tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-61930222077118414642024-03-13T23:01:54.539-07:00the turntablePut the needle to the record and listen upStickyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10483681977099776477noreply@blogger.comBlogger208125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6193022207711841464.post-84355682132713722152015-01-01T12:51:00.000-08:002015-01-01T12:51:01.188-08:00Quickly Forgottenhey<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">and my thoughts stick like dust</span>Stickyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10483681977099776477noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6193022207711841464.post-32474620035031562842012-12-23T23:20:00.001-08:002012-12-23T23:20:18.039-08:00RealizeHow 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. <br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">coffee's there on the floor</span><br />
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">from the night before</span>Stickyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10483681977099776477noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6193022207711841464.post-16820266060669997562012-12-17T17:47:00.001-08:002012-12-17T17:47:15.229-08:00the ratthought: 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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
I am one of these people.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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).<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
god.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">when I used to go out i knew everyone i saw</span><br />
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">now i go out alone if i go out at all.......</span>Stickyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10483681977099776477noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6193022207711841464.post-75841681756161452742012-10-28T22:58:00.000-07:002012-10-28T22:58:03.845-07:00activahmm. what to write. I'm a little bit tired. So.<br />
<br />
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:<br />
<br />
you said at least it's not mundaneity<br />
but this is mundaneity<br />
there is no honesty<br />
as your blood rushes through me<br />
hear your voice<br />
I can't hear anything<br />
<br />
<br />
Ah ha! I looked it up, it was just last year and the original went:<br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 1.6em;">you said at least it's not mundanity</span><br />
<div class="post-body entry-content" id="post-body-6468812464815986369" itemprop="description articleBody" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 1.6em; margin: 0px 0px 0.75em;">
but this is mundanity<br />there is no divinity<br />as you don't pass through me<br />hear my thoughts, you don't hear anything<div style="clear: both;">
</div>
</div>
<div>
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.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
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.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
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!" </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
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.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I am also really angry.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">wasted our lives</span></div>
<div class="post-footer" style="background-color: white; color: #999999; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Trebuchet, Arial, Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 10px; letter-spacing: 0.1em; line-height: 1.4em; margin: 0.75em 0px; text-transform: uppercase;">
</div>
Stickyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10483681977099776477noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6193022207711841464.post-82179678369606789612012-10-06T00:21:00.001-07:002012-10-06T00:21:13.780-07:00american flagIt'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.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">if I could stand to be less diffficult</span>Stickyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10483681977099776477noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6193022207711841464.post-14633007099013467302012-10-02T20:31:00.001-07:002012-10-02T20:31:28.000-07:00and a songunfinished, of course.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
You woke up</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And fluttered out of touch</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You fell asleep last night with eyes brighter than I could
imagine</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And in the darkness of sleep</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I couldn’t talk to you</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And I could give you a little more time</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am a coil twisting out of shape</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am a congregation of feelings and wine</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That will stain your hands in ways</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That are not coming off</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And you chain yourself to the breeze</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And I’m climbing trees</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To get away from my family</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Up where I can feel the breeze</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As you blow over me it’s true</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s true I do like you</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Oh if I could find</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’d take you out of time</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I shook me out I</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Tried to stop it I</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Tried to stop it I’ll</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Have to see I’ll</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Let you know what I believe in now</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Oh if I could find</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’d take you out of time</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ll put you where</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I don’t care</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I'll put you where</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I don't care to change you</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I just care what you do</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Who I am without you</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ll put you where</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ve never seen the air</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I need to breath</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That I force in and out of me</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Through a weird contraption<br />
That I never took the time to understand</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am not doing all I can</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s just like me</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Stickyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10483681977099776477noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6193022207711841464.post-60425182056077124882012-10-02T20:27:00.003-07:002012-10-02T20:27:35.048-07:00two new poems.You can’t see the rain anymore<br />
But I still see drops in the puddle<br />
I can’t feel it on my skin<br />
The shit I’m in.<br />
<br />
They’d fill your museum<br />
with the parts cannibals use to pick their teeth<br />
too many fingerprints underneath<br />
your skin, the parts that they won’t eat<br />
the shit I’m in.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
I’m never gonna die<br />
At least not tonight<br />
No not tonight<br />
Not tonight<br />
Not tonight<br />
Not tonight<br />
Not tonight<br />
Well, I might<br />
Boy, turn around, fight fight.
Stickyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10483681977099776477noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6193022207711841464.post-16964448223763037122012-07-13T12:40:00.001-07:002012-07-13T12:40:34.287-07:00Darkness on the edge of Gastown<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
At three a.m. Lori turned off the
movie she was watching and went to bed. As she lied down she smelt fire. It
wasn’t tobacco smoke or burning food, this time she knew it was fire. There
were no alarms on her floor, something she had exploited for many nights of
gratuitous pot smoking, but now it was dangerous. She rolled onto the floor,
pressed her ears to the cold tile and heard, faintly, the ringing of a hundred
smoke detectors on the levels bellow. She hops up and emptied swiftly her
backpack, hearing her small mirror shatter on the floor. She began filling it
up in a hurry with her laptop and charger, hard drive, two pairs of socks,
underwear, a towel, toothbrush. And that was it. She looked around her room.
Was there anything else she considered necessities? Anything else she need for
being displaced for a few days? She slipped on her most comfortable jeans and a
sturdy light parka. Was there anything else she would save from the fire? She
never liked having a tv anyway. She sat on the floor and stared at her
bookshelf. What would a copy of One Hundred Years of Solitude cost at the
strand? Eight bucks? There weren’t any records that were special. Most sub-par
bands with blue seven inches. She could pick up any Beatles’ record again from
the shop down the way. If she could take her couch out the window with her she
would. If she could take her fridge. She looked at her pairs of shoes. She
slipped on her newish black vans. And took a second to find which one she
should take as a backup. She couldn’t find one among them that she liked. The
smoke smell was getting stronger. She stuffed a pillow in, pushed it down to
hide the half of the bag that was still empty, slung it over her shoulder and
cascaded though the window, down the fire escape, feeling her feet hit the
ground after the last jump, kindly. She walked away, going to her closest
friend who lived four avenues westward. If the flames reach her apartment than
she’d loose her stuff and if they didn’t she’d move back in once everything
settled. She didn’t want to talk to the other residents who congregated out
front. She didn’t know any of them. She did know Jeremy who lived next door,
the only other person on her floor. They smoked pot together sometime. She ran
into him while he was returning home slightly drunk earlier that night, making
jokes about fish and trombones. She found out two days later that he suffocated
to death on the smoke, still asleep.</div>
<!--EndFragment-->Stickyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10483681977099776477noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6193022207711841464.post-47858549491011649302012-07-05T23:40:00.001-07:002012-07-05T23:40:04.096-07:00gouge away<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Not every day is worth writing
about,” he had said to her once. But every day has repercussions. She had
punched him in the nose once at the brooklyn flea. He had picked out a dress
that Jessica would have worn. She was not going to be like Jessica.</div>
<!--EndFragment-->Stickyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10483681977099776477noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6193022207711841464.post-9251840697640805372012-06-21T09:13:00.003-07:002012-06-21T09:13:46.588-07:00A Departure<span style="background-color: white;"> He
jumped the fence on Flushing near North Elliot Street, or Portland, he didn’t
remember. It doesn’t matter. Of course it doesn’t, but there was a truth. It
was one of those and his recollection should not rob a depiction of the events
of the events themselves. They jumped the fence, him first than his friend,
bikes lock up on Navy St two blocks away, a surprising uncertain walk along
poorly paved grounds he always hated biking. Flashlights and beers. The barbed
wire covering the fence had already been cut, which in a way was why they were
there in the first place, they saw it in the daylight three or more weeks ago
walking to Clinton Hill after he had his tire replaced in Dumbo. What a good
day. And the wire was already cut and my god did it look inviting. The perfect
youthful getaway in a sense. Like out of Tom Sawyer. They didn’t bring spray
cans though, he thought it should be noted. They could have brought spray cans.
It was likely what the infamous cutter had done when he hopped the fence, so to
speak paving their way. Graffiti shamefully was probably more of a odd fantasy
to him so look he didn’t actually do it. Hadn’t thought to. Shamefully, but he
did hop the fence! And he did drink some beers in there, probably not overcome
by wonder at the decaying structure but goddamn did he try. No one could say
otherwise anyway, right? People will say he was overcome by wonder, that’s what
his friend will tell people. As they used to say, not terror, but awe. Not that
that kind of distinction means anything anymore. An echo of an echo. It was
triumphant. It was powerful at least and triumphant. And he had taken some
photographs, second long exposures. And then they had been caught by the police
and then he sat here. And he didn’t have to be here, he hadn’t had to jump the
fence, it should be noted. This was just some weird hypothetical like the rest.
