Tuesday, December 29, 2009
of professional sports, FOOTBALL, to be precise and the playoffs which will be the grip of it all, which will be the final piece, the final elimination of all things.
It's irrelevant. It's the career of some professional... Irrelevant... Doesn't relate, like some movie star and his change, and i'm thinking OH SHIT!! it might be that he might be a game out of the playoff race and what is he doing at home?
and i'm shivering because it's so cold
because there aint much that's happening here
(3am by matchbook romance)
and oh wow... OH WOW...
WHERE AM I GOING AFTER THIS?
No regret. No reward.
And now i pay my tab
and hope to leave
with the correct tab/tip left
and driving home
is a bet with the kind of hope
means that i made it home.
I shiver like no one knows what's
and a guy with a motley crue
shirt tells me i'm the kind of guy
that will date lady gaga.
Monday, December 14, 2009
devour and i hide
and i continue
I am the fierce scum of the earth,
speaking an evil i can't commit to,
delaying an ideal,
slothing and glutting and lusting
and beholding a form of false idol.
I am the scum of the living days.
I will send you
out to war
from behind my
Wednesday, December 09, 2009
either way, these photos are GORGEOUS. 19 is my favorite, followed by 8 and 2.
Thursday, December 03, 2009
it's from october 1st of this year.
but she did.
i get why and i get how and i get the process that brought here to be.
what was said was,
"if you love someone don't let them know; save it for the deathbed."
it's what i should have done.
i had my chance that i'd spoken about, my chance that i knew would get me back to where i needed to be in the situation i wanted ot be in. and i had it, and now i know that it will go nothing short of absolutely the most perfect way i could expect it to go.
except for the fact that she left.
and she isn't coming baclkxxxxexx
and she isn't
and she isn't coming back.
it's an intolerable truth that i almost refuse to accept into reality.
and going forward, after the silence,
and after the revelation,
this is forever.
this is how it's going to be.
all the roots in the ground, and they ain't
all the roots in the ground, and they ain't comin' up to make no plants, no
there ain't gon' be no trees, no not here.
no sir, not here.
i saw to it that night.
the ones i was scared of.
i hurt her a few times,
and it's true:
these fingers have been quiet and i
seem to get a solid thought together on an
action or a path
or a commitment
or a method
or a way out.
i am now an organism
with single cell forward progress.
won't find shade in the desert so i'm won't find shade in the desert so i've adapted to the burning.
these are things that needed to be said in ways,
possibly not directly in a language that you can read
but they are easy and necessary to express.
i'll reflect them in the ways i walk and the ways i'll meet all along the way.
the roads that i walk.
she'll be gone for good.
and she'll never know.
but i'll know we had our day.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
a lifeless stretch of quiet. the warbling of time and math. concepts eating concepts. gas the color of god or obtuse angles. there is no beauty in the vacuum light, just the substance of liquid black. no frost to build from moisture, no screams to hush. The Endless proceeds its surgery on the innards of a timeline. no womb, as this is motherless; no vector as there are no points.
and in the center of sudden ripples, a horror of organism billows forth. such is the moment of location. the We as We of planets and stars were born.
Friday, November 13, 2009
the only way that i now use this letter on my keyboard is by pasting it with ctrl+V.
i don't know why i always have bad luck with things like this.
i don't "take good care" of all of my things, but i certainly don't trash them.
i watched a documentary the other night about bukowski.
i have yet to read the man in depth. he's dirty and straight forward, and his poetry has no flourish, and his fiction is cold and poor and realistic. reminds me of the places selby has taken us. i didn't like the man, and i can't really say that i've found his genius yet. i only say yet because i know i'll find a line or two that unlocks a new image of him. something that makes me go back and reanalyze the things i'd written off. it's happened with dozens of records, and i'm almost positive it WILL happen with this author. i wait for it.
there was this one moment that i did completely connect with him on though, a moment that i know only too well, a moment that few people have seen, but people have seen. this is not my spotlight, though. he was reading a poem, one that found him in the shower with his version of her and she washed him. he reads this poem, and turns the page, reads a word or two and loses it, completely loses it. the kind of breakdown where you aren't sure if he's laughing or not. but he's not and you know he's not. he gets through the poem and he's rocked and he tries to play it off but he can't, he just can't.
i know that moment, that split-second,
that change of temperature, that feeling of her face between your palms,
that light in the room when you last saw her
and how it lights your blood up.
she's there and she will
he sums it up perfectly, and if i never understand the man's works, or never absorb the man's full repertoire, i can say that this is what i've taken from him and carried with me:
there are worse things than
but it often takes decades
to realize this
and most often
when you do
it's too late
and there's nothing worse
i'm trying to keep it
together lately, but
i've been someone else
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Thursday, November 05, 2009
to text about this,
to write about this,
but all i can say is
and here is a way to feel completely different about bears. really makes me rework their genetic makeup in my brainbook.
Tuesday, November 03, 2009
i've heard a lot about NPR, and i'd always sort of assumed i'd find my way to it somehow, but radio just isn't one of those things i'd ever really found myself getting excited about (except when Stephen A. Smith had a 1 hour slot on ESPN radio). but starting two or three saturdays ago, when driving home and hearing a broadcast of a prairie home companion, it's been something i keep finding myself coming back to.
some of it is hilariously overliberal. but for the most part, i enjoy the news that they give. my favorite moments usually end up during specific segments though. i listened to an interview the other day about a woman writing a book about cooking in gangster movies. WHAT. then two mornings ago or so there was a woman talking about republishing a french cookbook from the 1930s that weighed 5.5 pounds. so random. GTAIV actually had a station on their radio that mocked what these types of stations are about, and i'm surprised how accurate it actually was.
the point of this post though is to share a show i heard last night while driving home from work. the show is called Soundcheck, i guess, and the particular segment was highlighting the importance of mystery in music. they had a guest on by the name of carrie brownstein who was in sleater-kinney (i think the term riot-grrl applies here, but i'm not sure; it's been YEARS). well-spoken, intelligent, and very articulate towards many of the points that i found to be sectioning off music that i find LOVE for, and the rest of it. if you can, take a listen to the show, otherwise let me know if you want to talk about it. it definitely points to some issues that i know i've talked about making a clear divide between bands that i can love and bands that... well... you know me.
