Write...Anything

I've been in bad moods before, so why should this be any different? Besides, who am I really writing for? A girl and a bunch of strangers, and as long as I'm convinced that that's all I have, then that's all I'll need.
Someone, just fucking agree with me.

Hollow like the holes in tree trunks.
And I'm wet, I can't shake this freaking wet!
( Push here to dry. )

I should do this and I should do that. But I'll keep on keepin' on and eventually it all gets done.
The real question here is Can toe knees?

If heaven and hell decide

( That they both are satisfied )

There's a story in progress. I'll post it here when I'm done. Until then...no updates!

My day sucked. I'm trying to keep my head up about it though. I keep telling myself that at some point in the next twenty-four hours something is going to have to go my way. That's how much my day sucked. In fact, if I had a camera, I would take a picture of a dick-sucking whore just so you might have some slight idea of how much the day sucked. Why don't I just browse for a picture? Because that would give you the right to constantly remind me of how I use the time I spend on the cumputer. No thanks.

( ...more... )

I picked up Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas (underlined) by Hunter Thompson the other day. I'm nearly done with the book. At first I was a little worried about how it would compare to the movie, but as I read on I found the book to much more insightful and enjoyable. I suggest people read it.

( A stranger thinks I'm cute! )

Have I posted recently, I don't remember. Days seem to be violently slamming into one another; I can't tell them apart anymore. The physical and mental exhaustion, constant growling of my stomach and numbness in my limbs is all starting to get to me. Wrote a lot of music this weekend. It was like electronics meeting Johnny Rivers in the Sahara. I rather enjoyed it. Saw that movie 1408. Generally I don't like corny movies, but this one was a different level of corny. The idea was horrible and the acting was mediocre, but that was all just a facade. The movie toyed with very serious issues that have been tightly wrapped around drug use. And not the whole "8663246% of people do this and do that" kind of bullshit. It dealt a lot with conflict with the "self" and coming to terms with past events (something I know loads about). I recommend a select few people see it, the rest might just be wasting their money, like Alex Somer. Moving on, I stole this from Kat...

Have I posted recently, I don't remember. Days seem to be violently slamming into one another; I can't tell them apart anymore. The physical and mental exhaustion, constant growling of my stomach and numbness in my limbs is all starting to get to me. Wrote a lot of music this weekend. It was like electronics meeting Johnny Rivers in the Sahara. I rather enjoyed it. Saw that movie 1408. Generally I don't like corny movies, but this one was a different level of corny. The idea was horrible and the acting was mediocre, but that was all just a facade. The movie toyed with very serious issues that have been tightly wrapped around drug use. And not the whole "8663246% of people do this and do that" kind of bullshit. It dealt a lot with conflict with the "self" and coming to terms with past events (something I know loads about). I recommend a select few people see it, the rest might just be wasting their money, like Alex Somer. Moving on, I stole this from Kat...

( Thank you Kat for this marvelous tool )

Did the 9 to 5 thing today (which is something else I have to address). I had gotten home late last night from a movie in Bryant park, so naturally I was exhausted today. However, the forces of good did prevail. I was "fixing" (these things are never really broken) an air conditioner in an apartment today. The owner of the place, a very nice woman, asked me if I was new, being she had never seen me before. Well we went through the motions, and at some point the conversation moved to college and what I wanted to do with my life. I told her where I am going to school and before I could get another word out, she smiled and said "A writer." I was in shock. Beautifully blissful shock. I asked her how she figured that one. She said that it was very evident in the way that I presented words in conversation; how I pick words that best fit the situation and not words that are, as she put it, close enough to relevant but too vague to be accurate. This made my day. We got to talking about my journalism vs. English quandary, which inevitably led to a very insightful conversation about Hunter S. Thompson. We started wrapping things up, being I couldn't just hang around and talk all day, and right before I left she called me back in. Earlier in the conversation I had mentioned how I was going to write a short story based on the life of porters, and all the shit that they have to see and deal with. Well apparently her neighbor has been writing for the NY Times for 43 years (fucking 43! It couldn't be 42 or 8900734. No, 43) and had, not too long ago, started working on a similar idea. She thought it would be a phenomenal idea if the two of us got together and threw some ideas out there. I can't wait.
Back to the 9 to 5 thing...On the walk home today it occurred to me that working is just like taking a shower or brushing your teeth: it has to get done. So really (I think) life isn't this repetitious circle with absolutely no freedom. There's just less freedom as you get older. Example: I work from 7 a.m. to 3:30 p.m. Once I get out I am free to do whatever the hell I want, so those eight hours aren't really me "doing anything" (in terms of the idea of work) it's more like me taking a long shower or making sure my teeth are super clean, it's just something that needs to get done.
This is a bit too optimistic for me, but I'll try it on for a while.