What makes this more real? </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span><br />
3/28/2012Stickyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10483681977099776477noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6193022207711841464.post-28291302607631420012012-05-04T15:04:00.002-07:002012-05-05T13:28:54.203-07:00Another Girl<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Stephen walked to 14th street to pick her up. In his mind it was thrity fourth street or time square, she had on a lush dress and hair down, something she never did, and he saw her as removed from reality. He saw her as a way out of mundanity and into a life of real events. Stories you could tell afterwards, not just stories you've read and can discuss. He knew she liked him. He asked if she was hungry, no, but they could go to an eatery if he wanted, but no, he wasn't hungry either. They lay on the grass in Tomkins park. He said he didn't like leaving the east village anymore hardly if he could help it. She laughed a lot at a lot of things. She smiled and put on and off big sunglasses and rolled over on the grass. He looked at her hips and remembered them. He knew there was depression under there. He had seen glimpses back when her hips weren't a memory. It's among what actracted him. Now what atracted him was her happiness. She was happiness, and she represented it, even more so because of that sad, and he wanted it in his life. He wondered, looking at her, lying on the grass, beautiful, if he really wanted her in his life. It was too easy for him to think about her as if she was not a person, to weigh the pros and cons of her. He hated it. He hated himself for it. He thought it had to be because of her transient relations with him. Briefly her hips were here and then they were not, he didn't get to talk to her again for weeks until now, lying on the grass, playing with her sunglasses. Everyone is a myth until you really know them. That can't be avoided. Everyone is a character in a poorly writen movie, one facet, one plotmoving purpose for being there. One personality. So he'll get to know her and he'll see the real human replace the cardboard cutout representing beauty and happiness and the human will be even better than the simple idea. He'll like her in reality more. Right?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">He told her he thinks he likes her. She lauged. Really? Why? He didn't want to tell her. That she represented all this. He lauged and told her he didn't know. Liking someone is not really his style. He has to remember that he is just a cardboard cutout to her. He can ruin it later. He told her she should go out with him. She thought about it. He watched her lips as she bit them. Do girls really do that absentmindedly? Do they know how much it speaks to guys of sex? He watched her hips as she rolled over. He watched her hair as it was moved from her face. She told him no but she did it in a particular way. She told him she didn't think she could. She told him how much she liked him at one point and maybe now still. She told him she couldn't deal with it now. He knew she liked him. She liked him, right? She asked him if that was ok. He told her of course it wasn't but of course it'd have to be. They talked longer, about other things. Stephen stood up in the grass and wiped himself off.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Stephen walked into the party. Later he couldn't tell you wether it was the same night or two days later, not that he would have been talking to you anyway. He was sitting on the couch. A black couch, dark walls of the apartment. He liked that, you know. He knew she was there. She even came over and talked to him once. Half nerviously, knowing he was upset but wanting to come off as friendly or wanting to actaully be freindly, or residue of actually likeing him. He punched the guy she kissed later that night. He didn't have the bulk to do it. Cut lip, black eye, sore sholder, blue. He thought it would last longer. But it's alright. He saw it and thought he had to punch that guy. He thought, do people do that anymore? Isn't that possesive, sexist, worthless? He didn't think of her as a real person. He was ashamed of that. But this was the life of action she promised. This was the life that no longer existed in his generation. No one did this anymore. Stephen's fist concected with the guy's head and it was a story. Stephen felt his face meet a fist and felt it as if it was real. Then his sholder. It was too quick. No, he wanted to call, this should go longer! Stephen lay on ground as she yelled in sympathy and in anger and thought that he has lived his life today as if on paper. He thought about how nothing has deeper significance, there is no deeper significance. What he did today meant nothing, and no one knew what it ment except for him. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: xx-small;">you got me feeling like</span>Stickyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10483681977099776477noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6193022207711841464.post-64688124648159863692012-03-28T19:01:00.000-07:002012-03-28T19:02:09.978-07:00Turning yourself ruby<br />connected yourself to the movies<br />contracted your blood running through me<br /><br />I hope you don't find peace<br />at least you found your way out of here<br />you said at least it's not mundanity<br />but this is mundanity<br />there is no divinity<br />as you don't pass through me<br />hear my thoughts, you don't hear anythingStickyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10483681977099776477noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6193022207711841464.post-56189892943223059652012-03-20T08:47:00.002-07:002012-03-20T08:52:23.002-07:00shelter pt. 2<span ><span style="font-size: 100%;">if I'm always fighting with my back against the wall</span></span><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; ">she said</div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; ">I'm not going to adress that at all</div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; ">I can't say I think about that at all</div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; ">where would you rather be than here?