Tuesday, November 30, 2004

The old

I had this odd blurred dream last night. I don't remember much of it, at all. All I remember is I was reading some story, and Lisa Horner and Winter and Mike Mullen, and other such people, were there - something along those lines. That is all I remember. Lovely how I remember so much from my dreams, isn't it? Oh yes.

Lit mag in about half an hour. I'll be reading the 100-word story I posted prior. It turned out interesting enough, I guess. It's the first time I've gotten to talk to my darker side in a while. Really let it show its face. It's been there all along and shall continue to be, but I've been putting it in the back for a long while. But today, I gave into its suggestions.

I need to eat something, so I can make it there on time. . .

I suppose I should mention that Thanksgiving was rather routine, and boring. I didn't overeat at all or anything, either - I just ate what I would for a usual dinner.

When I was in Dickieson (a rather affectionate pseudonym for it, hah), I got a new car. It's a 2001 Honda Civic. Having it has made me somewhat reluctant. I feel pretty hypocritical to have it - my belief is that material things don't matter a goddamned bit, and that it's pointless to buy things and have to pay a payment on them each month because they aren't really yours. Plus, it's better to have some POS car instead - it's cheaper, runs (but maybe not cheaper on gas). But whatever. I've got around $500 left in my bank account, because I gave 2,000 and my mom put down 3,500 (for graduation present). The loan is about $150 per month, and my insurance is way too high at around $180 per month.

My car is pretty damn hot - it's red. I guess I go along pretty well with it too, what with working out each day like I have and all. I'm already seeing results - I have a more defined chest area and such forth. I've still a ways to go nonetheless. But my legs don't - they're all muscle and strong.

Now all I need is a nice dame to go along with all this junk - me, my car, etc.
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Monday, November 29, 2004

100-word story

“I hate you,” said the father, to his son. “I never wanted you. Born from your mother, but shunned by me.”

Wide-eyed he held the baby. It cried. Tears touched his expressively angered face.

“It would be best if you didn’t have to go through this life.” He placed his hand in his pocket. Pulled it out. It shines in the meek light of a moonlit window. “So I will do what time will once; what other forces may. I will take your life.”

A scream. She’s by the door, watching. All she sees is blood falling on the carpet.

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He

He was pissed off at everything today. It was an unfounded anger seething in him, pushing upon his breast like a fine-tuned hammer. He did not know where it had come from; it had appeared so soon and did not let an inch.

He read from his anatomy book. His eyes fell upon the page and the words strung into sentences in his head. The sentences were of little meaning and only incensed him. In sickly struggling force, he slammed his book closed. Pushed it away from him.

He refuses to read it now. He cannot. He will later on, tonight. Maybe then he can make sense of it.

He wants to run until he falls over, unconscious. He wants his breath to leave his mouth. His heart to stop. His mind to dissipate its incessant whiny useless, poignantly stupid, thoughts.

He would like to say goodbye, but the show must go on. He must put on his clothes each day, be the actor, fret and strut upon the stage as an imagined image of himself – as a great Gatsby, as it were. It cannot cease nor let; it is irrelevantly streaming on forever. Only when the curtain palls each night will he have time to unmask, unclothe, and lie alone as himself as well as he knows. Only when the largest curtain of them all palls over him can he no longer exist, and not dwindle in his existence, and feel useless, frustrated anger about the something of nothing.

But for now he stands upon the stage, irascible. Yet there is nothing to take it out upon. So he shall take it out upon the floor of a treadmill later on, and stamp and stamp upon its ground until it breaks.
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Sunday, November 28, 2004

the writer choking on the sputtering feel of words, and wrapping them in black garbage

in this most gracious spacious place i’m walking all around. licking the walls with a tasteless tongue full of unquenchable dirt full of grit and grime and useless hurt. walking through the tome of my time, full of repentances, full of lies. full of wishes and wants and designs. the intricate, the books the tomes the fine wine made from the grapes of lust. the steel banisters of rust, holding this place together as they must. a hopeless hell i’m walking in, a useless knell i’m bellowing within. this is where it all is.

this wall tastes mingled with a culmination of sweat mixed with forget. this wall, it tastes like a pretty flower withering openly in the summer’s hands. this one, it tastes like metal and hing, tastes dull and tasteless and has a little aftertaste of mud. this one tastes like the rays of the sun cut asunder by the shadow of a form, it is reminiscient of light stolen left forlorn.

i walk along and taste upon my tongue like rain falling from a ceasless sky. i furtive over a prodding eye. i cannot see anything but all that’s around me. i hit upon the walls and beckon to be let out. it does not calm me. i am a hamster in a cage running back and forth and all over the place, not getting a way out. i continue to shout.

