HE'S GOT A GOOD REASON FOR TAKING THE EASY WAY OUT.
Thursday, December 3
It's So Simple
I was spending a lot of time with my family recently. I went on Thanksgiving break, miserable as usual. I don't like breaks that much. I'm either done with it or I'm not, it's not like a job or career. I want finish it and take my break, however long that is. Anyway, I went home for the time that we give thanks for stuff.
I guess I should be thankful for a lot of things. I should be thankful for knowing so many interesting people, being friends to many of them. I should be thankful I've had it so easy all my life; it's all just been one kickass ride with minimal responsibility on my part. I mean, I've had a few things that I could cry about, some stuff that made it a little hard. But whatever burden that stuff had on my soul is gone, if it ever existed. I should be thankful that people take it easy on me. That they're careful not to hurt my feelings. That they want to avoid awkward social situations. I've got nothing to say about that.
I have a lot of things. I should be thankful for that. I should be thankful for my possessions that keep me amused, that distract me from feelings I can't get rid of. I should be thankful for familial love. Hahah. That one is amusing. I know some in my family who would just as easily throw me under the bus to save their own skin. Though, for every one of them, there is another polar opposite. So I am thankful for that.
Still, I felt unhappy. And I felt that being unhappy somehow entitled be to not be grateful for anything. I believe a part of that; that nothing is really worthwhile if your miserable.
We went to some pitifully shitty light display that is held at "the park" in town. There were a bunch of little scenes depicted.
My bros and my sister ran about, falling down a few times and complaining about how awful it all was and that I didn't want to be there. My mum's response was "Be fucking festive so we can take a goddamn picture!" My dear mum.
I, meanwhile, was completely unconcerned with silly conventions like composition and took pictures catch-as-catch-can. They didn't turn out so well. Some ended up so bad that they looked vaguely artistic.
Some of the displays, though were unintentionally entertaining.
Anyway, it was a good time; everyone was miserable. While there, though, I stumbled upon a display with "JOY" in giant red letters. I looked at it for a while, then I looked past it off into space, like when one is deep in thought. I thought about it a lot, standing there. Obviously, there wasn't much intended meaning behind it; this is a podunk town with simple people living in it. "JOY" just meant exactly that.
I thought about it more than I feel comfortable saying, (about ten minutes, I stood there looking like an idiot). But then I realized that the message shouldn't be complicated. To try and glean any more of a meaning from it would be useless. "JOY" just meant joy. It's a simple message. It's probably one of the few intangible concepts you can boil down to three letters. Eventually, what I got out of it was that I should just think simply. Some things just work. Some things just don't work. Just be happy, regardless. And, more importantly, make other people happy, too. There are a lot of people that have a lot less than me and are perfectly happy, sharing good times and noodle salad with one another. I also know people that have a lot more than me and aren't nearly as happy as they could (or should) be.
My awful emotions that I hate letting out so much didn't seem to matter anymore. I've got myself. That's all I need. A lot of people have the problems of existential crises or worrying about whether there is an afterlife or not. Is there a God? What do I mean? What is my significance? Well, I don't have those troubles. I don't think about those things. They don't bother me. As far as physical possessions go, I enjoy my things. I could go without them, though.
There was a fire alarm the other night and I slapped on my shoes, threw my phone in my pocket, and walked out with my laptop under my arm. Outside, I thought, "This entire building could explode and I will not be upset about anything." My dorm contains most of my earthly possessions. In reality, I could've gone without the phone and laptop, too.
The summation is this: I've got a lot to be thankful for. I've got a lot to be happy about. I have a lot to be proud of. So just be happy, why don't ya? I just feel good now.
And it's strange how such a simple realization like that can make you feel so much better. All the stress about school, relationships, money... they all just evaporated. The best part was that I'm sleeping properly again. Although, I am having a lot of bad dreams that wake me up at exactly the same time every morning. I won't over analyze, though. That's what usually caused me to feel so bad in the first place. And for a single caveat, that's not a bad one.
Do me a favor; tell the people that mean the most to you "Joy." Tell 'em to pass it on. It's a simple message, but it says a lot. There's nothing you've gotta worry about anymore, child. It's gonna be alright.
I guess I should be thankful for a lot of things. I should be thankful for knowing so many interesting people, being friends to many of them. I should be thankful I've had it so easy all my life; it's all just been one kickass ride with minimal responsibility on my part. I mean, I've had a few things that I could cry about, some stuff that made it a little hard. But whatever burden that stuff had on my soul is gone, if it ever existed. I should be thankful that people take it easy on me. That they're careful not to hurt my feelings. That they want to avoid awkward social situations. I've got nothing to say about that.
I have a lot of things. I should be thankful for that. I should be thankful for my possessions that keep me amused, that distract me from feelings I can't get rid of. I should be thankful for familial love. Hahah. That one is amusing. I know some in my family who would just as easily throw me under the bus to save their own skin. Though, for every one of them, there is another polar opposite. So I am thankful for that.
Still, I felt unhappy. And I felt that being unhappy somehow entitled be to not be grateful for anything. I believe a part of that; that nothing is really worthwhile if your miserable.
We went to some pitifully shitty light display that is held at "the park" in town. There were a bunch of little scenes depicted.
My bros and my sister ran about, falling down a few times and complaining about how awful it all was and that I didn't want to be there. My mum's response was "Be fucking festive so we can take a goddamn picture!" My dear mum.
Some of the displays, though were unintentionally entertaining.
Anyway, it was a good time; everyone was miserable. While there, though, I stumbled upon a display with "JOY" in giant red letters. I looked at it for a while, then I looked past it off into space, like when one is deep in thought. I thought about it a lot, standing there. Obviously, there wasn't much intended meaning behind it; this is a podunk town with simple people living in it. "JOY" just meant exactly that.
I thought about it more than I feel comfortable saying, (about ten minutes, I stood there looking like an idiot). But then I realized that the message shouldn't be complicated. To try and glean any more of a meaning from it would be useless. "JOY" just meant joy. It's a simple message. It's probably one of the few intangible concepts you can boil down to three letters. Eventually, what I got out of it was that I should just think simply. Some things just work. Some things just don't work. Just be happy, regardless. And, more importantly, make other people happy, too. There are a lot of people that have a lot less than me and are perfectly happy, sharing good times and noodle salad with one another. I also know people that have a lot more than me and aren't nearly as happy as they could (or should) be.
My awful emotions that I hate letting out so much didn't seem to matter anymore. I've got myself. That's all I need. A lot of people have the problems of existential crises or worrying about whether there is an afterlife or not. Is there a God? What do I mean? What is my significance? Well, I don't have those troubles. I don't think about those things. They don't bother me. As far as physical possessions go, I enjoy my things. I could go without them, though.