Turn off your fucking televisions!

Well I haven't been here in a while...
Yea I watched you change. An esoteric introduction. I have to say I've been enjoying myself thus far. Went to see the Deftones with a friend of mine (which brings me to another issue that I have to address) and they were un-fucking-believable! So thank you Kat for inviting me. That was Friday. Saturday I went to my friend Phil's beach house out in Breezy Point for a drug-a-thon. Had a hell of a time over there. His friends from school came to party with us and our friends. Everything went off without a hitch; it was spectacular. Came home Sunday night and worked the rest of the week.
At some point I must have done something wrong though. Kat isn't talking to me and doesn't really want to see me for a week or so, she says. I'm not going to worry about it too much only because I'm not sure what I did wrong and frankly I don't see the point in losing sleep. I worry too much as it is and I really doubt that whatever I did is going to tear our friendship apart. I tried apologizing but she really doesn't like those. I'll just ride it out I guess. If worse comes to worse I'll hunt her down and find out what's going on.
Thank you for being such a good listener, LJ. I'll see ya 'round.

This might get complicated. Please try and follow me.

I think I finally understand Descartes' whole "nothing can be known, if it could you couldn't communicate it." idea (might not have been Descartes, but I'm pretty sure). However, I am finding it hard to believe that there is nothing more to life than living. The reason is because we imagine, and we (as humans) are creative. How could it be the case that you can imagine something and yet reality says it can never happen? Where do the ideas that you create come from? I'm not talking about flying or anything like that. Birds fly, that isn't a reflection of human creativity. When you dream, on the other hand, you see and experience things that you would never be able to explain. But the sole fact that you experienced these things means that they must be possible, for how did you come to create them in your head. Drugs, for example, are capable of detaching you from "reality" entirely. They can send your mind to places you could not even imagine, and yet once there, everything makes sense to you. But as soon as the drug wears off, you are back to basic living. So how is it that these "places" or feelings or ideas or even capabilities don't really exist? How could that be possible? They must have come from somewhere, right? An example: if you took mushrooms and looked at a wall, it would appear to be very different than if you had not taken the drug. But the fact that the wall, under two different circumstances, took on different forms implies that there is more to the wall than just a plain wall. The simple fact that you saw, or even imagined, the wall to be different must mean that there is some concrete foundation behind what you saw (or even thought you saw). An interesting notion: these altered states of mind are a result of chemical reactions in the brain. What would have happened if these chemicals and these reactions were a natural function that occurred to everyone, every day. The world would, aesthetically, look nothing like it does today. It would feel and taste nothing like it does. Basically this comes down to perceptions and whether you're a Rationalist, or an Empiricist. The trick, I think, is to take the two of them and blend them together. You know (Rationalism) that things can be different than they appear, only because you experienced (Empiricism) such. I realize that I, much like Descartes, find myself trapped in a corner with this Rationalism/Empiricism problem.

Unfortunately, I have work tomorrow so off to bed I go. I'll give this some more thought and post with progress, should any be made.

"...in a world so cold. In a world so..."
I hope that someday I have the audacity to say what I really want to say. Audacity, see that's the funny part. It would be bold of me to speak my mind. I think if not for my excessive respect for people I would not have as many friends as I do. I'm going to, however, start to speak my mind more often and bring things out in the open. I think it's better that way.

Years ago I had a song for her. It meant nothing at all, it was just a song that reminded me of how sweet she could be. It took us a matter of minutes and the spark of a July firefly. If I could kick myself in the head I think I would, because I seem to have caught myself in a dangerous mood. Wait, stop, let me go back. Around the Big Block once and nothing needed to be said. But how was I expecting to make any of this work? I didn't care, because our song was on and I was young and she said "love" and "happy" and "Alex" and "I'm" and "make me" so I didn't care at all. Yea, carefree and blissfully sober. So I climbed a fence that night and snuck in through her cousin's back door. I took her by the hand and we tip-toed as we laughed at quiet jokes in the dark. We made it to the back door, I slid through it once more, keeping her close behind. We got outside and I held her body against mine and she smiled. Our song was ringing in my ears and we didn't care. She kissed me softly, drew back and said "Come on!" I followed. There was no though involved. I followed. We ran up the street and waved to all the sleeping homes. We ran, hand in hand, around the Big Block's bend to the spot in the field where the July firefly would stay. shoulder to shoulder and our backs on the ground, we pointed at stars that we would never get to meet. But what did we care, this was all for free. Without a care in the world it was her and me, and always it would be, so I wished and prayed. And so years have gone by and the times we had have long since died. The song we had, her and I, has passed on to a more beautiful world, one of memory and fantasy. I've never let a day go by where she doesn't wander through my mind, but the fact that will always remain is that our song is not the same; there is a new one in its place. New lines with a new refrain. New...