Friday, October 30, 2009
the ones i've always liked are references to media. specific rock stars, specific movie stars, more specifically movie characters. things of that nature yielded a few of my personal favorite costumes of my own, being bomberman and cosmo from the fairly oddparents. this year i was walking down that same road of hero worship, this time in the form of OSCAR THE GROUCH, who holds a whole world of amazement for me, someone who i could talk to you for probably a half hour straight about. the possibility of his world, his origins, his day to day, all of it.
i LOVE oscar the grouch.
but last second, my costume broke. the iconography of oscar has always been dominated by his trash can. and that's the one thing that i thought i had figured out. i tested it out, tried to on, etc. worked out perfectly. i had cut the bottom out, set up a harness with suspenders. but when i started walking with it, the "stress" must have been too much for it. i was sweating with frustration trying to reharness myself in, etc.
but i started thinking around the can once i realized i needed the costume by tonight. and i thought of doing the paper thing, maybe drawing it. i thought about being a little more conceptual with it, making a 'statement' by taping or carrying paper with me that said the words, "garbage can" on it. but as i started putting together my ideas, i invented a brand new character. and while i'm not going to go into COMPLETE detail here, i invented ROSCO the Grouch, a cousin of Oscar, who is actually a HOMELESS grouch, one without a garbage can. and i'm realizing (actually the point of this post) just how far i go for character development, at least in my mind, and the fact that i have a few props that no one might ever ask about, i know about each piece and why he has it, etc. too much. too much.
the lighting in the house was either brightly smoked out strobe effected, or entirely red, depending on where you were standing. the only other option was outdoors. this party was in roosevelt. i had to explain that my face makeup was GREEN, not BROWN, the entire night. and that no, i was not tyrone, a dave chappelle character. several times. my costume was apparently a death wish. i think the ratio of people that i knew there was perfect, though, because for everyone who thought i'd shown up to crash the party as something entirely offensive, there was someone there who either knew what i was going for or knew that i would NEVER be going for what it appeared to be. the fact that i wore a red bandana around one of my shoes at one point didn't help either, because apparently, i was flying a gang flag. such new policies and procedures, man. unreal.
Thursday, October 22, 2009
the photos alone tell a nightmare.
but when you read the love story,
it might make you feel a little differently.
then there's the broken, freshly learned english.
it's really admirable, i'm not being sarcastic.
it's impressive that these individuals have learned this amount of english, and know enough of it to get through message board posts about a post this far removed from standard regular conversation.
the users' love of the subject definitely comes through as well.
Friday, October 09, 2009
someone who complains about the way things are doesn't celebrate change,
someone can't answer the question "what does a GOOD DAY consist of for you?" without having to get back to you
someone's first response to "what have you been up to?" begins with either 'nothing' or anything work related.
Thursday, October 08, 2009
Sunday, October 04, 2009
the ex-football players are clearly delineated by their massive size of men once pulled together as muscle but let go into a bulk of meshed fatty tissue and alcohol. shouting at each other in slurred tones reserved for workyards, cafeterias. mouthful of cinnamon twists, calling, "cutie with a bootie," words and sound getting caught up in empty carbs. passing out as he tells his friend about getting his weekend together, and complaining about his cell phone battery dying.
in-fighting between small groups of friends.
two drunk men in business suits helping each other up for a full two minutes.
women dressed in the tightest, most revealing skirts they own because it's FRIDAY NIGHT. walking around on cell phones, some crying to their boyfriends, or ex-boyfriends, or complicated situations that the next train is 4:54... i'm SORRY... it's FRIDAY NIGHT.
everyone watches the schedule board like something's going to change. like 4:54 is going to change, like this time is just a lie, like there's no way this is right -- there's no way this is true, i needs to be home.
and the crowd keeps growing,
the night preparing for the hangover.
there is nothing else for us to do here but wait in this arena.
there are no good girls here, there are no lingering conversations. there is nothing nonviolent here, no lack of vulgarity, a caligula scene. all fucking in the mind, eating what's edible, bodies sprawled where they can be sprawled.
this is what it's like to be alone.
and what i've been thinking is where do you go to be in rome? you maintain of self what you can as self but you do as romans do to maintain.
and here begins the other end of the conversation, the boyfriend, the ex-boyfriend, the complicated situation, the i can't talk about it, and he's yelling, "where ARE you?" and "that's not what you said... that's not what you said... that's not what you said you'd be doing before. that's NOT what you said you'd be doing before. where's christina? where's christina. fine. fine. bye. i'm NOT. GODDDD."
"nnnooOOOO... nnnoooOOO... i left a fucking message."
Please watch the gap when boarding the train.
Khaki pants, pink polo, black moccassins, small black shopping bag... talking to himself the entire time.
Brown pants, brown button up, khaki suit jacket, picking a fight with someone who gave him attitude, walking away, placing full bag of taco bell at his feet, shaking his head. rolling his neck, rocking it back, stretching his jaw. readjusting his sleeves. in the brush, this would be followed by pissing on nearby foliage, ramming tree trunks, baring teeth.
circling like hyenas.
girl in jogging suit eating ice cream.
asian girl in short skirt, drinking lemonade.
dryfucking on the pillar.
alphajawing around the promenade.
deadstaring in the stairwell.
403 in penn station with no sign of slowing, no sign of speeding, no sign of progressing, just the motions and the motions en route to the 454 to merrick.
jockmeat and fightstance battlestooging side by side. silent. Powerade. Powerade. Reps and Powerade. Bitches and The Game and Looking Undefeated.
broback to broback.
Let's get a beer. It's Friday night.
Sunday, September 27, 2009
Monday, September 21, 2009
I wish i wasn't such a hobbyist.
Sunday, September 20, 2009
Tonight i held a meeting for the store to show what the expectations of the store were from a numbers standpoint, a cleanliness standpoint, and a morale standpoint, and even once that entire spiel (it took about 30 minutes for me to go over everything) was through, people were instantly ready to walk out the door. People were looking at the ground, watching the in-store tv (which i am always hearing complaints about), and i'm sitting here giving information that's crucial to your position in the store as well as, when you break it down, their wallet.
I was told that as a manager, my first year, i would go way too late, take care of everything myself, and accept other's failures by taking them on myself without holding anyone else accountable, and that eventually, i would start going to the complete other side and start cracking down way too hard on people, holding people far too responsible for shortcomings based on nothing but the given day. I don't know if i see that tide starting to turn, but i also know that i am guilty of that first part, and am going to start turning it up a little more.
This is retail and it's hard to take seriously, but at the same time, i take everything that i start to do seriously. Otherwise, what's the point.
