Razor burn, purple t-shirt, head like a balloon, vacant in a vacuum of vacuity. Thoughts swirling cinnamon around in there but they are not translating. A mute translator is useless. (As if American English will ever be a universal language. I'll have to learn something else. Be useful and smart and ask the right questions and seek out the right answers.) How many years of school does it take to be good at everything? (Sitting and thinking. I'll take the class that teaches me about what I should do with my life.)
All students teach each other. I have music to teach. I have music to learn.
***
Later that night... Feeling cheated on. Like a pair of eyes on a test at the DMV. The winding lines and stale impatience. No time to leave the queue for a cigarette when a bastard in a bathrobe, downing miniature shots, will replace you.
Cigar for the show. Look nice. Rock out. (Big day my boy my body). Plant a flower watch it grow and pluck flower. Lose it. Something sinister stirs in the closet or under the bedsheets. Monsters of great weight dispersion where the balance is felt in between.
Bring lights and great attitudes. The crowd inside. It will be very hot. Friday the 13th. Something fateful in the way humans react to the day. I will play my heart out. Groove too hard. Get my papers done, be social, too social. Watching the hands of a clock fight gravity then regain solid speed on the downside like a rollercoaster, some shit about kinetic energy.
I think about a girl, of course. I think about how my social interactions were awful today. Tired. Useless. Listen to music. Tune in to the lecture and tune out to the rest of the world. Them and I. Us and them. Who is us? Consciously ignore the flames of a past desire. A past passion, but no one to be ignored and I spasm or shake in a nervous fit when something reminds me. Very little contact with the outside. Counting dollars in the negative. The gutters and spittoons outside of fancy restaurants, looking down shirts from the top floor down. Perk of the job? Well now. Tuesday. Ruby. Bass lesson. Paper beginning. Energy energy energy. Work out. Have the focus and motivation to control the outcome. To feel worth and to drink things that make my heart feel better and the air warmer. Something something. Vitamins and japanese minerals to inject and invade me with a rush of energy and focused conclusion-coming. We will be victorious. I barely know the guys but my distance is due to my departure. Imminent.
I quit denying that I love to play music and coast off of them to make it happen. But here is a culmination. Recording begins again soon. To clicks. Robot metronomes.
Live with producer? production team. reduction team. work out the details for this arrangement. (good idea to give mother his number? can't decide. I felt incredible freedom to make my own decisions and to figure it all out myself.)
Begin research. Apartments. Where to avoid.
Alleyways and cartwheels.
I will miss the weather maybe. The band, the music. But I will be involved with other music for sure. For certain.
_____
Getting laid. Dreaming about rainbow lights and definitive advice from an old man who used to be a genius author before his something or other gave out. (Something always gives out leaving a person slightly crippled, but still a person.) Counting strange flowers and plant I don't understand.
Bats, bobcats. Night birds. The apache plume. Arizona poppy. Blue phacella. Big sagebrush. Brittlebrush. Chia. Chuparosa. Cliffrose. Cave primrose. Datura (poisonous!). All beginning with the word 'desert' : chicory, dandelion, five-spot, globemallow, lily, lupine, mariposa lily, marigold, paintbrush, pincushion, sunflower. Dogbane (poison!). Devil's claw. Dune evening primrose. Fairy duster. Filaree storksbill. Ghost flower. Mojave aster. Popcorn flower. Prickly poppies. Sand verbena. Showy four o'clock. spanish needles. western wallflower. woolly daisy. yellow beeplant. barrel cactus. beavertail cactus. chain fruit cholla. cholla cactus. claret cup cactus. desert christmas. datil yucca. fishhook. hedgehog. joshua tree. mojave yucca. night-blooming cereus. organ pipe cactus. century plant. prickly pear. saguaro. soaptree yucca. black widow spiders. cicadas. dragonflies. fire ant. praying mantis. scorpions, sphinx moth. stinkbugs. tarantula. tarantula hawks. western tiger swallowtail. admiral. viceroy butterfly. velvet ants. bastard toadflax. crucifixion thorn. california fan palm. cocklebur. cottonwood. creosote bush. desert willow. elephant tree. greasewood. mornom tea. ocotillo. mesquites. palo verde tree. four-wing saltbush. four-winds. showy milkweed. smoke tree. stinging neetles. tumbleweed. winterfat.