</div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; ">she said I don't know what that means she didn't</div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; ">want to know anything about me</div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><br /></div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; ">And if there's no shelter here I'll lock myself where it's found</div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; ">in gas stoves to burn me</div><div><span ><span style="font-size: 100%;">and </span>barricades<span style="font-size: 100%;"> with no sound</span></span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; ">no thought, no sex, no sound</div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><br /></div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; ">but it makes sense that I'll end here</div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; ">show you my lack of trust</div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; ">I do like you, I do like you</div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><br /></div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; ">but if we take this all the way </div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; ">we will lose.</div>Stickyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10483681977099776477noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6193022207711841464.post-43941110616949026802012-03-17T16:25:00.002-07:002012-03-17T16:44:20.887-07:00<span ><span style="font-size: 100%;">if you took out the bedsheet you'd see</span></span><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; ">the fire that happened to me</div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><br /></div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><br /></div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; ">you left rosy in the morning</div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; ">warm skin in light of dawning</div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; ">burnt in from lack of curtains </div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; ">and fire from manhattan</div><div><span ><span style="font-size: 100%;">burnt in with longing </span>patterns<span style="font-size: 100%;"> for me</span></span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><br /></div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; ">if you took out the bedsheets you'd see</div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; ">let me know what happened to me</div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><br /></div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; ">the morning to make you coffee</div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; ">I waste my time</div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><br /></div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; ">smile and you'll feel better</div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; ">smile and this pain will fall</div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; ">smile and it'll make you happy</div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; ">smile over your coffe</div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; ">you said smile and it'll make you feel better</div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; ">smile and you'll feel at all</div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; ">smile it'll make you feel</div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><br /></div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; ">you left rosy in the morning</div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; ">warm skin in light of dawning</div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; ">burnt in from lack of curtains </div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; ">and fire from manhattan</div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; ">fresh flared in from brooklyn</div><div><span ><span style="font-size: 100%;">burnt in with longing </span>patterns<span style="font-size: 100%;"> for me </span></span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><br /></div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; ">bathed in sunshine</div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; ">afraid of dying</div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><br /></div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; ">bathed in sunshine</div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; ">I am </div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; ">afraid of dying</div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><br /></div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; ">if you woke up too early you'd see</div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; ">catch me as I'm trying to leave</div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><br /></div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; ">well framed from where you sit</div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; ">the angle the light hits</div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; ">reflected to my dark eyes</div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; ">calling me to touch your lips</div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; ">overexposed never to be seen again</div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><br /></div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; ">bathed in sunshine</div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; ">afraid of dying</div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; ">you are bathed in sunshine</div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; ">I am afraid of dying</div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; ">you are</div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; ">bathed in my mind</div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; ">I am</div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; ">afraid of