| If there are still people who read this.... |
[30 May 2004|06:49pm] |
| [ |
mood |
| |
 hopeful |
] |
| [ |
music |
| |
Brand New - Am I Wrong |
] |
I will begin posting to Livejournal agian soon.....but not with this journal.
I have a new livejournal, ![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif) findingthelost
If you'd like to continue to check up on me, I'd reccommend Friending that journal, and i'll soon be archiving this one.
Happy trails to everyone out there, I'm gonna try and keep all the poepl on my Friends list right now on the new one.
And drop me a line at the new journal, or AIM: Mexicoloneliness or Email: eloquentneworleans@yahoo.com
--Eric
|
|
| Back again....waking, or dreamin on a field of grass, or walking, trodding black roads and blue sky |
[21 Nov 2003|04:10pm] |
| [ |
mood |
| |
 bouncy |
] |
| [ |
music |
| |
Weezer - My Name Is Jonas |
] |
Just got back from Part II of the GED exam...what hell.
Yes, I'm still alive, and kicking quite fiercely, though whther or not that matters is up to the reader.
Whitman and Eliot, and things that spiral spiral around and up and down, Morrison's Great Serpent in life.....
Whether its real or not, is up to the reader.
And if it wasn't...all the words in the world have been wasted up until....eternity.
For all of those who want an update beyond the hum and drum, and for those who haven't had close contact, I will bring a refreshment to you.
Yes, I'm still a drug addict. I always have been, and see no stopping in the near future. Don't be concerned, I'm the same kid, always have been, always will be, and I've always been doped out.
Yes, I've probably lost a good many braincells alog with my deflating ego and bankroll.
Yes, I'm empty, and in the heart of life itself.
No, I'm not mad, I'm not different.
Yes, I'm sorry. I always will be, eternally.
No, I still don't regret. Regret is for Catholics...sorry, Catholic friends.
I talk to my family on an average of every sixth months. This is not good; but I do my best.
I talk to my friends less often than that, mostly, and my former friends, wherever you've made your way, I still love you.
I yearn for heart.
No, I still do not have a phone. Remedy for that malady is soon coming, and I will be sure to herald to news to all, and spread heartfelt thanks and warming and praise to my girl.
Yes, I'm still dating Heather, it will be a year come New Years.
Hating will not be tolerated, by any means.
I am here, still here, ever presently here, and not checking out anytime soon.
No, I am not an opium addict (?) My roommates are more clean than I, by a longshot, and yes, my blood still has a street value, though not nearly what it was.
I am not nearly as close to destruction as I was before I lived here. Destruction of my self.
I haven't been out in some time, for better or worse, and my life si still good.
Elmwood is a haunt, as is downtown, as is the rest of life. Haunt it good, haunt it hard. Haunt.
A few of you who read this might still dislike me, hate me, want me to die, etc....for that, I have no answer, other than time, and most of the water I've ever seen has passed long before me.
I have a job oppurtunity or two open to me. I won't be starving this winter. I still hate money, and everythign that goes along with it, except for the entertainment.
I'm still well in the whole, but coming closer to the edge, grabbing furiously ahead of me, with a sort of dedication that only comes near death.
I have been writing like a madman, and soon, I'll show it. I have publishing oppurtunity, too, thanks to some of my friends.
I am a madman, and always have been, and if you love that, bless you. If thats too much, bless you too, and come hang out. I've learned to destroy Temperance.
I live with madmen and madwoman, and thats family enough.
I hate these periodical digests of undigested life. I would much rather scream the words aloud, and have the ears of heartfelt love carry the thoughts to you. All.
John leaves in less than a month. This saddens me, and I invite all that might see this to contact me, about a coming celebration. Even if you don't know my roommate John, celebrate.
AIM: mexicoloneliness
Email: eloquentneworleans@yahoo.com
See y'all round.
|
|
| How long did it take? How long does anything ever take? How long til I find my bhudda tree? |
[04 Aug 2003|02:18am] |
| [ |
mood |
| |
sober as hell...take that as you will |
] |
| [ |
music |
| |
The Starting Line - Im Real |
] |
One year. Thats exactly how long it took.
One year ago, exactly. Or, near enough for my mind to remember.
One year ago, I was a different boy. Today, I'm a different man.
One year ago, I had a feeling I was going to die, in a 75 Corvette, cause I had nothing better to do than drive it into a tree.
Today, I realize I could've saved alot of money that way.
Today I realize, I could've saved alot of things. I could've saved myself. I could have saved my life.
Today, is the beginning I was looking for one year ago.
One year ago, was the beginning I was running from.
One year ago, I had the world in my pocket, and my life ahead of me.
Today, I have nothing in my pocket, and my life ahead of me.
One year ago exactly, I had more money than my body is worth.
Today, I have nothing, and its more than my mind is worth. To me.
One year ago, I was like unto a prince in the world, and I learned the horrors of the life I live.
Nearly one year ago, I moved into an apartment with an aspiring law student.
Today, that aspiring law student has decided he wants to be a chef. I have helped make this decision. He might just stick by it. He doesn't read this.
One year ago, I wanted to change the world, and least of all, myself.
Today, I've changed nothing, but myself. And whether for better or worse, is left for God to say. He doesn't like talking to me, I stole a girlfriend of his not too long ago.
One year ago, I had an affair with a beautiful girl.
Today, I'm having an affair with a beautiful girl, a differnt one.
All things are beautiful, and all affairs are, too.
One year ago, I had the world by the proverbial balls.
Today, I still do.
One year ago, I didn't have any idea where balls came from.
Today, I have a firm grip on my own.
I am nothing today, and one year ago, I wasn't even a thought.
Today, I have no idea who I am, but I'm one step closer.
Today, I've hit bottom. Actually, probably sometime last week. Though, today is just as good as any day to hit bottom.
All days are good ones to hit bottom.
I hit bottom one year ago, exactly.
A rock is like space, because it doesn't move, and space is like a rock because its empty.
My screams are ones silent in the late night.
I don't see the sun, but soon I will.
My voice is softer now, and worse for wear, but I still dream of singing.
My dreams make symphonies in my ears.
I dont' dream while I sleep, only while I wake. Waking is an effort, much like sleep.
Sleep is peace, and waking is war, and war is meant to be fought; and dancing is what I do best.
I haven't danced in many months.
I also haven't slept in as many...or maybe i'm still asleep.
This is not a declaration. Declarations end with periods. This never will. Nothing ever ends. At least, not with periods:
It is my firm beluief that ice cream should be given the presidency of the united states, and voting should be done with flavored syrups, and sundays should be really sundaes, and our politicians should all be Choclate.
It is also firm to say that ice cream will go soft and melt, and that is what the world needs.