Monday, April 9, 2012
Sunday, April 8, 2012
April 8
Entertain, inspire and uplift before you go. Give em a show. The two minute warning before death. Get your shit together. We don't know about it because the only people who hear it. Die. Some asshole on the bus. Think it was a couch out on the town.
Use that time. To entertain. To leave something behind. Do something hey. Give a little two minute speech.
Tell them! It's your last time to tell them anything. Wax eloquent. Bring it to the rafters and at the last moment proclaim 'if this is not the truth may god strike me dead!'
Let me sleep now. Don't be loud up there. No stirring around like mixed drinks.
Music theorist
Wild fantasy conjurer
blow a kiss
let the wind
send it to her
a mighty force
behind the features
hates old things
anything old
just because we are a part of this generation
doesn't mean we have to let it consume us entirely
pop culture is garbage
shiny things in the sky
kick out your chair
hang out
there
beautiful music.
no one listens to music anymore
selfish and self-fulfilled
a nice and tight rhythm section
did not get numbers
did not get fame
I will live a dream on friday though
a house party show
hopefully good enough
sober enough
to play well enough
to be recognized
as something other than a blemish
on the landscape
but finally
but finally
although there is still so much to do
remember.
tuesday - bass and paper and study and whatever
monday and wednesday are rat races
although tomorrow I have no 288
longer lunch break
work on something with that time
(do not let anything go to waste)
eat every part of the deceased
practice after. sober. read self to sleep.
oh othello, you moor of venice.
hear rhythms
fingers must hurt and wrists must be sore
must not be tired
nor restless
this is your life!
live to full capacity! god damn
everything everything
get good at everything
masterpieces and straight A's!
society and self. Succeed
at both!
earn sleep.
earn your sleep.
deserve what is handed to you.
pick up mail on monday.
make positive use of time.
tuesday and thursday are work days.
write that paper, buddy.
***
Sunday night insomnia. The thoughts tear me to pieces like packs of wild dogs. In the woods. I can't climb anything tall enough to escape. (A form of social control.) Wake and bake. All of the things. Chronicle the items in my apartment. No one has seen it! Wow! They would say! Wow! WOw! WOW! wo! This is a mess a happy happy mess. There is evidence of all kinds of demented actions. Drinking self into oblivion. Why is it okay to drink to drink to drink?
I imagined myself, in horror, laying on my back anywhere in the world and feeling the same sense of despondency. No matter what clouds or ceiling above. Everyone likes it here because of the weather. I just want to be surrounded by creative people. Not sun drenched morons, feeling up girls and looking for drugs. No culture. There is no culture. I am surrounded by sun beams, sure. These don't make me want to paint something or take pictures or videos or create anything in general. New songs. Evidence that I exist on this earth. Somewhere.
Evidence that I exist on this earth?
Where? How?
Give me a good night sleep and a content smile. I don't want to be in pain anymore.
I do not want to feel anymore pain. I do not want to drink it away.
I want to be silly and happy. Warm in the polluted confidence of an L.A. night. The sky rise and the eternal city clock ticking away. Everything expensive. Somehow destroying my sensibilities.
I need to explode with passion. Leave clues! Evidence!
maps and directions.
Paint or recordings. A knowledge of how such things work, oh my lord.
Stimulant drugs. Every day.
Fill the prescription and have the confidence to do everything ever like a supervillian wearing a super hero mask.
Have hope. Have excitement. Be passionate and show evidence. (I cared more about art and less about working out. But if my body is happy my mind is happy.)
Build a rocket.