dying</div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><br /></div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; ">if you took out the bedsheets you'd see</div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; ">catch me as I'm trying to leave</div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; ">the fire that happened to me</div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><br /></div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; ">the morning I burn your coffee and waste my time</div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><br /></div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; ">thinking smile and I'll feel better</div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; ">smile and your pain will fall</div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; ">smile and be happy</div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; ">and pray for the morning</div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; ">and pray for this falling</div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; ">smile and you'll feel at all</div><div style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; ">because I'm afraid this is to small.</div>Stickyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10483681977099776477noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6193022207711841464.post-49014241199945093622012-03-15T17:42:00.001-07:002012-03-15T17:45:44.671-07:00A golden bird on a golden boat<div>I will become</div><div>I am not strong I am not proud</div><div>I have not won</div><div><br /></div><div>pull out your eyes with your nails</div><div>pull your cheeks down</div><div>pull your neck down</div><div>your memories out</div>Stickyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10483681977099776477noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6193022207711841464.post-2631742979646978602012-01-25T13:52:00.001-08:002012-01-25T14:00:32.284-08:00the cityshe told me you can't go back to the person you were, you can't ever and I told her to hell with that I will make of myself as I want to be and she said that no you can't, it won't be real anymore, it will be too thought out, you will see through it, you can't do it purely like you were I said there isn't anything about me I haven't premeditated, that's not how I work, that's not something I can change no matter how much I want to, everything about me I have made, I have thought out and considered what was best. there is nothing I like about myself that is not intentional, it was only ever the bad things, the social fuck ups, the empty egotism the selfishness the shyness, these were the things that I did not intend, nothing I like about myself I did accidentally. I told her there are probably things you like about me that I did without premeditation or I hope there are, things you don't tell me because you're not one to wax about the things you like about me or tell me anything you like about anyone and I thought perhaps that's a thing I like about girls, they must like about me things I have not noticed, things my sweeping arm of introspection, of self searching, ever turning, has not found.<br /><br /><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:78%;">but i'm not unsympathetic! </span></div>Stickyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10483681977099776477noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6193022207711841464.post-77827949465872910392012-01-25T12:06:00.000-08:002012-01-25T12:18:20.770-08:00solders of februarywho was I talking to who asked me if I viewed music like photography or like film, and I said no! I view film like music. and I explained breifly my whole thing with the words viseral and intoxication and they thought it was all hella intresting, which was weird because I don't expect people to find it intresting like that. but you don't understand. I view everything like music. (it was henry, I remember) I view everything like music. becasue somehow I've found that we as a culture view music correctly, or at least the indie croud or at least the old post punk/indie punk/experimental rock crowd does. art without the pretence, that has to neccessarily sweep you away without you wanting it too, but is also depth and complex and true. like chris says, low art high craft, except this is high art, high art in low places. because anger is as important as sublime awe, but there are much much fewer statues in the met about it, sex is as important as intellectual contemplations and there deserves to masterpeices about it. And it needs to sweep you away, it's not something you breifly ponder or have as decoration, and if it compells you to treat is as such than it has failed. art should not be a part of your life such as your afternoon sandwitch or your coworkers anecdotes it should be life. and somehow people in certain spheres of music seem to recognize this, in ways no one seems to get about film or fiction or especially art. So I look at everything like music. everything should be like music. my life should be like music.Stickyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10483681977099776477noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6193022207711841464.post-88162539467795561682012-01-25T11:33:00.000-08:002012-01-25T11:38:41.407-08:00the recluseI am never going to tire of lower case letters. Hillary asked me if I write poetry and i told her I didn't but I write an astonishing amount of songs that never get put to music, binding me to a meter that I feel is much needed, allowing me to break it only when doing something willfully irreverent becuase free verse read will not make someone uncomfortable but even a droped rhyme is offensive when sung, though I really often want to be offensive. but now I am reading a book Hillary demanded I track down and I've writen a short poem in iambic pentamiter of all things and I intend to write more.Stickyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10483681977099776477noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6193022207711841464.post-25331856521804958382011-12-14T09:49:00.000-08:002011-12-14T10:08:29.568-08:00more lyrics without musicthis sprang into my head while blasting cat power in my headphones and walking to school yesterday.