This has already gone on long enough.
Just needed to vent.
Wednesday, September 09, 2009
has happened and it's unjustifying to put it into words.
but the internet is back up in some level of regularity, thanks to the productivity of air waves' ability to carry data.
- just started listening to winds of plague today, and it is probably the best NEW band i've heard all year.
- speaking of best _____ all year, batman: arkham asylum holds that slot for video game of the year. hands down. note: i am NEVER really into those stealth games, so if that's holding you back, at LEAST give it a shot. demo's up on the networks. and i could give a DAMN about the bat, usually.
- been reading, but not posting my underlines. i will.
- writing a book with ernesto. not sure when we're done. i guess we'll know.
- project witness went DOWN.HILL. but it got me to write in a way that's completely different from what i usually put out there, which is a challenge i hoped i'd present, at least to myself.
- bought a sketch book. drew on two pages.
- going to st. louis in october.
- went to vegas last month. left my mark.
- i, uhh, i live in queens now?
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
and so, we quiet it with drugs.
it was a steel tin, wrapped in brown paper. tied with gritty twine.
authentic to an underworld. smell and odor and aroma instant.
this was born into the earth - this was born unto the earth.
years of non-commitment. years of non-possibilities.
years of research, reading it out, analyzing it all, speculating it out.
dead texts, bloodless.
graded bungie cord safety. there is no overdose without the dose. the first, the pure, the virgin sweep of chemical or botanical lust swallowing you dead as a burnt wheat field. thick burnt vapor becomes your portrait. thinking through gestating murk. there is no flying without those wings.
Friday, August 07, 2009
to the nerves the synapse and the touch
it made sense.
they never stopped you.
it made sense
and while she loved you it made sense.
an invalid inclusion.
you never seemed to make it stop
and your priority was clear to those who
it made sense.
it all made sense.
climb those stairs, it made sense
you's a dead man, yeah it made sense
bye bye bye bye bye bye bye
bye bye bye bye bye bye bye
it made sense.
and in illegibles at quiet writing desks
and in scrawls on the walls of those haunts
and in quiet walls of abodes
yeah that name it makes sense.
runes of eyes and archs of hands
perfect posture and perfect stature
yeah it made sense.
i believe in you
and i believe in us
i don't believe in me
but i believe in our running
i believe in our escape
and i believe in our demise
yeah it's this faith that brings me back
and it's this faith that keeps me down,
the dead to the speech of strangers that are
Friday, July 17, 2009
six seconds of dream.
i'm going to be starting another dream journal.
Tuesday, June 02, 2009
- mario savio
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
kind of nervous how the dvds will be split up.
i'm fine, except when she's around. aka
when she is home and i am home.
moreactually, when she is home and i am home, then she goes out.
i have been trying to get an apartment, but haven't tried looking very hard until this morning. sent out two e-mails, both which asked about myself. i gave the run-down:
- NOT my first apartment
- SALARIED job
- living ALONE
- friends are respectful, NO PARTIES
- NO PETS/SMOKING
- NOT a MUSICIAN
though i did it in paragraph form.
what i really should write is:
"you'll never know i was there. i always want to catch up on reading, dvds, music, and video games. i rarely do, just point me at the internet. i have headphones. i'll pay the rent. hate smalltalk (weather, sports, celebrities) so conversations will be kept to a minimum. this is exactly what you're looking for."
Sunday, April 26, 2009
i love you.
"ha! banishment! be merciful, say 'death;'"
"there is no world without Verona walls."
i will never be you.
in rain and in god's form, a faith unspoken and unpracticed.
i found you in soil undisturbed. silence was what you spoke.
the sun exhales.
i'll be what i have to be.
i love you.
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
' have you ever seen god?'
-- a mandala, a symmetrical angel' "
"drugs are a bet with your mind."
"mouth fills with taste of copper.
chinese paper. foreign money. old posters."
"(panic in a horse's eye
that can spread & fill
an entire sky.)"
"she's selling news in the market
time in the hall
the girls of the factory
they haven't invented musak yet
so i read to them
from THE BOOK OF DAYS
a horror story from the gothic age
a gruesome romance
from the LA
i have a vision of america
seen from the air:
28,000 ft. and going fast.
a one-armed man in a texas
a burnt tree like a giant primeval bird
in an empty lot in fresno
miles & miles of hotel corridors
& elevators, filled with citizens.
motel money murder madness
change the mood from glad to sadness.
play the ghost song baby."
"forgive me father for i know
what i do.
i want to hear the last poem
of the last poet."
"a blackness to hurt your ears with listening."
"an old chronicle. to seek out the upright."
"and the dreams so rich in color. how else would death call you? waking in the cold dawn it all turned to ash instantly. like certain ancient frescoes entombed for centuries suddenly exposed to day."
"in those first years the roads were peopled with refugees shrouded up in their clothing. wearing masks and goggles, sitting in their rags by the side of the road like ruined aviators."
"the color of it moved something in him long forgotten. make a list. recite a litany. remember."
"where you've nothing else construct ceremonies out of the air and breathe upon them."
"golden chalice, good to house a god. please don't tell me how the story ends."
"the world soon to be largely populated by men who would eat your children in front of your eyes and the cities themselves held by cores of blackened looters who tunneled among the ruins and crawled from the rubble white of tooth and eye carrying charred and anonymous tins of food in nylon nets like shoppers in the commissaries of hell."
"when your dreams are of some world that never was or of some world that never will be and you are happy again then you will have given up. do you understand? and you can't give up. i won't let you."
"he wanted to be able to see. look around you, he said. there is no prophet in earth's long chronicle who is not honored here today. whatever form you spoke of you were right."