Summer clings like the sweat on your skin, and the sweat on tyou skin is the glue of the world. Savor it. Summer also falls like water in a shower, and you should revel nake din it.
I dream in the shower.
I do not shower everyday, that would be wasting precious sweat. Heat is like a blanket that the sun gives you, do not let it go. Heat wanes far too much in our hearts these days.
I have lost everything, and most of all, my sanity. My sanity isn't everyhting you see, only, like my clothes, trapping.
I am not what I ever thought I would be, or what I am, or what I ever could be. Falling has shown me that.
I've been asleep for a very long time. I've softened, like summer creamed ice. I've melted like the guitars melt over me delicious.
Do not ask me to answer questions, watch, and you'll learn on your own, in your own words, thats what I've learned, and will tell you.
I have questions for all the men and women of the world, because I am blind, and cannot see. I accept this.
I've failed so far, and I'm ok with that. The world thinks I'm a idiot, and I wouldn't have it any other way. I love Hemingway. And Whitman.
I'm alone right now, and I can feel it. It scares me, like it should scare anyone, and I know that my fears are good and strong. Fear keeps us alive.
I have no money, no cigarettes, no drugs, no food, no drink, no company, and above all, nothing to do with myself.
I have found it possible to feel alone in a crowd, and that excites me, cause we should all be alone in crowds.
I am arrogant, pompous, lazy, under assertive, scared, scarred, small, weak, whit, and undermotivated. I cannot live my life for myself. I have nothing, am nothing, but I am happy. That is life.
I have caused a great deal of wasted space, even hear, and I hope there is somethign between the lines, cause space, is not always empty when you look at it. It is often full of nothing, like rocks, or people.
My soul sings, and dances, and I have no ego, self esteem, or self worth. Thats ok, too...because I was made from nithing, and have found the nothing again.
Zen is alot like nothing, but its full, like my body, albeit it might be full of shit, even zen doesn't smell good all the time.
My house is dirty, and I've seen beyond the filth that my microcosm is, to see the filth on the horizon, and to have thrown away the scrub brushes and the soap. This probably makes no sense to you, and I'm glad for that, too. If it did make snese to you, I couldn't laugh at your face.
And even if it does, or you're full enough of yourself to think it does, which is understandable, cause not so many people are full enough of nothing to get it, don't be afraid when I do laugh, because I'm mad. You should be mad too.
I don't believe I'm getting any better....thats not my line, and thats why I like it.
I still haven't figured out the value of love, or life, or a dollar, and I hope I never do. Or else, I might find out how much I really am worth, and that would be deflating?
These are the first owrds I've wirtten since my sabbatical began. I am not so changed as I would think.
I wish I still looked as good as I used to. I've lost many clothes, and washed less. I'm dirty, like Pigpen, except not made from color like he is. And I'm still getting drawn in.
There are people I hate, and those I love. I hate myself, and love myself. I hate the world, and love it. I am as confused as ever, and not nearly any closer to the answers.
I'm still young, and not nearly so proud as I once was.
I've lost ALL regret.
You should too.
I'm real. Jennifer Lopez said that, and I think she's right. Maybe this has become a declaration. I am wrong again, and happy for it.
Scream, howl, bleed for the happiness of the sun in summer, bleed for yourself, hurt yourself, breaks bones, and noses, and hearts. Sing great soungs of triumph, whther you have or not, becasue TRIUMPH is POSSIBLE.
EVERYTHING IS POSSIBLE!!!
Sing high praise to the heavens for this, and rejoice!
Or don't, the heavens' don't need the praise, but you should sing anyways.
It is only now DAWN, and NIGHT SHALL NOT FALL UNTIL YOU DO! Do not let the sun jest you into napping away your time. Chase it, for all you're worth. You're worth more than you think.
Musing away the days is SOMETHING, and SOMETHING is not always more than nothing, but it is fullness, and fullness is much like emptiness, and we should all try and be empty, any way we can be.
Empty yourself on others, empty yourself on the world, empty love in piles along the street, empty your monies, and drian your bacnk accounts, or fill them, and realize that it is all NOTHING.
Earn your degrees, fill your heads with more nothings than are already there, and see if nothings can realy be something. This is all very confusing, I hope.
Earn your accolades, your honors, but don't live for the somethings, live for the anythings. Live for the anytimes. Live for the anybodies.
Being an orphan to the world has its downsides, and this MAD raving lunacy is one fo them, buts also its own kind of beauty. My fingers are tingling, my head aches, and my mind is screaming, and making nail marks down my back, like good love.
--Eric
PS: Is anyone out there? Let me know...
|
|
| ::shhhhh!!!:: I hear the tape recording runiing in the back of my real... |
[23 Mar 2003|01:45pm] |
| [ |
mood |
| |
 melancholy |
] |
This might be incongruable and intangible, but stay with me, feel and swim your way through the words, like tequila is an oil patch waiting for the diver to cover himself in filth. I will not apologize for my fractured kaleidoscopic reality view anymore, just don't get motion sickness on the way down....
What was the eventual and seasonal climb of my mental and emotional state, as per Freud would say I have a state of mind that is not the mind of me, and it was ground to flour paste with the grear granite jaw and marvelous monstrosities. I thought my personal hell would never be unleashed on the world, and now I come to wake and find my nightmares scattered and strewn in lifeless lumps on television; the tears the came to the corners of my face are genuine, more than my own tears for my own reasons, and my mind hurts to think of what they say to me, and what they listen to me say, and the masturbations ond the stiff necked observations of a sattelite nation! 'But why cry the tears the lotus-Bhudda gives to me my dreams, Why?! And his boyish good looks make him seem like an ancient epiphany in the darkness cold reviled now, and my old man tv set picture screams at me with suits, and Bhudda sits silent.
And I thought, boyishly and good looking, that Picasso had lost his mind. Sartre was just a fable speaker, and Hemmingwaya dirty old drunk. Boyish and haggard, I see the difference. They saw god for just a moment, when a millioin boys lost their skin and their dicks in the south of France, and when shrapne dug at Ernest's leg, and he brought that bottle to his lips, I know he cried like I did, when the bobms began to fall. There is no lotus any more. Damn Niravan and all its worth, just to let it all stop here, for everyone, for just a moment. My chakra and fixations be damned, existence be damned, and holy lights of the god blessed nations towers be damned. I dream visions of pgroms and Stalin, brought home to me now my drams brought forth with tanks parading the streets of New York with clap and thunderous rage, and tickertape from the wall street hooligans, with their Edison machines rattling off the price in barrels, the price in blood, and their whit collar supremecy, their ....lost.