There was a fire alarm the other night and I slapped on my shoes, threw my phone in my pocket, and walked out with my laptop under my arm. Outside, I thought, "This entire building could explode and I will not be upset about anything." My dorm contains most of my earthly possessions. In reality, I could've gone without the phone and laptop, too.
The summation is this: I've got a lot to be thankful for. I've got a lot to be happy about. I have a lot to be proud of. So just be happy, why don't ya? I just feel good now.
And it's strange how such a simple realization like that can make you feel so much better. All the stress about school, relationships, money... they all just evaporated. The best part was that I'm sleeping properly again. Although, I am having a lot of bad dreams that wake me up at exactly the same time every morning. I won't over analyze, though. That's what usually caused me to feel so bad in the first place. And for a single caveat, that's not a bad one.
Do me a favor; tell the people that mean the most to you "Joy." Tell 'em to pass it on. It's a simple message, but it says a lot. There's nothing you've gotta worry about anymore, child. It's gonna be alright.
Thursday, November 19
Dylan Gets Saved!
When I was twelve, I was "saved" by a guy named Kendrick. He had to have been about forty, but he hung out and played tennis with teens all the time. I dunno.
Anyway, I went with my friend to his church because there was volleyball and I was a godless heathen and didn't care. At this point, I'd like to mention that I will never let my kid's friends take him or her to their church for any reason whatsoever. Nothing good ever came of it and you just left feeling hella awkward.
So I went with my friend because I mainly just wanted to hang out. I showed some other guys how to do hypnosis, but they left and I got left alone when my friend played volleyball. This cat Kendrick comes up and sits next to me. Not too close for me to be uncomfortable, though. That was coming up. He asks me if something was wrong. When I'm not doing something, I look sullen because that's just the way I am. I tell him that I'm just bored. He asks me why I didn't play volleyball. So I told him I thought it was boring. This elicited an "Ahhhhh, okay" from him.
After a few minutes of incredibly uncomfortable silence, he asks me if I got saved. I asked him, "From what?" He gave the typical adult chuckle of amusement at how dumb a kid is and asked if I had accepted Jesus.
Still not knowing what that meant, I reverted to the strategy I still use today; pretend like you know something and give short ambiguous answers. I told him that I hadn't yet. He asked me if I wanted him to help, or something like that. It doesn't matter how it came to be; the fact was that thirty seconds later, he was speaking mumbo-jumbo and rubbing my chest.
After a bit of that incredibly awkward shit, he told me to let out the word of God, to let Him speak through me.
I told him, "No thanks; I'll do it later."
He said alright, smiled, then tussled my fucking hair before returning to play volleyball.
Years later I learned that he was a complete homo. I shoulda known; pastel shorts kinda went out of style on middle-aged men.
Anyway, I went with my friend to his church because there was volleyball and I was a godless heathen and didn't care. At this point, I'd like to mention that I will never let my kid's friends take him or her to their church for any reason whatsoever. Nothing good ever came of it and you just left feeling hella awkward.
So I went with my friend because I mainly just wanted to hang out. I showed some other guys how to do hypnosis, but they left and I got left alone when my friend played volleyball. This cat Kendrick comes up and sits next to me. Not too close for me to be uncomfortable, though. That was coming up. He asks me if something was wrong. When I'm not doing something, I look sullen because that's just the way I am. I tell him that I'm just bored. He asks me why I didn't play volleyball. So I told him I thought it was boring. This elicited an "Ahhhhh, okay" from him.
After a few minutes of incredibly uncomfortable silence, he asks me if I got saved. I asked him, "From what?" He gave the typical adult chuckle of amusement at how dumb a kid is and asked if I had accepted Jesus.
Still not knowing what that meant, I reverted to the strategy I still use today; pretend like you know something and give short ambiguous answers. I told him that I hadn't yet. He asked me if I wanted him to help, or something like that. It doesn't matter how it came to be; the fact was that thirty seconds later, he was speaking mumbo-jumbo and rubbing my chest.
After a bit of that incredibly awkward shit, he told me to let out the word of God, to let Him speak through me.
I told him, "No thanks; I'll do it later."
He said alright, smiled, then tussled my fucking hair before returning to play volleyball.
Years later I learned that he was a complete homo. I shoulda known; pastel shorts kinda went out of style on middle-aged men.
Wednesday, November 4
Man Enjoys Fine Art
ME: "I was talking to a friend about how I wanted a gigantic painting of two girls scissoring one another. Haute couture."
HER: "Dylan, you crack me the fuck up."
ME: "You exaggerate; I'm a twat."
ANOTHER BROAD: "Oh my god. XD I need to tell one of the art teachers this. Or maybe not. Maybe I like being able to attend school here.. XP"
Goddamn, I'm awesome. I'M PLEASED YOU APPRECIATE GOOD WINE.
I Have No Outline, and I Must Scream
Right now I'm fidgeting in one of the many chairs in the auditorium devoted to the Intro to Film & Video Study. I am overwhelmed by my complete and utter inability to sit still in my chair. I've got both my legs bouncing up and down, shaking my poor laptop around and threatening to toss it onto the floor. My fingers, when not tapping against the keys, are tapping one another ceaselessly.
The reason for my jittery self is because this is probably the single worst grade I have at the moment, if only for the fact that I can't take it seriously. Yeah, I missed three of five papers, but I recognize that and know that it's my fault completely. But I cannot help the fact that this class takes a subject that I hold very near and dear to my heart and rips every shred of mysticism out of it.
The films themselves are good, and the analyses of them are also very insightful. But I don't believe that writing a paper about them will further my knowledge. So far, my experience with college, (admittedly temporally limited), has exactly reflected what I have always known; that one does not do secondary education to learn something, they do it to become certified. I could learn anything I could ever possibly want to by accessing the internet or reading even a semi-factual book. As I look around me, many other people are on their laptops, some of which are viewing that gormless fuckhead Jeff Dunham's puppet shenanigans on Youtube. Nobody's serious about this.
In regards to my actual paper and assignment, (which is a precursor to the formal paper), I found out that the paper itself is only worth twenty points. Out of a thousand. Gah. Why can't people be consistent? If you have five assignments for the entire semester, their approximate worth should be that of the Ark of the Covenant, Nazi blood and all.
Fuck it all, I'm doin' it. Life's loaded with inane bullshit and I just gotta deal with it.
I don't know quite yet what I want to be when I grow up, but I'll be damned if I end up hamstringing myself.
Sunday, October 25
Don't Get Too Big For Your Breeches
But, really, Peeping Tom is good. I always liked experimental music that... you know... still sounded like music. And Peeping Tom is exactly that.
Friday, October 23
Who Says You Can't Get a Job In This Climate?
I got a call a few days ago and I was asked if I wanted a job during the winter doing... stuff. Don't quite know what it is yet. I suppose that should probably be at the top of the list of things one should ask about before they agree to take a job, but I didn't care; the gyro I was eating at the time was distracting me.
All in all, it wouldn't be something I couldn't do.
