a piano actor: who they get when they need him.

i thought about last year and this time of year, and things are different but i feel like it was yesterday. not in the gap of time way of speaking, in that it seems like i just lived a day, and here we are. more like nothing has changed all so much. everyone's scattered about and in some new sort of mode or stasis. but it's all the same. outside looking in.

i could be poor again before we know it. maybe i'll work it out. i've got my eyes peeled for some new kind of opportunity. nothing active. but things happen.

thought about how i have no goals, just desires.

-
this is already turning out different than i anticipated.
what i wanted to start with was:
"it's odd how my fingers missed the keys. i never knew it until they hit them."

it seems the devil's got a grip on me.

aloe.

more style and less put together.
more collarbone and clavicle.
more the ready to run, so i've learned.
oh, you don't want to be there. it's your love and fire, but not your steady stream,

and i'm still looking, too.

i saw him the other day and how he's not good enough for you. i wanted to make sure he said the right things to you, and never took you for granted, and could never see the end of you, that big unwinding. i don't think i approve of how he does and does not look at you. but i don't know what's best.

i lied to you one too many times.
i should have told her, "why, yes i do."

some storm happened and you weren't there.

shaking, i suppose.

some story of color,
a streetlamp orange green still ocean [no wave].
presence on the floor, had shoes tied.

"i'd take you anywhere, we've suffered enough."

and would you believe it? they cut us short! just where we ended they told us this is where you're going and this is where you're anyone. no, i don't know anyone here. so you moved on out of here. i'll have your bags packed when i'm ready, keeping all that doesn't remind me of you, and fits the most convenient dreams of you. o', teeth and toe.

you have some load of blankets,
shut out to the world.

1. CBC 2. Blood Chemistry; on like that.

what i did today was make copies and mail out said copies of a summer's worth of dreams. standing in front of the copy machine with phone in hand, i went down a list and tried to figure out who would want to read it, and who would read it because they knew me. i went with the people who would read it if they came across it and will build from there. inside are some of the funniest things i've read written in one liners all by accident, manifested entirely while sleeping. i just happened to record them. i take no credit.

so, what i will say at the moment is that i will, eventually, tell the whole story of what i've referred to in the last update. i do hate alluding to things, and being vague about them, but this is the sort of thing that had to be talked about. i was there. once i know the full in and full out i'll get it all down. most of it never seems real when i think about it. i've already started to write it out. and some of it is pathetic, and some of it is typical, but some of it is the kind of thing you cock your head at.

And...
1. Tranquilization
2. Sedation
3. Restraint
, or so they kept saying.

calamity.

last night everything got just a little bit crazier than the tuesday before last. i can't process what is or what isn't. i assume, going forward, that day by day will have to do.

i'm back online via a new computer.
photos hope to be born soon.

i finished transcribing my dreams from this past summer. it's about 18 pages (i think) and will be printed on tuesday. copies go out then, as well.

i'm glad to be back.

we think aout our

symptomatic.

Hm.

Me: "yo, you saw that george wallace is the new mr. Vegas?"
Him: "yeah, I think it's cause someone's dead."

Indeed, vegas has some of its best and worst moments. I've had a few odd run-ins, mostly because

Oh I stopped typing for a couple of hours so I forgot what I was trying to say. I apologize.

to become this less often.

.
pretty soon, i'm going to hurt until it stops
.

Violins.

I saw her only that once but I wanted to see her again. I thought a little about her, only once as well. Just how she looked and how I imagined her to be. Couldn't have been older than 19. It wasn't that. She could have been 30 or 300 it wouldn't have meant a thing. Her hair was too dark to be natural, some kind of crazy black which could have looked so dark only because of the severity of her pale skin. It seems like a canvas to me now. Blue eyes i think, or green, or grey. Something that made her entire eye stand out against her impossible dark hair, as it dangled, covering half of her face.

I don't think she smiled.
She was with a friend.

Her knees were extremely knuckular. They looked way too gnarled and swollen to be on this person I hadn't met yet. It was definitely her first time here. And why don't I just go over to her and ask her a question, or humanize myself.

I was talking to Jeff, hardly a friend in the way that you traditionally think of a friend. Just a person that's come in enough that you feel relief that they've come in as opposed to a stranger, because you can follow up on old conversations. He was looking too, but we were both casual about it. It's hard with a friend-non-friend to non-overaggressively illustrate attraction and/or interest to a female or male in or outside the nearby area. So we said nothing to each other. Kept talking shop. I was genuinely interested, in one portion of my conscious brain, about what he was talking about (which I later followed up on and did get actually excited about), but some other fraction of my attention center was modulating and spinning around her, the bichromatic girl of silence with the bogus knees.