This is filth. Silent fan wirring filth, with a head and a shoulder with a chip and and axe, with a block infront of the wall of Berlin, that I remember as just a boy, falling, and having a piece of graffiti'd rack and mortar in my hands at age five, looking at the blood soaked rock in my hands, and not knowing what it was. I watched then, as I watch now, and dream the marxists terrors and the concentration killings of America go on for ages, and hope, that that green spray paint on the barberd wired wall is enough to make me feel there is virtue left. Damned be the virtue we so terribly seek, and damned be us for wanting the impossible, damned be the bohemian summer we all die for, and the spring that makes it awash in sentiments confused and muddled. Cold and sterile is the wionter where our discontent blossomed like a beast rose, gangrenous cold coal hearted rose with thorns of a lost dead god to break away the hand that would realize it. Damned be the peacemakers and the tape drawers and the building makers for shaking and making the world string and dance methodically viscous; terrib;e and squalling is the nature of a storm, and in the back of this reel, they'll find a way out, under that wall, if it don't fall, or around that man, if that man don't die, and through the hearts of the peacemakers and love lovers, with the wine of Caeser fresh on our hands, the republic and senate of well meaningless men in suits the same color blood as his....Cassius is gone and dead, like Brutus, though brutus was the dream we dreamt so long and hard ago, masturbating in our sleep to find a young and strong Marc Anthony to run our race and fuck our egyptian queen, and so we come to theloss that fat slick headed men wilkl forever keep us from the chambers and lust filled blood beds of our main man, our gaucho grande, and deliver us from the McCarthy's of today with roaring shouts and curdled screams.
Cassius, come back, for your own reasons, lead away the armies of Rome, and let the city come again to a blade in the back, for the good of the People, like Brutus would have it, and make me run the race of fertility until my ragged and starving legs have no here else to run...and oh, great caeser, kill the chickens for the auguries you need, and let your dreams be blood-guides, until there is a time when the shoulderblades do separate, and lodge unto them the barren betrayal of my poor Josephine. She'd beat you too, like she did Napoleon, and hope to find your pockets on your crotch, so you might be happy to lose to me and her together, like a woman should, and find your caeserian death to be most brilliant.
|
|
| [blank] |
[14 Feb 2003|11:13pm] |
| [ |
mood |
| |
 blank |
] |
| [ |
music |
| |
Radiohead - Idiotique |
] |
dreams: flickered like a wild shuitter bug gone mad mohammedian in its ecstasy and its rapture and talks to promethean Gabriel in the light of a cave dark. A sparkling lemon like suns white and clear naked light edits my loose tongue wrenched up in knots an tired to my aches and pains and looped around my silly old head full of fancy. its coming loose slowly, maybe, when i force my head small, relax let wind take its flight on my eyes, and feel the cold breeze for my eyes open in the dark.My company is monotonous, as is my hand, and the words that fill my ears, and my heavy weighted soul is waiting.
How I scream fear at you, bhudda masters!
Fake you visions like fake orgasms and let me feel you again!
Where are my great masters, my Musee des Beaux arts?
Find my Icarus, great Master! Find my lessons, my warning, my violence in petulence!
Where are my wax? Make candles into me and flesh from my wings.
Tear asunder the walled troy and parisian banks and teas of JeanPaul, a frenchmans dream
all torn apart on the floor and sweaty lost weight in breathing heavy at dawn
and blue light has listened to my hearts and eyes, and witnessed
my blue light special dawntime breakfast love inthe morning
and the tenement scale of my kiss in the black
Forbid your fruits to me, oh my masters dead!
Let me break your laws, great and beautiful pretty master.
Find me my shroud and cave my great howling masters and make me howl with you
wolfen to the moon with your blackish
bearded ladied faces, pretty and feminine, my lesbian master!
Set your lawed line to my foot, greeat teacher and feel forth my covered face!
Break brackish tides on my whipped back, oh master.
Kiss my mind and belly, rosy thigh, dark and scintilating skinned fingers.
Lose blood over me, and fight for my death, and free my mind of this rediculi,
Carry me, master, and make the sky blue!
I'm tequila dead master, i'm drunked out and i sleep in mother tonite
with my wolves, with my beards
with my warm thigh
and my skinny
headed
knots child noose
Make pine cone fires, master, to keep me warm, feel the future on your face, and feel me warm, burning seeds and past eyes in my eyes holes
Jump on me in my hole, tear throats from my friends, tear my throat, like lover, master, like brother.
Just a punch. Like a letter. Maybe this is meant like letter to me. Scream.
|
|
| Its cold where you're going, I hope that your heart's always warm...so long, sweet Summer. |
[03 Feb 2003|08:56pm] |
| [ |
mood |
| |
 creative |
] |
| [ |
music |
| |
Dashboard Confessionals - Drowning |
] |
Its 20 past 8, evening time, no abbreviations here, lets be frank, and candid, not rushed, subdued or completely lost in translations. A night of heavy drugs, a day of sleeping, a morning of cold cigarettes, and a funky haze over my eyes, like tears, but not, more like sweet warm summer memories, of a time when childishness didn't matter, when i began to lose sight of what I believed inwhen, I went cold to save face. My nose is sore tonite. I lost another day of my life. I'm stubborn. I want a competition. I want a rce. I want a fight. I want to feel like i should be straining for everybreath that I steal fromt he person I'm next to. Nobody understand s imple metaphor anymore. Nobody understands to trials of art and beauty. Nobody understands anymore the art of fun. I don't know if I still remember. I've grown a skin I forbade three or four years ago. Sarah was right. I didn't understand then, Iunderstand now, though, and she's the only one who care share the meaning of these words. I shouldn't make concessions for trying to make the other people understand every unequivicable sentence I've ever delivered in the way that a playwright sells a play to his producers, with a little flower in his jacket that he plucked from the sidewalk crack before climbing the endless stairs of a faceless office building to drink crap coffeee with crap minds, and make himself feel lying and truthless on the floor of a plastic wraped bed in February, fifteen, James on the Radio, and Dog Coffe in my mind, Winterson and DiFranco becoming one in the light of my mind,
The weight of the world is love. Songs.
Nothing is smooth anymore, like that never were. My face is rough, unlike then. My heart is rough, unlike then. My past is revelations of the now. Though, it is my regret now that makes me wander down a path I burned away a long time ago. I have to trek through ruins and stagecoach robberies, and rape scenes, like sexcrime victims tossed alongside a higway in the mountains of Viginia, virgin and new, misty and cloudy dark, like some great stifling charcoal blanket, like facepaint and woad, and I see blood on my hands, on my face, and my leg aches, and my nose hurts, and my eyes burn when I think of pain these days, it has been so long since real pain could touch me, since I threw awqay young love in the search for an older, respectable, and a disillusioned state of grace and the search for my mature love, my truth that I've obscured in ashes and burnt bridges. I've never made a point of wanting to go back, or being able to ever turn back. And now I'm stoped, not moving, thinking back, and seeking for the route forward. The trees are thick with snow and dead leaves this time of year, and my writing breaks limbs of me and mine, and breaks forward through the brush of a winter dead and bear trapped woods, hoping to find that hunter who snared my leg in his ropen traps, and let his dogs chase at my heels and mouth, leaping for throat in the dusk. Its should be light still, and they hunger me forward east, further to night, further their hime and place of killing, felling, food, and making me into the lost soul of Winter Blisslessness.