Mainly because I can do anything and everything. All at once. While riding two unicycles.
Beat that, INSERT TOPICAL REFERENCE HERE!
All in all, it wouldn't be something I couldn't do.
Mainly because I can do anything and everything. All at once. While riding two unicycles.
Beat that, INSERT TOPICAL REFERENCE HERE!
Wednesday, September 30
rainy days like these
Y'know, it is frequent for me on rainy days like these to wonder how your lips must taste; how sweet they must be; how, no matter what, they cut me to the quick. You've got me waiting, longing, wondering forever about those lips, babe.
Things are never supposed to be easy
I've been here at school for five weeks already and it's been an incredibly unique experience, and, in many ways, something I was not unprepared for. I was never the one to weep into my pillow softly at night and wish I was back home with my family. In fact, I don't really miss a whole lot about life back home, save the ease of it and the girl I had to leave in order to be here.
Still, life's an utter bitch here. Being close to failing and, in some cases, actually failing multiple classes is a sobering experience. I knew that it would be hard for me here, considering that study habits are not something that come easy to me. I also figured out that you shouldn't pick classes half-heartedly. If you can barely maintain any interest in the field that you are supposedly going to go into, you can never hope to achieve anything more than a passing grade. I know now that I never want to pursue a career in the sciences. School is hard. And I know that freshman year is going to be the hardest for anybody. Realizing that, it's relatively easy for me to overcome this QUICK; ESCAPE! feeling that my mind is giving me. I know that it would not be prudent for me to back out, even though repercussions are merely monetary. I must stick with this study, even if it only for this year.
In economics, there is the concept of the opportunity cost; the cost of the next best, yet forgone alternative. I could've stayed back home, gotten a shitty job that exploited me, and bitched about my life while living day-to-day like all of my friends. But I didn't want that. Add to that fact that I have a girl I love; a girl for whom I would do anything and whom makes even the most insurmountable tasks easy. She makes my hard life easy. And I made a promise to her, that I would do well. She makes me want to be a better person, and so I shall.
I don't know what will happen in four years. I'll probably be like every other college graduate: working at McDonald's and looking for a job relating to their career choice, even though the economy is in the can. I might just go get some IT certification, since I seem pretty adept at that stuff. It is an extremely hot market and will only continue to grow throughout the next few decades, I'd wager. Whatever I do, I'll be surviving. I could back out now, but I won't. I've made promises, to others and myself, and while I don't think a degree makes someone more intelligent, knowledgeable, or a better person, it's still a trial. And an interesting experiment.
And I'll tell you what; I'll continue to go as long as I don't have to pay for it. Huzzah.
Namaste, babes and gents.
Still, life's an utter bitch here. Being close to failing and, in some cases, actually failing multiple classes is a sobering experience. I knew that it would be hard for me here, considering that study habits are not something that come easy to me. I also figured out that you shouldn't pick classes half-heartedly. If you can barely maintain any interest in the field that you are supposedly going to go into, you can never hope to achieve anything more than a passing grade. I know now that I never want to pursue a career in the sciences. School is hard. And I know that freshman year is going to be the hardest for anybody. Realizing that, it's relatively easy for me to overcome this QUICK; ESCAPE! feeling that my mind is giving me. I know that it would not be prudent for me to back out, even though repercussions are merely monetary. I must stick with this study, even if it only for this year.
In economics, there is the concept of the opportunity cost; the cost of the next best, yet forgone alternative. I could've stayed back home, gotten a shitty job that exploited me, and bitched about my life while living day-to-day like all of my friends. But I didn't want that. Add to that fact that I have a girl I love; a girl for whom I would do anything and whom makes even the most insurmountable tasks easy. She makes my hard life easy. And I made a promise to her, that I would do well. She makes me want to be a better person, and so I shall.
I don't know what will happen in four years. I'll probably be like every other college graduate: working at McDonald's and looking for a job relating to their career choice, even though the economy is in the can. I might just go get some IT certification, since I seem pretty adept at that stuff. It is an extremely hot market and will only continue to grow throughout the next few decades, I'd wager. Whatever I do, I'll be surviving. I could back out now, but I won't. I've made promises, to others and myself, and while I don't think a degree makes someone more intelligent, knowledgeable, or a better person, it's still a trial. And an interesting experiment.
And I'll tell you what; I'll continue to go as long as I don't have to pay for it. Huzzah.
Namaste, babes and gents.
Sunday, July 5
Friday, July 3
Thursday, July 2
I don't know how to feel.
Over the past couple of months, I've had this gnarly feeling building up in my chest and it's reached down into the pit of my stomach. I've stopped eating as much. I've slept far less. Certain things I was obsessed with have started to matter less, which is a good thing as far as video games and movies are concerned. I don't feel like I need as much as I did.
It's because I have feelings so intense for a certain individual that I feel little else. They're all I want, all I need. I've expressed this feeling several times, ever since I first starting talking to them. They've...acknowledged. That's all I can say for now.
They've struck me with a love the likes of which I've never known before, which is saying something, because anyone who knows me will tell you that I'm not an open guy with my true feelings. But this is a person whom I can feel I can tell anything and have them not judge me. It's a person whom I would trust with anything I say and any part of me. I hope that they'd trust me, too. I don't feel like anything I say can weird them out. It's the best feeling I've ever had, to be honest. In a world of critical people, to find someone so wonderful... is wonderful!
I love every part of them. EVERY FUCKING PART. (And don't think otherwise if you happen to read this.) They're beauty is unparalleled and I find myself not thinking of anyone else anymore in that way. I love the certain roughness to them. They're completely unlike anyone I've ever met. I love the way they walk, the way they talk, and I find myself staying up until all hours of the night thinking of new ways to make them smile. They mean everything to me, even if I may not mean everything to them. I cannot tell.
Everyday, the feelings I have get stronger and stronger. I wouldn't rather be with anybody else, any time of day. Just to see them, hear them, talk to them, makes me happy. Everything just feels right when I'm around them. They know this already, but I'll say it again: The greatest thing I can imagine is not the simple act of sleeping with them, but waking on a morning lying in bed next to them and watching them stretch their arms as they wake up, sun trickling in through the windows and sliding across their hair. It's the most beautiful sight that I can possibly imagine.
I'd do anything for them, tragically. Tragically, because I'd also... leave forever if they wanted me to. I'd never speak to them again, if that was what they wanted. I don't even want to imagine that, though. I'd give anything for them to be happy.
I don't want to dwell too much on this; they're not the mushy gushy type and they've known my feelings for them ever since we started talking. I suppose this will have no audience, as my blog usually does. Not that I care. It's my echo chamber for my frustrations, then. I'll keep yelling into it until I can feel like a regular human being, whatever that is. I feel like I am going to die. But it's the best feeling death ever, I imagine. I am content to dream of them, and if we may only be friends, or something higher than friends, or just something wavering in the middle, I'll take it. But I'll never stop loving them. That is my word, and I keep my words until I die.