All I feel is repressed. By me. By my environment. By everything and everyone around me. I don't even try to acknowledge recognizable faces anymore. I am a ghost and I will disappear from their lives in an instant or two.
No matter where I go. They will not think about me. There wheels will keep turning. This weather will bury you and someone you will believe all of the lies from various screens and voices.
Question everything. Nothing is safe.
How is it so easy to fold? To give in and buy into the bullshit we are spoonfed? It is shoved into us and somehow we don't notice. I need to go into the forest. Burn them down. There's proof! You assholes! You did this to yourself.
Someone will always always always argue. I am happy to be the voice of dissent but here that is extremely isolating because most are polarized, believing the simplest explanation and thinking so shallow. Dig your graves, boys. Dig your own grave.
Use that time. To entertain. To leave something behind. Do something hey. Give a little two minute speech.
Tell them! It's your last time to tell them anything. Wax eloquent. Bring it to the rafters and at the last moment proclaim 'if this is not the truth may god strike me dead!'
Let me sleep now. Don't be loud up there. No stirring around like mixed drinks.
Music theorist
Wild fantasy conjurer
blow a kiss
let the wind
send it to her
a mighty force
behind the features
hates old things
anything old
just because we are a part of this generation
doesn't mean we have to let it consume us entirely
pop culture is garbage
shiny things in the sky
kick out your chair
hang out
there
beautiful music.
no one listens to music anymore
selfish and self-fulfilled
a nice and tight rhythm section
did not get numbers
did not get fame
I will live a dream on friday though
a house party show
hopefully good enough
sober enough
to play well enough
to be recognized
as something other than a blemish
on the landscape
but finally
but finally
although there is still so much to do
remember.
tuesday - bass and paper and study and whatever
monday and wednesday are rat races
although tomorrow I have no 288
longer lunch break
work on something with that time
(do not let anything go to waste)
eat every part of the deceased
practice after. sober. read self to sleep.
oh othello, you moor of venice.
hear rhythms
fingers must hurt and wrists must be sore
must not be tired
nor restless
this is your life!
live to full capacity! god damn
everything everything
get good at everything
masterpieces and straight A's!
society and self. Succeed
at both!
earn sleep.
earn your sleep.
deserve what is handed to you.
pick up mail on monday.
make positive use of time.
tuesday and thursday are work days.
write that paper, buddy.
***
Sunday night insomnia. The thoughts tear me to pieces like packs of wild dogs. In the woods. I can't climb anything tall enough to escape. (A form of social control.) Wake and bake. All of the things. Chronicle the items in my apartment. No one has seen it! Wow! They would say! Wow! WOw! WOW! wo! This is a mess a happy happy mess. There is evidence of all kinds of demented actions. Drinking self into oblivion. Why is it okay to drink to drink to drink?
I imagined myself, in horror, laying on my back anywhere in the world and feeling the same sense of despondency. No matter what clouds or ceiling above. Everyone likes it here because of the weather. I just want to be surrounded by creative people. Not sun drenched morons, feeling up girls and looking for drugs. No culture. There is no culture. I am surrounded by sun beams, sure. These don't make me want to paint something or take pictures or videos or create anything in general. New songs. Evidence that I exist on this earth. Somewhere.
Evidence that I exist on this earth?
Where? How?
Give me a good night sleep and a content smile. I don't want to be in pain anymore.
I do not want to feel anymore pain. I do not want to drink it away.
I want to be silly and happy. Warm in the polluted confidence of an L.A. night. The sky rise and the eternal city clock ticking away. Everything expensive. Somehow destroying my sensibilities.
I need to explode with passion. Leave clues! Evidence!
maps and directions.
Paint or recordings. A knowledge of how such things work, oh my lord.
Stimulant drugs. Every day.
Fill the prescription and have the confidence to do everything ever like a supervillian wearing a super hero mask.
Have hope. Have excitement. Be passionate and show evidence. (I cared more about art and less about working out. But if my body is happy my mind is happy.)
Build a rocket.
