April 4

To point out the sights along a winding road. Somehow mountain peaks visible on the other side of a body of water, must be a cold high mountain lake, something glacial, slow-moving and eternal. The car veers off the road slightly, the driver, my father is leaning forward to point something out to a girlfriend of mine who I allowed the front seat because she was getting car sick and so I could sleep for awhile in the back. No seat beat in the back. Suddenly, as he leans and points, "I think it's that one. Well I have a story about that one." Then we are off the road. I am thinking 'why isn't he turning?' and he says I'm sorry I'm so sorry. Impact. Thrown around like rag dolls. From sleeping I am cognizant of surrounding water and yelling before we go under. Still some remaining air. I must kick out my window my door. And I do, dragging the unconscious body of the girl with me. Father is fine just shaken up. I try to call for help. To flag a car down or anything. He dives for supplies. All of them wet but some of the emergency stuff is waterproof. Cars speed by. Minding their own business. Then I pass out also. Girl's head on my chest. Leaning against the broken railing that should have kept us from soaring into the water.

April 3

Despite a day of activity. Of progress. I feel stunted, like I shot myself in the foot and put socks and shoes on anyway, wondering why it hurts to walk. Make tea, smoke tea, forget about it. That fear lurking behind corners. I think it might be psychological. Something in my diet shifting shit around in my head. I helplessly procrastinate in the face of awful, soul-crushing anxiety. I've got pills sure. Pills won't help me keep my head above water. More like floating face down. Flapping arms around like windmills.

Turn stupid and dull in a single instant. One whack to the skull, chipping off fragments like sedimentary rock. Go now, and far. Isn't it nice to know where you will be in one month, two? How to survive in that climate. How to push it away and then chase after it. This is how to start a wild fire. This is how to knock small chips into the wall and wake up, slapping ass and squeaking bed, sometime past 3 am on a tuesday morning. By Janus. Nothing you do makes much sense to my simple brain, young thing. Just go. Just leave. Listen to something until it dies then move to the next. Like sucking everything out of an apple. Tossing around the core and moving on. Using people like objects or puzzle pieces, filler in a larger picture. Find the puzzle you have been missing from. Perhaps it is in the sky. And in death you are reunited to make the greater picture. My god. You were the missing link. The hole in the ozone. There is no creator, only a fossil record. One day he intervened, after a few million years of natural evolutionary selection pressures... to increase the cranial capacity of some ancestor to us. To you. To me. Read me. Love me. Consume me as you do wine or bread. I am the parting sea and the departing future shipwreck. I travel at full speed towards flat vertical surfaces that I can spot in the distance. A human slingshot straight into a brick wall. Falling off of bridges. Dreaming about people you shouldn't. Made a mistake to tell me. I won't put it over you. I simply will never know why I was brought up. Perhaps someone misses me but doesn't tell me.

This is self experimentation. This is transformation. My wrist is sore from bass practice. My back is sore from homework. My brain feels like a wet washcloth. More like a put out fire. Was aflame. Burning and heating my blood. Suddenly drained of energy like a mop. Soak up water or something and let it ring. Shake shake shake shake. Where is the greatness? When can I do great things and work with children in need? A school tour? What the hell does that mean? A powerful message about drinking and driving. Blindness. Heartwarming stuff. Blowing smoke from a last cigarette. Weeks old. Years old. Three years ago. Blinded by searing glass and flesh. It all burns eventually and we fell in love when we hurt the most. A revelation.

Chapstick and incense.

Pull off every fingernail on your hands. With pliers.
Screaming ovation during a moment of silence.
What will your epitaph read.
Who will receive your best material possessions.

Is it nice or awful to know just what you want.

How to be content?

There is so much. I feel like I could make a considerable impact on the world.

Why aren't I?

What is the deal. Where are the crossroads and the devil and the deep blue sea. I want to sell my soul. For sake of my wellbeing.

I am lost.

The war is lost.

The city is lost.

These ghosts are lost. Wandering.

All trying to speak over each other about such trivial matters.

I can never enter that world, I realize.

They are not me. I am not they. We hate and intimidate.

I miss everything.

But I cannot regret.

My strife. My life I endure. These sun drenched retards. The scum of the earth. Cannot bring me down. Despite all of their intentions. I get mad. I get angry. I take it out on myself after one too many drinks and smoke myself stupid. Drinking and drowning in the desert.

What it feels like to drown nowhere near a natural water source.