I'm sweaty here, in this cold. I have no rubber gloves. I forgot.
I am being petty, and not strong enough to push beyond everything I can remember, to throw away the next batch of the past, so my mind can forget and get on with what it wants, and my heart can find the next young soul that has a spark or a piece of god in it, break it open like candy and feel the heat of bliss in the summer stiff rains and humid breast moments. She made me think of myself with her sadness tonite, and my empathy, my apathy, my needing for emotional turbulence, without anyone who can understand the anonymity of a masked face. I cannot step into anything. Running, HEadlong, miles, and miles, and not watching ahead of me, running not towards anything, but getting hit from the side, like every time, like the first time, like the spontaneous creation of a fatherless boy-lover, from the soul of an overactive imagination, from the soap opera name to the unmatching hair and eyes, and to the family portraits of a man that might not ever exist by my side.
If you could fight anyone in the world, who would it be?
My dad.
I never knew my dad, he took off when I was young.
Me too.
But I won't run towards him, I won't run towards anyhting but the beauty and truth of this world, free spirite and with lack of reign and sovreuignty of me and mine, and let that wich tries to hold on be dragged for as long as they hold on. And now, stagnation, stopping at the canyon of Doomsday, looking off the perilous edge, and crying, for the descent is my death, and turning back is the Wasteland. Etherized on a table, like a patient patient, unlike that maddening doctor with the shrill voice, his patsy nurse, with peanut-butter for brinas attitudes and a med scholl degree, for the business of animal killers over the world and for the lack of self control that makes a man strong, for picking sensualities from a hat, and desire from a wheel, and making into and out of them the most glorius creation of free will, and soulfilled expression one can craft with mortal hands. My godliness is my lack of being stopped. But winter has halted my tracks, like real humans, like the ones that bed down with bounty and harvest and push through the darkest and deepest of godtravelled times to make the species feel more of itself in the coming spring, to breed strength of stature and character.
I wish I could get robbed of everything, for just a chance at being nothing, at living life unfiltered, like my cigarettes. Without silly mimes that go on and on with nothing to say, with filtering their speech, with pleasing me, not punching me, with those that want to make the world right and not just break themselves and make the world right inside. censoring themselves to make the best of themselves and me, and cheating themselves of the pur grained simplicity of 160 proof truth. And thinking that the time of me and mine is somehting to be shared and relished and saying I'm beautiful. I can walk down the street and ifnd that. I cannot find the truth in that, or the answers. MY counterpart is the one who sees me as nothing but a boy, and let me strive and pursue and fight for me and myself, and fight them for the dominiance of my frail voice, for the strength of making myself beautiful to them. To strive. To make. And that truth is always apparent. To me. Sarah was informed to that, and she made me hate myself for my failure, and i loved her for it. It doesn't make much sense. I am abstract creation of the void. I came from nowhere, don't expect my mind to feel like the creations of genetics and dna. I am beginning to feel better now, just in writing this. Words are coming like water is to Rome now, like the blood of Caeset spilt and running in the fountains of Roman dreams.
((PS: My spell checker isn't working opn my new client, SeMagic. Sorry for all the typos, but I won't maually edit anything I write. Make the best you can out of some of the words. ))
|
|
| A queer sort of winter, I think, and maybe a bit of fall in the air still... |
[01 Feb 2003|01:28am] |
| [ |
mood |
| |
numb |
] |
| [ |
music |
| |
dashboard confessional - Secret |
] |
I know.
There exists not a candle by which to warm my hands some nights, there is a blue glow to my fingernails, my lips, my rime-brittle, unshaven, unclean, heretics face. MY cheer is a glimpse of a coffee filled morning of nothingsness, the close and sharp glint of a sun from my window come streaming in my eye, and for a moment, the tears aren't so much for the wind and the breaking of baby trees, but the cruel face of my own deceit. Though, I cannot really blame the weakness in my frozen limbs, on God, of course not, it is my understrained heart, lack and lazy that does not course the Aerican fluids through me. My senses are dull at times, and conspicuously so, dull from weariness, and the not sleeping, and the red-eyed mornings, and my fair frail flowers melt in my mind, not being held to gether. MY ivy melts to the wall, my wisdom-masters feel hollow when once were full of knowlegde beyond reason. I am the heresy of stagnation. I am the vinegar of so many loast French Resistance converted, war-stormed vineyards in the Southenr Hills of the French borders. Lost beyond the ages in some Nazi documentation are the names of theose barrell, burned with his corpse and near to his heart in the gallows, the young lieutenant knows wearily the price of such wine-vinegar. HE is such wine-vinegar. MY blood is so, so so, much wine-vinegar.
Though, not always so. When DID life fit liek the glove I was meant to wear to the Great Last Winter of ever-year? When did I lose that glove? Why are my hands so cold all the time? Where, Jack? Where di they all go? Why is the wisdom so lost at times, obscured by a mountain of ineffectual disbelief, by the courage of nobodies, by the loss of so much humanity. Why Jack?
Why seems to be quest and question 2 for a dime these days, like the bottom of a bottle of moonshine on my table. Like drinking in the afternoon in the winter, screaming at the sun for bringing you night away, screaming in the afternoon, for the night to leave you alone for once. Like smoking cigarettes on shaken fingers, in shaking lips, with a half burned throat pulling away its own life.
But it feels. It is not so bad. I have been locked away in my own existence, like a cave for not coming in or outs. The junk man comes, and the Junks are the Junks of my mind, and my eyes. MY Junk is my thought, that breeds unmolested in my own mind, with no wisdom. I haven't the breath to run the miles ahead of me so strong as I would desire. I have left the politeness of the rest of existence outside of my eyes and mind for long enough now to feel the bitter sting of my own heresy back in the depths of everything so real in the polaroid flashed memories of my veild and deceiving eyes. Like panoramas of Walt Disney's dreams on the family television in so many movies of life in the golden ages of not being a thing but the boy nextdooor. The handles on life that slip away in the sweet and sweaty slick sof a bloody and oily, vapor hallucinating and gamma radiation evening, the evening of our very last dreams, are dreams of the life all humans could have know, before our great colapse, like harbingers of the evolution of species, the Book People, the outsiders of the domes of survival. My essence only wants to be the last page.