Namaste. May your nights be easier than mine.
It's because I have feelings so intense for a certain individual that I feel little else. They're all I want, all I need. I've expressed this feeling several times, ever since I first starting talking to them. They've...acknowledged. That's all I can say for now.
They've struck me with a love the likes of which I've never known before, which is saying something, because anyone who knows me will tell you that I'm not an open guy with my true feelings. But this is a person whom I can feel I can tell anything and have them not judge me. It's a person whom I would trust with anything I say and any part of me. I hope that they'd trust me, too. I don't feel like anything I say can weird them out. It's the best feeling I've ever had, to be honest. In a world of critical people, to find someone so wonderful... is wonderful!
I love every part of them. EVERY FUCKING PART. (And don't think otherwise if you happen to read this.) They're beauty is unparalleled and I find myself not thinking of anyone else anymore in that way. I love the certain roughness to them. They're completely unlike anyone I've ever met. I love the way they walk, the way they talk, and I find myself staying up until all hours of the night thinking of new ways to make them smile. They mean everything to me, even if I may not mean everything to them. I cannot tell.
Everyday, the feelings I have get stronger and stronger. I wouldn't rather be with anybody else, any time of day. Just to see them, hear them, talk to them, makes me happy. Everything just feels right when I'm around them. They know this already, but I'll say it again: The greatest thing I can imagine is not the simple act of sleeping with them, but waking on a morning lying in bed next to them and watching them stretch their arms as they wake up, sun trickling in through the windows and sliding across their hair. It's the most beautiful sight that I can possibly imagine.
I'd do anything for them, tragically. Tragically, because I'd also... leave forever if they wanted me to. I'd never speak to them again, if that was what they wanted. I don't even want to imagine that, though. I'd give anything for them to be happy.
I don't want to dwell too much on this; they're not the mushy gushy type and they've known my feelings for them ever since we started talking. I suppose this will have no audience, as my blog usually does. Not that I care. It's my echo chamber for my frustrations, then. I'll keep yelling into it until I can feel like a regular human being, whatever that is. I feel like I am going to die. But it's the best feeling death ever, I imagine. I am content to dream of them, and if we may only be friends, or something higher than friends, or just something wavering in the middle, I'll take it. But I'll never stop loving them. That is my word, and I keep my words until I die.
Namaste. May your nights be easier than mine.
Wednesday, June 3
she's not mine
But she's so close. I don't know if she knows just how much she means to me. How I cannot go a minute without thinking about her. How every minute I spend thinking about her makes a girl-shaped hole rip ever wider in my heart. How I think she's the most beautiful girl in the entire world and any flaws she thinks she may have are inconsequential at their worst and serve only to further accentuate her beauty at their best.
But she's not mine.
How I wish my finger tips would melt with hers, then move down her arms, down her sides, to her lovely legs, leaving contrails of tingly sensation in their wake. How her scent brings up within me the memories or everything good. How the mere sight of her instills within me an unparalleled elation, for truly I have never loved any girl as I do her. How my hands would ache, not being able to run themselves over the small of her back.
But she's not mine.
How the way her hair looks when she doesn't straighten it after taking a shower is one of the most beautiful sights I know of, and would surely be the last thing I imagine before I die. How her crystalline eyes belie a soul deeper than anyone before her's. How I love her punches so. And her lips? Oh, how I love her lips. Too shiny. In fact, too good to be true. They're what is good in the world. She is what's good in the world.
But she's not mine.
Even though she is as a beacon of light to me, the pinnacle of human beauty and fascination to me. Even though it would not matter to me whatever indiscretions she may have commited. Even if she was somehow made not as she is now, in an accident that rendered her somehow less aesthetically pleasing, it would not matter
to me. Fifty years from now, I can still see myself looking back on her as one of the best parts of my life, and how I would have given anything for her. I would feel the deepest regret, even if I had done all I could.
But she's not mine.
and I used to be okay with that. To a certain extent, I still am. But it pains me. And yet, the only thing I want is for her to attain every happiness possible, and I could only hope I would die trying to spare her some minute discomfort, such as a splinter or rash. Because, for her, she's entirely worth it.
Babe, you're worth remembering.
But she's not mine.
How I wish my finger tips would melt with hers, then move down her arms, down her sides, to her lovely legs, leaving contrails of tingly sensation in their wake. How her scent brings up within me the memories or everything good. How the mere sight of her instills within me an unparalleled elation, for truly I have never loved any girl as I do her. How my hands would ache, not being able to run themselves over the small of her back.
But she's not mine.
How the way her hair looks when she doesn't straighten it after taking a shower is one of the most beautiful sights I know of, and would surely be the last thing I imagine before I die. How her crystalline eyes belie a soul deeper than anyone before her's. How I love her punches so. And her lips? Oh, how I love her lips. Too shiny. In fact, too good to be true. They're what is good in the world. She is what's good in the world.
But she's not mine.
Even though she is as a beacon of light to me, the pinnacle of human beauty and fascination to me. Even though it would not matter to me whatever indiscretions she may have commited. Even if she was somehow made not as she is now, in an accident that rendered her somehow less aesthetically pleasing, it would not matter
to me. Fifty years from now, I can still see myself looking back on her as one of the best parts of my life, and how I would have given anything for her. I would feel the deepest regret, even if I had done all I could.
But she's not mine.
and I used to be okay with that. To a certain extent, I still am. But it pains me. And yet, the only thing I want is for her to attain every happiness possible, and I could only hope I would die trying to spare her some minute discomfort, such as a splinter or rash. Because, for her, she's entirely worth it.
Babe, you're worth remembering.
Wednesday, May 27
It's a Bikini World Out There, Kid
You gotta grab it by its straps.
Summer's far too good to be spent inside.
Summer's far too good to be spent inside.
Monday, May 4
Pass the Kibbe Nayeh, Mr. Nimeh.
You know the people I'm talking about. If you care enough to listen to what I have to say, you're probably not one of them. But if you are, fuck off and stop reading it. I don't want you tainting my page with your gormless stares.
The folk who I'm talking about are the poor empty souls who graduate high school and never leave their respective hometowns. I was coming back home from school m'self and I saw a character whom graduated high school two years ago hanging around just outside of the place. Did he not have anything better to do with his day(s)? People like that are just hollow sponges of a personality. They can't make new friends at all, apparently.
What's worse are those characters that come back to school with regularity. You know them, too. They're constantly in the "cool" teacher's room, just goddamn hanging about. Of course, they're currently off because Basic starts up this summer and that's the only other thing that they'd be able to do, besides mooch off of family.
