Magnet Bus Tribulations

Dead Ellen (draft)

2010-11-15T19:35:00.001-08:00

A series of correspondence:

Dear Ellen,

I think therefore I am.

And I write, therefore I'm still alive.

And I laugh because this whiskey is pouring easier than my words can ever go onto this goddamn paper.

So I'm taking a break to write to you.

I saw Jacob today. Remember him? That goddamn sell-out of a writer. Sold his soul to Academia.

Well you know what I say to him?

FUCK YOU.

And

FUCK ACADEMIA.

Selling their souls for tenure and a nice car.

For company at the shitty sports bar.

For a meaning to their lives.

MEANING.

EVERYONE NEEDS FUCKING MEANING.

Maybe some things aren't worth taking the fucking time to even try to define.

MAYBE some things don't have a definition.

Don't have a word to describe it.

Well, that just makes all of us writers Fucked doesn't it?

There are other forms of art to take care of that though.

What can't be put in a thousand words can be shown perfectly in one picture.

And what can't be defined can be described to you in a song.

A lullaby of emotions.

A dream full of instrumentation

and improvisation

and

soul, Ellen!

Soul!

God, I love music.

Do you still write music? Do you still sing?

I loved your voice Ellen.

It'd make my heart weep.

I miss you.

Dear Ellen,

I'm sorry for that last letter, I was incredibly drunk.

The story I was trying to write was shit, so I poured whiskey on the paper and squeezed it out on my tongue, letting the idea come back inside me so I could further ruminate.

Oh, what drunken ideas.

But they work for me.

Like a prayer, or a quick cross when you pass a yellow light, you always hope they work, right?

Right.

I spoke to Andy yesterday, and he told me that the difference between writing drunk and writing sober is that you're less articulate.

I was so disappointed.

I used to think of alcohol as a magic elixir; something that would let all of my thoughts take form.

But in retrospect of last night, it just opens flood gates to thoughts I promised myself I'd forget.

I need to stop reading so much damn Hemingway. That's the only reason I thought drinking and writing was a good idea.

I just need to smoke weed and listen to someone play music in the woods.

Remember when we'd do that together?

You'd sing and play guitar while I let your music wash over me as I wrote random ridiculous nonsense?

God, to be 20 again.

To have you again.

There's something I never told you, that I wish you'd known before you left.

But there's no point in saying it now right?

You won't get this letter.

You never will.

You don't exist anymore.

You're dead!

You're dead.

And I can't let you go.

My soul is tied to a corpse.

Left or Right?

2010-10-17T21:39:00.001-07:00

"Do you want to leave?" he asked.

"Yeah! Let's go!"

"What?! No- I meant sometime in your life."

"OH!"

Contemplation.

"Yeah. Yeah! Yes! Duh. Why would I want to stay here?"

Silence.

"Do you want to stay in Tampa?" she asked.

"Definitely."

"Really?"

"Yeah. My brother loves small towns. I mean, like adventure, but we can compromise when the time comes."

Silence.

"Music! I request music," he said.

Selection.

"Who is this?"

"The Avett Brothers."

"What is this song called?"

"Talk on Indolence."

"This sounds like an anthem to my life."

"Maybe you should slow down on the alcohol then."

"Never."

Laughter.

Listening.

Whistling.

Intersection.

"Left or right?" he asked.

"You pick. You're driving."

Right.

Swerve.

Left.

Nervous laughter.

Relieved laughter.

Whistling.

Parking.

Walking.

"Are you excited?" she asked.

"Oh definitely."

Running.

Skipping.

Landing.

"Wow."

Clapping.

Echo.

Sitting.

"Play a song." he said.

"Anything?"

"Yes. Get in the middle."

Singing.

Playing.

Blushing.

Clapping.

"That was genius!"

"No. No it wasn't. Your turn."

Switching.

Singing.

Playing.

Clapping.

"That was beautiful!"

"Thank you."

"We play very differently. And our lyrics are different. Yours are stills of life and mine are constantly moving," she said.

"Is that how you think?"

"I guess so. I'm not sure."

Thinking.

Whistling.

Packing.

Walking.

Driving.

"I have the perfect song to end this adventure" she said.

Playing.

"What's this song called?"

"Joe's Waltz."