I sleep more and more, and the dreams stop coming, the black and the void, my lost canvass, is without touch. I am dead like my city and my weather, like my gods and my heroins, like the Junk and the Junk man, the coming spring is to shower me and wash me clean of this frostbitten tongue and gangrened roots. I pray for the swift return of sweeter airs, and the sweet and beckoning call of open arms in the world. I pray for ivy, and for grapes, and for the great hallelujahs of the of protest. I pray for melting, thawing, and my own hoem ice box. I want to breathe glass, and smoke fire. I pray swiftly, lound and ominous before the Heavens of imagination, that the stars should find my bid acceptable, and without interest, or denial, that my wishes be heard and spread by comets and meteors beyond the span of my most loud and terrible voice.
Ride forth on winter winds, words, and find me the palace of my disconent, so it might be sieged by the demons of my firey speech. Assail me and it with words a plenty, and let the coffers of heart and mind fill with the holy bounty of crusade.
These are my dreamings of my waking life, my meditations of deprivations.
|
|
| NEW YEARS!!! |
[27 Dec 2002|01:11pm] |
Come one, come all, and see the place I now reside!
Me and Joey and Cait and Daphna are having a New Years bash like no other. And really, who can pass up one of my parties?
On the big day, December 31, we seek to bring in the new year with beauty and booze, with good people, a good vibe, and good times.
87 Putnam, down in Buffalo. Its off of Lafayette, between Richmond and Grant streets, on the West Side. Its a big green house, and you should be able to tell by then that I live there.
Bring yourself, bring your friends, bring anythign and everything, I don't care, we'll sort it all out on the First. Actually, seeing as how I haven't started planning for this until now, try and bring whoever you can.
We only ask for a small donation for drink, nothing major, just enough to keep us all wet through the night...
And as for any of you that cannot arrange to get your own bottles, and have some request for the big night, contact me, and we'll get whatever you need. My cell phone number is 602-4263 if anybody needs it, and my email is StarsComeFalling@aol.com.
Hope to see all of you there.
--e
|
|
| Oh, my Columbine, how the Harlequin pines and prays, and pranks and plays, oh, how my heart doth play with my soul, my Columbine... |
[27 Dec 2002|01:04pm] |
| [ |
mood |
| |
 enthralled |
] |
| [ |
music |
| |
nothing...but the music in my mind |
] |
Shower Meditation:
There is a lack of soul, even now, naked and slick, and I think I cannot be more naked, though my hair and skin keep inside the everything I wish to see. I cannot see inside, no matter how hard I look, or peer into my own eyes. They seem most forthright about keeping me out the most.
I tend to run away from things. In fact, I suppose its become a sport of sorts, while not exactly recreation, it is of course a game. Like stories. Stories are history, in a way that a string of knots has no beginning, no endings, and no matter how much you toy with it, there is an unintelligible strength and length of twine, with no real beginning, no end in sight, and enough loops to make you go dizzy, tracing with your eyes.
Tracing you with my eyes, I soon realize the cause of my flight. Though not nearly as simple, as there is not one body to cause such a thing, a terror, no, not terror, not fear, really, of anything but time. There is no lack of passion that anchors me to the feet of my virgin goddess. there is no sight so great as her many smiles and shining eyes, there a few things as sweet as the scent of flowers lifting of her skin, loping along the air ways, and little ebbs and flows of an empty room. Emptiness, has become a phenomenon.
The soul is in disrepair. There is much mending, and two months on the outskirts of reality, have led me this way. This path is ramshackle, marked by dead trees, like winter trees, more angry, though, for not being cold, it is so much worse when the harsh winds of the north cannot stir ones blood. I am not nearly so dead, regardless of the wishes of the constituents of prime. MY prayers are to the wisdom of millennia, to the very roots of heaven here, in me, grounding its way through the burrow of the mole at my feet, and my backyard isn't nearly as impressive as it once was, young and childish, when playing tag, and hide and seek, and running from the big kids, running from the smiles it brings running for the joy of running, not stopping to catch a breath or kick a mushroom in the lawn, or lying in the soft turf to smell the place that the bees make honey, my bed of clover is as tromping circuit of child's memories.
Quandary, it seems has presented itself to me in wrapping paper and bows. Christmas, the season, came and went, without much more than a whistle or a snuff. I found family on Christmas, it might seem, or rather, soul-medicine, like some vitreous elixir of philosophy. There are questions which need answers, and I am apt to find them, though I don't want to ruin the surprise for my dying eyes.
Caitlin. You gave me more this Christmas than anyone could ever have. YOu gave me the only Christmas gift I received in soul this year, you brought me part of myself on a day when I was nobody but shell. You made me smile on the day that has been made to break my knees, and well up in my eyes years of hating tears. You wiped them all away in fell swing, and with JEaneete Winterson, we might all find Paradise.
I have no regrets. MY friend once told me and others that he was looking forward to regretting it, in some boddisavata mystic sense, he was right, he would look forward to the days he regretted not knowing, not doing, not being the one he always should have been. Though, he might have been making a joke; humor being ephemeral, humors, being life-bloods, humor being fickle, and wily, it seems would have been a good choice.
I might think to have a family, though I know its not true. There is something about being a stray that keeps family at bay, and leads you around the neighborhood each night, looking for a loose door, or a night owl with some heart still beating through the snow filled dark. You don't walk strays, you don't walk with them. The best you can hope is to give them a blankets and a saucer, and see what's left there in the morning. I don't pretend that this really is me, though I find wisdom in the metaphor. All metaphors are wisdom, all stories are history, only a bit of imagination meant to liven the already confused and puzzled lack of stories, and my nature will be that of being alone.
I run so that I might not have to face myself and my actions in you. I need the one that makes me kneel. I need the one that puts the fire out in me and makes water run cold on my skin, makes me feel dead and done gone without. Though, I am real. And I know I lack in the beauty real. I run, so I might never have a family. Although, I would never commit myself to such a patten, it seem for now ultimately fatalistic enough to name me Romeo, and the hope, perhaps, in some fate, that rules me hastily, and lets me not sit for more than a moment.
One cannot hope to go anywhere, if they do not have a complete understanding of history. For history is the lack of imagination, it is the shortening of all of our stories, it is the reminder that we are the eyes and the tongue and not the legs and the breasts. We should know that history does not exist, that all bonds are to be broken, and that the past is nothing more than death. The dead do not speak, they are malleable, only left to the virtue of our respect for the mute. And so history dies with the present, in a crematorium, on the comer of my street.