Perfect
Smashing Pumpkins

I know we're just like old friends
We just can't pretend
That lovers make amends
We are reasons so unreal
We can't help but feel that something has been lost

But please you know you're just like me
Next time I promise we'll be
Perfect
Perfect
Perfect strangers down the line
Lovers out of time
Memories unwind

So far I still know who you are
But now I wonder who I was...

Angel, you know it's not the end
We'll always be good friends
The letters have been sent on

So please, you always were so free
You'll see, I promise we'll be
Perfect
Perfect strangers when we meet
Strangers on the street
Lovers while we meet

Perfect
You know this has to be
We always we're so free
We promised that we'd be
Perfect

“Hear I lay still and breathless, just like always, still I want some more. Mirrors sideways. Who cares what's behind. Just like always, still your passenger. Chrome buttons, buckles and leather surfaces, these and other lucky witnesses. Now to calm me, take me around again and don’t pull over.” Said Chino.
“Roll the windows down, this cool night air is curious. Let the whole world look in, who cares who sees anything. I’m your passenger. I’m your passenger.” Responded Maynard
“Drop these, down, and put them on me. Nice cool seats, there to cushion your needs. Now to calm me, take me around again. Just don't pull over, and this time would you please drive faster?” Asked Chino
“Roll the windows down, this cool night air is curious. Let the whole world look in, who cares who sees what tonight. Roll these misty windows down to catch my breath again. And then go, and go, and go, just drive me home then back again.” Exclaimed Maynard.
"Here I lay, just like always. Don’t let me go, take me to the edge.” Whispered Chino.


Can't wait.
P.S. Maynard is gay and this song proves it. Chino's sexuality is up for debate, however.

So fuck it man. I was bad, I was real fucked up. There was no coming back. I was having these crazy flashbacks from back in the day. Got a shot of me sitting on my balcony railing, and it threw me back. I was on the F train. I almost wet right by my stop, 'cause I was too fucked up to be home by myself. I was going to jump off the train and give someone (yea that someone, sorry but he's the only kid close enough) a call, ask him to take care of me for a while, just to calm me the fuck down. I didn't. I got off the train where I should have, threw away the straight edge razors in my wallet and made my way home. I was walking up the block and started to feel real good, almost too good. My head went from a cocain low with suicidal properties to psychedelic kind of groove. I couldn't have felt better. I started running up the block. I ran so fast and so hard that my legs were moving faster than my body. I ran into a cop, ran right the fuck into him and I just kept going. I yelled back "Have a god fucking day Officer." and he yelled something back but I didn't give a shit. I kept going. I had a ways to run 'cause my trains were out, left me farther from my house than usual. I got to my lobby and ran to the elevator. The door opened and I screamed "Fuck my head!" as the door was closing. I got to my apartment, drank half a bottle of wine and now I feel fucking fantastic. And I guess this whole post is really only to say that I never thought I would get close enough to trust him as much as I did. So yea fuck it.
I am my own best friend bitches!