"This is my favorite song of the night."

"This is my favorite song in general."

Listening.

Thinking.

Home.

"Thank you for the ride."

"Thank you for the company."

Thinking.

"I'd like to do this again," she said.

"We surely will."

Leaving.

Gone.

Free Write August 26th, 2010

2010-08-26T19:14:00.000-07:00

Ten minutes
Until the octopi race after you
And skateboard wheels on their tentacled shoes

They'll criss/cross with the speed of derby racers
And the skills of dead disco dancers

And pick you
up
And drop you
off
To where you should've been
10 minutes ago.

Idk what I was thinking. I's just nonsense sorta.

Free write July 19th, 2010

2010-07-18T22:16:00.001-07:00

“ ‘He looked left, then right. He stepped off the sidewalk and laid down on the hot crumbly gravel, a few inches away from the speed bump. He felt like pieces of jagged rock were going inside every crevasse of his body, because they were. He stared at the sun and waited for the sound of death to consume him. His last thoughts were-‘ what do you think his last thoughts should be class?”

The students in the writing circle jerked up, the teacher’s change of voice a sign that he wasn’t reading from Jenny’s story anymore.

“Well, what did Jenny write sir?” Gwen asked, her hand half raised, her other hand tapping a red pen.

“Never answer a question with a question Gwen. It’s bad form. Harold? What do you think?”

“I think his last thoughts would be, ‘I fucked up,’ or something relatively similar.”

“I didn’t ask you what his last thoughts would be. I said should be. Come on people!” He yelled this last statement, making everyone jump.

“You are in this classroom at 9:25 in the evening, to become better writers.” He orchestrated everything he said, conducting every word.

“He’s stepping off of the sidewalk, okay. He’s laying on a hot street, okay. He’s uncomfortable, okay. He’s staring at the sun, okay, okay, okay, blah blah blah. Where’s the suspense? Where’s that increased heartbeat you get when you know the huge climactic last words are about to be spoken? The kicker! The punch line! The words that make you sit back stunned, wondering how someone could ever think that great line. The last lines of stories are what make or break them. The ends of everything are the only things of importance. So, can any one of you come up with a great ending to this story? Make Jenny’s story memorable. Make them hit the reader, hard. Harold, you first.”

“He wanted his last thoughts to be, maybe I am crazy.”

“No, wrong. Julie, go.”

“Why?”

“Horrible. Ray, go.”

“I hope someone remembers me for the good things I’ve done.”

“Maybe, but too cliché. Gwen, go.”

“Uh, I’m sorry I-“

“Good!” The professor yelled. “I’m. Sorry. It’s simple. It captures the readers attention. Remorse in the face of death; it’s realistic-at least, we assume it is- and easy to swallow. Does everyone agree?”

Everyone in the class nodded, looking at each other with quizzical looks, and gestures of alcohol consumption directed towards the teacher.

“Now, I’m going to have Jenny read what she wrote. Jenny, come to the front of the class.”

Jenny got up from the desk directly in the center of the half circle the students created for class. The professor got his wooden straight-back chair and put it in the middle of the circle.

“Would you like to sit or stand Jenny?”

“Um, I’ll stand.”

“Alright, stand on the chair if you want.” He took her hand and helped her gain her balance on top of the chair.

“Jenny, read the last paragraph of your story, please. The revised version that got into the literary magazine.”

“ ‘I don’t need this anymore. I don’t need this bullshit. This is too shitty. It’s not worth it. No one ever told me it’d be like this.’ He looked left, then right, and jaywalked right in front of a car. The car braked and honked at him. He stood in the middle of the speed bump, glaring at the car. He couldn’t see a face because of the sun’s glare. He’d never felt such hatred. He’d never felt so hollow. He laid down next to the speed bump, praying for the car to run him over. His last thought was, ‘I fucking dare you.’”

“I hope you learned something tonight. No one wants to hear about the passivity of someone. We’re all passive people. It’s why I’m a professor and not a full-time writer. It’s why you’re in Creative Writing III instead of Creative Writing VI. It’s why all of your stories are shit. Stop being so passive. Take the pen, write a story that your 11^th grade English teacher would be proud of, and never stop. Class dismissed.”