I am my mind. We are nothing but minds in boxes, like saran wrapped sandwiches on the back of a kindergarten bus to find the giraffes. Like tuna fish and peanut butter, we sleep tight, in the dark corners of a crayon-smelling crevice, wish for the days when we were free, and then we are eaten by the hungry maw of desire, that kind and gentle desire, of survival, of curios, and of a children's mouth, foremost in the sense of these babes, where all things come for recognition, where the life-milk comes in streams, and the toys and makes of our world get catalogued and choked, where our minds are devoured by a curiosity so immense, we might never really fill it. And when we are eaten, we seek the days when we were whole, an from the stomach, like Jonah, seek to find our ways back to the light of the day, or the dank darkness of the crayon-hole, or anywhere, really, just not within the depths of our desire, our curiosity, our patience, our nature and consumers to be consumed, utterly, buy the ravaging mouth of a five year old, staring at the flamingoes.
I seek all these things in me and in the world, it is like manifestoes, strewn and strawn, and sprawled, and thrown in the snow, left the be wet piles of print and ink, and some man set them out in wood and steel, and his hands makes the words you breathe, and my words are but breath, in the winter, invisible and strange, haloing, wreathing, with flowers, and gentle passions, Unnatural Passions.
Merry Christmas everybody. I hope to speak to many of you soon.
|
|
| My lacking leaves something to be desired; my desire, lacking, leaves me nothing.... |
[04 Nov 2002|03:50am] |
| [ |
mood |
| |
Indescribably bad |
] |
| [ |
music |
| |
Silence. Cold silence. Desparately cold. |
] |
GGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I wish that was real. I wish I could scream so loud right now, that my throat would bleed the shores of seven seas red, my lungs perhaps might ignite, and expel this cold breeze from my breast. I can't bring myself to do it though. Something sags in my sails.
I grow cold, fast approaching the winter of my discontent. There's no fires, no comrades, no blankets in this place. There's no joy. Only repetition, and the content of that is slim. There is no warmth here, not a thing like it, no hands, no feet, no breath, only a few scattered remains of lost dreams, broken hearts, broken burned bridges, a few ropes, cords, ties, a few masks, a few bottles, everything in splashes of colors and drabs, sparks of real life, lost along the floor, vomiting is the only thing that comes to mind.
And in nausea, I see my face in front of me, hovering, disembodied, speaking lines, speaking to nobody, speaking to blank faces, or not speaking at all. Sometimes, maybe, it might speak to me, but I don't care to listen.
The cold still stings my face, but for how long? Once it stops, I think, my heart will know no such cold as any planet might have for me. I lose so much, in death, in memory, nothing lives, as desolate as a past as I might have, the present withers too, and the future screams forward like some kind of IMAX in my mind, breathing, and pulsing, and begging me to touch, telling me to cry, telling me to break it all down for once and for al and to forget everything I think now, to find my hold, to take what is mine, to rent apart what I see before me.
I lay in the snow bank, I think, here for a while, just a nip on the flask, and a nap, during my walk, so cold it has gotten, a nap seems so good, just a few minutes, the snow feels so warm around me, on my face, it melts, slowly, but it melts. It feels good, like the caress of a love-hand, how she smelt of flower petals, felt of petals, breathed like falling petals......sleep, just for a moment, I swear, I'll wake up....and who am I swearing to now? There's no one else here on this road with me, nobody to care if I might just nap for a bit.
That might get something through, I doubt the heart if it is there though. The heart of me isn't here, hasn't been, since I lost some light, lost some spark. Where I left it, I don't know, but I travel no further until its found. I go nowhere now, and I suppose I won't.
Until I scream.
Happenings: I speak to few now, it seems, so, I will try and sum up some more recent things.
I'll have my own apartment by December 1. Have no roommate. Concern is in leaving here for the forgotten streets of the west side. Alone, so far.
My days are spent doing nothing but wallowing, waiting for a few hollow, familiar voices to stir my ass into motion for a few hours of darkness, and repeat the same routine, to no real gain, to no end, to nothing, but over and over and over again.
I haven't seen a new face I could connect with a name in months. In other words, I've gone reclusive, and have lost most sense of sociality in me. It seems my name graces few lips, and those tentative to let the whispers fly.
Lets not forget. its been nearly 4 and a half years. I'm supposed to be somebody real now, aren't I?
Of course, I could always find a new state, a new home. Settling down was never in my cards.
Cement shoes are a bitch, wings or not, and I don't even have the heart to get as far as Boston. I'm nothing but broken promises and lost hope.
The frustration and disappointment I feel in myself right now is infuriating. I can't even say what I have to say, or make it sounds good, or do any of the things I'm supposed to do.
It seems all the glitter gone, shimmer fades away, for now.
And all I want to do is scream or cry, and I won't let myself do either, I can't, cold like stone.
Deaf ears. All of you. I haven't posted in months, and I can't even think of three people I KNOW will read this. I don't even know why I try sometimes.
I feel the pain coming back, the K pain, that fight inside my head, that terrible, terrible war, the fury of restraint starts to wear on my bones, and all I know, is that there is solace in a little white vial. There's always a friend, in a little white vial. She'll always be yuor friend, You can never be alone with her.
It creeps me the fuck out.
|
|
| The lateset entertainment update from Pollstar... |
[17 Sep 2002|08:38pm] |
I suppose this is just as much for me to remember them, as it is for everyone else to know about them....
9/18/02-- Glassjaw and Boy Sets Fire; Showplace
9/22/02-- Homegrown and Mest; Showplace
9/24/02-- Time Reynolds; the Tralf
*****9/27/02***** Andy Stochansky at the Continental!!!
10/05/02-- Riddlin Kids and Face to Face; Showplace
10/15/02-- God Charlotte; Sowplace
10/20/02-- Mustard Plug; Backstage Pub
10/24/02-- Our Lady Peace; Flickinger Arena
10/26/02-- Flock of Seagulls and others; Buffalo Convetion Center
11/04/02-- The Donnas; The Continental
11/15/02-- Sugarcult and the Ataris; Showplace
12/04/02-- Saves the Day; Showplace
3/29/03-- Gregory Hines (the tapdancer guy) at the UB Center for the Arts
Thats what I came up with on a jaunt to pollstar.com. If anyone wants to accompany me to any of these events, I will be trying my best to make most of them. Drop me a line.
|
|
| Should I be worried? |
[03 Sep 2002|03:02am] |
Sense, in a matter of speaking....
"Schizotypal"
Many believe that schizotypal personality disorder represents mild schizophrenia. The disorder is characterized by odd forms of thinking and perceiving, and individuals with this disorder often seek isolation from others. They sometimes believe to have extra sensory ability or that unrelated events relate to them in some important way. They generally engage in eccentric behavior and have difficulty concentrating for long periods of time. Their speech is often over elaborate and difficult to follow.