<br /><br /><br />well I talked to the devil and he lied to me<br />said that love would set me free<br />and pull me down to the burning sea<br />but instead it just purified my disease.<br /><br />your face, you eyes, your lips, your skull, your bones<br />you cast my eyes away from me<br />you took my heart where no one goes<br />you said it wasn't all that bad<br />it's so bad but no one even knows<br />carry me half way down<br />cause it's the only place I want to know<br />no more milk white smile and crystal clothes<br />with crystal teeth and my eyes uncomposed<br />and clean floors of polished pearl, white luck, sit down, shut up<br />I want to feel concrete between my toes<br />I want the radiant solitary cry<br />but all I see my love just grows<br />keep away from me my love just grows<br /><br />I saw the devil and he lied to me<br />said that love would set me free<br />and drag me down to the burning sea<br />but instead I find everything to be clean<br />instead I'm floating up and I will curse you<br />said devil pull me down I'd rather burn<br />said god please shake this love from me<br />this isn't what you said it'd be<br />it isn't what you said it'd be.Stickyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10483681977099776477noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6193022207711841464.post-37695959517725811552011-11-30T10:11:00.000-08:002011-11-30T10:22:22.132-08:00new song fragmenti actually wrote this the first time over the summer and have recomposed it several times, but this is the current version.<div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>'shelter is not a sensation'</div><div>she said.</div><div>'at least not one you can plug</div><div>in the back of your head'</div><div><br /></div><div>'I don't want warmth'</div><div>she said.</div><div>'I don't want food</div><div>I want to starve</div><div>to suffocate</div><div>I don't want water</div><div>I don't want sleep</div><div>I don't want sex</div><div>I don't want sex</div><div>I don't want to breath</div><div>I don't want it true'</div><div><br /></div><div>I don't know what to do with you</div>Stickyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10483681977099776477noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6193022207711841464.post-19451622646736091702011-11-30T10:10:00.000-08:002011-11-30T10:11:26.338-08:00new song lyricsI guess she didn't<br />didn't know what to say<br />to end it<br /><br />her eyes were red<br />torn knee, wet hands,<br />bad dreams, always<br /><br />I told her to be strong<br />told her to satisfy<br />what she had inside<br />tucked in backup files<br />tucked away for rainy days<br />that never came<br /><br />they say on the news<br />-he used to say thouse eyes looking out at you-<br />the tide has risen<br />it's contense looking for new food<br /><br />the surf now hits the sidewalk<br />polished to new life<br />It's going out here<br /><br />so heres to this breath<br />heres to our eventual pain<br />heres to the sun thats going out<br />and to the endless pouring rain<br />you always thought that it was always just the same<br />but it'll never be that way again<br /><br />and when it comes<br />I'll be gone<br />one thing I know<br />that I won't be there beside you<br />I'm not gonna be there beside you<br />we always said<br />that we were gonna die alnoe<br />but god we didn't even knowStickyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10483681977099776477noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6193022207711841464.post-76945022607383023422011-07-17T00:06:00.001-07:002011-07-17T00:47:32.182-07:00Modern Leper...I never expected for it to be this late. i haven't anticipated. And it's weird, because I know how much this is a generic thought. You've never been as old as you are now, and this is always true at every moment and so is not very novel. But I feel lost, I feel like I have no direction because I never really wanted a direction past this. I never wanted to be older than I am now. I am twenty years old. I remember writing on this blog on my eighteenth birthday, telling you that I didn't know how I feel about it. That I'd let you know. Well I feel like shit. I feel like shit about being over eighteen. I feel like shit about being over twenty.<br /><br />The last time I felt this I was eighteen, the day leading up to my departure back to new york and to college. And the problem is, so little has changed since then. My dreams are the same, my ambitions. I've accomplished very little more artisticly. My friends are the same. So little has resolved. So little has gotten better, or, really, worse except for the fact that it's two years later. The same people read this blog that did when I posted my eighteenth birthday message (or less, do Parker and Jackie and Diana still read this? Does Simka?) So little has changed.<br /><br />And I don't want to go forward. I want to stand here like a child. I want to go out like a baby. A child throwing a tantrum. I don't want to move forward. I want to lay down and pound my fists on the ground and cry.<br /><br />There are times when you know nothing is going to make it better. Were I actually a child there could possibly be someone to pick me up and hold me and bring me steemed milk with cinnemon and tell me things would be fine and mean it completely. And I would feel better perhaps. I don't know. But that would just make me feel like shit now. I don't have love and before now i've always just looked at myself as the antagonist in that situation. To be viewed as creul by how much I hurt other people through not having love. And I forget that probably at the center I am the one hurt. I am the victum. Because no one can tell me it will be alright. I don't trust anyone when they say that. I don't trust anyone. I don't love anyone.<br /><br />Nothing is going to make this better. but perhaps tomorrow or I will be able to think about other things instead. This is what I hope for.