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A modest, mouse-like person.
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| (no subject) |
[Jan. 15th, 2009|08:18 am] |
It's such a little thing to weep,
so short a thing to sigh;
and yet by trades
the size of these
we men and women die...
~Emily Dickenson |
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| Fragments from a novel I once tried to write... |
[Dec. 28th, 2008|07:00 am] |
Text Messeging
Travis: "Are you mad at me." No. "I didn't mean to send you that message. You're name was just at the top of my list." It's okay. "I hope your girlfriend isn't mad." She will forgive me. She always does. "How criminal."
Michael: "I am so high-- I am unstuck in time." Billy? "I met a girl." Oh yeah? "She does a lot of E."
Alex: "I love you" I love you too. ":)"
Jeremy: "I started smoking three or for weekends ago. Why do you think I've been trying to get you to come over?" I don't know. I thought you missed me. "Oh, that too"
Emily: "What?" I'm going to kill you. "Who is this?" I'm going to kill you.
Steven: "I'm fuckni~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~" I know.
Google: How do you pass that time when you're alone? "I'm sorry, I don't know." How are you supposed to feel when you're leaving the world behind? "I'm sorry, I don't know." What do you tell your friends when they're feeling down? "I'm sorry I don't know." How do we escape this hell? "I'm sorry, I don't know."
Marijuana
A familiarity. Like an old girlfriend you're comfortable with. It's taken care of me. Kept me warm. Dulled my senses. Kept me sane, kept me lucid, kept me straight. How do you tell the person you love you don't quite love them anymore? That the familiarity isn't enough any longer. How do you say, "It's been a fun ride and I've enjoyed it for the most part, but now it's over and I have to go my own way." How do you break down easily. How do you tear the walls down? I look for advice in the only substance the pulls me deeper into myself. I'm an advocator of the self-loathing. I sit in the chair and spill riddles. I'm decrepit.
Camara
I've decided to get a camera. I don't know if it will help me but I hope it will. I'm suspicious of my own motives but I can no longer help being the boring person I am. I don't intend to be a photographer but I would like to learn a thing or two about photography. I've taken a few good photos. I know, generally, what makes something pretty and what makes something unbearable.
An honest motive might be that I've been forgetting things lately. Things I shouldn't forget. Getting a camera would help me retain a better majority of my memories. I am concerned about this though-- am I a hypocondriac? My dad is (perhaps it runs in the family?) and he seems to do alright but just the same. I asked 4chan and they said it wasn't bad. I'm inclined to believe them.
Another honest truth is that I'm in a rut. Video games: they are great but they are meaningless. I don't seek meaning in this life, just comfort. First from flowers, then from women, now from a camera?
Novel
I am way behind. Look here, it's day three and I have no plot. No story, no characters, no real point. Can a book subsist entirely on observations? Is subsist really the right word for that clause? Furthermore, what is a clause. This is a note to myself: understand what you say before you say it (or write it).
I've encouraged some of my friends to write novels too. I'm not particularly interested in what they write and I'm almost certain it won't help me relate to them in any way. I can be honest about this now: the only reason I asked them was because I was concerned they thought I might be masturbating too much. I do masturbate a lot but it's not a detraction, merely a distraction.
There is honesty in these fragments; lost behind metaphors I often feel vague.
How many words have I written now? Clearly not enough. Mr. Carrigg once said of my work, "It was good. Real stream-of-consciousness. I liked it." When encouragement was passed out, he was the only teacher I trusted. I wanted to trust Mrs. Benson. She represented everything I wanted at the time but she was so absent. I tried to reach out to her but either my youthful awkwardness turned her off or she was just a really bad teacher. I'd tend to lean towards the latter because I just love myself.
I once wrote a book about having golden hearts. Incidently, all the characters ended up dead. In that regard, I once had someone tell me I had a golden heart. More importantly, it was a VP of the company I worked for at the time. My boss, he was a character, he fired me three weeks later.