walls, walls, walls – and walls and buildings and enclosures and bricks and steelwork and overhanging roofs and girders - all of them covering over me in an endless panaormic view, i’m paranoid i’m afraid i’m claustrophobic, i cannot escape this place, i cannot erase it and blank it out, i cannot shout it all away. this is all of me in the warehouse. a storagehouse in my mind. i’m locked inside the key’s gone away.

walking into the kitchen i take out a knive. i stab it on the wall and write my name. i search for a box of matches, and that’s what i find. i take the match and strike it upon the gritty floor. i drop the flame and watch it burst like a star. irascible and burning far.

i’m burned alive and all the paper i’ve written on, and all the tomes of tomes of tomes, and all the walls tasting so different go down. burn to hell. are ruined. all the words i wrote are my tomb. i bury my eyes upon them forever as they’re burned out and away, as i’m turned into ash and go away, whence i came.

---

the feeling
in my nose
is so it makes
you want to
rip out your nostrils
and feel the flesh tear
away and the clogging,
watery, stuffed-up feeling
go away
and all left
is the bones


i shall
describe myself
most completely
in two words
flawlessly designed
by my own self:

“apatheistical anachronism.”

---

there was that one day our minds were taken away. we were bereft of our intelligence, left to wandering around without knowing what we were doing. returning to the ignorance of innocence, our childhood daydream days. walking over we sat down under the shade of the tree. an apple fell, landed at your knees. you took its succulent sweet flesh and took it into your aperture, tasting its sweetness. soon enough time made us wicked, wandering twisted & gnarled again.

---

i am what you want
what you want what you want
me to be
and i am
what you want what you want
me to be
i am something
and i am wondering
where i’m going to going to
be
if i’ll do it correctly
so just take, just take me
please please
make me break me break me
make me
please take me
away away
from here
here, here
escape me shake me
away away
from here from here
from here. . .here
still still still
right here, here
so take me take me
please please
away, away


tired, dulled
this useless hull
this frame support
contort, and abort
all real thoughts
to a uselessness

---

tired, dulled
this useless waste
this worn face
peer, and sneer
at the mirror

---

Fear the fear

---

I
what i feel doesn’t matter
it doesn’t matter
it
doesn’t
matter
it doesn’t matter
what i feel
so kill kill kill
let the blood stain, spill
so kill kill kill
let the blood stain, spill
it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t
matter it doesn’t
matter
it
doesn’t
matter
. . .matter
so, kill kill kill
let the blood stain, spill
and spill
and spill
. . .and spill
. . .until
the wooden creaky bucket
is full of sacrifice
and then throw the blood
to the sky
and with a cry
watch it splat on the ground
and evaporate before your eyes. . .
and eventually the sky will cry
with blood that paints
everything in red
a bleeding boring dead
falling all over everything
because
it doesn’t
matter
what i feel
doesn’t matter
it doesn’t matter
nothing left
to say
pointless, pumping away
the heart has no way
the blood will leave some stain. . .

II
burn, burn it all away
away away away
fall over fireball
burning, fallen
slain
over, over, into this
crematory
burn it to
fine ash, fine ash
. . .fine fine ash
that feels blackened
on the tips of my fingers
. . .fine fine ash
that feels grimy
beneath my toes
. . .fine fine ash
that’s broken burned and past
so fast and so far away
carried away in the wind
sweeping through
the fire
weltering and sweltering
beneath a smog sky
burning burning burning
burn all day, burn all day
burn away burn away
never stay never stay
don’t come back come back
this way don’t stay burn all day
burn away never stay burn, burn
all day all day
away away
so fast, and so far away away
so far far away
burn burn, burn
all day away
to fine fine ash
. . .fine, fine ash

III

oh, oh, oh. i don’t know. where’s there to go? what’s left to show? oh, oh, oh. let me go. let me know. let me grow, grow, grow. oh, oh, oh. to grow to wilt to sow, to reap what you owe. oh, oh, oh. nothing left, nothing left to germinate or show. so low, hanging on the ground. looking around. oh, oh, oh. roots crossing over to the side. grasping with coughs in desperation, but there’s nothing to find. oh, oh, oh. oh no. oh, oh, oh. oh no. falling over, slanting down, going down, going down. drooping, looping around and around. . . falling, falling, weaker and less full of life. to the ground: to the ground. a dying flower has no reason to be around. falling into itself, dying without a sound. let it go. oh, oh, oh. no reason to hold myself up any longer. just a monger letting go, like all the rest.

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Wednesday, November 24, 2004

manicured

Popularity Ranking # 69 (out of 15,585 active sites)

---

In summary, I haven't been posting because I haven't had the urge or desire, and I feel I don't really have anything to say at this point.

My days have consisted of waking up, going to school, getting off of school, working out, going to work, getting off work, doing homework, going to sleep.

Last week I worked five out of the seven days, and on the two days I had off I had school. I also worked the weekend, and on Sunday I worked the whole day (ten hours).

