Quickly Forgotten


I don't know how I got through this year. It's been so harsh, and I remember thinking nearly every day about killing myself. I lost my trust in my closest friends. I lost my dream apartment. I was homeless for three months (albeit glorified homeless). I've been so poor, I've let so many people down, left so many things unfinished. Things are looking up. Aviv is almost on it's feet, I have a job, a network of support, huge social status. But it's kinda crazy once you start thinking of things in the binary of suicide. I have all of this, but do I want to keep living? Do I want to go through it? i could fight every day and probably (hopefully) come out better for it. But do I want to? Everything feels like so much of a struggle, and I am so damn tired of the struggle. I used to think you'd get used to it eventually, figure out how to be in a calm stasis, but every accomplishment, every time I've overcome a barrier, there's another harder one behind it. And I think about opting out, almost every day. I do. I am so much older than I ever thought I'd be, and things feel so much harder now than they were before - though I know this is just perceptional. Everything will always feel so much harder, and I need a break. Not the kind that sends me into a self-defeating spiral of inaction, but a real break.

and my thoughts stick like dust



How do I escape the real world. Do we need fantasy? I’m hoping not. I’m hoping not. His mind was an edless expance. He felt himself falling in it. Falling backwards, looking up he saw the words fly past him. He felt his life slide by off the top of the pit like water spilling out of an underdrawn well. He felt his life slide past like the one moment of the song you’ve waited for. He felt his life slide past like a life that ticks one second off and again that you’ll never get back, that he saw every good thing slide across his skin and be over. He wants it all to be over or for none of it to be over. He would wake up tomorrow, but so what? Why was he even here? He felt his life slide by him in one for one, with every second being a second, in absolutely sixty frames a god damn second real time with no edits. He felt his life slide past him like a life sliding past a person. He felt his days slip away like the good tasting food in your mouth you don’t want to swallow. He felt his life slide past like a girl you want to fuck but your self restraint is going to win over this time. He felt his life as if it wasn’t a life. As if it was already gone, because it was going to be. Once you see the end it’s all over.

coffee's there on the floor
from the night before


the rat

thought: the idea of fault is worse than the idea of suffering. We don't care all that much if we are having a bad time, we do care if we think it's are fault - we will then form low self-asteme - or if it's someone else's fault - we will then form anger or resentment. We don't care all that much if someone else is suffering (we may not like it, of course, but it will not ruin our day), we care only if we think it's our fault - and then we will be torchered with guilt - or if it's their fault - in which case we will feel a little bit supirior and offer advice - or if it's a third party's fault - and we will then form anger and resentment.

People who do not do anything, who cannot complete projects, who cannot create with their life, they are misserable. But the thought of being misserable is far less potent than the thought of trying damn hard and failing. At least right now you can know it's not your fault. You can know that you're just suffering because of something intrisic in you beyond your control (which in ways is really what people mean when they say "I'm just not good enough". They're trying to avoid true responsibility by declairing that they never would have had a chance in the first place.), not something you tried for and didn't get.

I am one of these people.

The more I think I could have worth in something, the more I care about something that with practice I may be able to do, the more anxiety I have concerning it.

My anxieties are in this order: Playing/writing music, writing screenplays, Writing any other fiction, Filmmaking from a position of authority, having a possition of leadership or responsibility in social situations, all other social situations that concern only my own gain or loss, all other menial tasks to take control of my life (money, feeding myself, fixing something, cleaning, going to the bank, etc etc.), writing poetry, writing non fiction (this included, though not including any attempts at essays or rigorous point making that can be understood by anyone other than myself and my closest friends. Those give me more anxiety), listening to music, watching good movies, reading, sleeping.

What does not give me anxiety: Talking about myself and my artistic and philosophical goals (this takes no work, as the accomplishments are only hypothetical), going to art museums as long as the subject matter isn't too real and specific, watching movies in theaters, reading non fiction on the internet (because I'm good at it and retain it all and consider none of it at all important), looking for new music, eating (when I am able to get myself fed), record shopping when I have the money to spend, singing, drinking, having sex (amazingly).