TV
Don't watch it much lately. It rots my mind more then break.com. |
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| Motivations: |
[Dec. 8th, 2008|10:31 am] |
Truth
Honesty
Kindness
Humility |
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| Bill hicks used to finish his shows like this: |
[Dec. 7th, 2008|11:56 pm] |
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Life's like a ride in an amusement park. We go on it and think it's real 'cause that's how powerful our minds are. And the ride goes up and down and round and round. It has thrills and chills and it's very brightly colored and it's very loud and it's fun, for a while. Some have been on the ride for a long time and they begin to question, is this real, or is this just a ride? And other people have remembered, and they come back to us, they say, "Hey, don't worry, don't be afraid, ever, because, this is just a ride..." And we kill those people. "Shut him up. I've got a lot invested in this ride. Shut him up! Look at my furrows of worry. Look at my big bank account and my family. This has to be real." It's just a ride. But we always kill those good guys who try and tell us that, you ever notice that? We let the demons run amok. But it doesn't matter because, it's just a ride. And we can change it anytime we want. It's only a choice. No effort, no work, no job, no savings and money. Just a choice, right now, between fear and love. |
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| (no subject) |
[Nov. 24th, 2008|10:56 am] |
I want you to know
one thing.
You know how this is:
if I look
at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats
that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.
Well, now,
if little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little.
If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,
for I shall already have forgotten you.
If you think it long and mad,
the wind of banners
that passes through my life,
and you decide
to leave me at the shore
of the heart where I have roots,
remember
that on that day,
at that hour,
I shall lift my arms
and my roots will set off
to seek another land.
But
if each day,
each hour,
you feel that you are destined for me
with implacable sweetness,
if each day a flower
climbs up to your lips to seek me,
ah my love, ah my own,
in me all that fire is repeated,
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
my love feeds on your love, beloved,
and as long as you live it will be in your arms
without leaving mine.
~If You Forget Me, Pablo Neruda |
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| Imagined Conversation |
[Nov. 16th, 2008|02:19 am] |
How are we today?
"Better"
Glad to hear it.
"Uh-huh"
Listen... do you have a server I can have a shell account on? Hardware, location-- it doesn't matter. Anything...
"Sure... but why?"
I just need to feel connected to you. Somehow. Someway... Before you slip away for good.
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| (no subject) |
[Nov. 7th, 2008|11:05 am] |
"You know what they say about people who write memoirs..."
What?
"They have nothing else to talk about." |
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| (no subject) |
[Aug. 15th, 2008|11:23 pm] |
First of all:
I am tired.
I am true of heart.
And also:
You are tired.
You are true of heart. |
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| (no subject) |
[May. 19th, 2008|03:03 pm] |
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L'homme est libre au moment qu'il veut l'être. |
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| (no subject) |
[May. 5th, 2008|10:06 pm] |
My uncle had been keeping time with his foot, like a metronome. A secret rhythm plugged into a secret universe. Music only he could hear. There was something in my uncle's head that fed him riches.
Mostly he kept his shiny pennies to himself. A collection of years and experiences, kind acts and wise words. But at times he would dump a handful in my lap, and his attention was a goldmine. He let me win at cards, but not all the time.
Years later, from his example, I let my own nephews win. But, not all the time.
It's better that way, when there's mystery, when there are two outs in the ninth inning and it could go either way. Sometimes you have to lose, in order to win. I wanted my nephews to understand the beautiful parts of failing. I thought this might be important.
~I was never cool, Joseph Musso, Jr |
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| (no subject) |
[Apr. 11th, 2008|12:06 am] |
I wrote letters to my boyfriend
at the time.
I would write them
on
white lined
paper.
and I'd slip them
into an envelope.
I'd lick the envelope
closed
and write the address on it.