When she left, I tried to wll her back. Not in some active way, with magick or telepathy or reverse psychology but with deep internal thought and hope.

Although she did come back, I'm not a believer in some deep seeded undercurrent of the mind in which we are all recipients of mental callings from odd creepy strangers that saw us in their place of business weeks before they saw us. No, I assume she just lived in the area and was filling out applications everywhere in her proximity. So I see this application sitting on a desk in the back office and her name is her name and suddenly she's more than this girl who could only be described as physical features and who I thought she was.

Who did I think she was? Well. Probably a really shy but confident young lady who'd never been told that her art was incredible because it was just too abstract for the average male or female of her age outside of her demographic to fully grasp. And she had never seen anything outside of the surrounding two hour radius so she was anxious to get out, but never had anyone share that dream who would actually do it. And she loved to text.

But as I'm looking at this application, I'm thinking there is no other way to handle this situation than to move forward with it. So I called her cell phone and hung up when it asked me to leave a voice mail. And when she called back in 3 hours, I said I'd try to find out about setting up an interview.

She said that the next day she'd be busy and she'd definitely be okay to come back on Monday at 1030. That's fine, but my last day was two days prior to that, and oh well and oh no. She'll never be human now.

(you must be powerful;
for you have a more human face,
sad as the universe;
I abhor you with all my being;
and i would rather,
from the beginning of the centuries,
have had a serpent coiled around
my neck than look on your eyes.)

one clip.

Not getting enough sleep has always had the same effect on me. The distinct feeling that I am always forgetting something, or not retaining knowledge. Writing memoirs on some seismic etch-a-sketch. things going away, more things coming in. Some slide show.

Unrelated: I'm not sure if I'm just sad, or starting to give up.

Go-Getter.

I think while tearing through a taped box, I felt a vein or blood vessel erupt. It wasn't painful, but internally wet. Something thin and skin-soluble slowly gave way. Warm gave way to warmer. Some small flood engulfed by body.

But I'm almost positive this would have left a mark. I'm probably just elaborating.
-
I finished reading a few books this week, since down time has been at a pretty soaring high while babysitting the store (see <a href="http://www.flickr.com/iamnoimpact">my flickr</a>).

Spook by Mary Roach was great. It was essentially 'science tackles the afterlife,' as stated in the subtitle, though it did have quite a bit more history than experiment. Or, history of experiments. Either way. I expected (my first mistake) more modern interface with the way the afterlife was perceived, but as it was it held up very well. The author did do a good amount of hands on stuyff, but most of the meat of the text was in going over how it was relevant that she carry out what it was she was carrying out as well as a pretty good recounting of the people and inventions that others had used to question the existence of a soul and to prove its presence. I emailed the author and she emailed back which is great as well. I never fully expect to hear back from the people I send words to, so when I do, it's always very exciting. My initial goal, at all times when sending "I-checked-out-yo'-stuff" correspondence is simply to let one human know that another human is listening. Crucial.

The Drunkard's Walk was a book that was meant to explore randomness and how it affected our daily lives. It completed its task. However, without any level of conversationalism or much human element. In an e-mail to carissa, I explained, "I thought I was on a train to humanity town, but ended up in robot city." This was a book which proved itself via probabiliy, statistics, and mathematical history. I should have expected as much from a man who had worked with Stephen Hawking on a book (A Briefer History of Time). It was enjoyable, but more like reading a text book or an essay than a standard read. While unexpected, still good. I actually used the phrase, 'all things eventually deviate towards the mean' yesterday to a customer. Zero social skills.

Today, I actually cracked, and finished Coma by Alex Garland as well. It was fine. A little amateurish, in that I think I could do better but maybe not. I'm not very good at gauging my own skill outside of my own perspective. I might have delusions of grandeur for all I know. But it was a quick read, and had some good imagery towards the end, though the ending itself was wet hot garbage. And come to think of it, too, the actual events of the story were kind of floppy too. I'm a bit of a fan of Alex Garland, but mostly in the way that I'm a fan of The Mars Volta. One of the things that they've put together really showed me this vast, limitless amount of potential, and while their subsequent works haven't floored me and haven't even entertained me as a whole, there are passages and tracks that have given me glimpses of the strength of their past work as well as promise for that taste which I grew fond of coming back at some point in time.
-
I'm currently working on this premise; trying to prove it:

If I can not send images via email then I can not send images to flickr
AS OPPOSED TO/RATHER THAN
If I can not send images to flickr then I can not send images via email.
-
Mike Knoll came in yesterday and got me thinking about checking out a couple of bands. Ride and Mogwai (specifically, their second album). I'll try that.
-

Tornado invocate.

Show merit for the pathogenesis.

stud lise lise? shari earthmen.
stereo incisive incisive reflexive lise.
zen portraiture:reflexive hemingway.
part zodiac.