Sense. In a bottle. With a blue label. A russian one, at that. Sense.
|
|
| The time screams, flying by on the coattails eternity dragging past my bed, and discretion cast aside the hall... |
[28 Aug 2002|03:38am] |
| [ |
mood |
| |
 contemplative |
] |
| [ |
music |
| |
-- Something Corporate -- I kissed a drunk girl |
] |
My finger can dig flesh furrows through my skull, and feel the brain beating in time, and rhythm beneath my nerves, feel themselves scratching at the root of something grasping for a birth, manger lain, manger fed, cling to the foundations of a nothing deeper than I've ever known. The money hurts. It stings like the business born of hatred, the ignorance of where it all came from, it sting like chlorine in a trench, like the strap laden strait of my jacket. Simplicity. Before, the simplest worry was living, and now, the misfortune brought about twice fold, finding the reverse of compensation lining my back, and my legs, my chest, my arms, my eyes, my face, my lonely breast, and can't help but tear at the lonely flesh adorned by pain, scarred by a pain unlike the pain of abundance.
The mediocrity of the misguided, the oblivion, the lackluster, the broken, the sane, ecstatic beautiful, lost inside themselves, and the others, and the voice, look, real faces of smoke, faces of real smoke, smoke shadowed, rotted, breathed, in a mirror, in the free, in the expanse of a single heart, and longed, lasted, and pined, the wealth of love returned by the fake hearth, paper-bricked soldier of now. Now, the brazen are rewarded. Now the courageous break glass covered heart houses, broken down, broken in.
Color fades from my eyes, down my metal, and through my skin.
That glass seems to hang from a lip meant to hold hands, and stares, and not the poison that chokes the blood from seeing the sky at night, and feeling the heat of a breath in the dark, and send the shivers of electric yellow sun screamed mouth, the halo felt through a bedpost, taut through the sheet, rigid taut, and soft through the eaves, carry the scent of a foul and ominous day drafting through the gutters of an indian-summered binge, bent and wrought through the boredom ridden nights of forgiven sins, nothing, bitter nothings whispered through the trees alone, and caught by the spare ear across town, tracked down, city spared, lost on the street, swept and blown through the spiral riding trap, forlorn, long, seattlean, a cheap suit, a cheap beer, cheap guitar man singing, long and lost, and lover, once, Poughkeepie, 1968, Portland, 1972, and back again, in St Louis, alone, yesterday, I remembered how it had felt, and how his voice could scare the sun to sleep at dawn, how it calmed down to sleep, and whiskey brown dragged down, beneath sand and pavemented pigmented clayed statuette men. The word 'of', too many times, gone. Gone to far, and nothing stays the same.
Glimmered in a 14th floor window seated puddle, glimmered in the eyes set forward, scented in the air that crisps fair with death, the lost leaves, the lost days, the years gone and given up, sacrificed in the fight, lost as collateral, and never counted again, for this now, this now, right now, for this here, and that I can hear the oceans call, and feel the thread that would wind me back 5 years, and caught in the teeth pen, wrestled down by a weight of responsibly determined way points, by times, by curfew, by candle light, and by a lack of self. I close my eyes, and I sway in a breeze blown atop my mountain, the mountain I always see, the one with me, and myself, the one, for me, the one with the eagle, and the tree that always seemed a little too small for the sky behind it, and I feel the need to fall, the need to drop behind the clouds, and squeal in my American civilians uniform, the locked and key car before me, the lost and broken ignition of my future, the broken dash and lost needle of my youth, that airbag waiting to laugh at my funeral, and feel my away with my social security, my uninsured life, my insured automobile, my uninsured health, and my secured credit.
My shoulders haven't been tight in ages. My eyes, haven't been tight in months. My face grows weary, my eyes grow old, and my life, seems to stall, fall, burn, and the view of a building comes from the next. Head injury eloquence has nothing left to give, and keeps his stuffed animals walking around all day, and the dreams of years ago, the long lived days of past, those few golden times, those few moments, sabotaged, terrorized, like my brandished weapon of self-domineered failure painstakingly fought with insolence, brandished titanic coward.
MY lungs have never been so black as they are now. Everything tastes like a stale death, like the kind your loaf of bread for the corner store feels in the corner of you kitchen, useless, dry, drained, and eaten out. Tears can fill a desert these days, and the color lost. Last man standing, last man thought alive, the last condemned to solitude of raced annihilated tomorrow. Last. Somehow, it doesn't fit. It feels longer everyday, it feels the same everyday, it grows with the days. The days are broken, watch-bound, and slipping on Hermes silvered heel.
Buy the ticket, take the ride.
|
|
|
[19 Aug 2002|03:48am] |
|
Its building....
|
|
| It surprises me... |
[26 Jul 2002|02:31pm] |
| [ |
mood |
| |
 drained |
] |
| [ |
music |
| |
Further Seems Forever - New Year's Project |
] |
I apologize for the time missing. In my defense, I've been lost, and nobody has tried to find me. Its time for the stray to come loping back home, lick the wounds, eat the food, and make the best of what is lost. Time for the stary to have a bed, and maybe someone to stroke me between the ears, to feel that palm that I can arch my back underneath, and know everything is going to be ok. Comfort, and reliability. Not things I've been known for, nothing I've been sought for, nothing I can give, nothing I can expect anyone to give me. I only lose myself when the world decides my presence is not mandatory. I should endeavor to think someday that there will be people that care somday, that feel my breath in the air and know where I am, can smell me when they enter a room, and touch me and know whats on my mind. Now, they're all just confused. They have their own little distractions, their own skeletons to deal with, and Caitlin calls me from all over the country, just to see how I'm feeling. And that makes me want to cry. At least, If I don't have a hand to hold, or a shoulder to let me feel loved, I have a phone, and someone thousands of miles away, who is willing to hear me sob, willing to know that there is something behind my eyes that she can feel from that far away, and it seems nobody else wanst the same from me. For her I'm grateful, and for empty promises, broken dreams, I'm resigned to say that I'm used to it. They always want more, and never seem to take it to the hilt. They never do. They always want to make it better, but never do. They always want to see the cracks and the pain that is so cleverly hidden, so well masqueraded behind draperies, curtain, the misdirection of a mirror, the sound of glass breaking in the background, the soft lights, anything, anything at all that keeps it from the glaring sight of everyone; they all want a glimpse, they want to see how far deep the hurt runs, and they want to make it feel better.
Try, try, try.
Eloquence escapes me today. I'm not well in the practice of addressing my soul anymore. I've been on the run for quite a few weeks. I've managed to hide at least for a while, and now guilt sets in. Not like it really should, cause it seems egotistal to assume that people want or need me around, and that I should expect my absence to provoke some need for me to be sorry...on the contrary, It seems my absence provokes nothing but a meaningless word, a searching glance, that doesn't get them anywhewre, and a shrug. I shouldn't expect more than that, I guess.
I feel a mass of apologies right now. I don't know why, I just figure that I'm being too much of this, or not enough of this, and don't have enough of blank to offer. Oh well...it'll pass, after the go carts today.