At least I take some solace in the thought that my anxieties in general do not seem to be my fault. I cannot blame myself for them. Everything they make me do, however, every day I waste, every project I don't complete, is definitely my fault. I must just fight against them. I am drowning in a deep river of anxieties, washing over me constantly, choking me.


when I used to go out i knew everyone i saw
now i go out alone if i go out at all.......



hmm. what to write. I'm a little bit tired. So.

It seems that in many ways our generation has turned against the dramatic. And in many ways that was my whole deal. To break down the stories that we tell ourselves about our lives. To bring things down to the mundane. I don't remember excactly how many years ago it was, it could have been one or two or three, when I wrote down a few lines to a potential song about a friend commiting suicide, about someing talking to their dead friend and reconsiling their feelings. the narrorator is very mad. I remember it being something like:

you said at least it's not mundaneity
but this is mundaneity
there is no honesty
as your blood rushes through me
hear your voice
I can't hear anything

Ah ha! I looked it up, it was just last year and the original went:

you said at least it's not mundanity
but this is mundanity
there is no divinity
as you don't pass through me
hear my thoughts, you don't hear anything
and the blood line was actually from a different part in the song. I kinda like the from memory version better. Either way. It captures that idea. That yelling at someone for dramatizing, fabelizing, a mundane event. Yelling at her for killing herself - himself, whatever - and making herself into a story. No longer a life. Fuck that. I used to live as if being watched. I walked donw the street and knew that I was king of new york. As if a good that i didn't believe in had eyes on me and saw that and said "yes, that guy owns the city". There is no king of new york. I was just a kid with big ideas walking down the street.

But now, I don't know. Maybe I was king of new york. Or maybe it doesn't matter that I wasn't. Keeping with my practical philosophy developed when I was sixteen - in essence that the world may not exist as it appears, and all phisical sensations may be missleading but it doesn't matter, if it looks like a dog and smells like a dog and acts like a dog and is in every way like a dog than who cares whether it's a dog or not. What other definition do you need? So the world that we see is the world. Or who cares if it isn't? - So keeping with that, does it matter that I was not, in any way nor in anyones mind but my own, not the kind of new york? I don't know. Maybe dramatizing your own life is ok as long as you keep a head on your shoulders. I can't keep believing that nothing I do is important. We all need to feel important. I really don't want to kill myself. Maybe it's ok to smoke sweet cigarettes by yourself on the roof in the rain and feel like you're contracting a deep and important sadness. Maybe it's ok to think that your pain means something. It doesn't. But that's alright. It means something to you. That's enough. My life means something to me. That's enough. Or it should be. If I am not important to myself, than nothing is important. If my experience doesn't matter than nobody does, because there is nothing to seperate me from anyone else. The rules you apply to yourself you must act as if they apply to everyone.

Besides for that, this flair for the dramatic, as long as it's not grounded in a pretend wold, is important. Without this affect who would keroac be? Who would jimi hendrix or ian mckay or jeff mangum be? What would comel people to get up on stage and shout unless they felt that their own experience was important. People used to write manefestos. That's too fucking dramatic for us now - perhaps with good reason! but I think we need a little of that back. Belle and Sebastian said "do something pretty while  you can. Don't got to sleep!" 

I'm really really sad. I'm really really really really sad. And I can't talk about it with anyone. I can't talk about it anywhere except for here. I don't anylonger know how.