6179.

At first, it was because there was no internet connection to be had, but I thought I'd make due, and head to a starbucks or wireless hotspot from time to time and unspool that which had been spooled. Read. Keep tabs.

It turned out that this whole internet thing was very much a habit of convenience for me. The fact that it was there at the end or beginning of a day made it the reason I went to it, though it's apparently not so much a hunt or a chase of it that I'm finding worthwhile. Kind of upsetting, in a sense. I get lost in thinking what I used to actualy do online for the hours I'd spend there. I never would even attach myself to AIM. I guess a lot of wiki'ing and that sort of affair.

I have no laptop now. Hardware failure, etc., whatever. So this phone is it at this point. I set up mobile blogging to see if maybe this'd keep me connected. We'll see. I'd like it to.

Blog

Blog

FAR too comatose!

and how would they know?
far too gone, my face is their liver feeling.

grand theft auto iv is far too much like this addiction that won't stop a life that just won't stop these tasks that just won't stop.

m.

the saxophone sound. the drifting off needle in arm. won't she know me? it's words. ahhhghh, it's only words. you talk to it like it's something else. human! she/he human!

mod.

TO DAVE: ON LSD

a tweet:

awinedrowning: if you are blind and you take LSD... does anything happen?

my initial answer to this is you probably feel an extraordinary amount of different things, not just things you can SEE as we have come to know what SEEing is.

the blind SEE with their skin, their ears. their mouths, their noses. think of a pentagon equally divided into five sections, each shaded in a certain amount. remove one section, leaving four sections, but still distribute the area equally, this time between four sections instead of five. this is how i always understood the way that those with sensory disabilities adapt. i could be wrong.

my initial answer would be to say that they'll probably start to continue with the standard effects of LSD (hyperactive, lucid imagination) that plays itself out in the standard sorts of ways. new ideas, new experiences, free from the boundaries we're used to, and almost haunted in each new idea's life.

my initial answer would most likely continue through to say that they would probably feel things that weren't real on their skin, they'd hear things that weren't real in their ears. although with their other senses, they might smell or taste things that weren't real as well.

the initial answer changes a little bit when you throw the idea of someone who wasn't blind their entire life. which then gets more fine tuned when you think about how much of their life was spent with vision, and at what accuracy. did they lose their sight by way of degeneration, or an instant act?

i read up on the drug, though, when i got home tonight. apparently, albert hofmann, the father of LSD, experienced "fantastic pictures, extraordinary shapes with intense, kaleidoscopic play of colors" when he closed his eyes on one of the first days of accidentally stumbling upon the more 'psychedelic' uses of this drug. three days later, he went on a full-on TRIP, taking a theoretic "maximum dosage", and ended up experiencing a maelstrom of things, as you can imagine.

he began to speak unintelligibly, and on his assisted bike ride home felt that he was completely stationary while in reality he was actually moving at a "very rapid" pace. for several hours, he thought he was possessed, his neighbor was a witch, and that his furniture was threatening him. one key thing he mentioned (in specific reference to the blind) is every acoustic perception, such as the sound of a passing automobile, was transformed into optical perceptions. the next day, he mentions, though, (in contrast to the blindness) that his breakfast tasted unusually delicious, and all of his senses were "vibrating in a condition of highest sensitivity, which then persisted for the entire day".

to further color coordinate:
...an experience of radiant colors, objects and surfaces appearing to ripple or "breathe," colored patterns behind the eyes, a sense of time distorting (time seems to be stretching, repeating itself, changing speed or stopping), crawling geometric patterns overlaying walls and other objects, morphing objects, a sense that one's thoughts are spiraling into themselves, loss of a sense of identity or the ego (known as "ego death"), and powerful, and sometimes brutal, psycho-physical reactions interpreted by some users as reliving their own birth Many users experience a dissolution between themselves and the "outside world".

further breakdown:
VISUAL:
includes the illusion of movement of static surfaces ("walls breathing"), after image-like trails of moving objects ("tracers"), the appearance of moving colored geometric patterns (especially with closed eyes), an intensification of colors and brightness ("sparkling"), new textures on objects, blurred vision, and shape suggestibility. the inanimate world appears to animate in an unexplained way.

AURAL:
echo-like distortions of sounds, a mixing of all sounds which makes it harder to discern distinct sounds, the feeling that what you're hearing is your thought, a general intensification of the experience of music, and an increased discrimination of instruments and sounds.