I can take a certain amount of satisfaction in it all, though, because these are the same characters that were the popular kids in their class. I find it all hilarious. And you'll never see me exchanging emails or hanging out or saying "Hi" every few weeks. No, I'm fuckin' out of there like a shot from a gun and twice as fast. I'm never looking back to this shithole of a town, given the option. Sure, I have friends, but with the luxury of Facebook and Myspace, no one ever has to be out of contact with one another again. I'll keep tabs on the people worth keeping tabs on. If you're not one of them, sucks to be you, because I probably never liked you anyway.
Namaste.
P.S.: I had this really intense craving for a beef tongue sandwich today. Tongue, sauerkraut, mustard, marbled rye. Mmmmmm.
The quickest way to this man's heart is with ethnic food, hence the title of this very post. It's a Lebanese raw-meat, ("Nayeh" translates to "raw"), dish my friend Andy introduced me to.
The folk who I'm talking about are the poor empty souls who graduate high school and never leave their respective hometowns. I was coming back home from school m'self and I saw a character whom graduated high school two years ago hanging around just outside of the place. Did he not have anything better to do with his day(s)? People like that are just hollow sponges of a personality. They can't make new friends at all, apparently.
What's worse are those characters that come back to school with regularity. You know them, too. They're constantly in the "cool" teacher's room, just goddamn hanging about. Of course, they're currently off because Basic starts up this summer and that's the only other thing that they'd be able to do, besides mooch off of family.
I can take a certain amount of satisfaction in it all, though, because these are the same characters that were the popular kids in their class. I find it all hilarious. And you'll never see me exchanging emails or hanging out or saying "Hi" every few weeks. No, I'm fuckin' out of there like a shot from a gun and twice as fast. I'm never looking back to this shithole of a town, given the option. Sure, I have friends, but with the luxury of Facebook and Myspace, no one ever has to be out of contact with one another again. I'll keep tabs on the people worth keeping tabs on. If you're not one of them, sucks to be you, because I probably never liked you anyway.
Namaste.
P.S.: I had this really intense craving for a beef tongue sandwich today. Tongue, sauerkraut, mustard, marbled rye. Mmmmmm.
The quickest way to this man's heart is with ethnic food, hence the title of this very post. It's a Lebanese raw-meat, ("Nayeh" translates to "raw"), dish my friend Andy introduced me to.
green oh my green
How green are you today
My fair lady
Whom was so tired
That she couldn't
Cut the grass and that had
Feelings of envy for her fellow
Women?
Must you be so droll
As to expect me to make
Your day well when you
Are yet so pale and sickly?
How dare you think you're so
Helpless. Dearie dear, you are
As a blight to the firs,
It is any wonder why I
Keep you at all.
My fair lady
Whom was so tired
That she couldn't
Cut the grass and that had
Feelings of envy for her fellow
Women?
Must you be so droll
As to expect me to make
Your day well when you
Are yet so pale and sickly?
How dare you think you're so
Helpless. Dearie dear, you are
As a blight to the firs,
It is any wonder why I
Keep you at all.
Sunday, May 3
The Purpose of Stop-Motion Has Been Revealed To Me
Further reiterating my notion that everything good has already been done before.
Friday, May 1
That's Interesting
I forgot there was an original Gone in Sixty Seconds until I saw this video:
I dig it all.
Thursday, April 30
#1: Letter to A Drowning Victim
I tried my damnedest to save
You but it was not enough
I must've got scared
It you were far too cold
All we should have known
That the overpass was too treacherous
But it would not matter
You would have gone
Wish I might that you were
Better but I have no hope
For the hope was gone
The last time it happened
I took my hands
Across your chest
Forced your breath
All for naught
I always thought blue pallour
Would be an attractive quality
Like almost translucent milky
Skin, but it's sick
I grab my hat, my phone
Fumble the keys
Emergency on the way
Emergency left and gone
I cry every night now
Out of sheer pain, the
Cessations of your breathing killing
Me; I won't forget you
You but it was not enough
I must've got scared
It you were far too cold
All we should have known
That the overpass was too treacherous
But it would not matter
You would have gone
Wish I might that you were
Better but I have no hope
For the hope was gone
The last time it happened
I took my hands
Across your chest
Forced your breath
All for naught
I always thought blue pallour
Would be an attractive quality
Like almost translucent milky
Skin, but it's sick
I grab my hat, my phone
Fumble the keys
Emergency on the way
Emergency left and gone
I cry every night now
Out of sheer pain, the
Cessations of your breathing killing
Me; I won't forget you
Tuesday, April 28
Just A Little
I got accepted. I'm going for a masters in Disappearing Sciences. I'm tired of caring anymore. Good things may happen to people who try, but good things seem to only happen to me when I don't try. I've learned that through a recent pattern of "trying" and it's gotten me nowhere but Neverwhere Land. People are sadly predictable and formulaic. Be yourself and you won't get what you want, that is, unless you were just clouded into wanting something and fooled yourself into believing as such. I hope that's what happened to me.
I'm trying to raise $750 at the moment. Let's hope I can.
Anyway, I don't mean to sound too depressing, thus:
Hopefully that brought people out of a funk I had put them in.
Namaste.
I'm trying to raise $750 at the moment. Let's hope I can.
Anyway, I don't mean to sound too depressing, thus:
Hopefully that brought people out of a funk I had put them in.
Namaste.
Thursday, April 23
The Retirement Of Mel Levinson (pt.1)
Ryan was ordering a tall coffee from a very famous green store when he received a call from his necessary evil; Lawyer Tom. Thomas wasn't really his personal lawyer, he was Ryan's family's, but the group rate they got was too good to resist. Ryan winced at the thought of talking to the greasy bastard.
Ryan hit the green button on his cell after taking a couple sips from his coffee.
"Hello?"
The voice five-hundred miles away lit up.
"JACOBI! Babe! You're a hard guy to get a hold of."
"Blame that on yourself. I've learned not to answer my phone anymore."
He had been receiving harrassing calls for the past three years.
"Yeah, well it's for your own good. You gotta watch what you say, pal."
Ryan was annoyed at the mere thought of small talk with this cat. He was swirling around his coffee as he sat cross-legged at the table by the window, Chicago wildlife passing by with their designer bags, miniature poodles, and vacant stares. Ryan said nothing back and several uncomfortable moments passed.
"Errrr... Listen, Mel. I have some bad news."
His father? They hadn't talked in years. Ryan didn't care. His father didn't either. They were on good terms.
"What's the news, Tom?" He braced himself. Not really.
"Well, your old friend Mel passed on recently. I'm... sorry."
A decade's worth of lost memories found themselves wedged between everything else in Ryan's head at the mention of the name Mel. Mel, the grown-up friend. Mel, the first boss. Mel, the guy who would let you into Rated-R movies. Mel, the-
"Ry-boy, you there?"
"Huh?"
Jacobi stopped spinning his now-cold coffee. He was lost, forgot where he was. Now, he felt like he was one of the many, with non-distinct features bleeding into the crowd. And, at the end, he was falling out.