All I feel is repressed. By me. By my environment. By everything and everyone around me. I don't even try to acknowledge recognizable faces anymore. I am a ghost and I will disappear from their lives in an instant or two.
No matter where I go. They will not think about me. There wheels will keep turning. This weather will bury you and someone you will believe all of the lies from various screens and voices.
Question everything. Nothing is safe.
How is it so easy to fold? To give in and buy into the bullshit we are spoonfed? It is shoved into us and somehow we don't notice. I need to go into the forest. Burn them down. There's proof! You assholes! You did this to yourself.
Someone will always always always argue. I am happy to be the voice of dissent but here that is extremely isolating because most are polarized, believing the simplest explanation and thinking so shallow. Dig your graves, boys. Dig your own grave.
Saturday, April 7, 2012
April 7
Secret genius at the secret beach. Throwing knife into the sand or an invisible tree trunk. Spending the time to search through the sand on hands and knees. Scraping skin off knees. No time to write now, right now, I must be going.
****
There is something to be said about... Sleepless nights in airplanes. Catching the red eye, pink eye, pillow slip, careening down the stairs like slanted bumper cars. Filling ears with fuel at a jukebox gas pump. A pare coin and a song. In the jungle. Resin on the blade of an old knife. Blades can be cleaned and sharpened and must be otherwise they are without purpose aside from protection? intimidation? Hey, cool thing to have.
Remove the labels and find yourself alone with a bottle and coke. Evidence of dirty thoughts and prideful wishes. Mentioning the revealing tan lines. Lines of back, black and white, with sunglasses and orange skin, like the fruit, the intermediate shade between red and yellow, ketchup and mustard, bastard of science, there is no genetic code for despondency, and we are all to blame for our troubled earth.
Warmth from rum does not carry through an entire night. Like Bukowski. When something bad happens, drink to forget. When something good happens, drink to celebrate. Or if there is nothing happening, drink to make something happen.
* Very Carefully Look Over Your Shoulder *
Getting what you deserve in tandem with other whims.
Polish off that porterhouse steak. Lick the knife clean.
Cutting tongue.
Opening pathways with hands of steel. Trapdoor under the shag carpet. Falling into a foam pit harmlessly bounce against the walls, constricting straight jacket, walls of yellow dripping candle wax, lighting newspaper posters onto fire. One day bought a New York Times and thumb tacked all of the pages onto the walls. Realized I didn't have the whole story. Bought another copy of the same day and tacked them together like a puzzle. A constant storyboard storyline, although the danger of flame when near. Begin circling words and stringing together ideas with yard and push pins. Finding a trend and any anomaly stands out like stolen diamonds. People already think I am crazy. What until they see my schizophrenic self create narratives out of old newspaper and rant about conspiracy. It is all coming down against my skull like primeval rocks or stone tools.
****
2:04 "This sounds like the type of music you listen to when you are depressed and on drugs." Exactly. What you would know? First hand. Worst hand.
Growing red in the spotted sunlight. (Know that I've got you in my blood stream).
Catching up with blissful dreams. Blue key ring.
Purple clouds, darker through certain angles. Depending on thickness and size of lens.
Locality. In my periphery. Using the big, contained, words. Because I am studying words.
Did a line of coke and talked about how depressing the northwestern rain was,
talking about baseball, the benefits of Arizona weather, the late nights on the road, forgetting about loss. They did the coke, and went on a winning streak, not I, not I. Never I. The new study drug perhaps? Something pharmaceutical and in high government value. Lessen this weight on my shoulders. Baring your chest to the tropical sky rise.