--

so, i think my answer is close, although there seems to be a lot more going on with the visual end of things.

and what in those possibilities.

i wasn't sure if respite is the word, but it was.
for various things, at the moment.

it took me a few pages to say everything, and it was all disjointed until the end. there were a lot of small things i needed to say that didn't make sense in summary or conclusion. big liner notes. remember-the-time's. perspective. i don't even remember what it says. i get arrogant or egotistical or archival, and always find the need to have a copy of things that i've written to someone. i didn't this time. again, for various reasons.

-

SEEKING:
creative peers.

we're all very silly about our feelings. popping them up in the electronic field. let's feel good about what we're making and share it with each other instead of making it a VIP experience as part of a larger audience. call if you need to ask.

objects downstream propagate upstream.

what i need are really good headphones.
again.

i started thinking about who, exactly, i'm writing for. the perfect, "correct" answer would be myself. i write because i need to and i want to. i don't care who my audience is, what they think, how they react, or what they would like more or less of. i write to exorcise my own demons, and to manifest my own emotions into wellsprings of wordsplendor.

while this is true some of the time, it's not true all of the time. there are callings for both sorts of explorations, and i think that since i've just started to think a little bit more about these different facets as real functions, it starts to add a little bit more mechanic to the magic of the medium that i love most.

i've had more than a fair share of ideas for fiction that i thought i would start to unwind for my own love of the concept, and my own emotional output. the vision that i would have for a project would begin to collaborate with the ideas that i'd been inspired by and the collective surrounding environmental elements (background music, room noise, setting) to make a real product out of the raw skeletons that i were starting to collect muscle and skin in the brain. the more that i would get out the initial ideas, the more i would start to draw upon my peers and heroes for inspiration. what would THIS person do, or how would ANOTHER person write this? what would make SO AND SO love this?

and it becomes hard to retain that creative vacuum once you've gone that far.

i haven't written in a while, and it's certainly not because of a lack of ideas or emotions. there are plenty of both running completely rampant right behind the membranes of my fingers. my problem, at this point, is the idea that maybe no one would care. i think that's a very wrong outlook to have on any hobby, but especially one that tends to have such a relieving effect as a creative outlet.

i recently went through my old livejournal account and deleted much of what i read that i felt shouldn't exist. it was an odd thought process. i wasn't embarrassed of it or anything. well, i think i was. but i also just did to it what i think i want to do to anything that i read and don't approve of. approve may be too harsh a term. but looking back on those entries, i feel that there was this enormous imaginary audience that i felt i might have been speaking to. that concept sort of disgusted me. i'd start off entries by saying, "hey folks," and would apologize for "not writing as much" as if anyone noticed.

it's not something that i'm about. make the music you want to make, and the people who should find out about your music will. that's kind of the overall mindset i try to keep on all things. the whole "be yourself" ideal. if you try hard to impress someone by being something you're not and you succeed, you can either fail in the long run or become someone that you're not. there is no success here. if you live what you want to live, the others that live the way that you live (and therefore should be your peers, friends, associates, etc.) should become attracted to you. this goes for writing as well, and really, everything.

i feel like that whole concept is applied even in the distribution of this blog as a whole. livejournal and the myspace blog system just seem to become too watered down, and even when they aren't watered down, it almost becomes interpreted that you're trying to bring out a reaction or a response.

i've been having a hard time with that whole thought process for a little while. i thought maybe if i'd confront it by giving it a body of words it might be a little easier to tackle and eventually overcome.

--

i posted the poster for THERE WILL BE BLOOD back when i first saw the movie at the farmingdale theater during a matinee showing with about 7-10 other people, all at least twice my age. to me, that's always how this movie will feel perfectly viewed, and i've described it the same way every time:

it's a very silent, personal experience.

if i saw it in a packed theater with someone else, that might be how i'd feel it needed to be seen as well, but i'll never be sure.

i've since watched this movie twice. at first, i wasn't exactly sure what i'd taken from it aside from the fact that daniel day lewis crafted a masterpiece of the soul in daniel plainview. but after seeing it a third time overall, i know what it is.

it's the morals.
no new revolution.

the tweet i'd posted was meant to be about him:
a man of exquisite, relentless morals and no remorse.

i can get a sense of it, but can't quite define it at the moment.

moobout,

SOMEONE'S DEAD!
call me on it.

tonight had a sort of specific purpose which got shifted in the interest of media and awkward circumstance.

that place never was real
that face never was real.

i'm looking back "loading..." is what i'm getting but even without pure memory, textwords, i know what i was feeling in brackettime. i still love you.

relative.

i feel heavy like i need to carry myself.

the library; the garden.

i'm not that into it anymore.

i almost called in sick today. i was so into this weather and it brought back intense vibes of when i first came back and who i was seeing and what we were doing and what i was reading and listening to and writing. and so much has changed since then and i've mired myself down into this particular situation and have been working and coming inside and playing video games and not reading a word that didn't lead to shooting or cutting someone down but i have been earning a lot of achievement points which is more or less alright. i looked at the weather over the next few days and it's not more of the same, it goes back to what it was doing before it was doing this. but today is like a trailer. i'm okay with that, because i've been waiting long enough.