"Cancer of the lung variety. Hell of a way to go... Jacobi? He mentioned you in his will."
Ryan snapped back to reality. What could Mel have left him? Last he heard, Mel was just barely making ends meet between child support and alcoholism.
"You're gonna have to come back to New Haven. He left you an envelope with specific instuctions yadda yadda yadda. You know the drill. Get your ass back here, man. We all miss you. Even your dad."
Ryan knew it was a lie, but he couldn't figure out Tom's motivation for lying. Perhaps it was the lawyer gene.
"Yeah, well I doubt that." Another few uncomfortable moments, eventually followed by a sigh.
"Lemee get some things squared away, take some vacation time. I'll hop the next plane I'm able."
"Super. I'll tell your folks." The l(iar)awyer practically beamed his feigned excitement over the phone.
"Before I go, Tom, could you tell me when the funeral will be?"
"Errr... As far as I know, champ, there's no service involved."
"I'm only coming if he gets a proper funeral, Tom, so make it happen."
"Alright, I'll get some people together, see what I can do."
"Goodbye, Tom."
Ryan hit the button and ended the call. His coffee was long since cold, not that he would have been able to drink it, anyway. The cup fell fast into the can and hit the bottom with a dull thud. He was already out the door and on the phone making a call.
---
Sixteen blocks away, a phone rang in the office of the lead editor to the Chicago Daily, a paper far eclipsed by the Tribune in terms of success and whose stories were often marred in sensationalism and retractions.
Not to say that it wasn't successful. It was.
Editor-in-chief Marcus LeRoy had worked there for more than three decadess. His tenure could be measured in the coffee rings scattered around his desk alone. He was a holdover from another era, when women were receptionists and the men had packages of Lucky Strikes rolled up into their sleeves. Rumor has it that he was a big shot at a big paper asking hard questions to hard people. Same rumor says that he asked the wrong question... to the wrong counselman's wife. Things didn't get ugly, but a certain individual was sent far away.
Th phone rang a final time as LeRoy looked at it. It's not customary for an editor-in-chief to not answer his phone, but it's hard to answer when you're a philanderer philandering during lunch break.
He- and she -let it go to message.
---
Fifteen blocks away, Ryan was smacking the phone shut and taking his seat on the middle-most
car of the L-Train. He didn't leave a message. Didn't like to. If Mark didn't want to speak to him right now, he'd show up for a face-to-face. He was a bastard and Ryan knew that. But the Daily was the only place that he could get a job. No one else could take him. Not that he could blame the other papers. He knew they didn't want controversy in a time of economic distress.
The train rattled his brain, jostled around his soul. He kept thinking of Mel, and of all the lost time. He needed a break. Time to talk to Terry.
---
Terry was the resident of the second floor of the C Street Laundromat, twenty minutes outside of Chicago in a depressingly small town called Freeport. Twenty years ago, his left hand was mangled in a car accident, ending his career as a guitarist. To compensate, he took up painting for the art-fickle and heroin. He was a candidate for an experimental surgery, for his schizophrenia, but was passed over after he came down with a hellacious bout of pneumonia. Naturally, this only exacerbated his problems and, as of last Tuesday, was trying to come up with new and exciting ways to kill himself and get attention.
Ryan trudged up the dirty stairs and pounded his fist upon the once-painted door.
At once, a gangly, paint-covered man opened the door, looking much like Jesus of Nazareth if Jesus had trackmarks and soft teeth. And smelled like a dead guy.
"I've been waiting," the dead man mumbled.
"Come off it, you cryptic fuck."
"Come into my dungeon. I have such sights for you to see." He waved Jacobi in.
Ryan hit the green button on his cell after taking a couple sips from his coffee.
"Hello?"
The voice five-hundred miles away lit up.
"JACOBI! Babe! You're a hard guy to get a hold of."
"Blame that on yourself. I've learned not to answer my phone anymore."
He had been receiving harrassing calls for the past three years.
"Yeah, well it's for your own good. You gotta watch what you say, pal."
Ryan was annoyed at the mere thought of small talk with this cat. He was swirling around his coffee as he sat cross-legged at the table by the window, Chicago wildlife passing by with their designer bags, miniature poodles, and vacant stares. Ryan said nothing back and several uncomfortable moments passed.
"Errrr... Listen, Mel. I have some bad news."
His father? They hadn't talked in years. Ryan didn't care. His father didn't either. They were on good terms.
"What's the news, Tom?" He braced himself. Not really.
"Well, your old friend Mel passed on recently. I'm... sorry."
A decade's worth of lost memories found themselves wedged between everything else in Ryan's head at the mention of the name Mel. Mel, the grown-up friend. Mel, the first boss. Mel, the guy who would let you into Rated-R movies. Mel, the-
"Ry-boy, you there?"
"Huh?"
Jacobi stopped spinning his now-cold coffee. He was lost, forgot where he was. Now, he felt like he was one of the many, with non-distinct features bleeding into the crowd. And, at the end, he was falling out.
"Cancer of the lung variety. Hell of a way to go... Jacobi? He mentioned you in his will."
Ryan snapped back to reality. What could Mel have left him? Last he heard, Mel was just barely making ends meet between child support and alcoholism.
"You're gonna have to come back to New Haven. He left you an envelope with specific instuctions yadda yadda yadda. You know the drill. Get your ass back here, man. We all miss you. Even your dad."
Ryan knew it was a lie, but he couldn't figure out Tom's motivation for lying. Perhaps it was the lawyer gene.
"Yeah, well I doubt that." Another few uncomfortable moments, eventually followed by a sigh.
"Lemee get some things squared away, take some vacation time. I'll hop the next plane I'm able."
"Super. I'll tell your folks." The l(iar)awyer practically beamed his feigned excitement over the phone.
"Before I go, Tom, could you tell me when the funeral will be?"
"Errr... As far as I know, champ, there's no service involved."
"I'm only coming if he gets a proper funeral, Tom, so make it happen."
"Alright, I'll get some people together, see what I can do."
"Goodbye, Tom."
Ryan hit the button and ended the call. His coffee was long since cold, not that he would have been able to drink it, anyway. The cup fell fast into the can and hit the bottom with a dull thud. He was already out the door and on the phone making a call.
---
Sixteen blocks away, a phone rang in the office of the lead editor to the Chicago Daily, a paper far eclipsed by the Tribune in terms of success and whose stories were often marred in sensationalism and retractions.
Not to say that it wasn't successful. It was.
Editor-in-chief Marcus LeRoy had worked there for more than three decadess. His tenure could be measured in the coffee rings scattered around his desk alone. He was a holdover from another era, when women were receptionists and the men had packages of Lucky Strikes rolled up into their sleeves. Rumor has it that he was a big shot at a big paper asking hard questions to hard people. Same rumor says that he asked the wrong question... to the wrong counselman's wife. Things didn't get ugly, but a certain individual was sent far away.