Yesterday I worked there for the only day I have to work there this week, and cracked and went pretty crazy. But in a good way.

I guess it was an equal exchange to work most of last week so I can have these four days off (Thurs., Fri., Sat., Sun.). Last week was still hell for me, nonetheless.

This shall be the first time in months I've had a span of days off completely, where I can just lay back and not do a thing. Because usually when I don't have school I have work, or when I don't work I have school. And usually I don't even have a weekend because I work a large amount of it. Plus there is the homework that goes along with school, and although I'm one of those that do as little homework as possible, it takes up some chunk of time.

I feel extremely bad because I haven't had the chance to write much of anything for days on end. Although, I did write about three poems last night.

I just don't feel the spark, or the desire. Other things are taking that away from me (cough, work, cough, school). And in a way it just feels pointless.

I need to get going on my novel again. It is still only 9,000 words. I have some ideas of what I want to do in the oncoming chapters I'll write, but I haven't gotten to it: I've been dormant dead.

A lot of my classes and working in general is becoming dull and trite.

In AP English, we're just been "analyzing" The Great Gatsby for days on end. It's gotten quite boring for me. Although analysis can be fun, I feel it gets cumbersome, and gets in my way of the enjoyment I got from reading the book. Even so, it's a very well written book, and its message and what it is as a whole is good.

What's made AP English fun at other times is when we have poetry fridays or Mrs. Beaudoin lets us have study days. On these days, I'll bring something I've written with and read it to the entire class.

Last Friday we had a study day because many people were gone. So I brought with "Meety Your a Pock a Lips" and my letter to my child and parents, and read them. I ended up reading the whole period, and a enjoyed it. Everyone else seemed to have enjoyed it, too.

Beaudoin tells me I have immense talent and that I should enter some contests, and other things. It isn't something I haven't heard before, and I guess I should start submitting to contests. It could get my name more out there, and perhaps if I ever do finish my novel, and go through the revising process with it (which I'll do, even though I can't stand it), then I can get it published, somehow. Who knows, anything's possible.

Economics is another dull class. Probably the most dullest I've ever had, although Drivers Ed. gives it a run for its money, I guess.

So far in the class we've learned about supply and demand, mainly. I don't know about you, but I know that supply and demand are rather remedial things - they aren't something it takes much to know about to know how they work.

Right now we are learning about taxes and it's also pretty dull. The past two days in a row we've been forced to watch these corny, terribly acted videos about them.

Latin II is okay. I don't mind the class too much, but as you may or may not know, the second year of a language is always the hardest. There are so many things we're being forced to memorize and I just don't have the motivation to really do it. Even so, I'll try to persevere.

The teacher of the class, Ms. Brandt, is a chauvenist and feminist. She also is pretty orthodox in her beliefs: there's no profane language, there's no talking while she's talking (but she takes it to a higher level), and she's prone to yell and bicker at someone for asking simple questions or whatever else. She hasn't been too bad about it lately, though.

Anatomy is a good class, as well. I've always enjoyed science to some extent. The teacher of the class is a very intelligent woman, Mrs. Josart. I don't mind the class, it's just too much memorization. I just don't have the time to commit about forty bones to memory, nor the real motivation, either.

Right now I have a C - in the class because I failed our last test, the bones test. It was because I didn't study, and I got what I deserved.

The chapter we are on now is muscle. The book we have is pretty much a college-level book, and the muscle chapter is forty pages in it. I'm hoping to go for a B at least on this next test, otherwise my grade isn't going to do too well in the class.

AP Psychology, which I have first period, is good. It gets kind of dull, though, because the way the teacher teaches the class is he reads our notes to us. So instead of listening to him read the notes to me, I do it myself, and I read the chapter we're on, as well.

Finally, Algebra II. The class is okay, as well. Sometimes I just can't stand math and other times I can. I'm just glad I'm done with Geometry, because I cannot stand it. Algebra is far easier for me. It's mostly just remembering a certain process and then solving equations with it. It's almost like a puzzle, and you're limited by rules as to what you can do.

Work is pretty dull too: I've been washing for about a month now. And it gets really old, fast. But there's nothing I can do: it's either find another job or keep working, because I need money to save for college and to buy things to entertain myself with.
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Saturday, November 20, 2004

Overblown

"The parallels between Iraq and Vietnam have been overblown, because we were in Vietnam for a decade and it cost us 58,000 troops. We've been in Iraq for nineteen months and we're still under 1,200 killed. But there is one sense in which the parallel with Vietnam is valid. The American people were told that to win the Cold War we had to win Vietnam. But we now know that Vietnam was not only a diversion from winning the Cold War but probably delayed our winning it and made it cost more to win. Iraq is a diversion to the war on terror in exactly the same way Vietnam was a diversion to the Cold War."

