, the depths of an american western city, this is the time of life for casual sex and for intermittent meaningful relationships, the time to change the color and style of hair and personality. the time to lose your shoes and parties and walked fifteen blocks home barefoot, to be the one to keep her safe but thought of as someone who is trying to take advantage of her. but people don't like me that much anyway, although she was a drunk hot mess and danced with me, i went along only for awhile, thinking about how to deal with this. how to get her home safe without looking like a daterape in progress, eventually her roommate came out and took her away, i was an absolute stranger amidst those broadshouldered giants. i recognized her and two others. one who did not recognize me. but anyway, despite that trashy drunk evening, she is a good girl to meet and greet. take her home and show her off to your family. your friends. your ex girlfriends. you can't let that drunk mess of a girl, with only shreds of sobriety left in her head, with all of the worst intentions for self-destruction and slutty self-satisfaction, and instant gratification. everyone has been there at this point. making a mockery of standard morals. some dark and cold shade of a decent human being. it's there. underneath. the. surface.

dec 19

The sunrise offers less comfort than the silence. Northwestern silence. Cotton shoved into ears. Although I had a 20 hour sunday my mind rolls me out of bed. I am baffled by the inconvenience. It is so senseless. Last night I slept horribly without a soundtrack. Tonight I cannot slept in my hot bed in a cold room without rolling or turning. I use my fatigue to my advantage. It guides writing. Strange, partially coherent late night actions. Such as folder half of the laundry. Tuning the first three strings of the guitar to an open E flat chord. Partially coherent thoughts. Lists, to-do lists. To-don't lists. Checkmarks, underlines, cross outs, circles, arrows, engraving. Become a professional writer. Use this blog as catalyst. As pandora's box. Look at me all! Fill me in between your lines with blue ink. Connect the dots with swirling scars on your back and wrists. Shrapnel from a blown past. Reignite the old cow from her humble chambers of rest. Let her know she is loved. Fake it or believe in it. She will change the world if given incentive and motivation. It seems I need to learn how to solve problems. My life. The life of a friend. To be a savior. Scratching my bare chest. The one I've learned to be indifferent to. The one I can be proud of or ashamed of in equal proportion. The one I sculpt and manufacture, in attempt at health or beauty. The one shielding a beating heart. Pounding and reverberating in its cavity. Its home. But where is my heart? Where do I belong? My face gathers oil. My teeth stain yellow for neglect. Careless lovers exchange sex for food under an overpass. They carve a little hash mark into a hidden corner of the concrete infrastructure to indicate how many days they have survived after the supposed end of the world. They pause and rewind family video tapes in their heads. And weep as they lay eyes upon there very own childish features from murky recollection. Of course I remember, sister. I cannot suppress all unpleasant. I cannot call poison ivy a blessing. I cannot be as brave as I was when I was 14. When I broke the chassis of an old bike, on a sketchy steep, mountain bike suicide trail. When I would swing from giant chandeliers and light candles with magnifying glasses. If fires start behind my back, warn me if I am burning. If we were lovers in twisted clothes, eyes from head to toe, filling out the details, the contoured outlines of what may or may not be beneath. Reality often disappoints imagination. Oh. It's like this anyway. The dark rings form under my eyes. Sagging eyelids like an old timekeeper. The one who lives high in the belltower but has long lost any sense of sanity or rhythm. The bell rings discordant in odd hours throughout a series of weeks and then months before no one ever hears from him again and notre dame is burned to the ground. In a delicate explosive tactile maneuver. We will rendezvous in the state you left me in. Oregon. Melancholy. Washington. Nostalgic. Arizona. Confused. Pick your favorite color from this suspect lineup and let me know what you think when you see me in your bathroom mirror. It's a convincing ghost story to spread throughout history. That one about the little boy crying from one hillside to another. Floating above the fingertips of evergreens, he haunts generously. Giving fright to those who believe what they see. The ones who second guess will never be quite sure. The root of scientific inquiry is in this poorly distributed balance. My confusion has lead me to attempt a discovery of something that can be called by many as real, tangible, within reason, logical, and always always always true. My colleagues will be very impressed with the extent of my body of work. They will look up in awe at statues in my likeness. Not an ode to me by any means, rather a symbol of excellence, representing power in the face of utter oblivion. Indifference seeps in and destroys dreams of any statues to be constructed in my image. Streets named after daughters never born. Places where no one will ever be conceived. Sheer impossibilities. Obscurity. Blindness. I don't know when this insomnia will cause lasting damage. I don't know if it will. My mind running on empty like the instinctual death throes of any wild beast. It's wild, erratic. Hardly in touch with other departments of my mental faculty. I laugh in the face of a good night of sleep. I laugh at the prospect of a six pack. Glistening in southwestern sunlight. I grind my teeth, thinking about how I should stop popping my knuckles.

nov 21

Congratulations, they say in a shower of glitter and sparks. Metallic flakes that shine as they spin to the earth like comets. Although I know this comparison to be much more poetic than real, because comets don't necessarily ever reach the surface of earth, especially in such a slow, floundering way. You made it. Congrats. Here's your trophy wife. Just as you ordered. Dark hair, piercing eyes, a depth to those eyes, a knowledge and understanding beyond surface temperature and sensation. Not too short. But not taller than me. Is okay with going out into public with my flannel and some sweats on. But I digress. Frantically packing up school supplies, attempting to recreate a normal social conversation but in my recreation I find fault throughout. How much of that tan is from melanin and how much from whatever happens in a tanning booth? If I ever want to be a writer I must freewrite with concept or theme. Although in retrospect one appears often enough to ME. I am not my only audience. You prove this. If you read along these lines and find any sense of me. If you can cut yourself open and let the light in. through the back window of my disorganized room. the inconsistency of all good things that should propel me. I must go again. It is all so god damn distracting. All of it. All of this life.

nov 8th

a future riding on this decision this research. of course i feel unprepared, need a miracle, need people to miss their window so i can reach mine, need people to drop like flies so i can brush past and into my own personal future, how is it possible that i am left without any pleasant sounding options among the ruins of a major, the ruins of a future, hey, some point kid, you will have to figure this shit out, study abroad, fuck. study two broads, fuck if i care what you do to a t, you have to do it, you have to go for it, their fucking art classes require you to be an art major, what would that look like, repeating a credit that i aced, god damnit god damnit, where are all of the dream classes i imagined i would find here, drop the whole thing for a semester, huh, would you like that motherfucker, that new loneliness minus homesickness, so much more familiar, i spiral towards another restless night, tuesday night beer and time zone pushes back all tv shows forever, arizona does not operate on a time zone, what is that bullshit? an hour ahead, i lived an hour more than you right just now my old friends, fire away bitches, pull apart at seams, well what am i interested in? what won't make me want to strangle any stranger, choke something, put my fist through a wall, mangle a bike rack, fucking fuck fuck fuck. pull it together.

I HAVE NO ONE TO ASK FOR GUIDANCE

NO ONE

I am alone is this desert. This cold desert. A sad irony. I finally wore my orange hoodie. Alone of course. Should be used to that. Shooting self in knee caps until I can never walk again. Jesus fucking christ. What compels me to do such things fiasodfiushjn ;k;