Free write July 7th, 2010

2010-07-07T09:17:00.000-07:00

I almost wrote the date as June 3rd.
I'm trying to remember if anything happened to me on the
third of June,
but I don't think so.

You don't understand.

2010-07-07T09:15:00.001-07:00

What you're not understanding
is that you're not very understanding.

Reina, Wake Up.

2010-06-29T11:44:00.001-07:00

Her first memory was of maize.

Her grandmother would sift through it every morning whenever she prepared arepas for breakfast.

Those fingers never let go of the past, but somehow hid the act.

It must’ve been obvious to everyone. Like the smell of expensive perfumes are obvious; or immaculate rooms.

She was obviously hiding something.

Maybe the perfume was to conceal the smell of the rotting corpses that used to be aspirations in her closet.

And the rooms to hide that they stayed so clean because she barely owned anything.

The only time she ever had to concede to the fact that she didn’t always have expensive perfume, or immaculate rooms, or couches too nice to sit on, was when she sifts through the maize. An act she’d been doing for the last 60 years.

Reina opened her eyes and saw the credits were rolling on the TV. She had slept through the last half hour of the movie. She looked to her left and saw Henry sleeping in a lotus position on the other side of her bed, his neck craned back so far his forehead was touching the wall behind him. Reina touched his arm and his eyes flew open. He gasped in pain and grabbed his neck.

“Henry are you alright?”

“Yeah yeah, my neck just hurts a bit. Sucks, I was having an awesome dream too, but the pain made me forget it.” He let go of his neck and moved it around slowly. It cracked and he sighed in relief.

Reina sat up from the fetal position she had been sleeping in.

“I hate dreaming,” she said.

Henry stood up and started stretching his whole body, bones popping with every stretch.

“Really? I love dreaming.”

“I think I’d like dreaming more if my dreams weren’t so surreal. All I dream about is things I’m worried about. Friends. Relationships. Boring stuff really. Only the whole time I’m having a normal conversation I’m simultaneously trying to find my way through intestines or something.”

“Oh wow, that does suck. My dreams are always about zombie invasions and trying to save the world.”

“Lucky. My dreams are just lots of talking.”

“My dreams are lots of dramatic music.”

“Maybe you watch too many movies,” Reina said and threw a pillow at Henry. Henry just let the pillow hit him and fall to the ground, and then stared hard at Reina.

“Maybe you need to stop avoiding so much shit in life.”

Reina’s smile faded when she looked at Henry.

“Excuse me?”

Henry started pacing.

“You’re going through life avoiding confrontation.”

Reina groaned and closed her eyes.

“You’re afraid no one likes you or cares about you, but you have no idea, nor wanting, to project this aloud. So you dream. In the words of Walt Whitman, ‘Your neck’s snapped from the heavy thoughts you’ve pushed to the back of your head. Avoidance will leave you dead. But you can’t hide in dreams.’ “

“I don’t think Walt Whitman ever said that.”

Henry sat down on the edge of the bed.

“He did in my dream just now. I remember.”

Reina sat still, her head leaning against the wall, her eyes still closed.

“Hey Henry, do you like me?”

“Why don’t you wake up and ask me in real life?”

Reina opened her eyes and saw her friends Henry, Grayson and Megan playing Trivial Pursuit: Book Lover’s Edition. They were all on the floor with the board in the middle, while she lay on top of the bed in a fetal position.

“Well Reina, what’s the answer?” Henry asked.

“Uh, ask me the question again?”
Henry sighed and read in a fake announcer’s voice, “What Czech’s unpublished manuscripts were published posthumously, and against his wishes, by the critic Max Brod?”

“Is it Franz Kafka? I only know one Czech writ-“

“You’re right!” Megan screamed and threw a pillow back on the bed she’d been using on her lap.

“Megan, why the fuck are you screaming?” Grayson asked as he rolled.

“Because that’s the first ‘Authors’ one she’s answered correctly! She can never remember authors-“

“I think that’s the first one I’ve landed on Meg,” Reina said, her voice muffled through the pillow she had wrapped around her head when Meg started speaking.

“I know! I just mean in gener-“

“Non-fiction! Henry, ask away” Grayson interrupted.

“What non-fiction book discusses the theory of vortexes with a colorful anecdote about a stroll on the Gulf of Galvinhide and a flock of ducks?”