I am also really angry.

wasted our lives


american flag

It's weird to feel things slip away. Tonight I listened to a playlist I made in 2010. Me and Jaclyn used to have sex to it, I would put it on when I had nothing else to play, kind of my go to playlist. I'm starting to understand how other people listen to music. They don't really care that much because they don't really like music that much. They like it a little. So they'll put on something to please their freinds, something that makes them look cool, a little, I guess. I need to get away from people. I don't know what I need. I need to be more honest. An honest expression of everything. The songs on the playlist were so blue, so subdued. But I love every one. Everyone had a greater meaning outside of the context of the blue playlist. Labled "Will Never Die". Meant to be played in shuffle. Every song had meaning that was in the context of the album it came with. Not every song was necessarily blue. But in the context of the playlist it was. I did make that playlist to please jaclyn actually, to please someone else. I threw together songs I liked that I thought she would. I had such a small grasp on what she liked back then. The later playlist I made for her is on there too, burt to a cd, the last of such I've made. It was more real, more of what I liked that she would. More of what had real meaning. Maybe the best burnt cd I ever made, made for her after we broke up. Made wishing we hadn't. God, it's capitalized. I never capitalize anything. Named "Jaclyn". I've become disconected from everything. I don't love music anymore. I don't love anything anymore. I need to stay up all night. Or something. Something I used to do. I've always said once you see the end it's all over. I see the end. So maybe this is already it. Maybe the music has left me. Maybe all I'm left with already is nostolgia and the songs of my past. Four tet's this unfolds. I'm so sad. I want to conect with something that makes me feel again. I'm not feeling. I'm repressed. I'm not doing well, and no one seems to know it. No one seems to want to help me, because what I need is too much. That's the fucked up thing about depressing movies. You hear them and think how depressing they are and how it hurts everything, but perhaps seeing the truth will lead to an answer. A way to be undepressed. The nihilist movies. But nihilism is infinite. Depression is infinite. This is no answer. There will be no answer. So you'll just have to watch more and more depressing movies. Stacked on top of each other. For the rest of your life. The depression is not going to go away. Because the world is not going to go away. Everything will continue to be crap forever. There is no dealing with that. Learning how to deal with that is learning how to die. Learning how to deal with that is more crappy than everything crappy about the world. I have no realease. I miss her because at least she wanted to listen to me talk, at least she wanted to hear about my depression. At least she made me feel ok about it. Noone else does. Not only am I suffering, but to them I'm a leach. My depression is selfish and bullshit. So I have to be misserable and walk around with the knoledge that me being miserable is inherently horrible of me. slightly evil. I don't know what to do anymore. I haven't cried in years. I don't know what to do. I want to be in love. I want everything good so I can feel everything bad. i can't live this nothing. i can't live anything. I don't love anyone. You're not listning. I don't know what to do. I hope I can cry tonight.

if I could stand to be less diffficult


and a song

unfinished, of course.

You woke up
And fluttered out of touch
You fell asleep last night with eyes brighter than I could imagine
And in the darkness of sleep
I couldn’t talk to you

And I could give you a little more time
I am a coil twisting out of shape
I am a congregation of feelings and wine
That will stain your hands in ways
That are not coming off

And you chain yourself to the breeze
And I’m climbing trees
To get away from my family
Up where I can feel the breeze
As you blow over me it’s true
It’s true I do like you

Oh if I could find
I’d take you out of time

I shook me out I
Tried to stop it I
Tried to stop it I’ll
Have to see I’ll
Let you know what I believe in now

Oh if I could find
I’d take you out of time
I’ll put you where
I don’t care

I'll put you where
I don't care to change you
I just care what you do
Who I am without you

I’ll put you where
I’ve never seen the air
I need to breath
That I force in and out of me
Through a weird contraption
That I never took the time to understand
I am not doing all I can
It’s just like me

two new poems.

You can’t see the rain anymore
But I still see drops in the puddle
I can’t feel it on my skin
The shit I’m in.

They’d fill your museum
with the parts cannibals use to pick their teeth
too many fingerprints underneath
your skin, the parts that they won’t eat
the shit I’m in.

I’m never gonna die
At least not tonight
No not tonight
Not tonight
Not tonight
Not tonight
Not tonight
Well, I might
Boy, turn around, fight fight.