Th phone rang a final time as LeRoy looked at it. It's not customary for an editor-in-chief to not answer his phone, but it's hard to answer when you're a philanderer philandering during lunch break.
He- and she -let it go to message.
---
Fifteen blocks away, Ryan was smacking the phone shut and taking his seat on the middle-most
car of the L-Train. He didn't leave a message. Didn't like to. If Mark didn't want to speak to him right now, he'd show up for a face-to-face. He was a bastard and Ryan knew that. But the Daily was the only place that he could get a job. No one else could take him. Not that he could blame the other papers. He knew they didn't want controversy in a time of economic distress.
The train rattled his brain, jostled around his soul. He kept thinking of Mel, and of all the lost time. He needed a break. Time to talk to Terry.
---
Terry was the resident of the second floor of the C Street Laundromat, twenty minutes outside of Chicago in a depressingly small town called Freeport. Twenty years ago, his left hand was mangled in a car accident, ending his career as a guitarist. To compensate, he took up painting for the art-fickle and heroin. He was a candidate for an experimental surgery, for his schizophrenia, but was passed over after he came down with a hellacious bout of pneumonia. Naturally, this only exacerbated his problems and, as of last Tuesday, was trying to come up with new and exciting ways to kill himself and get attention.
Ryan trudged up the dirty stairs and pounded his fist upon the once-painted door.
At once, a gangly, paint-covered man opened the door, looking much like Jesus of Nazareth if Jesus had trackmarks and soft teeth. And smelled like a dead guy.
"I've been waiting," the dead man mumbled.
"Come off it, you cryptic fuck."
"Come into my dungeon. I have such sights for you to see." He waved Jacobi in.
Wednesday, March 18
rather no other
Elaborate spit-fire girl bellowing themes of love.
How I wonder how she works, wish to pick her apart. A slap at the back of my head like the snap of a floral print sundress. WAHCHOW. And I have to hang on to her like a quick-spinnin' marry-go-round just to keep safe.
I wonder sometimes what would happen if I let go, but... my safety depends on it. She is my life-line to the world in a way that no man or beast could. She is my saccharine angel, a deliciously sweet falsehood. A tease in some ways, a reality in others. I wrap my paisley-tangled arms around her. My fingers trip over themselves in her mass of hair, wandering. Their business there is of no consequence to me; my central preoccupation being the deep wells of her eyes.
My sight wanders to my Casio Love-Life. Moments crash, bleed into other moments. Minds twist. And, like the tsunami, love crashes against my beach and recedes back into the abyss, leaving only lingering memories of the manufactured carnage in its wake. She's still there, but never again.
I damn my forehead against the stainless style face of my refrigerator and crush my eyes together as hard as I possibly can. She leaves me nothing but the knowledge to hang on tighter. I don't want to lose that snap again.
How I wonder how she works, wish to pick her apart. A slap at the back of my head like the snap of a floral print sundress. WAHCHOW. And I have to hang on to her like a quick-spinnin' marry-go-round just to keep safe.
I wonder sometimes what would happen if I let go, but... my safety depends on it. She is my life-line to the world in a way that no man or beast could. She is my saccharine angel, a deliciously sweet falsehood. A tease in some ways, a reality in others. I wrap my paisley-tangled arms around her. My fingers trip over themselves in her mass of hair, wandering. Their business there is of no consequence to me; my central preoccupation being the deep wells of her eyes.
My sight wanders to my Casio Love-Life. Moments crash, bleed into other moments. Minds twist. And, like the tsunami, love crashes against my beach and recedes back into the abyss, leaving only lingering memories of the manufactured carnage in its wake. She's still there, but never again.
I damn my forehead against the stainless style face of my refrigerator and crush my eyes together as hard as I possibly can. She leaves me nothing but the knowledge to hang on tighter. I don't want to lose that snap again.
Monday, March 16
Owwww
I'm sorry, I was just hit in the face with a load of awesome.
This is Audiobytes For Autobots, a hip-cat who tossed up albums "2.0" and "Prime Cuts". He doesn't have nearly as cohesive a structure as a lot of other mashup artists, but he tosses together tracks in a manner not even John Oswald can touch.
I was feeling like a huge ass today, but when I saw the music video above, I was overcome with such elation that my mind was goddamn blown. I have never seen something so amazing. As such, I highly recommend everything this guy puts out and will be waiting on bated breath for his next release.
You can catch up on his site: http://audiobytes.net/
A bit minimalist, but whatever man. SHUT UP AND SITUATE THOSE CANS ON YOUR EARS, BABES.
Namaste.
This is Audiobytes For Autobots, a hip-cat who tossed up albums "2.0" and "Prime Cuts". He doesn't have nearly as cohesive a structure as a lot of other mashup artists, but he tosses together tracks in a manner not even John Oswald can touch.
I was feeling like a huge ass today, but when I saw the music video above, I was overcome with such elation that my mind was goddamn blown. I have never seen something so amazing. As such, I highly recommend everything this guy puts out and will be waiting on bated breath for his next release.
You can catch up on his site: http://audiobytes.net/
A bit minimalist, but whatever man. SHUT UP AND SITUATE THOSE CANS ON YOUR EARS, BABES.
Namaste.
Monday, March 9
Academic Decathlon
I dunno if I've mentioned this before, but I am on the Academic Decathlon team for my high school. It's an inner city school, filled with the dregs of humanity, but I wouldn't be the person I am today without every one of them. Anyway, I'm on the team. Have been since last year.
I was able to get a lot of medals and we got third place in the state last year. Yay.
This year, however, was a wholly different story. It was mainly due to the fact that I got nary a medal. We still got second place, though. Strangely enough, I actually tried to win this year and felt confident that I would do well! It's irritating, but I go with it. It's just another way to benchmark something unquantifiable; intelligence.
Oh well. Just goes to show what you get when you try. The looser you are, the better things will happen to you. Realize that, whatever you do, it's cosmically unimportant, and you will do well.
Philosophizor out.
Namaste.
I was able to get a lot of medals and we got third place in the state last year. Yay.
This year, however, was a wholly different story. It was mainly due to the fact that I got nary a medal. We still got second place, though. Strangely enough, I actually tried to win this year and felt confident that I would do well! It's irritating, but I go with it. It's just another way to benchmark something unquantifiable; intelligence.
Oh well. Just goes to show what you get when you try. The looser you are, the better things will happen to you. Realize that, whatever you do, it's cosmically unimportant, and you will do well.
Philosophizor out.
Namaste.
Thursday, February 12
Tuesday, February 3
The Beginnings of A Tale
His yellowed fingers take hold of the pen, shaking slightly. His hands hurt, but the task was non-negotiable. He had to tell his story. The other hand hit the "Record" button. Cassette wheels began spinning.
"Listen folks-" Cough. Hack.
He stopped it. Rewind.
"It is very late for me, folks. I'm very short on time and my days are numbered." Checking his watch.