today makes me feel good.

this upcoming week, i get to legitimately find out some information which will affect the next months or years of my residential life. and romantic life.

i still haven't been paid, but they said it's coming.

channeling.

artist adie russell lip-synching ginsberg, and kerouac as well as others.
when you're done, go back and check out her other stuff.

on the road for the illiterate.

this is pretty wonderful.
the artist took the book ON THE ROAD and broke it down into colors and numbers, essentially. the color of the burst is the subject, and the size of the burst is the number of words.

not only is it impressive in vision and scope of the work, but for me, at least, it works as a great reminder of all of the different things i felt while reading this book.

outstanding.

subject.

when they come home, they steal all of my air and my silence and drive me back to my corner.

"slow motion."

http://jeremyharris.com

go to portfolios, and american asylums.
not sure how to direct link it.
those are pretty fantastic.

whoawhoawhoa.

i'm having a hard time feeling anything.
i'm in a serious depression but it's not real because it's not external but it's internal. it's a more or less severe thing where i want to lay in bed all day but i don't and i never feel relieved from dreaming but i'm dreaming. and i'll think of the most relentless most depraved way for me to find happiness and i find NOTHING. that's the kind of empty i'm on. and i'm worried that this isn't chemical imbalance but actual chemical disruption. one of those kids. i don't get it because i'm fine. it's been weeks since i've been alright. i feel like i'm beat. skin. i want to know she's there. i sleep and dream and write them down but it's of no console. it's stupid because i'm smarter than this. there's nothing worse than being smarter than what yo're being overcome by. divide yourself in two. i'm a walking civil war. i can laugh and you can watch me, and i'm moving and you can watch me. but there's a little bit more doing than might be done. i won't live to be old.

\////////

this is something new to me.

again, you're not listening.

some subject.

i read somewhere, i think it was the new york post or the daily news, that there was a man who was just recently arrested for dealing a half pound(?) bag of heroin for further distribution out of his girlfriend's town house apartment in new york city. it went on to talk about this man's history of drug use, and that at one point he was on a habit of fifteen uses a day of junk.

that's fierce.

it also mentioned that "heroin goes for about $10 to $20 on the street."
love the info.

12.000

it's growing to be 5am and i have work tomorrow and i don't care when i go in but if i am up i'll go on time but if i don't i'll get there when i can and they can call if they want but i'll be tending to things like self maintenance and a quantifying of worth. i've just had so much i've wanted to do and i'm finally unwinding after three straight full days there. the past 30+ hours of that store have been me. i've been that store. but.

i wanted to talk a little about this new job prospect but it makes me too nervous to put words to it. i'm not qualified for it, or excited about it, nor do i see myself in it for a long time and i assume this will pose a large problem considering it's going to be in an office with my father which could prove to be a whole new sort of chapter in and of itself. what i'm already hoping is that it doesn't work out but i have too much ethic to sabotage myself consciously.

i wanted to dedicate march to getting through all of my video games that i'd had sitting on my shelf but then all this work stuff started to happen all the way through. just nonstop. who could even breathe. i just beat god of war for psp tonight. such good things, just not enough of them. not really a complaint, though. size doesn't matter.

i need to stretch tantrically, and extend all of these compacted upper body units. this is one of the reasons i so badly want a high school desk when i finally finalize where i live.

i was going to mention something about it, but then stopped, but then thought about how stupid it is to NOT mention it. i checked out the new nine inch nails album's first disc and couldn't even formulate an opinion on it. for my definition and format, those weren't even songs. they were just musicians starting playing together on the same wavelength and then stopping. rahul sent me the rest of the discs which i am i am going to give an honest chance to. told rahul and brian the same deal. what i'd like is for one of those discs to be somewhere between sigur ros, explosions in the sky, and beside you in time with no drums, just electronics and lo-fi sounds. it's not going to happen, i don't think. but.

there's a book of artwork that comes with this new album which contains about 40 photographs taken by Phillip Graybill and Rob Sheridan which make me think they were taken for me. i don't know another way to put it beyond the fact that these are the places that i want to be to take on the largeness of the world and of the life. apparently, the only way to get this book is to buy the record package and i don't want to buy the record package. what i'd like is the book and i'd pay probably no more than $27 for it, unless it was bigger and(/slightly or) had words to accompany it. either way, these are perfect photos, the kind that i would want enlarged on glossy photo paper and framed in a new white apartment of mine. maybe numbered with silver pen.










ghosts.nin.com

blue gray hat, blue gray suit, swishing motion.