Move/stay. Tanning in a tanning bed at a paradise. The coolest campus, naturally. Would have said this even without the hospitality? (One by one, the colors drip from the sun). New beginnings with old friends. Bigger, weed smoking, and no time for nostalgia. Sitting, reflecting, talking and discussing things, telling jokes, tired, no pressure in atmosphere. A general conclusion at the onset of sleep. Building up projects and knocking them down. The story has holes in it. The black widows in the corners or rooms. Dropping out of the shoes you just took off. It's tiny menace of venom, absolute certainty, that you will not know what happened as paralysis takes over any functional feeling. Lost past brain activity. Head smashed on fire hydrant. A decapitation. Something rhythmic in the way those words must have sounded to his loved ones. Or rather the ones who loved him. But if you wear a helmet, transferring over from one form of living to a form of nonliving. In a blink and without a proper explanation. We get cut short! My god. I want to say so much to so many but I must get over any silly insecurity. Spread a message. The importance of the individual. Write for publications? How cool to land a writing job in Los Angeles.
WRITING JOB IN LOS ANGELES
editor. columnist. blogger. writing for publications. stories every now and then. (gram. what does gram do in Belize?)
****
There is something to be said about... Sleepless nights in airplanes. Catching the red eye, pink eye, pillow slip, careening down the stairs like slanted bumper cars. Filling ears with fuel at a jukebox gas pump. A pare coin and a song. In the jungle. Resin on the blade of an old knife. Blades can be cleaned and sharpened and must be otherwise they are without purpose aside from protection? intimidation? Hey, cool thing to have.
Remove the labels and find yourself alone with a bottle and coke. Evidence of dirty thoughts and prideful wishes. Mentioning the revealing tan lines. Lines of back, black and white, with sunglasses and orange skin, like the fruit, the intermediate shade between red and yellow, ketchup and mustard, bastard of science, there is no genetic code for despondency, and we are all to blame for our troubled earth.
Warmth from rum does not carry through an entire night. Like Bukowski. When something bad happens, drink to forget. When something good happens, drink to celebrate. Or if there is nothing happening, drink to make something happen.
* Very Carefully Look Over Your Shoulder *
Getting what you deserve in tandem with other whims.
Polish off that porterhouse steak. Lick the knife clean.
Cutting tongue.
Opening pathways with hands of steel. Trapdoor under the shag carpet. Falling into a foam pit harmlessly bounce against the walls, constricting straight jacket, walls of yellow dripping candle wax, lighting newspaper posters onto fire. One day bought a New York Times and thumb tacked all of the pages onto the walls. Realized I didn't have the whole story. Bought another copy of the same day and tacked them together like a puzzle. A constant storyboard storyline, although the danger of flame when near. Begin circling words and stringing together ideas with yard and push pins. Finding a trend and any anomaly stands out like stolen diamonds. People already think I am crazy. What until they see my schizophrenic self create narratives out of old newspaper and rant about conspiracy. It is all coming down against my skull like primeval rocks or stone tools.
****
2:04 "This sounds like the type of music you listen to when you are depressed and on drugs." Exactly. What you would know? First hand. Worst hand.
Growing red in the spotted sunlight. (Know that I've got you in my blood stream).
Catching up with blissful dreams. Blue key ring.
Purple clouds, darker through certain angles. Depending on thickness and size of lens.
Locality. In my periphery. Using the big, contained, words. Because I am studying words.
Did a line of coke and talked about how depressing the northwestern rain was,
talking about baseball, the benefits of Arizona weather, the late nights on the road, forgetting about loss. They did the coke, and went on a winning streak, not I, not I. Never I. The new study drug perhaps? Something pharmaceutical and in high government value. Lessen this weight on my shoulders. Baring your chest to the tropical sky rise.
Move/stay. Tanning in a tanning bed at a paradise. The coolest campus, naturally. Would have said this even without the hospitality? (One by one, the colors drip from the sun). New beginnings with old friends. Bigger, weed smoking, and no time for nostalgia. Sitting, reflecting, talking and discussing things, telling jokes, tired, no pressure in atmosphere. A general conclusion at the onset of sleep. Building up projects and knocking them down. The story has holes in it. The black widows in the corners or rooms. Dropping out of the shoes you just took off. It's tiny menace of venom, absolute certainty, that you will not know what happened as paralysis takes over any functional feeling. Lost past brain activity. Head smashed on fire hydrant. A decapitation. Something rhythmic in the way those words must have sounded to his loved ones. Or rather the ones who loved him. But if you wear a helmet, transferring over from one form of living to a form of nonliving. In a blink and without a proper explanation. We get cut short! My god. I want to say so much to so many but I must get over any silly insecurity. Spread a message. The importance of the individual. Write for publications? How cool to land a writing job in Los Angeles.