“Are you kidding me right now? Are you sure you’re not reading the fiction question?”

Reina sat up, “He’s not. I have the book. My great-uncle wrote it.”

She reached out and grabbed the book The Galvinhide Vortex Guide Book by Nathan Waves. “See?”

Henry grabbed the book from her. “Is it alright if I read the anecdote right now? What page is it on?”

“Yeah sure, it’s the page with the post-it note on it that says ‘crazy shit.’”

Henry turned to the page, cleared his throat, and began to read.

“The first time I realized vortex’s weren’t an everyday commodity was when I went on my daily stroll with my comrade Jordan down the board walk. He had come down to visit me; we hadn’t seen each other since our University days. There was a flock of ducks on the other side. As the ducks walked along the crumbling, chrome, chrysanthemum beaded boardwalk, on the Gulf of Galvinhide, the horizon began to shatter as time began to unwind.

The sound of their distressing quacks grew distant as they got sucked into a vortex through the endless cosmos. People continued walking on the boardwalk, the vortex being a mild disturbance in their busy lives. However, the vortex still sat there dauntingly in their minds, forever pressing the backs of their eyes without reason; leaving the people to only ask “why?”

This was the exact question Jordan asked me after the ducks had disappeared.

“Nathan, why?”

“Why what?”

“Why didn’t anyone save those ducks?”

“Everyone has the same risks on the board walk. There are signs everywhere warning-“
“Ducks can’t read! They can’t comprehend the danger!”

“How do you know?”

“Because they’re fucking ducks you imbecile!”

“Good sir, there is no need for such harsh words.”

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

“Fuck you.”

“Fuck you!”

“F-U-C-K. Y-O-U.”

“What the fuck?”

The ducks seemed to be falling from the sky. Floating slowly, as if being gently put down, back to the other side of the boardwalk.

“Maybe, God?” Jordan said in wonderment.

I chuckled and said, “Do you honestly believe we can live in a world where both God and vortexes exist?”
“Maybe you’re just close-minded, Nathan.”

“Oh, fuck you.”

“Wait! Nathan! Look inside your coat pocket!”

Quacking seemed to be coming from my coat-”

“He goes on to say that there are vortexes everywhere, and that if we looked hard enough, we could go through one at any time we wanted.” Reina said, taking the book back from Henry.

“Your uncle sounds like a crackpot.” Henry said.

“Or a quack-pot!”

Everyone groaned at Megan’s pun.

“Whose turn is it?” Henry asked.

“Wait, so the answer’s Galvinhide Vortex Guide Book? That’s so obscure! There’s no way you could expect me to get that!” Grayson moaned.

Reina sat up angrily. She closed her eyes and tried to speak calmly.

“Dude, there’s over millions of books in existence. And over thousands of questions in this game. We’re only in our late teens, are you seriously complaining about not knowing the answer to one question?”

“Well, I thought I knew everything.”

Reina opened her eyes and saw nothing. It was 3 in the morning and her parents were yelling in the hallway right outside her door.

“The difference between me and all your little girls, Bob, is that I have stayed by your side through thick and thin. Your little tramps only Witness the rise. I’m a part of it. I’m the one lifting your fat ass up you piece of shit-“

“Nina calm down! Reina’s sleep-“
“Don’t you dare utter my daughter’s voice in your mouth! You’re not her father! You’ve never been a father to her! You’re too busy “tutoring” your grad students at all hours of the night. What kind of grad student needs her advisor to come over right away at 8 at night? A fucking tramp. And the sad thing is you go! Your beeper goes in the middle of dinner, and you jump up, like you’re relieved to leave your wife and daughter. You know what’s even sadder? I let you go! I let you fucking go!”

“Nina you’re not making any sense. You’re upset right now. Let’s just calm down and try to talk reasonably.”

“Do you find it reasonable to abandon your wife and daughter for some 22 year old bitch who can’t even imagine paying her own bills? The stress of being a single-parent, essentially? IS THAT REASONABLE TO YOU BOB?”

“Sweetie, please-“

“GET YOUR FUCKING HANDS OFF OF ME!”

Reina heard a slap and closed her eyes.

Reina opened her eyes and saw Henry in her bedroom doorway.

“Henry? What are you doing here? Where are my parents?”