Sometimes I didn't like
the way it looked
so I would get a new envelope
and start over
and sometimes the nights went by
like that:
envelope after
envelope.
and eventually
he would get the letters
and read them
and tell me how great
i was
but he never wrote back.
and there i was
alone
those nights
giving the only feelings
i ever give
lost
to the postal service |
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| (no subject) |
[Apr. 6th, 2008|08:08 pm] |
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"I was born to hustle roses down the avenue of the dead." |
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| My Grandma Believed |
[Apr. 3rd, 2008|12:04 am] |
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When I was young I'd look through her medical journal. My parents thought that I thought I was sick. And that I was sitting on her couch endlessly searching for a disease I didn't have. They tried to take the book away from me. They told me to go away from it. Read other books. They said, "Grandmother, can't you take him to the park?" But my grandma believed. She encouraged me to read the book. She said, "This boy, he is going somewhere." She would put the book in my hand, and I would read it, and she would play the piano (oh, how she could play). And we would sit there together. She knew. She knew I'd be the only person in the family to be a doctor. My grandma believed. As she sat there playing her piano I'd look through her medical journals. It was the only book in the house that I could find naked women giving themselves breast exams. |
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| (no subject) |
[Mar. 18th, 2008|11:10 am] |
She was very young, he thought, she still expected something from life, she did not understand that to push an inconvenient person over a cliff solves nothing.
'Actually it would have made no difference,' he said.
'Then why are you sorry you didn't do it?'
'Only because I prefer a positive to a negative. In this game that we're
playing, we can't win. Some kinds of failure are better than other kinds,
that's all.'
~1984, George Orwell |
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| Thoughts from an old journal... |
[Mar. 13th, 2008|12:03 am] |
The clouds look like they're going somewhere tonight loosely streaming through the breath of millions of lusty ladies. They may be way up in the sky but they've got shit going for them.
--
Virtues are pretty classy things to have. I stand up for what is right and good. But only when it's convenient and I'm feeling in a pretty good mood.
--
WHAT HAVE YOU GOT BESIDES A
BROKEN PEN AND A BROKEN BOOK
A BROKEN BODY AND BROKEN SPIRITS
BROKEN THOUGHTS AND A BROKEN MIND
HERE'S WHAT WE'LL DO, FIT YOUR BROKEN
THOUGHTS WITH MY BROKEN MIND AND
WE'LL FORM A WHOLE BROKEN BAND
--
I forget how to talk to people sometimes. It's just odd to bring up in conversation that things aren't going so swell.
With fake emotions and
curtained thoughts
I stare at the clouds
and they stare back
--
A stray dog struts loosely upon
leery soil until faces say
go-- go away.
--
Jet propulsions is loosely based upon how much I rock.
--
[...]You can here the river in the background and the wind is your only companion. He's a gentle little guy. A bit tight on the vocalizations but never lost on the gestures. |
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| (no subject) |
[Mar. 10th, 2008|01:08 am] |
And that too is natural enough. In fact, it comes to this: nobody is capable of really thinking about anyone, even in the worst calamity. For really to think about someone means thinking about that person every minute of the day, without letting one's thoughts be diverted by anything-- by meals, by a fly that settles on one's cheek, by household duties, or by a sudden itch somewhere. But there are always flies and itches. That's why life is difficult to live.
~The Plague, Albert Camus |
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| (no subject) |
[Feb. 26th, 2008|12:54 am] |
I am starving.
For truth.
For a life worth
Living.
I am the burden
Of the struggling
mind
I am
alone
With temptation
I am the
Uncapitalized letters
The misplaced
Comma
I am
All the technicalities
Of writing
I am the slur
In
Everyone’s speech.
I am the restless mind
Asleep with ideas
Tossing and turning
On a bed too soft
Where the springs are
Humanity
And they’ve given up
Too soon
I am sinking
In an angry
Tormented
Ocean of
Too many fish in the sea
So I will pick the cherry too soon
and shake my fist at everyone
telling them
"oh how I enjoyed its
Sour
afterglow" |
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| (no subject) |
[Feb. 23rd, 2008|12:50 am] |
But we were never lonely and never afraid when we were together. I know that the night is not the same as the day: that all things are different, that the things of the night cannot be explained in the day, because they do not then exist, and the night can be a dreadful time for lonely people once their loneliness has started. But with Catherine there was almost no difference in the night except that it was an even better time. If people bring so much courage to this world the world has to kill them to break them, so of course it kills them. The world breaks every one and afterward many are strong at the broken places. But those that will not break it kills. It kills the very good and the very gentle and the very brave impartially. If you are none of these you can be sure it will kill you too but there will be no special hurry.
~A Farewell to Arms, Ernest Hemingway |
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hizou's journal