WRITING JOB IN LOS ANGELES
editor. columnist. blogger. writing for publications. stories every now and then. (gram. what does gram do in Belize?)
Thursday, April 5, 2012
April 5
A fish with multi-colored scales
The great depths of watery graves
where my childhood sank to the bottom
N o w a y t o s u p p r e s s t h e f l o o d
'what the heck? leave all floodgates open'
grand coulee dam it all to hell
alder god damn
once upon a glacier
we lost our footing
and slide to the bottom
of a 24 story ice continent
scar on the inside of an ankle, from a drunken tumble, to replace an older scar of a burning coal, perhaps to emphasize that historical story, with evidence of mischief all over it.
I barely have any honest scars.
Blood shot eyes in a blood drained alleyway.
This is a stick up and you will give yourself up to my power.
I will drain your bank accounts like a bathtub
and you will never see me again.
10999 songs
Concerned looking. We all need the grades of a lab report to shine through.
Unbelievable though. They talk so fast and confuse themselves with stress.
I can't keep up. Their talking and their pace. It is fast and superficial.
Scum of the earth where do you drain?
Have you spread out like tributary?
Wipe you off the face of the earth.
Ground you up into specs and shoot you into space.
Where you can no longer add such pressure and hostility into the atmosphere.
The pollution of your mind.
The billboards and the products. The life of a rock star.
The life of a college student.
Which life is you?
Which you is life?
First, you must decide what your desires are.
Then go to them.
Go to your desire.
For this step... remove humanity.
It is for you. Could be a location. A job. An opportunity.
At 20, a person should not be your ultimate goal.
Oh sure, many heart warming stories have been written about love at such a young age.
68 years of happy marriage.
But starve yourself, student.
Throw up in that bathroom and take prescribed stimulants to keep your body shaking uncontrollably, your hands working at a prior unknown capacity and all of the random things you do, mental pathways open up, and you do them well. Mind wanders and you wander with it. Where will this take me?
Where will this take me?
First. You must discover what it is you want.
Alone. Do not ask for help. Or assistance.
Do not allow yourself to be manipulated out of your true desire.
There may be a hierarchy.
Chose a few and try to blend them together.
In a nice collage. (It's a nice college. They keep things clean. Despite filthy student body.)
Glue together.
Whatever you choose for yourself. The necessary people. Those who will help you achieve your goal will enter your life. Do not first seek these people out.
Find a mindset first. Then find like minded people.
The desert reinforces me.
I realize I am not them and it shouldn't get me down.
I should be glad that I do not feel as self-important as them.
Most believe in red carpets and stars on boardwalks.
In 5 dollar lattes and chauffeurs.
The sense of ENTITLEMENT.
Why? Where did this come from?
You spoiled eggs.
Throw away that polluted mindset.
My god.
Recycle. Turn the earth green.
Nature. Not money.
This whole experience should be about bettering yourself.
Finding your desire!
Not dollar signs and diamond rings.
Your future wife should be a human.
And should not care to show her friends a diamond ring.
(We will all lie and say 'oh she is a gem!' but then distance ourselves from the couple because of how fucking unbearable they are together. She sucks the life out of him. He doesn't see it, smiles stupid and content. "The sex is great!")
Shiny things don't mean shit.
Send smiles through the mail.
A cursive letter preaching honesty and creativity.
A flood of emotion.
Help me find my way.
Okay, man. Will do.
I'll let you know when I come up with something.
Oh for sure for sure.