The Beatles are crackling under the metal needle, and the air is scented sweetly with opium and lavender. The amp is buzzing low and my mind is nowhere to be found. The words on the pages of this old book are rolling by my eyes. The Fabulous Four sing about love, "and that is alllllllllll..." and the smoke dances in circles around my head. The book is nearly reading itself, while Hendrix and the Prisoners of War watch with fascination. This is something they have all seen before. This psychedelic trip, made of all things sober and wandering, is here! Right here in my living room! The bass is warm and welcomes listeners, while it drones out a familiar tune. I could ramble on a beautiful Sunday Afternoon*, but I've got no place to go and no time to keep. The carpet on the floor is sitting still, while the floor floods around it. Jefferson waits off to the side, after the Rubber Soul is done bouncing around. Central Park is a glistening dot far off in the distance, and New York wreaks of youth and opinion. Artwork and twisted shapes and forms flow with ease all over the city streets while Bob Dylan and his fans sing about change. The museums have opened, and put these times on display. The theater is calling from somewhere far off, with pictures of lights and colors exploding over the sidewalks. The chalk is still fresh and the ringing voices have not yet subsided. In such a small room, with such far out vibrations and sittars to complement the vocals, it's hard to wrap my head around. Our hair has been cut, and someone stitched up our pants, leaving lines and seams unfinished. The hollow sounds of the acoustic rebellion have been muffled to a dull memory. The green fatigues and the rally for peace are hanging in our closets. Morrison Hotel closed down years go and the spark in our eyes is nothing more than a dying ember, gasping ever so hard for air. Elton John and his dancers put away their ballet shoes. When was this reckless fire tamed? At what point did that wave that Thompson spoke of come crashing down and finally break? Was it us? Did we single-handedly destroy the voice of our nation's body? We, and by we I don't mean me, were surfing on a wave so high you could kiss the hands of tomorrow and not worry about whether or not the fall would hurt. No body cared. And while they were too busy not caring, the radio spat out songs about the deepest kind of love and proved that electricity only works well with guitars and turntables. Now it's a different game. As if the field was painted over and the teams all drafted* new players. Still though, people hope. People like me, who don't mind a hint of carpet and decorative smoke in their rooms. Paul is still on my side and my guitar is still buzzing low. My hair is cut and my pants have been stitched and sewn. The words on my book only go to show what once was and will never be again. It's okay though, really. History will find its way back home, into the lost world of psychedelic colors and lost thoughts in the cavernous mind. Someday it will, I'm sure.

*Sunday Afternoon - That feeling you get on a perfect Sunday afternoon.
*Draft - A pun.

So I got off work today, walked across the street, and went to work. I might have to hold down two jobs for a while because someone called in a favor. I still get paid for both. I might have to get very used to working 13 hour days for a month or so. All this means is that I will have huge bags under my eyes, develop an acquired taste for coffee, and chainsmoking will be a must. My social life is going to hurt a lot.
On a brighter note, I can't wait to shower, shave and get into my fucking bed! I have to be up in 8 hours to do all of this again, this is not fun at all.

Yesterday: Started my job. The work was easy but the day dragged on for as long as humanly possible. Went to see Kat out in Fo Hi after work. Twas a good time. We hung out in Station Square with a bit, called her friend Marrisa (who is such a sweetheart, in a group of people, but can be very scary when it's her and you, and no one else. I have a feeling she doesn't like me) who bought chips, dip, and glowsticks. We headed over to Matts and got stoned. It was fun. Marrisa and I journeyed back to Manhattan at about 11:00 PM. I got home late. I showered, ate and slept.
Today: I worked, for eleven and one half hours straight. No break, not shit. Just work.
Tomorrow: Thirteen hour day. Working at the Plaza (not the hotel, the building) then off to the shop. What in Gods name gave me the idea that anything longer than an eight hour day is a good idea?

P.S. I'm sorry if misspelled names

An interesting fact: College students are the smallest percent of the voting population in the country.
We also seem to be the most opinionated group of people in the country.
Just throwing that out there.
Moving on...
I've noticed how many bands are expressing political opinions now-a-days. Everyone from Linkin Park to Trent Reznor (because we're on a first name basis, but for all those who aren't, I'm talking about Nine Inch Nails). The whole left wing liberal-fuck-the-war attitude seems to be the new cool thing. And to top this off, Bell-Bottoms are back (only we got creative and called them Bootcut) and the oh so famous classic rock sound is making its comeback. Heroin is, once again, on the rise, and media still runs the world.
MJK once said that he had a suggestion for us: "Learn to swim." Well, Maynard, that's very thoughtful of you. But what I really think people should be doing is reading and writing. I don't mean on a fifth grade level either. What I mean to say is that everyone seems to have an opinion about the current state this country finds itself in, yet all I seem to hear from people are complaints. I'm just suggesting that if people really want to change things they need to start getting loud about it (speaking of which, project A Louder World is well under way). Example: New York state representatives voted Yes on a bill to make the use of the word "Nigger" illegal. Clearly that isn't going to go over to well. But instead of complaining to you about it, I wrote a letter to our reps. And wouldn't you know it, I got a letter back. Of course it was one of those "Dear Mr. Liccione, we appreciate your..." blah blah blah. But the point is, I got a letter back. I framed it just to be able to say "I got a letter back, what did you get?"
Since none of us are famous and in a band (by the way they only do that to appeal to masses, they don't really care) we need to stop complaining to each other, start voting, buy some awesome pants and write. Read and write, often. And for God's sake turn your fucking televisions off!
Thank you