<br /><br />Sometimes it bothers me to think about these writings about my faith in love. And my beliefe in love. I'm afraid I'm being silly. You read a lot of old writers and philosophers and romantics writings from before the wars and they talk about god. And their loosing faith. and how if there is no god, and they fear there isn't, than there is nothing. If they have no belief than how are they supposed to go on living? And I want to tell them, no! you don't need it! you don't need god, or belief. you can live without fine. you just don't think so because you're unacustomed to the idea, you put to much stock in faith in god.<br /><br />And I fear that some young intellectual sixty years from now will look at me and my generation and say "no! you don't need to believe in true love! It's silly, and you can live without it fine!" I worry. but until then I fear I need someone to come along to fall in love with.<br /><br /><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >well i am ill but i'm not dead</span></div>Stickyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10483681977099776477noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6193022207711841464.post-77029776077069266102011-06-23T21:03:00.000-07:002012-02-15T07:43:43.912-08:00Poor PlacesLet me explain myself here.<br /><br />it probably won't be that good of an explaination.<br /><br />I know what I'm doing is wrong, I know it's stupid. I know it will end poorly. I know that I don't know what I want, and I know right now it just looks like I want what I can't have. I know I'm insatiable, almost as a rule. I know I'm too self aware to be this self-destructive. I know I'm too premeditated to be this impulsive. I don't care.<br /><br />I'm starting to think that in love it doesn't pay to be responsible. It doesn't pay to be strong and to stoic and responsible. Whats "right" is not what's right. And I don't see how me sitting down and being lonely and waitng for it to pass is going to make for a better result than me trying to fuck everything up. This way seems better.<br /><br />And besides, I can never be impulsive. I have never been impulsive. I think about things too much and there's nothing I can do about that.Stickyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10483681977099776477noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6193022207711841464.post-71117264752509067652011-06-16T23:09:00.000-07:002011-06-16T23:28:42.221-07:00Broken Home, Broken HeartI have, I think, sympathy till the end of the earth. I did. at least I did. the other day I was walking with Ulysses and he was telling me about a friend who has died. or not a friend but a girl in his studio, who he knew, a kind aquantance, viewd highly. she was dead. and hes shaken. and he wanted to come to brooklyn to be with people who didn't know her and didn't know what happened. to have a good time and a fun time and not think about it for a little bit and be at peace. and we're walking around the block and hes telling me this. and I don't care. I don't feel sympathetic. and thats fucked up. and I mean he didn't really know her. and then he was talking about his aunt who died when he was seven. the only other major death in his life.<br /><br />and I am empathetic. I am. I want very much to feel for him. this is a major loss to the guy. the biggest he's ever had. and someone our age. and it does remind that it's possible. we are not invincible. one thing and then you're dead and thats it. that's it.<br /><br />but all I'm thinking is how cheesey everything he's saying is. and all I'm thinking is how horrible I am for thinking this. and how detached I have become. I really want to care but I don't care. I used to care even when I didn't want to.<br /><br />and maybe it's because it's so minor. maybe it's because I wanted to shake him and say You want an epifany? Than Have The Fucking Guts To Have An Epiphany Before An Excuse Like Your Friend Dying Comes Along. maybe because I wanted to tell him I didn't give a fuck about his aunt dying, and some girl he kinda sorta knew. My dad is dead I wanted to tell him. My dad is dead for ten years. For half my life. this goddamn month. I don't know the day. I hate that I don't know the day. it could be today. it could be ten years today my dad is fucking dead. I wanted to tell him to go fuck himself my dad is dead.<br /><br />but really I wanted to have sympathy. for my ailing friend I wanted to have honest sympathy. I think he knew it wasn't honest. I used to have sympathy. I didn't mention my dad at all. that would be rude pulling of focus. I hate when people do that.<br /><br /><div><span style="font-size:50%;">cry yourself to sleep at night</span></div>Stickyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10483681977099776477noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6193022207711841464.post-42830038139453499882011-03-13T12:35:00.000-07:002011-03-13T12:47:29.954-07:00I Walkedremember middle school? When we all realized how awful the pack system was? When individuality was the biggest goal, to swim upstream, to be true to yourself. when not caring about what anyone thought was the ultimate goal? and everyone else was against us. And suddenly we go to art school and film school and when all the people who always thought this are together we all become little socialists. we become so concerned with relating to other people, with avoiding pretentiousness and being down to earth and on level with the masses. So fuck it. If this is pretentiousness than I am pretentious. Because I like what I like and don't like what I don't like. Because I don't take how manny people like something into account. I still hate the structure of social interactions, the politics, the game. I still hate people as much as ever. I know I can't relate to anyone anymore. I can't find anyway to relate to anyone anymore. I still just want to be myself. and unfortunately I am still an outsider for it. and don't ever be mistaken, there is nothing glamourous or cool or fun about being an outsider. <div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >that it's me, it's my fault</span></div>Stickyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10483681977099776477noreply@blogger.com0