Thursday, April 02, 2009
i am properly introduced to morning.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009
in fact, i have actually been looking around for more experimental or just overtly visual films to play either on my computer or tv while listening to album. i'm not saying i want a full psychedelic trip or anything, but just something to have on that's NOT a "visualizer" on itunes or something of that nature. something with real imagery. sigur ros' HEIMA dvd comes to mind, though just the one isn't enough. i tried looking for silent films and things like that, though nothing really interesting came up. i know i've seen a few industrial bands and more experimental bands do things with films playing behind them as they're on stage. nine inch nails have done the same thing, on a huge scale... manson has too i think. something of that nature. i feel a little odd sitting around with headphones on staring at nothing. i'll be working on that. i just downloaded the battleship potemkin, and while it's not entirely visually stunning or anything, this was one of the earliest films that really was intentionally avant garde. i really liked watching it in a film appreciation class. i'll see if it translates.
what's up with this new TUMBLR blogging service? judging by the few that i've seen, it seems to be a little bit more aimed toward the twitter/flickr/facebook crowd which is more for the mass-sharing of information. that's great and all, but not really for me. it seems like it's going to get pretty large, i'd assume. it seems to tend to the bug that people get where they want to post an image or video to their myspace, but don't have anywhere to put it on their layout. i noticed that a big part of it, too, tends to be that you can openly reply and be replied to on that site and it will show up on your blog as well. there's a big blend of a lot of sites and ideas going on over there, and i think it's going to blow up if it already hasn't.
i picked up a bunch of books the other night at barnes and noble, one of which was superman: red son, a reimagining by mark millar (he wrote the original series wanted which the movie was based on, contributed to marvel civil war, etc.) in which Kal-L lands on earth 12 hours later, and in ukraine in the 1950s, and ends up in the hands of Stalin. a really good book, and while i'm not a fan of superman at all, i like what they did with the character, and there are a bunch of good cameos by other DC heroes. worth checking out.
miami in 6 days.
"i have been dragging my past with me like it's a dying comrade and we're trying to make it back to the beach after a mission gone terribly wrong."
"when we fuck by the pool we bleed out of our mouths and can't finish. we are too toxic."
"came home and shot his wife and two small children. sat on the back porch with a beer. heard the sirens and put one through the roof of his mouth. what he couldn't control, he killed."
"i will admit this to you as long as you promise not to tell anyone. i do admit a sadness."
"he terrified them and they seemed dedicated to this fear."
"sad, mean brutal cycle. after awhile, if you want it bad enough, if you really need it -- anything will feel like love."
"feat of feast: don't drink the good stuff if you know you're gonna hurl. fear of famine: one more breath."
"i have felt it in the past. attraction to a woman. it always came with a certain measure of self-disgust. it happened recently. there i was with this woman. not letting anything show. not allowing one crippled display of vulnerability to register. years ago, fear of rejection and eventual, long burning humiliation kept my feelings in check. now it's different factors that keep my emotions stillborn. i have arrived at myself. i am beyond humiliation. failure falls off me. rejection is a given. the main thing that keeps me to myself is just knowing there's no way. there is just no way. at this point, what could my line possibly be? "hi, i'm dead. want to watch me sit silently in a small room? i can show you the parts of the ceiling my brains will most likely stick to." it is sad. to not need anyone."
"i know i am rusted metal scraping against sidewalks of forgotten cities, an unheard groan of a freezing pipe in a condemned building. i know, i know. believe me, i know. i know my words vaporize and lose all meaning as they evacuate my mouth. i know that all the years spent, all the miles traveled, all the sleep lost -- just time wasted. time wasted! like leaving a lamp burning in an unoccupied room. a waste! what a horrible thing, time wasted. the ravages of futility. inspiration's annihilating backhand. at the end of the trail, to find the pockets heavy with fool's gold, the ribs cracked from the last cheap shot and the heart helplessly empty... what a waste. and even though this is the cheaply woven fabric of my life, even though i am the hand that knocks unwelcome and uninvited on doors of empty houses, the cultivator of insufferable misery on hot endless nights of paranoia. ceaselessly unendurable and obsessive repetition. a life nailed to the ground by dulled cowardice and uninventive thought. in spite of all that, there was a time when i... when i thought something more than all this was in my grasp. there was a time when i could feel the ground underneath my feet and i walked forward into time isntead of standing still, stranded in semi-darkness with skewed memories of the past to keep me. i don't remember when i pulled back. i don't remember when i called it a day. i don't remember when i slipped underneath the surface of life and ended up here. i don't remember. i don't know."
"nothing can be recaptured. it can only be approximated and stood next to. it can only be lied into legend."
"still having the murder dreams?"
"their conversations rain down like hammers from a high place. their words jostle and crowd my brain. perhaps it's their thoughts i am thinking now. language is slavery. ...their sound all around me, this generic drone of collapse."
"it will never be love.... and it's not like your eyes aren't open arms. i am a ghost town with a ribcage, every abandoned car. i heard every word you said."
"after you were killed last june i quietly dismantled and disposed of my heart, parts of my nervous system and many of my thoughts."
"no one shoots the moon in the face."
"i used to be strong, but couldn't hold on to it. i hemorrhaged and bled out. now i'm just tough and weak, self=propelled into small rooms to endure time."
"casa to cairo. bangkok to paris. i got close to her in prague. but lost her for good. and found me for bad. and now i am a setting sun and closed road null."
"destruction will keep me alive for a few seasons yet."
"there is no shore. if i knew a name to call out, i would."
"when i talk to you, i turn to wood."
"walked past them all again. waited to sink with them. nothing happened. that's the fucked up thing. nothing happens until a nightmare erupts."
"i get used to throwing parts of myself away."
"we'll braid our secrets."
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Friday, March 27, 2009
here is some of it.
JULY 2008-MARCH 2009
not a spider on my lapel, that's a jellyfish, or anemone.
i had something for you while hanging lives on hooks but it slipped away inconveniently, so i'm thinking here of your painting and the words i'd put to it.
in a meeting, held together across four days by less than 10 hours of sleep, bottles upon bottles of alcohol, and poorly catered buffet food. i'm hallucinating. auditory. visual. but the smoke started last night.
seeing smoke where there is no smoke.
i'm at a round table with a chair pointing out. facing the podium. a young girl sits curled up in the chair next to me recoiled in terror from me. it's in the jaw drop and the eye expansion.
i hear creaking that no one hears. i ask paige and richie if they hear creaking. i make the mistake of offering the possibility of it being the ice in the pitcher.
ice in the pitcher.
i hear a woman's voice say, "ohhhhh" from above and behind my right shoulder.
i'm getting paranoid.
i hear full songs at the lowest volume. not distinct enough for identity. but it might be coheed or fairweather.
it's later today, still seeing smoke.
billy idol finally played dancing with myself. imperial palace: something about this place makes people want to dance.
leaning on a set of windows, feels like i'm on a conveyor belt.
still in vegas.
i saw a steward standing up and admiring or waiting for an answer from a girl who looked like jena, but he wasn't there at all. i'm still paranoid, thinking about how my pants look dirty, and are garnering attention fmor the passengers around me. it's a distraction. must be lack of sleep. i also have been closing my eyes and i'll open them after a while and it will seem that any of the people around me are pulling their gaze away. i worry maybe i'm talking in my sleep. oh, i'll never know. auditory hallucinations persist as well. i hear rick's giggling, chris talking, i just hear the girl next to me break into hysterical laughter. i don't know, we're still above utah. i have that song in my head that goes, "there she goes, there she goes again." i think a woman sings it. i keep hearing lighters being flicked. and i still see the smoke, really. a man holds a pen like a cigarette. life and some new layer of it. i'll be careful.
i just saw a static tv on the floor. i keep thinking the stewardess is trying to walk past me but i'm blocking her way.
foolish ones and dream rogues.