"I'm afraid many aren't proud of me any more. I've lost my way, now. The one other man I do know who would care about who I am is MIA. I don't know where he is, only that he is not dead. Or maybe he is? If he can die, I didn't know it. Regardless, at no other time in my life did I feel so compelled to do something. I must do something. The time is now."
One can hear the pen bearing down on the pad, being manhandled by the nicotine-stained hand. Another violent cough. Blood. A droplet fell on the page and he contemplated throwing the thing away, but finally decided to keep it, the crimson stain serving as its own macabre punctuation mark.
His pen hand rubbed his face, thumb and index massaging the sinuses. Eventually, it ran up to his hair which was overgrown and wiry, Nick Nolte mugshot-like.
"Before I start, I'd like to say that I am not proud of what I have done, but I did it all according to what seemed like the best decisions at the time. I minimized loss. At least I hope I did. Or maybe I just didn't give a shit about other people. I regret nothing, except for the things I never had the guts to do. I've not done much good in my life, but maybe this story will prove a little of me is still human."
He stopped the tape and pulled a small sepia photograph from the right-hand drawer of the desk, the second one from the top. It showed a young man and woman locked arm-in-arm walking and a wild-looking man staring off into the void behind the camera. He looked at it a bit, sighing.
The button clicks once more.
"This is the mostly true story slash will & testament of Max Wainwright, aged 254."
"Listen folks-" Cough. Hack.
He stopped it. Rewind.
"It is very late for me, folks. I'm very short on time and my days are numbered." Checking his watch.
"I'm afraid many aren't proud of me any more. I've lost my way, now. The one other man I do know who would care about who I am is MIA. I don't know where he is, only that he is not dead. Or maybe he is? If he can die, I didn't know it. Regardless, at no other time in my life did I feel so compelled to do something. I must do something. The time is now."
One can hear the pen bearing down on the pad, being manhandled by the nicotine-stained hand. Another violent cough. Blood. A droplet fell on the page and he contemplated throwing the thing away, but finally decided to keep it, the crimson stain serving as its own macabre punctuation mark.
His pen hand rubbed his face, thumb and index massaging the sinuses. Eventually, it ran up to his hair which was overgrown and wiry, Nick Nolte mugshot-like.
"Before I start, I'd like to say that I am not proud of what I have done, but I did it all according to what seemed like the best decisions at the time. I minimized loss. At least I hope I did. Or maybe I just didn't give a shit about other people. I regret nothing, except for the things I never had the guts to do. I've not done much good in my life, but maybe this story will prove a little of me is still human."
He stopped the tape and pulled a small sepia photograph from the right-hand drawer of the desk, the second one from the top. It showed a young man and woman locked arm-in-arm walking and a wild-looking man staring off into the void behind the camera. He looked at it a bit, sighing.
The button clicks once more.
"This is the mostly true story slash will & testament of Max Wainwright, aged 254."
Thursday, January 29
Damn You
Why do you have to be here every night? Why am I that important to you, 2 A.M. Lady? I can't do it. I'm lost. And you sure as Hell don't guide me anywhere. So what the fuck do you want me to do? You're not elaborating. I DON'T KNOW WHERE TO START. The only thing I can do to sate you is follow the groove in the way. Walk where everyone else has been. Do what they've done. I CAN'T MOVE IT FORWARD. I'm not that guy. What's my fucking purpose, bitch? Why won't you let me sleep these nights?
I can see you. You sit there right behind me. Watching, and prodding. Nudging.
But I can't do it, you see? No matter how numb you make my hands, no matter how many chills you send up my spine. Why, 3 A.M. Lady?
Just give it up, babe. I'm a lost cause. Go to another cat for something good. It ain't gonna leave my pen.
SO JUST GO ALREADY, 4 A.M. LADY. I DON'T WANT TO FEEL YOU ANYMORE. LET ME LIVE MY LIFE OF BANALITY, MY PASSIVE LIFE. I JUST WANT TO WATCH.
I can see you. You sit there right behind me. Watching, and prodding. Nudging.
But I can't do it, you see? No matter how numb you make my hands, no matter how many chills you send up my spine. Why, 3 A.M. Lady?
Just give it up, babe. I'm a lost cause. Go to another cat for something good. It ain't gonna leave my pen.
SO JUST GO ALREADY, 4 A.M. LADY. I DON'T WANT TO FEEL YOU ANYMORE. LET ME LIVE MY LIFE OF BANALITY, MY PASSIVE LIFE. I JUST WANT TO WATCH.
Monday, January 19
I've got the will to drive myself sleepless.
Insomnia isn't something I've suffered from. My inhibited sleep comes from my own determination. I simply want to do everything at every hour of the day. I can't stop. And I pay for it every time.
My daylight moments are waking staccato dreamscapes, interspersed with a litany of surrealistic terrors. The whole experience elicits a feeling of freefalling through eternity. The world takes on an aquatic, strangled appearance. People make garbled noises, sounds delayed to my reception. But what they say is completely inconsequential in the long run. I can't hear them, anyway.
Most of my thoughts turn inward, focusing on my dreams. Some long-time dreams, mostly women. Particulate thoughts colliding about with one another, no girl being better nor worse than another. All being unique in their respective ways; I cannot love one more. Therefore, I chose none and live in forced, and bitter, hermitude.
Then my thoughts direct themselves to the future. What career path shall I take? What will happen to my teeth if I stop brushing? Where did the music go?
Common perplexities to everyone, yet they are of the most dire concern to me. All options of all these thoughts run over in seconds, the human brain clocking in at about 70hz. Yet, we dwell on such things constantly.
My thoughts and experiences are not as clear with lack of sleep. But they are of an extraordinary vividity unattainable with a typical forty winks. This is why I am the way I am. Especially about the ladies.
Namaste.
My daylight moments are waking staccato dreamscapes, interspersed with a litany of surrealistic terrors. The whole experience elicits a feeling of freefalling through eternity. The world takes on an aquatic, strangled appearance. People make garbled noises, sounds delayed to my reception. But what they say is completely inconsequential in the long run. I can't hear them, anyway.
Most of my thoughts turn inward, focusing on my dreams. Some long-time dreams, mostly women. Particulate thoughts colliding about with one another, no girl being better nor worse than another. All being unique in their respective ways; I cannot love one more. Therefore, I chose none and live in forced, and bitter, hermitude.
Then my thoughts direct themselves to the future. What career path shall I take? What will happen to my teeth if I stop brushing? Where did the music go?
Common perplexities to everyone, yet they are of the most dire concern to me. All options of all these thoughts run over in seconds, the human brain clocking in at about 70hz. Yet, we dwell on such things constantly.
My thoughts and experiences are not as clear with lack of sleep. But they are of an extraordinary vividity unattainable with a typical forty winks. This is why I am the way I am. Especially about the ladies.
Namaste.
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