Hey man what are you up to tonight?
Not much. Studying. Thinking. You? Party?
Yeah man. I'll hit you up.
Ok cool. Can I bring anyone?
Not sure. I'll get back to you on that.
Meaningless meaningless.
It is an abstraction.
*******
This is social isolation. I don't speak to these mutants.
How to reach out to old friends?
Will it ever be the same?
The great depths of watery graves
where my childhood sank to the bottom
N o w a y t o s u p p r e s s t h e f l o o d
'what the heck? leave all floodgates open'
grand coulee dam it all to hell
alder god damn
once upon a glacier
we lost our footing
and slide to the bottom
of a 24 story ice continent
scar on the inside of an ankle, from a drunken tumble, to replace an older scar of a burning coal, perhaps to emphasize that historical story, with evidence of mischief all over it.
I barely have any honest scars.
Blood shot eyes in a blood drained alleyway.
This is a stick up and you will give yourself up to my power.
I will drain your bank accounts like a bathtub
and you will never see me again.
10999 songs
Concerned looking. We all need the grades of a lab report to shine through.
Unbelievable though. They talk so fast and confuse themselves with stress.
I can't keep up. Their talking and their pace. It is fast and superficial.
Scum of the earth where do you drain?
Have you spread out like tributary?
Wipe you off the face of the earth.
Ground you up into specs and shoot you into space.
Where you can no longer add such pressure and hostility into the atmosphere.
The pollution of your mind.
The billboards and the products. The life of a rock star.
The life of a college student.
Which life is you?
Which you is life?
First, you must decide what your desires are.
Then go to them.
Go to your desire.
For this step... remove humanity.
It is for you. Could be a location. A job. An opportunity.
At 20, a person should not be your ultimate goal.
Oh sure, many heart warming stories have been written about love at such a young age.
68 years of happy marriage.
But starve yourself, student.
Throw up in that bathroom and take prescribed stimulants to keep your body shaking uncontrollably, your hands working at a prior unknown capacity and all of the random things you do, mental pathways open up, and you do them well. Mind wanders and you wander with it. Where will this take me?
Where will this take me?
First. You must discover what it is you want.
Alone. Do not ask for help. Or assistance.
Do not allow yourself to be manipulated out of your true desire.
There may be a hierarchy.
Chose a few and try to blend them together.
In a nice collage. (It's a nice college. They keep things clean. Despite filthy student body.)
Glue together.
Whatever you choose for yourself. The necessary people. Those who will help you achieve your goal will enter your life. Do not first seek these people out.
Find a mindset first. Then find like minded people.
The desert reinforces me.
I realize I am not them and it shouldn't get me down.
I should be glad that I do not feel as self-important as them.
Most believe in red carpets and stars on boardwalks.
In 5 dollar lattes and chauffeurs.
The sense of ENTITLEMENT.
Why? Where did this come from?
You spoiled eggs.
Throw away that polluted mindset.
My god.
Recycle. Turn the earth green.
Nature. Not money.
This whole experience should be about bettering yourself.
Finding your desire!
Not dollar signs and diamond rings.
Your future wife should be a human.
And should not care to show her friends a diamond ring.
(We will all lie and say 'oh she is a gem!' but then distance ourselves from the couple because of how fucking unbearable they are together. She sucks the life out of him. He doesn't see it, smiles stupid and content. "The sex is great!")
Shiny things don't mean shit.
Send smiles through the mail.
A cursive letter preaching honesty and creativity.
A flood of emotion.
Help me find my way.
Okay, man. Will do.
I'll let you know when I come up with something.
Oh for sure for sure.
Hey man what are you up to tonight?
Not much. Studying. Thinking. You? Party?
Yeah man. I'll hit you up.
Ok cool. Can I bring anyone?
Not sure. I'll get back to you on that.
Meaningless meaningless.
It is an abstraction.
*******
This is social isolation. I don't speak to these mutants.
How to reach out to old friends?
Will it ever be the same?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)