i'm currently unhappy at my job situation, and it's due to money and i never thought it would come down to that. i've never been into money. i'm not "into" it now. that's not what i'm saying. the thing is, i'm finally able to quantify the way that i've been stiffed this time around.

it started with another employee badgering me about my lack of video game knowledge and wholly different approach at retail, life, video games, entertainment, media, dress, etc. then the optionless calling on my days off. then the manager not showing up for a week. two weeks. now two months. that was all just things that you could complain about, but in a way you were doing your job as part of what you'd signed on to do.

but this time around, it's finally to the point where something is on paper that the hours that i've worked don't add up to the compensation i've received. numerically. i worked 50 hours each of these last two weeks. i got paid for 80 hours. that's twenty hours that i was in the store, that i wasn't at home, that i was keeping their store going that i won't get back or get compensated for.

see, they moved me to a salaried position without telling me. and it's not like i didn't have options here. they asked if i wanted coverage. but it's our store. i like the feeling of knowing everything that's going on in those walls. we had someone fill in yesterday, and it's just weird trying to explain a certain different way of doing things. it's not my thing. but i took on these extra hours and days thinking that i'd be getting overtime. and you know what, forget overtime, just PAY in general.

i'm scheduled to work 54 hours next week. i don't think that's going to happen. i'm out. i've gone on an interview and it went well, and i hope it went well enough to be taken on as an associate and begin to make money doing those things.

this was all useless to say and point out.
it's pouring.

ingargantuan.

i haven't had a lot to say in the past month.
the joy of life hasn't left me but i almost typed that it did.

i'm trying to evaluate what i want to do and how i want to do it. i like writing more than i can express through words, which i guess would be an ideal job in a sense. but i don't think i have the style or skill to get noticed to the extent of a remarkable or lived-on paycheck. at best, if at all, my words will be noticed by a niche crowd and enjoyed by a percentage of them. and i wonder if i'll even ever get there.

i don't think i make very much sense anywhere. i can't sell things because i don't want to be too pushy, i can't build things because i don't have the hands or the mind for it. i can't cook. i can't draw. i wish there was a way to take an accurate and updated aptitude test so it can plop me in the right place and i can continue walking onward and make enough for a meal or two a day, transportation, and a home. that'd be nice.

i often say that i wasted my life by not going to or continuing school. but i think that i might not need it sometimes, and i think that it's the only thing i need sometimes. i see people in paid positions doing things they're not so qualified or excited to do and it's all because they spent four years in classes getting approved for such a position. i think i need to harness some sort of potential that i have somewhere, and utilize it to the best of my ability and beyond and get recognition and compensation for it.

i've got an apartment in harlem that i can move into once i secure a job somewhere in the city/queens limits and i have an interview tomorrow morning at nine which i hope i can land at which point i will give my resignation in at gamestop which should get me a lot of scorn which makes me nervous. we'll see.

hopefully someday i'll be hip, too.

july, 2002

while trying to find the tracklisting for my last mix cd (11, not 12) i came upon this. it's not good, but it exists.

it's hard to be ashamed of someone else.

--

Everytime I walk through a dark room I can hear them. I can smell them. I can feel their eyes rolling across the length of my body. I don't know why I was the lucky one to be able to see these foul things. Why I was the pick of the litter. But I was born with it, and therefore I have to live with it. Everyday from now on, as far as I know. But I always have the hope that I can wakeup feeling free of this burden. Yet everyday for the past year, it has gotten progressively worse.

That first day was most likely the worst. I woke up feeling normal, until I looked out the window and saw it raining. It was that hard kind of rain. the kind that you think is going to dent the hood of your car. I was on my own at that point, so I made that comment outloud, although no one was there to hear it. What a great feeling that was. Living without wondering who or what is hearing what you say, or knowing what you think. I went into the bathroom to shower and shave and get ready for work. I stood over the sink looking at my sorry face and then smiled and laughed. Today was the day that I was going to be interviewed for my promotion. Fuck, I was nervous. I went into the shower, and washed every part of my body with my mind running through things which have absolutely nothing to do with anything. Like making up new lyrics for songs which already existed.

Have you ever slipped in the shower? Have you ever had the hopeless feeling of sailing across the tub and trying to grip for anything to stop you from falling, but the only thing you can touch are the wet, slippery walls, or toppling shower bottles. I hadn't fell in tub in years is the first thing i thought. Ouch was the next. I got up clumsily and as I was doing this i caught a glimpse of the blood running down into the drain. That's what I started to panic. I tried to wash the gaping wound above my eye brow as best I could, but it just kept bleeding. I turned off the shower and looked in the mirror.