And, Stacey, if you read this, happy birthday, sweetheart.
|
|
| Gabby, I got presents!!!! |
[03 Jul 2002|04:45am] |
| [ |
mood |
| |
sleepy |
] |
So, Shawn, the wonderful and kind soul that he is, burned me over 600 Mb of anime music videos. And they're really really good.
They're wating for you, then next time I see you.
Anywho...I have so much more to say, but you'll have to wait (if you're even interested) until I have more sleep. Yes, for once, I am advocating sleep. Not much sleep, just enough to keep me alive, which I haven't been getting.
Sushi tomorrow. Yum.
|
|
| bluffing your way into my mouth, behind my teeth, reaching for my scars, that night we got kicked out of two bars, and laughed our way home... |
[01 Jul 2002|11:38pm] |
| [ |
mood |
| |
discontent |
] |
| [ |
music |
| |
Ani DiFranco - Pixie |
] |
and i realized that night that the hall light
which seemed so bright when you turned it on is nothing
compared to the dawn
which is nothing, compared to the light
which seeps from me while you're sleeping
cocooned in my room
beautiful and grotesque resting
that night we got kicked out of two bars
and laughed our way home
and i held you there thinking
i would offer you my pulse
i would give you my breath
i would offer you my pulse
I need to either fall in love right now, or cry miserably for a few hours. I don't think either is on its way to me.
I need something to release me, and make it ok to shudder, and cry myself silly, and make everything all right again, let it all run free, and start over. To get out everything I've held alone for so long, to rip out my heart and give it away, so I can watch it from afar. To have something to throw myself into, be it my tears, their tears, or the arms of another. Need a way to feel light again, and let the dregs of life lose their hold, and feel airy again, feel like leaving and running about and not getting angry anymore.
Damn, two ani quotes in one night. That's impressive. Now, why does ani feel so good right now? Is it the honesty, the passion, the amount of heart and soul, the feeling of a feminine presence wrapping itself around me, the feeling of desperation she has? Or is it that I am lost for somewhere to go, and so is she?
I can't do this myself...I can't make myself cry, I can't watch a sad movie and let it all come out, I can't think about all the sad things, and not have them make me feel better for them. I cannot pity, and I cannot weep, for the ones departed. I cannot weep for the ones with us. I said I wouldn't cry for another until my dearest, dearest sister died. BUt, I realize, that when she leaves me, I won't cry for her, or me, but for the world, cause then I will be bereft of anyone who could do me better, or tell me no, or keep me from hurting myself. Can I cry for myself? I don't think so...I think that would only make me feel worse about what I've been through...it always seems insignificant, like so much more is awaiting me, to come slamming down like a hammer or a guillotine, and that in itself leads to more self-confidence than sadness. I am lost to an answer...what will it take for me to feel the depths of sadness, what will it take for everything to come out and let me feel all right inside. To get rid of this creeping infection of the soul that seems to anchor itself in the depths of my heart.
And why does love seem to be an answer? Because I will lose sight of myself for long enough to make it all right. I will cease to exist in my mind, and whoever I find will be the only thing that brings we to meet the day. I will offer my pulse, my breath, my warmth, my light, and let the worst of the world sink itself upon my back, so they may walk straight and tall, and be without trouble.
Well, I suppose that's not necessarily true. At some point, the romance of love is in my mind far beyond what life can bring me, I fear. I can almost feel the invigoration, the smile that doesn't leave my face, the bubbling inside me that makes to sun shine brighter than my eyes, but just barely. Almost. I can almost feel the sun upon my face in cold winter, I can almost taste the heat of another mouth. I can dream of the feeling of breath on my neck, and the pound of another heart, breathless and panting, through my back. And at the same time, I see nothing. I don't see a thing when I dream of the love I seek...nothing comes to my eyes, as though to see such a thing might be blasphemous, or might just be awaiting my search, or my dumbfounded luck. And when it happens, I will climb higher through the sky than ever, and my pen will move with grace and ease, and my mouth will craft beauty with every word. Or so I hope. Its tough to say what dreams may be when they come to you, when they are flawed, and when they are flat out wrong. When they don't like your favorite shirt, and they don't make you look stunning. Who can say? I am but a wild orphan to this world.
|
|
| Off the Shiela... |
[30 Jun 2002|10:54am] |
| [ |
mood |
| |
 amused |
] |
| [ |
music |
| |
Ben Folds - Rocking The Suburbs |
] |
Ok, so know I'm going downtown. I won't be reachable today, unless you want to come down and have fun with a bunch of people in Buffalo.
Which means I won't be reachable.
And maybe I'll call you after my fun-filled day that nobody wanted to partake in.
Good bye all.
|
|
| Oh, and my house is empty as well... |
[30 Jun 2002|01:21am] |
| [ |
music |
| |
Ben Folds - Rocking The Suburbs |
] |
Which makes it all the more lonely in here. It'll be awhile before I get a chance to see another human face I know.
|
|
|
[30 Jun 2002|01:19am] |
| [ |
mood |
| |
 jealous |
] |
| [ |
music |
| |
Ben Folds - Rocking The Suburbs |
] |
I spent my entire day, doing absolutely notihng. Nothing. Not one thing. On a Saturday. Including Saturday night. I haven't received one phone cal at all today, which is kind of exorbitatn, considering the several dozen I made. I talked to one person, who decided to take a nap, and said he'd be up at one. So I waited around and watched cartoons alone for 5 hours or so, and 1 o'clock rolled around, and after not receiveng a phone call, I called him, and his car doesn't work. So, I continue to sit here, with nothing to do, no cigarettes, nothing.
Absolutely nothing.
I am alone in my white boy pain.
And my only friend who enjoys the music of Shiela Devine, hasn't been reachable for the last three days. I think he's avoiding me. I watched the powerpuff girls, and got mad, watched gundam, and got pissed.
There's a big concert tomorrow, but I'll be taking the bus down there, alone, so I can see a band I like. That nobody else seems to like, or that nobody else seems to want to pretend to like to spend some time in my company. And I'll probably stay up all night long, doing nothing, wanting to just die, so I can watch a soccer game that means nothing to me, because its a goal. Its soething to look at. And that soccer game can be my friend for a few hours. Because I hate Germany and Brazil in soccer. And the people who spent millions and millions advertising on the World Cup will enjoy my company, and be happy I was there, cause they made some money.
Which I suppose is more than what anyone who spends time with me gets.
So, I'm about to retire to even more obscurity, and dream of people, and what I might be, and feel less important every minute. Not one fucking phone call. I'm special.
And take the bus alone in the morning.
|
|
| navigation |
| [ |
viewing |
| |
most recent entries |
] |
| [ |
go |
| |
earlier |
] |
|
|
|
|