"there is no need for you to leave your house. stay at your table and listen. don't even listen, just wait. don't even wait, be completely quiet and alone. the world will offer itself to you unmasked; it can't do otherwise; in raptures it will writhe in front of you." - kafka
i understand more about myself through what i say and not only what i think! the most organic and internal sound (a thought) overthrow by filter and voice.
the essential mickey rourke
- rumble fish
- body heat
- the pope of greenwich village
- angel heart
- sin city
i worry about playing what it is i play, speaking of human bodies and men as other things. who breathes? nothing is left. they told me as a levelled out city, see, it's worse that the men were there for the explosion. silhouettes always and always. dead men. plans for days and the rest of your life.
it's early. light's blue. waiting for the reason i'm awake.
i miss everyone.
i had a real, core thought that SHE was pregnant out there. it felt heavy.
the lips of this mouth, pure oldest of the ugly ones. dirty bones, fitted leather case. plays a dirty tune, but oh lord what a sound. color disks in elevated skin plains. "leave it to me, i'll die in this city in love, be it God or Harlot. this tempest hasn't yet torn me." the gift for a better vessel. all those wasted days, my muse silent in the glass hollows. the madman is speaking french. sounds like grace to me.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
TROPIC OF CAPRICORN
"once you have given up the ghost, everything follows with dead certainty, even in the midst of chaos."
"everybody around me was a failure, or if not a failure, ridiculous. especially the successful ones. the successful ones bored me to tears."
"people usually took me to be good, to be kind, generous, loyal, faithful. perhaps i did possess these virtues but if so it was because i was indifferent; i could afford to be good, kind, generous, loyal, and so forth, since i was free of envy. envy was the one thing i was never a victim of."
"the present was only a bridge, and on this bridge, they are still groaning."
"i was the evil product of an evil soil."
"it's a wonder things didn't explode around me."
"what strikes me now as the most wonderful proof of my fitness, or unfitness, for the times is the fact that nothing people were writing or talking about had any real interest for me. only the object haunted me, the separate, detached, insignificant thing. it might be a part of the human body or a staircase in a vaudeville house; it might be a smokestack or a button i had found in the gutter. whatever it was it enabled me to open up, to surrender, to attach my signature. to the life about me, to the people who made up the world i knew, i could not attach my signature. i was as definitely outside their world as a cannibal is outside the bounds of civilized society. i was filled with a perverse love of the thing in itself -- not a philosophic attachment, but a passionate, desperately passionate hunger, as if in this discarded worthless thing which everyone ignored there was contained the secret of my own regeneration."
"living in the midst of a world where there was a plethora of the new i attached myself to the old."
"whatever set the object apart, or made it unserviceable, or gave it a date, attracted and endeared it to me."
"soon i too would become like these objects which i venerated, a thing apart, a non-useful member of society."
"somehow i had managed to sever my connection with the world that human hands and human minds were creating."
"but the way of the world is more insidious than that. instead of being punished you are undermined, hollowed out, the ground taken from under your feet. it isn't even treachery, what i have in mind. treachery is understandable and combatable. no, it is something worse, something less than treachery. it's a negativism that causes you to overreach yourself. you are perpetually spending your energy in the act of balancing yourself. you are seized with a sort of spiritual vertigo, you totter on the brink, your hair stands on end, you can't believe that beneath your feet lies an immeasurable abyss. it comes about through excess of enthusiasm, through a passionate desire to embrace people, to show them your love. the more you reach out toward the world the more the world retreats. nobody wants real love, real hatred. nobody wants you to put your hand in his sacred entrails -- that's only for the priest in the hour of sacrifice. while you live, while the blood's still warm, you are to pretend that there is no such things as blood and no such thing as a skeleton beneath the covering of flesh. keep off the grass! that's the motto by which people live."
"you will never die again but only pass away like the phenomena about you."
"to sleep listening, to dream listening."
"i wanted a metamorphosis, a chance to fish, to leviathan, to destroyer."
"i wanted to feel the blood running back into my veins, even at the cost of annihilation."
"durable as the atom, heartless as the earth itself."
"the dream of men before the flood."
"there is no solution for a man like myself, i being what i am, and the world being what it is."
"the spark that unsparks, the soft purr of the perfect mechanism."
"i am going to die as a city in order to become again a man. therefore i close my ears, my eyes, my mouth."
"confusion is a word we have invented for an order which is not understood."
"above us the gas tanks, and below the marine life."
"why do the skeletons dance so ecstatically, i wonder. is it the fall of the world?"
"seemed possessed of a weight unnaturally. she had a more than human gravity, the gravity, one might almost say, of a warm corpse."