April 2

One day from start to finish with all of the urgency of an overturned car with passengers inside. No thought to sleep with sugary sweetness, face the reality of potentially rotten, golden, teeth. 14 karats turn your skin orange; you are what you eat. Cleanse the palette and soak the paint brushes in paint thinner. Inhale deep and cleanse yourself as well. Use the feeling for artistic investment. Put the time in to translate an idea that cannot be spoken. Simply an idea for morons to get skewed results... Wow. He says. I feel so strange. In this familiar consciousness. One side effect is the recurring strangeness. The jokes and the attitudes that few seem to share. Shoot at a back board with no hoop. Illness overpower the will for personal improvement. And all day long from beginning to end I tooled with the poetic idea of isolation. We discussed prose as opposed to verse and spoke out in anger, on accident, at a reaction to a story. It was a nice story. My short fuse is for no one's benefit. My comments are gruff and taken as insults or put downs but it is nothing that I indeed. They laugh into their laps and have their own innuendos. They talk of a stalker. I volunteer as body guard. No one is talking to them. He is always talking to them. Trying to get it in? But I can't go on. All day I thought and wrote. I regurgitated vague and minute lecture details, I had a half flavor latte as I reviewed my notes, the watch in the mail, something ancient and familial. (earn the habit to look at a wrist and find nothing there. a forced habit). Sex positions and tv shows and poetry about trying to get up n the morning to the drab cocktail party where they will gossip and drool and feel self important discussing the finer things of life. They are all the same and they act like socialized, scoffing and chuckling, baffoons, clinking together wine glasses in false cheers to their own well being. To our affluence! And our growing, by the second, bank accounts. We are sapping the needy. Taking cuts from charity organizations and embezzlement. fasfdasfnd

April 1

Tangerine, I'd like to see you perform. Or drive yourself to the coast with a trunk full of soap and fruit. Stolen goods from the hotel services. Drive towards me in your fucking car. Come lay down and count the number of slits on the ceiling the blinds cause from the blue safety light outside. An owl shaped mug and a pathetic attempt at reconciliation. No one knows. No one cares. Must work like a superhero today but first I must shake off the sleepless night. I am so damn tired. I don't know how I could make another show. But it's the freakin' Wonder Years! You have seen them more times than any other band. Last with NFG. Tempe. Prior somewhere in Portland I'm sure. Olympia. Tacoma. Not sure about Seattle. (The venues of old are closed and quarantined. Barely surviving our collective memory.) I'll decide later. When it is closer to show time. Otherwise I must study so fucking hard. I need proof of a deviant act. Playing the guitar in inappropriate places. What theories will I be testing? Hypothesis?

-----

Later in the day, about 5, I realize I did not earn my badge for the day. I will have to miss the kickass pop punk show of tonight. (Lonely Forest and Portugal. The Man next week. Okay.) This will be the first time I have chosen something else over a Wonder Years show when given an option. One of my favorites. I can't make it happen. Have to study, to perform.

Anyway. I went outside for the first time a little while ago with intentions to bring white paper to the lobby and to bring back paper with ink on it. Use their printers. But the computers were full. No room for me and my responsibility. Left a blank slate. Came back a blank slate. Half of those idiots were on facebook anyway. Frustrating. "I am just so unmotivated for schoool." says a half dressed. Half naked. Girl. With plans to get tan at sundown. Great bodies. Beautiful people. Socialized into their roles. A cesspool. Having been in my apartment, in my studies, in my own little world, all day long... I forgot where I was. I forgot what people were like. No one says hi to each other on the street here. That's weird. Weird is bad. Wired is good. Muscles and tattoos. Sunglasses and poor attitudes about sports and/or recycling. (they have too much recycling to recycle).

You were fooled man. That's your april fool's joke. Thinking you were away from it for a few hours. April fools. You are still in the hornets nest. Getting stung from all angles. Only living for lonely, self-improvement. Only a few friends. But I hate this lifestyle. That word too. "lifestyle" thanks george carlin. I can never use that word to my positive benefit. So deep in my own little world the outside, the immediate outside disappears, and I forget about how shitty everyone is around here. The cockiness projecting. The money. The filthy fucking money. The cars and rims. Volley ball. dropping classes like assholes. Fucking a.

march 31

Black x on the back of each hand, distracting from conflict over the fence, on the receiving end of a bar tab, built up because metal solos make you want drink lots of beer. Accumulate interest. The long hair flying in the wind like a freakish banner. These deserted streets. Walk over a bridge and a tall block down passing a sketchy but well-lit section of road parallel to the highway. Graffiti covers things and I can't prevent thoughts of gang affiliations and almost regretted leaving the apartment unarmed, due to the predicament. It would have been confiscated at the door. I would have to use on rock or cactus branch on the way back. Walking like a broken-legged horse towards its shotgun wedding in the shed. In a hole it dug for itself. Jazz chords in progressive rock albums. The musical gurus that shift perspectives with intricate and improvised ideas (the simple idea of recording live with only a couple of tracks, requires you to be a genius musician. Now there is a difference between a band good on record versus a band live. The energy might be different. Or less talent than the fabricated parts reveal. Vocalist stinks maybe.) A work day. A mariner's game. Lost by one point. Did not work out. Knocked out presentation project. Magazine. Talk to part of family. A fragment of one whole. All five of them sleeping in the bed near the broken sink. It was fucked off of the wall. Jokes and educational videos, show up to this improve show high and you get in for a fraction of the price. That's weird. Radar went flaring up. Hostile tension grows like a fungus. (The show is unmissable so I must sleep now and get all of my shit down beforehand.) Study you fiend. Read and review and rewrite. Make it happen. The sociological evidence and a concrete theory to test. Make it happen stud.

Anything of sociological importance about my experiences today at the art festival?