Fuck. It was right above my eyebrow. I grabbed the washcloth and applied pressure. Why waste time? I started brushing my teeth. I went over the interview over and over in my head as I stared at myself in the mirror. In the mirror, I could see the closed bathroom door. Here I am, living alone, and I still close the door to my own bathroom. I rinsed, spit, and put the toothbrush back in its home, and then turned nonchalantly to go back to my bedroom.

What I saw as I looked up was about as tall as my father but twice as wide. And it stunk like death. I dropped the washcloth as a sting and a shiver went through my entire body. As the bloodied rag hit the ground, he... it was gone. It had been nothing short of a second, yet I knew I saw it, and I knew I smelled it. And apparently, so was the gash above my eyebrow. But the cloth was still bloody and my head still stung where the wound had once been. Not having done drugs throughout my entire life, I knew that this wasn't some sick flashback. This had happened.

as if the world was more than he could bear.

one of the best. 10/10.

and eyes.

this picture. no words.


more from 2007.

MY HILLARYISMOMJEANS.COM SUBMISSIONS:

...COMMENTED YOUR MYSPACE WITH A BROKEN .JPG
...CAN REALLY RELATE TO ZIGGY.
...CAN'T SYNC HER WIRELESS GUITAR.
...SAYS OKEY DOKE.
...HAS NO LOVE TO GIVE.

this is the woman.

stripper try-out photos.
not dirty. just women wanting to be beautiful.

with/without photography.

this would still be happening.



nature as photographed as nature.

i had something to say about ALL of these.

otis.

a 30 year man.

solid movie; 8/10

a man of great interest.

just ask.

there's nothing wrong with being lonely.

the old spill canvas album reminds me of her so much. and i guess the thing is i haven't seen a mind completely independent since the first time i heard her listening to this album on her own, completely. i remember how sexy i found her being entirely and silently overwhelmed by something i knew nothing about.

that was the kind of thing that completely intoxicated me. i can think of her at a distance, in silence, singing along, eyes closed, to a single line of the entire fifty five minutes.

she was downstairs. and i didn't even know this band.

i have nothing to claim to her. my mind is on a long, long leash. i love another time over. i'm a little mad. i have a trust issue that i ignore.

i want to run but i want to stay.
apply this to her and to me.

i sort of know she has a passion that she's having a hard time evaluating. putting into words or pictures or sounds. i was this way at 20. fucking 20. what in the world was i at 20? in a relationship that wasn't suited to my lifestyle, with certain friends that couldn't keep up, without a solidified dream/goal, and pre-anything, and pre-growth stage.

i don't think i'd seen anything i'd wanted to see that would really touch me. i thought i loved but didn't know what love was.

i was a youth and these things are going to happen. it took another half decade (maybe more) before i realized what it was and what i was. i still don't think i know what i want to be, but i know what i want to see and how i want to see it.

i'm old.
i ain't got time for a reinvention.

wee!

a gunner,

oh, i don't like the looks of this.

the thing is, i don't generally remember my dreams. in fact, for years now i've been saying that i don't dream. occasionally, i'll have to backpedal and say that yes, i know i dream i just don't remember them.

in the middle of january, i started writing down my dreams, no matter how small, in a pad i'm keeping next to my bed. i don't want to say that it's become important to me, but i'd like to definitely stick to it.

coming back to a dream that i had even just TWO days ago has been an almost rewarding experience.

before i go to sleep, i can usually hear voices. useless conversations. i'm not saying they're ghosts or anything. just scenarios, in a way.

maybe you're just not in the habit of it anymore!
three straight children. //
my parents aren't still divorced..
- kim-voice

you're gonna BREAK it
- mikey-voice

and they all leave.

During the 1950's the town was deserted and the dunes began to reclaim what was always theirs.

the persians!

it hurts to text message. that's where i'm at right now. my fingertips feel dense. my knees feel rusted. my teeth feel uprooted. my back feels freezedried. what happened here. i feel like i'm going through withdrawal. i can't stand loud noises.

i started writing my dreams down. i don't remember them, and i don't want to read them for a long, long time.

i finally own american football's album.

i feel like i need to be on a stretcher.

big. giant.

i apologize. i'm a bit distracted.

portioned falling. so much collapse,
35mm stillframes,
momentum building.
UGLIEST OF FACES.
hollow skeleton partitioned for the sake of flight. overcoming a solo meeting place. she writes forever, face plastered on hologram posters, shouting "REBELLION."
i will. i will.
i was told i was jaded because i was world weary. what's next? i can't meditate anymore. slothing through death, like i sloth through death. too many lines. oh, she screams and speaks like she's with me on the road about nobody but everybody. "that which is not, IS." aspects of one person that you come to face. one brain, two rules. my body is far too happy as she mumbles so i hear it, "i want to take you somewhere beautiful." a fear of botany. i want to kiss her in front of everybody and just have it be what it is. And this machine needs fuel. SO WE FUEL IT!