"between the time she took off and the time she returned i lived the life of a full blooded schizerino. it was not an eternity which elapsed because somehow eternity has to do with peace and with victory, it is something man made, something earned: no, i experienced an entr'acte in which every hair turns white to the roots, in which every millimeter of skin itches and burns until the whole body becomes a running sore. i see myself sitting before a table in the dark, my hands and feet growing enormous, as though elephantitis were overtaking me at a gallop. i hear the blood rushing up to the brain and pounding at the eardrums like himalayan devils with sledge-hammers; i hear her flapping her huge wings, even in irkutsk, and i know she is pushing on and on, ever further away, ever further beyond reach. it is so quiet in the room and so frightfully empty that i shriek and howl just to make a little noise, a little human sound. i try to lift myself from the table but my feet are too heavy and my hands have become like shapeless feet of the rhinoceros. the heavier my body becomes the lighter the atmosphere of the room; i am going to spread and spread until i fill the room with one solid mass of stiff jelly. i shall fill up even the cracks in the wall; i shall grow through the wall like a parasitic plant, spreading and spreading until the whole house is an indescribable mass of flesh and hair and nails. i know that this is death, but i am powerless to kill the knowledge of it, or the consciousness persists, and, as the inert carcass expands, this flicker of life becomes sharper and sharper and gleams inside me like the cold fire of a gem. it lights up the whole gluey mass of pulp so that i am like a diver with a torch in the body of a dead marine monster. by some slender hidden filament i am still connected with the life above the surface of the deep, but it is so far away, the upper world, and the weight of the corpse so great that, even if it were possible, it would take years to reach the surface. i move around in my own dead body, exploring every nook and cranny of its huge, shapeless mass. it is an endless exploration, for with the ceaseless growth the whole topography changes, slipping and drifting like the hot magma of the earth. never for a minute is there terra firma, never for a minute does anything remain still and recognizable: it is a growth without landmarks, a voyage in which the destination changes with every least move or shudder. it is this interminable filling of space which kills all sense of space or time; the more the body expands the tinier becomes the world, until at least i feel that everything is concentrated on the head of a pin. despite the floundering of this enormous dead mass which i have become, i feel that what sustains it, the world out of which it grows, is no bigger than a pinhead. in the midst of pollution, in the very heart and gizzard of death, as it were, i sense the seed, the miraculous infinitesimal lever which balances the world. i have overspread the world like a syrup and the emptiness of it is terrifying but there is no dislodging the seed; the seed has become a little knot of cold fire which roars like a sun in the vast hollow of the dead carcass."
"sunday came like a thaw."
"in the shape and weight of skulls."
"an age with less instruments and stronger antennae... a different kind of suffering has to be experienced before such music can be appreciated."
"despite the outward appearance of coma."
"death is the automaton which rules the world of activity. death is silent, because it has no mouth. death has never expressed anything."
"each page must explode, either with the profoundly serious and heavy, the whirlwind, dizziness, the new, the eternal, with the overwhelming hoax, with an enthusiasm for principles or with the mode of typography."
"i had a marvelous sexual dream that ended with the guillotine."
"i remember the first time we were separated this idea of totality seized me by the hair. she pretended, when she left me, or maybe she believed it herself, that it was necessary for our welfare. i knew in my heart that she was trying to be free of me, but i was too cowardly to admit it to myself. but when i realized that she could do without me, even for a limited time, the truth which i had tried to shut out began to grow with alarming rapidity. it was more painful than anything i had ever experienced before, but it was also healing. when i was completely emptied, when the loneliness had reached such a point that it could not be sharpened any further, i suddenly felt that, to go on living, this intolerable truth had to be incorporated into something greater than the frame of personal misfortune. i felt that i had made an imperceptible switch into another realm, a realm of tougher, more elastic fiber, which the most horrible truth was powerless to destroy. i sat down to write her a letter telling her that i was so miserable over the through of losing her that i had decided to begin a book about her, a book which would immortalize her. it would be a book, i said, such as no one had ever seen before. i rambled on ecstatically, and in the midst of it i suddenly broke off to ask myself why i was so happy."
"i realized that the book i was planning was nothing more than a tomb in which to bury her--and the me which had belonged to her."
"...this atomic eternity..."
"the very sight of these papers, of the strange languages in which they were printed, was sufficient to dislocate me for the day."
"her talk is as formless as dream."
"i have the feeling of being drowned in a deep mesh of words."
"two hemispheres, two skies, two sets of everything."
"tack your womb up on my wall, so that i may remember you. we must get going. tomorrow, tomorrow...."
TROPIC OF CANCER
"my thoughts are spreading. the music is slipping away from me, now that the drums have ceased."
"sleep is the keynote. no one is listening any more."
"the grief from his breath."
"if i am a hyena, i am a lean and hungry one; i go forth to fatten myself."
"in the midst of his reveries he suddenly arrests himself, and grabbing my arm excitedly, he points to a whale of a woman who is just lowering herself into a seat. 'there's my danish cunt,' he grunts. 'see that ass? danish. how that woman loves it! she just begs me for it. come over here... look at her now, from the side! look at that ass, will you? it's enormous. i tell you, when she climbs over me i can hardly get my arms around it. it blots out the whole world. she makes me feel like a little bug crawling inside her. i don't know why i fall for her--i suppose it's that ass. it's so incongruous like. and the creases in it! you can't forget an ass like that. it's a fact... a solid fact. the others, they may bore you, or they may give you a moment's illusion, but this one--with her ass!--zowie, you can't obliterate her... it's like going to bed with a monument on top of you."
"it takes it out of you, that fucking job! i want to write my life, my thoughts. i want to get the dirt out of my belly."
"it's a pretentious place with one of those huge empty lobbies in which englishwomen sit for hours with a blank look."
"a huge mirror covered with green gauze and tipped at an angle of 45 degrees hangs directly opposite the entrance over a baby carriage which is filled with books."
" 'you think i like myself... that shows how little you know about me.' "
"and the more he reads, the more disdainful he becomes. none of them are satisfying; none of them arrive at that degree of perfection which he has imposed on himself. and forgetting completely that he has not written as much as a chapter he talks about them condescendingly, quite as though there existed a shelf of books bearing his name, books which everyone is familiar with and the titles of which it is therefore superfluous to mention."
"the day is sneaking in like a leper."
"the alchemy of sound and sense."
"no searching for formulae, no crucifixion of ideas, no compulsion other than to create."
"the wheel is falling apart, but the revolution is intact..."
"now and then, it's true, i did think of mona, not as of a person in a definite aura of time and space, but separately, detached, as though she had blown up into a great cloudlike form that blotted out the past. i couldn't allow myself to think about her very long; if i had i would have jumped off the bridge. it's strange. i had become so reconciled to this life without her, and yet if i thought about her only for a minute it was enough to pierce the bone and marrow of my contentment and shove me back again into the agonizing gutter of my wretched past. ...when i realize that she is gone, perhaps gone forever, a great void opens up and i feel that i am falling, falling, falling into deep, black space. and this is worse than tears, deeper than regret or pain or sorrow; there is no climbing back, no ray of light, no sound of human voice or human touch of hand."
"since then of course, i have learned what every madman in paris discovers sooner or later; that there are no ready-made infernos for the tormented."
"the language apocalyptic."
"that day a woman addressed her puppy in the apocalyptic language of the slaughterhouse, and the little bitch, she understood what this greasy slut of a midwife was saying. how that depressed me!"