“They went through a vortex.”

Reina sat up. “What did you say?”

“I said they went to buy some more tourniquets.”

“What?!”

“Your parents didn’t tell you? Your grandmother cut herself on her wrist this morning while making breakfast. She refuses to go the hospital so they’re getting tourniquets.”

Reina jumped out of bed. “How did this happen?! You don’t need a knife to make arepas. Oh my god is she alright?” Reina scrambled around her room, hastily putting on shoes and a jacket, and finding her glasses she barely wore since she usually wore contacts.

She turned to her doorway where Henry grabbed her shoulders and stopped her from moving.

“Henry what the fuck are you doing! My grandmother’s bleeding to death!”

“Reina she’s fine. You can see her in a minute. It’ll take you half an hour if you go on your bike, I’ll give you a ride over there. I have to go back home anyway. Kinda lucky I’m her next-door neighbor huh? Reina?”

Reina was crying softly, her whole body limp, Henry’s hands the only thing keeping her standing.

“Reina what’s wrong? Are you alright? Didn’t you sleep well?”

“I feel like I’ve just been dreaming all of my life. I don’t know what to do anymore. I don’t know what to think. I don’t know what’s real. Henry, am I dreaming right now?”

“Why don’t you wake up and ask me in real life.”

Hey.

2010-04-16T10:32:00.000-07:00

I got lost again.
But I'm kinda found.

Where Do We Go From Here?

2010-02-07T15:49:00.000-08:00

While reading Childhood's End by Arthur C. Clarke [Think 2001: A Space Odyssey], the last line of chapter 10 inspired me:

"Yet among all the distractions and diversions of a planet which now seemed well on the way to becoming one vast playground, there were some who still found time to repeat an ancient and never-answered question:

'Where do we go from here?'"

Here:

Where do we go from here?

The devil's our saviour,

Everyone cheer!

Science is our new religion!

The world's in our hands,

A form of derision

that we once held on our backs.

But wait,

Creation's the only thing we lack.

Ideas and Discovery are of the past.

Only through suffering

comes knowledge.

We're stagnant in riches and prosperity.

Where do we go from here?

[Cyclical Consumption]

2010-02-06T20:02:00.000-08:00

I wrote a story, finally. Tell me what you think. I'd had the first 8 lines in my head for a few months. Writing a letter to someone kind of gave me the urge to finish it. I had no idea how it would end until I ended it. This was non-stop writing.
Enjoy:

[Cyclical Consumption]
"Hey Arielle,"
"Hmm?"
"What's the meaning of life?"
Arielle blew out the smoke she'd hidden in her lungs.
"What'd you say, Matt?"
He tapped her palm with every word.
"What's. The. Meaning. Of. Life. What. Is. Love. Who. Are. We."
"This is why I never fucking smoke with you! God, man, you're such a mood-killer." Arielle stalked out of her bedroom, leaving an indent next to Matt on the bed.
"There's nothing wrong with thinking, man," he directed to the hallway. He closed his eyes and took another hit.
"Well you think too fucking much. I just wanted to get high, get fucked, then get some sleep. And you have to become Secretes-"
"Socrates?"
"-and fill me with these bullshit questions I'll never know the answer to!" She walked back into the bedroom and fell face-down on the bed. The room was silent except for the alternate breathing of them, and the ceiling fan conducting the dancing smoke.
Arielle lifted her head and looked at Matt, whose eyes had remained closed the whole time.
"The meaning of life is being able to define yourself. Love is the taste of Shirley Temples when you're eight. And we are two people who were completely fucked from the get-go. How's that, Matt?"
He opened his eyes, turned his body to her, and looked straight into her gray-slate eyes, slightly magnified by her glasses, her pupils dilated from the light and curiosity.
"You are the meaning to my life, you smell just like the jasmine that grew by my window, and enjoying each others company for long periods of time does not make us fucked." His words and smoke fluttered through her ears and hair, creating a veil around her face.
They stayed like that for an immeasurable of time; smoke billowing around them, their eyes locked in this soul-searching hold, Matt bemused, Arielle with a look of deep concentration.
Arielle broke the connection, laying her head back down and resting her eyes.
"Matt, how do you do that?"
"Do what?"
"Answer life's most important questions?"
"Getting high and getting fucked. Now get some sleep darlin'."
He closed his eyes and took another hit.
END

This is a reminder

2010-02-01T19:04:00.000-08:00

Of how there are some amazing poets out there that we have never heard of:

Because One Is Always Forgotten

Carolyne Forche

When Viera was buried we knew it had come to an end,

his coffin rocking into the ground like a boat or a cradle.