dead teeth.

pachefsky gave me a heads up about this anime last night over drinks at friday's. i know he's talked about it a little bit since he's been back on break, but usually, i take nothing he says seriously. there are only a few people whose opinion i can take to heart, and only about certain things. recomendations can only really come when you not only know and like what you're pitching, but also knowing the person you're pitching it to. i would never recommend look, mexico to rahul, for example.

but this time, he's come through in the clutch. i've only seen the first episode, but it's pretty solid so far.

www.deathnote.tv

el arbol.

we both took things from him.
hers are just a bit more worn on the outside.
the alcoholism the blind fury.

i've got little bits of his hidden psychoses.
the ones that are there for minutes at a time when he talks to himself, circling the kitchen. the ones that make him thrash in his sleep. whatever it was inside him that made him say, "the family that kills together, dies together. and they all get into their little black moods."

it'd make me fear him if i didn't go there myself, sometimes.

and i know when She passes, most likely from lung cancer or emphysema, he is going to go into a fierce plummet. there will be darkness and there will be blindness. we're all going to go down.

let's not talk about this again.

american girl.

ALL FOOLS,
we try terrible hard
to make them hear our
voices but we're saying
nothing. we are bored
with ourselves. daring in
LIFE AS WE ARE IN DEATH,
or sleeping still. i'll call
you back tomorrow when
i think of what i meant.
i really don't even
remember that night and i
almost got so sick, but
i went to work instead.
and shit... we have to keep
living this year.
xo

the dead alive!

click.

the remainder.

someone random. insert picture. ummm. dave. there is a damnit [in] the place of the [despicable]. feel me. when u don't know [what's] hitting u its [going] to be [calamity]. muscle memory intermittently. it's silence. no [music] a silence. and [the] ones I love are the ones that make [my] [voice hit]. and the ones that oh my [god].

the sun approaches.

we wouldn't know what to do with each other. and eventually, we'd have nothing to talk about. there's nothing that you want to do that amounts to much more than stories of the other night. and there's nothing that i want to do that amounts to much more than plans i think i'm trying to make. i wish i wasn't addicted to falling in love. at least then, i could take this as far as i knew it would go. but i still stick to the belief that guilt beats hate. you just won't do; you're the kind of person that asks why. we could do this if i got beautiful and dirty. we could do this if i got beautiful and dirty. and it's not really tearing me up.

i didn't know who you were before i met you but i swallowed hard every time i saw you.

i could probably never turn you around.
you just don't have the right kind of eyes.
and i bet you still don't touch pen to paper.
i actually don't even believe in you.

i'd have to be the kind of man that would fight the kind of man that i am.
my canvas jacket would be worn thin everywhere.
i'd wear filthy boots caked with mud.
i'd wear hats.

i should stop being who i am.

the movie for which the above poster was printed for was slow, and long but amazing. the most i can say for anyone with nearly three hours to spend watching turn-of-the-century oil drilling is JUST WATCH DANIEL DAY LEWIS. get the DVD and fast forward if need-be. the man made art of a character.

there are many things that i want to do, in some level of priority listed hereafter.

- watch the game
- respond to that e-mail
- finish reading water for elephants (& on the road & wastelands)
- finish half life 2
- watch the cell (& ghostbusters & bloodsport & fido & pit fighter & shutter)
- watch gangs of new york (& the pursuit of happyness & it's a wonderful life)
- watch constantine on HD (& children of men)
- play more NY TIMES CROSSWORD PUZZLE on DS (& finish new super mario bros.)
- listen to the gaslight anthem's album parker had recommended (& the tegan and sara album kimi recommended)
- start reading junky (& only revelations & romannitarian & dermaphoria)
- get rollins tickets
- get through the series gungrave (& battlestar galactica & the grim adventures of billy and mandy & lost season 2 & foster's home for imaginary children & firefly again & malcolm in the middle)
- be well
- make shirts (or A shirt)
- get new shoes
- get a cable box so i can watch television in HD
- shower
- finish bioshock (& mass effect)
- start condemned (& assassin's creed & fear files & gears of war & dead rising & crackdown & lego star wars)
- write this blog.

you can be me.

what would it be like if jared leto had a tail? the talented, beautiful, versatile lead singer/actor/walking portrait with another extremity. and i'm not talking about an easily manicured tiger striped three foot exotic tail, as we've seen in sci-fi movies used as an additional layer of attraction. i'm talking about a nasty, hard to maintain, impossible to remove freak of nature tail. the kind that looks like a skin tag that wouldn't quit.

what would u do then, ladies?
what would u do.


i'm just trying to even the field.