"wherever there are walls, there are posters with bright venomous crabs heralding the approach of cancer."
"it has eaten into our souls and we are nothing but a dead thing like the moon."
"it's a name you give to an abstract idea..."
"how the hell can you climb over a woman when her mother's dying downstairs, perhaps right beneath you?"
"a climate that eats into your soul."
"[about whitman]: there is no equivalent in the languages of europe for the spirit which he immortalized. europe is saturated with art and her soil is full of dead bones and her museums are bursting with plundered treasures, but what europe has never had is a free, healthy spirit, what you might call a MAN."
"windmills overlooked by cervantes."
"gold is a night word belonging to the cthonian mind:it has dream in it and mythos."
"the dream slides into artifice."
"an arabian zero rather, the sign from which spring endless mathematical worlds, the fulcrum which balances the stars and the light dreams and the machines lighter than air and the lightweight limbs and the explosives that produced them. "
"dear, crazy, metallurgical eyes."
"the story of art whose roots lie in massacre."
"if now and then we encounter pages that explode, pages that wound and sear, that wring groans and tears and curses, know that they come from a man with his back up, a man whose only defenses left are his words and his words are always stronger than the lying, crushing weight of the world, stronger than all the racks and wheels which the cowardly invent to crush out the miracle of personality."
"she used to say to me, mona, in her fits of exaltation, 'you're a great human being,' and though she left me here to perish, though she put beneath my feet a great howling pit of emptiness, the words that lie at the bottom of my soul leap forth and they light the shadows below me."
"i believe that today more than ever a book should be sought after even it has only one great page in it: we must search for fragments , splinters, toenails, anything that has ore in it, anything that is capable of resuscitating the body and soul."
"yes, i said to myself, i too love everything that flows: rivers, sewers, lava, semen, blood, bile, words, sentences."
"the thought of such absolute privacy is enough to drive me mad. it's like a clean birth. everything cut away. separate, naked, alone. bliss and agony simultaneously. time on your hands. each second weighing on you like a mountain. you drown in it. deserts, seas, lakes, oceans. nothingness. the world. the me and the not-me. everything has to have a name. everything has to be learned, tested, experienced."
"he didn't seem exactly nuts to me -- just caved-in ilke. typical anglo-saxon crisis. an eruption of morals."
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Could have made you love.
Thinking of all wandering of the mindhands,
thinking of all living in the undercircumstance:
it's you who are where we should be,
it's you who are what we are.
It is so cold.
Things are better but they are not better. Appear better I should say, but I feel the same. Doesn't matter what she says in eyes in action or in voice, matters what I feel in life, in heart, in overgrown. What I'm thinking is waiting out what's happening here. She wants things comfortable with that job here (aqui) with that intermittent long-distance there, with that hot rod travelcase. Me, I want that longtime freedom, that silent four-wall breathroom, that sadmusic sadsong sadliving sadthinking ohbaby I miss you you are what I thought I could be! love affair. Ah but she stopped it without my chance to make it obvious. Ah I lost it without my chance to dip apart.
Zig when I
Population count ticking down in a timescale. Living through big experience, I'm not ready for what it would be for our arrival. Silence among arms and mouthwordkiss. I have nothing to say to you that is not friction, and I don't care if I feel nothing. I'd say wait for me, but I've already said wait for me. I didn't wait. I let that come and go. I'll have to start from bottom up, from grasp and go, from got me don't got me.
I lied to you,
and it was convenient.
I've showed you us in little becomings,
and i never meant it to be what it is now (ahora).
You come and leave and come and leave.
We touch for touching sake.
But I doubt that it's you.
It's always you.
Old age, new age.
And there's a proximity love, a fire i can't ignore to the touch and to the hold; to the hear and to the say. it's from some source I never saw until I saw in her love and element, from some source I never saw until her origin. I'd tell her but it's an unsure thing and I've got no cure for the cowardly. I find her in mindplay, and I plan to make me know her more. Words she loves sounds she loves. And also. More for what she hates.
"Yesss, spanish soap operas are amazing for what I love to do. Find the right crew, ripe for dialogue. Free movie production. If u know nothing u say anything."
Monday, February 09, 2009
In the mirror, I loved her, behind me arm over my right shoulder. She was my bride the one I could feel in the summer life, the one through storms and quiet conversations. I loved her and she left.
I don't know where they are and they were my life. No sight and little sound, we live the life as they do in France, small and unknown ones but not far far from celebrity.
Sent via BlackBerry from T-Mobile
Saturday, February 07, 2009
I've disappointed everyoe I've loved. No way don't stop me. Robot voices and not reall. I say what's written in books. You don't even know. It's too cold to feel all that we want to feel, distracted by nothing other than the body shaking. She wants to feel but doesn't feel, she wants to sing and sing and sing and sing.
HE DIGS AND DIGS AND DIGS.
There are friends of mine that still turn up Lil Wayne.
This is what I'm saying!
I'd live with you if it weren't for living!
There's no way to leave fast enough so I separate myself faster than actually possible. Where those thay speak 631 shout 631 I shout PORTUGAL AND FRANCE AND ENGLAND. -- by ship
they say bring a lot of weed because they know what I say is what I say AND I SAY IT LOUD!
There are no peers who know me and they see me as that kid. Some boy, some weirdo.
It's not so bad, it's not so bad.
I stay with her when she still hurts me
She still hurts me!
I need to be alone but she fit herself in the cracls, in the small places of my ego/self esteem/my life. She wants to stay going forward. Ohhh no.
I'm still hurting.
It's that bad, it's that bad.
I'm lying to me.
What do I have to do?
Wednesday, February 04, 2009
You know, same old.
Work, home, eat, sleep, repeat.
I blame it almost entirely on the lack of music and alcohol, though alcohol plays much less of a role. It's the enhancement of different memories and the recall thereof that it really affects. Some writing, little finger singing.
[sweet, the driver lights her cigarette first with the console flame]
I'm not being stopped or held back by anything. Even by credit debt, or a lack of cash, or anything financial. I think it's that I have no idea where to go from here. Is it that I have no oath now? Just going to grow static on this gamestop paycheck? Really get invested in it? Dug in? No more Arizona, no more sunsets against clay? No more filling in the check boxes? I did lose that list, and I've forgotten most of it.