I could take my heart, he said, and give it to a campesino

and he would cut it up and give it back:

you can't eat heart in those four dark

chambers where a man can be kept years.

A boy soldier in the bone-hot sun works his knife

to peel the face from a dead man

and hang it from the branch of a tree

flowering with such faces.

The heart is the toughest part of the body.

Tenderness is in the hands.

Freewrite 01272010

2010-01-27T15:38:00.001-08:00

All of our life is ephemeral

We’re just red ink on paper

drip

dripping

and

past those edges

of sanity and long-forgotten

praise.

Don’t forget to scream:

PLEASE DON’T FORGET ME-

Don’t forget to dream:

I HAVE NO MEANING-

Don’t forget to mean:

IFTHERE’S NO MEANING

THEN THERE’S NO STOPPING

THE DRIP DRIP DRIP OF INSANITY

[Tangerine Peels and Cigarette Butts]

2010-01-15T19:56:00.000-08:00

Tangerine peels and cigarette butts
"are all over the fucking street, man!"
All we eat is citrus and smoke.

Poverty at its finest.
Parties at their finest.
People at their finest.

It's two, and he's drunk.
It's three, and they're drunk.
It's four, and I'm not drunk.

I'm just smoking and eating.
Peeling and peeling,
In the winter florida sun on
a tuesday.
Throwing peels and ash out
my window,
all over the fucking street, man.
Ridiculous? No.
Necessity.

More ideas

2010-01-14T14:58:00.000-08:00

I'm sorry I have nothing substantial to post. Hopefully I'll do something with all of these too. I have no idea what or when or why. I'm trying to find the effort to do another short story. Who knows who knows who knows.
-------------------------------------
Raining blankets are smothering me in my timeless sleep and ageless dreams.
I'm drowning in my imagination.
Triangles never leave in threes, only pairs.
------------------------------------------------
Moss is growing on my skin.
The wind is drunk and breathing on my face.
-----------------------------------------

Like an unpainted fence, I'm tarnished.
-----------------------
Did you know I'm all alone? I'll close my eyes while you surmise what you even wanted from me.
-------------------------------------
Some words don't fit in my mouth.
My tongue can't handle its potential.
-------------------------------------
The leaves attacked us
They came out of nowhere.
-------------------------------------
The blood is subsiding.
The brain is done spinning.
The nails are done clawing.
And the body is still.
-------------------------------------
I know your kind.
-------------------------------------
You can't hide your self forever.
You'll just end up tethered to time.
Take my hand or I'll lose my nerve.
I thought I saw the light
But I don't want to go alone.
Come with me, please.
You eyes can see through the devil's sleeves.
Come lead me through that dark cold night.
That deep void between here and there.

Why I miss African American History class.

2010-01-11T18:19:00.000-08:00

Lateishia: Mistah Anderson! Mistah Anderson! I gotta use the bathroom!

Mr. Anderson: Can't it wait?

Lateishia: Naw Mistah Anderson I swear to Gawd I gotta go! My butt hurt so bad!

Mr. Anderson: Excuse m-

Lateishia: I put my underwear on backwards and I gotta fixthisshit my ass hurt so bad come on!

Almost as funny as that time that kid literally shit his pants in my German class after yelling "ICH HABE DURCH FART."

I can't look at poems past

2010-01-11T18:16:00.000-08:00

Or at least read them all the way through.
Too much emotion.
Too much subjectivity.
I cringe and cringe and cringe and
can barely stop myself from completely deleting it.
But you can't delete life.
So fuck it.

Bring Me Your Love (Freewriteofsorts)

2010-01-06T17:43:00.000-08:00

Ideas ideas and more ideas.
Let's see what my mind can remember.

Cold hands
Black night
Can't see.
Melquiades, please guide me
To that forgotten land forever unchanged
With dreams as foundation...
----------
A night with no morning...
--------
"His smile scares the shit out of me. He looks like a goddamn bat."
--------------
Salvador.
----------
I'm destined
to fall.
-------
That's all. Let's see if anything happens with these.