I think of downing bags of pills, each white and smooth like plastic furniture. They highlight all the senses and stimulate a new mechanical organ inside, puffing out the dust of atrophy. Breathing in a blue gray smoke elevating from some burning stick to mute out the entropy. Shoved syringes to the hilt full of the brown and the clear to rearrange the eyereception earreception. There would be no terror no loss of control no bending or electron pivot shaking. Just a lusting for vocabulary and words, a refresher for what's not to come and what's to be dead and what's to be born. Some calling no longer distant to what's been put to rest for years. Going everywhere again. Starting where it doesn't count, ending where no one cares.
I hate to say that I am a weird kid, an odd person or that sort of thing. But I do trace back a great deal of the lack of former luminescence to working with an all male staff, male to the degree of being vacant of any vibrancy or color outside of drinking stories the color of green glass, or bright red stories of women, lust, and the positions beyond positions and positing they find themselves in. Then, as always, the video games and the time they've spent with them. There is no one thirsty, hungry or pained like me. There is no one seeking, searching, or wandering like me. There are young men patient and comfortable. Existing with no need for improvement.
Facing the snow in manhattan, just for forty five seconds or so. Felt the need for it. Some odd craving to live. Reminded me of where she is where she could be and less importantly where she has been. I don't guess, or assume. I'm not sure if it's better or worse that I know she's out there.
Send me letters, impartial or complete.
Page, line, or word.
laughing hysterically, hard and genuine, I say, "yeah man, I'm really hitting bottom."
Jeff tells me to listen to Colors.
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
topics might include:
the Baltimore Ravens
any and all American presidents that are not JFK
the NHL not-Rangers
Mother & Brother
it wouldn't have to be a long book. even a page essay on each would do. there would be more topics as welll, though many chapters would be born in others. it might read like a manifesto.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
Sunday, January 11, 2009
i ruined everything for absolutely nothing. i don't linger on it until i feel something about it. only then it's misery, and only then it's the only thing that matters at all. i don't think anyone really believes me when i say what i say about it. but it's true. she is. here's to futurewoe.
so, what do i say when this whole ordeal is going on and how long do i wait until the scenario is faced head on. little time to breath it out or unpack and resettle. some ice ages would never end, given time. ohh it's not working out so well, is it. goddamn you, goddamn it, i want to know and i'll never know. am i wrong to bring it up? something needs to change, else there's no closure.
where am i going to be living and who is it going to be with? so many / too many options.
okay. if things end up going nowhere in the event that she comes home and we work this whole situation out and come to terms on everything and things are admitted and changed and amended to the point where if they went forward on a daily basis the way things should go in any healthy and appropriate relationship, how do i then eliminate the urges and desires to keep this activity in check? i think the best way to ask this (and then, more than likely, to answer this) is how does one cure a jealousy issue? my first response would be to say that you absolutely don't. it's something spoiled, an airtight fixture breached and its vacuum rendered irrelevant.
big tough guy, "emotional juggernaut".
i know i probably shouldn't drive tonight.
they're all out of town, anyway.
outside of all of these questions that i tried to filter out as i was floating around on the internet, i happened to find a handful of new bands that i currently believe, somehwere in the next two years, i will be telling you, "no, i don't think you understand" as i've been known to say when i love a band more than i can accurately describe to the best of my ability and you aren't having your eyes roll into the back of your head when you first hear it, looking at me as if you've had something largely important revealed to you.
Saturday, January 10, 2009
is happening right now, and is about to happen (or not happen) and it's not that i don't know what to do, because i do. at least, i know what i would matter-of-factly tell myself to do. it was such an easy thing to do,
to just wait.
i think the next week (or month) will probably determine a few things, like how i allow myself to feel about myself, where i will be living and how, a certain level of self respect, and the ways that i continue to or no longer feel guilty about feeling.
it's a crossroads!
been hearing about these for years, been plowing through them for years.
could be i have to not let it be this time.
the last three days or so have been spent surrounded by friends and me revealing facts that i've hid from them.
a sort of clarity and solitude is going to be lifted.
this is not a drill.
Tuesday, January 06, 2009
Monday, January 05, 2009
ricky bailey called me today, and while i did fully intend to call him back, my phone died and i had his number on the phone and now it's way too late to call. but i'm going to give him a call tomorrow and work something out to hang with him, and make that happen, and hopefully make good on the only new year's revolution i've made thus far, and that is to not let trivial things (or NO things) come between me and people inviting me out to do things. i think i talked about it in the previous post.
i don't know why i didn't post this yesterday. it was written sunday night.
it's odd the sort of hatred that i get when i read the wrong sort of thing. i'm sure i never had this before late last year (or i could just say a few months ago). murderous emotions, the kind to tear apart a person or choke someone down to the ground with one hand, letting blood rush to my face, getting all light headed and heavy with rage. i need to know someone's not testing me. i have trouble trusting anyone anymore or relying on anyone anymore, and i think this could be some reflection of myself in ways, but also a result of everything that i've seen this past year, both affecting myself and not affecting myself. things i've done and things that have happened to me. the points, i guess they equal out, though it still doesn't ease the impact of it all, or the reality of the kind of thing. i've tried and have found no direct relation to any one event. there's stress there, but only lacing some of the discourse. i don't know if it's that i've lost the reins on something that i've had under control for a long time, or if it's some new sort of beast or thirst that i have no idea how to quell. i guess i'll learn with The Change.
my mind doesn't have its freeform anymore.
i can't relax enough to let it go where it goes.
thinking back to the summer of 2007, i remember coming home on a daily or nightly basis, ready to listen to the same music again and again and allowing it to figure me out and weaving little things with it. long or short, sensical or not. they came from different places that had once been tied up. i, uh, i don't have that anymore. or i don't have the time or opportunity to revisit it.
i don't listen much anymore, and that has a lot to do with it.
to follow up:
i didn't call ricky back today.
though i did get daryl a copy of the cd.
and still no notes from dad in the book before he was dad.
http://jamesjean.com/ --> sketch --> 2008 mole a/b
Thursday, January 01, 2009
i've done it with most [if not all] of my best friends.
not just acquaintances.
and it's embarassing.
it's like getting over anything else. an addiction, or a habit. a way home. a relationship. it's going to take time, and i'm going to hate it at first, and i'm going to need help. but it's for the best. and even if it's better eighty percent of the time, it's still progress. and it should be easier come february, because i'll be entirely alone with no easy out here for the first time in a few months. and while most of the time, it's been me being alone that i've done it, another person here has been an extremely potent excuse. and that'll be done soon.
happy new year.