Hipster City

2009-12-31T16:51:00.000-08:00

I've been there, man.

I was fucking there.

Hipster City.

It's a house

with a pool

and a shed

and a room full of instruments

and a huge bowl of soon-to-be jello shots

in the freezer.

Chalk-drawn pictures of men in mustaches cover the patio,

while children's movies from the sixties play on the Macbook.

Skinny jeans run rampant

while woolen hats are worn in the 72 degree city.

Doors are useless because a camera's always taking shots.

Thinking's useless because someone's always calling the shots.

Being friendly's useless because everyone's taking shots.

Hipster Fucking City.

I love it.

You Guys, I'm Dying. (Freewrite 12/21/09)

2009-12-20T21:10:00.000-08:00

I can feel it.
It's this Blackness.
It's constantly swimming in my brain.
Pushing out tears and dreams and memories
That never happened.

I have guilt about thoughts I'll never think
I have anger about people I'll never meet
I have sadness about things I'll never do.

It must be ghosts.

Free Write from 01292008

2009-12-07T13:19:00.000-08:00

The heavens fell from the sky and crashed through my roof top.
Broken twigs danced in 4/4 time, while
Leaves glided on the wind,
Glowing with the dust from the stars.
I had that twinkle in my eye,
The one that means
Innocence and Purity-
But I couldn't see a thing-
Too much dust in my yes.

let's see what happens when my mind wanders:

2009-10-09T18:24:00.000-07:00

I like Punk.

I hate my Soul.

What the fuck is Rock and Roll.

My nails are green but my hands are

windows to my soul

I hate my Soul.

I hate my hands.

Useless backwards small-

Small backwards useless

people

insignificant in the end-

but their stories.

THEIR STORIES.

Everyone has a story.

That amazing tale you spin at bar mitzvahs

and lunch breaks.

Cue the laughter mother fuckers.

Listen to my anecdote.

Think I am interesting.

THINK I AM INTERESTING.

Good god I'm not reading this over.

Jack Shit.

2009-09-19T21:36:00.000-07:00

Jack broke my heart.
He shit on the floor.
Seventh time in six days.

Dad was mad.

Jack's not here anymore.

Dad went to celebrate.
I am Alone.

His big green eyes will forever haunt me
the last time I saw him:
Crouched down,
Scared,
Pleading with me telepathically,
to let him shit in peace.

I figured I'd just put it out in the open

2009-09-10T15:49:00.000-07:00

There's an elephant in the room.

Her name is Ashley, and she's very happy to meet you.

Ashley.

How I fucking hate you.

Let me count the ways.

You took the rug from under me

Revealing the hole of depression and sadness

I had hidden for so long.

I'm sorry I walked all over you.

I'm sorry I need you so much.

I'm sorry I changed for the worse.

I'm sorry I think of you as a rug.

You stick your hand down to me,

"I love you, Destiny."

Don't try to help me.

Don't fucking touch me.

I'm covered with the disgusting impurities of my soul.

"Here let me help you."

I was supposed to help you.

Why did you grow without me.

How could you leave me the same.

"I want you to meet my friend."

I have no friends.

They just throw their trash at me.

I don't need your shitty-

"I like her alot."

I like you alot.

I love you alot.

"Her name is

Don't say Ashley.

Ashley."

I hate the name Ashley.

"She wants to meet you."

Mock me.

Laugh at my tortured soul.

As she clutches your heart

That was once mine

"I've told her alot about you."

YOU WANT MY APPROVAL OF THAT

FUCKING

FUC-

"Grab my hand."

No.No.No.No.No.No.No.No.No.No.No.No.No.No.No.No.No.No.No.No.No.No.No.No.No.No.No

Empty Heads

2009-08-26T16:41:00.001-07:00

I wrote this stuff two years ago. January 11th, 2007 according to the scratched marks. Don't know how I feel about them now.

The lights are off.

Eyes

are straining

Arms

are outstretched

Hands

are feeling nothing

Body

is ramming into.

The Idea is...

...

gone.

mingling with the shadows of turned over chairs,

then slowly slipping out the cracked linoleum.

----------------

It's the days when

the moon is a profile

and the midnight sky

is dripping on rooftops.

I catch a glimpse

of it bathing in the

blue moon's rays.

And it's then I realize that the Idea is not

what can be caught

and tamed

but only watched

in awe and etched

into our mind's

memory.

For the love of Fuck help me

2009-08-20T08:50:00.000-07:00

Nevermind.
I don't need it.

I can do this on my own.

I am Strong.
I am Rational.
I need to Think.

No,
don't think.

Not anymore.

I've lost myself in a pool full of bad memories.

"Destiny, I'm having a bad thought."
"It's not real, don't worry. Think of happy thoughts."

Follow your own advice, dear.
Because I'm fucking drowning, and no one's helping me.
And I purposely swim farther away.

So let's do it. Right now.
Go.

I feel alone.
I feel empty.
I feel unwanted.
I feel unworthy.
I feel dirty.
I feel like a burden.
I feel like a nuisance.
I feel unneeded.
I feel confused.
I am.

I've made myself someone I want people to depend on.
But I have no one to depend on.
Because I don't believe in people.
Because I'm really really scared.

I found this.

2009-08-20T08:45:00.001-07:00

I need saving
I need help
But you need help more.
I lay down in front of you.
So when you trip you'll notice me.

Hello Stranger!
Is life going wrong?
Have you gone astray?

Fill me with your
Problems
And make me forget my own.
I"ll turn away my judging eyes.

Keep going.
I will understand
Completely.
I will help you.
I will
Care.

And you finish your tale of woe and
float away
As your burdens are emptied.

I'll watch with proud eyes and a heavy chest
Happy for you.
Feeling happiness.

But my demons soon return to haunt me.
I'm still alone.
And you're still walking all over me.

Sunglasses are overrated.

2009-08-14T19:16:00.000-07:00

Well, at least I like to think so, since I can't wear them.

I have about 4 pairs that I've either found or taken from family members' houses, in the vain hope I'll find a reason to wear them.

Unfortunately I'm blind as a fucking bat and don't even take my glasses off when I sleep.

That changed recently when I ended up breaking my glasses by sleeping face down.

I got new ones this week, and to take extra precaution, I've decided to kill two birds with one stone.

I sleep with sunglasses on.

It gives me a new perspective on shit, I don't break new glasses, and it makes the sun just that much more bearable when my mother pulls the blinds.

The 'WTF ARE YOU WEARING THOSE FOR?' reaction is also very much worth it.

This isn't about You.

2009-08-12T19:12:00.000-07:00

I used to skew facts to make things look positive.

Think in a different perspective.

Empathize for you.

But you know what...

I can't do it anymore.

Too many failed experiments and too many friendships broken

because I cared about one person for too long

Thinking I could

Change them?

Help them?

Fuck them?

It all comes down to Attention in the end.

I wanted Tit for Tat

and you just kept giving me

Shit.

Hey, that's cool dude!

No, it's fine!

I'll ttyl!

Even when I'm down I'll have a smile on my face for you.

You only hate Nirvana if you've never heard them do this cover.

2009-08-10T12:08:00.001-07:00

My girl, my girl, don't lie to me

Tell me where did you sleep last night.

In the pines, in the pines

Where the sun don't ever shine

I would shiver the whole night through.

My girl, my girl, where will you go

I'm going where the cold wind blows

In the pines, in the pines,

Where the sun don't ever shine

I would shiver the whole night through

Her husband was a hard working man

Just about a mile from here

his head was found in a driving wheel

But his body never was found

My girl, my girl, where will ya go

I'm going where the cold wind blows

In the pines, the pines

The sun, the shine

I'll shiver the whole night through

Who gives 2 shits?

2009-08-05T17:59:00.000-07:00

Spectemur Agendo

Let history strike us in our slumber

Our bodies becoming a wall

as the barrage of pointless acts fill our grave.

No longer will our minds dive into the deep confines of our enemies heads.

No more Empathy.

No more Sympathy.

Compassion is Dead.

Long Live Brutality.

There's No One Here Beside Me

here,

am filled with the uncertainty caused by

Hormone-filled whims of adolescence.

here,

am in the early morning

before the sun has come

with its

Elegance

That burns our soul.

here,

alone.