- Gen. Merrill "Tony" McPeak.
Air Force Chief of Staff, 1990-94.
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Thursday, November 18, 2004

Letter to Child/ Parents

Letter to Child

Studying our Anatomy together, she says, “What’s this?” grabbing my chin. Her hand feels soft and dainty.

I say, “I don’t know.”

“It’s your mental protuberance.” She rubs my chin now. She says, “You need to shave.”

“I know,” I say.

She begins stroking my entire chin. “What’s this whole bone I’m palpating called?” she asks.

“Mandible?” and she nods her head yes.

“But that’s an easy one,” she says.

I look at her, sitting on the chair next to me.

She’s lovely, beautiful, succulent, pretty, womanly. She has blue eyes of the sea, long black hair of blackened ash. She has thin, almost-not-there eyebrows, slender, shapely legs peeking out from her jean shorts, thin, branch-like arms wrapped around my face. Her breasts lay hiding, as if not wanting to be seen but unable to do so. They are little clusters of grapes protruding lightly out from her flamboyant pink shirt. Her nose is a small, unnoticeable mesh with the rest of her face. Her lips are pouty woman’s lips. She is redolent of a sweetly sickening perfume.

I say, “Yeah, it is.” She takes her hands off my face and gives the smile that’s so her.

She says, “You always did get the easy ones,” her smile changing to a wicked smile. I smirk back at her.

We sit there and stare at each other for an uncountable amount of time.

I break the silence. “I’m not sure about this,” I say

“Not sure about what?”

“College. My major. It’s proving to be harder than I’d imagined.”

She gives a snorting breath and says, “Don’t you remember what they told us our whole lives? They told us we could do anything, as long as we tried.”

“I never believed that, for one moment.” Then I add, “Well, maybe I do every so often.”

“Well all you have to do is apply yourself,” she says, “and then you should be able to at least get by, and get your major, and do what you want in the medical field.” “But sitting here talking about it is getting us nowhere. Are we going to study, or what?”

“Yes,” I say. “And I guess it’s true. If I apply myself more, I should be able to get by. But it all still seems pointless.”

We study more. She palpates the bone in the upper, medial region of my chest. I tell her right away it’s the sternum. Her hands feel good on my chest, inviting.

She touches my ribs. She asks how many there are. I answer there’s twelve. She asks what the first seven are called. I tell her true ribs. She asks what the next two are called. I tell her false ribs. She asks what the last two are. I tell her floating ribs.

She touches the back of my shoulder blade. Asks what it is. I tell her scapula. She asks what the different parts of it are called. “I don’t know,” I say.

She brings over our college textbook. Sets it in my lap. Points. “This is a scapula, of course,” she says. It’s a somewhat triangular-shaped bone. All the parts are labeled. She points to each as she reads them: “The suprascapular notch, acromion, coracoid process, glenoid cavity, subscapular fossa, lateral border, medial border, superior border.” There’s another image beside the scapula – it’s a posterior view. She reads off the other parts of it on this figure.

We keep studying until twelve thirteen, and then we slam shut our textbooks, and grab some water to drink. She then goes to the bathroom, and I stand and stare out the window of her apartment.

A flickering streetlamp, the half moon luminating everything dully, a few cars passing by on the road. The stars twinkling, a few clouds floating leisurely in the sky.

When she comes back from going to the bathroom, I don’t hear her, she walks so lightly. I feel hands go around my back shoulder blades.

She says, “You always did have nice scapulas,” and she turns me around with her hands.

We’re face to face, and we lean in and kiss.

That was the night you were conceived.

---

It’s a while later, she sits on her bathroom’s toilet.

“I don’t see how I missed my period today,” she says. She sounds aggravated and nervous.

“I don’t know,” is about all I can think to say.

She holds the pregnancy test in her hand, and before my eyes it changes the color blue. “Blue,” she says. “What does that mean?”

I hold the package in my hand and move it into my eyes’ vision. I stare at it for a long while, not wanting to say anything, somewhat shocked, but not too much

She says, “Come on, tell me, already!”

“Pregnant.”

On the toilet she gives a face of surprise. “I don’t see how.”

“I don’t, either,” I say. I reel my mind for any possibility. I can only think of one reason that seems valid enough to say. “Maybe,” I say, “the condom broke.”

---

We’re ripping through the trash, trying to find the one lone condom.

Through a crushed and battered Wendy’s cup, I see it. I pull it out. I look it over.

It is broken.

---

She feels pain, racking immense chronic afflicting pain. Pain rattling her as she pushes, pushes, and pushes. “Harder,” says the doctor. “You can do it,” says the nurse. I stand on the sidelines in this sporting event and wait and watch as it is borne from her.

When it does come, it is crying, probably scared, afraid. Its load wail permeates all about the room. She holds him in her arms, too numbed and dumbed by the pain to get a full grasp of what has happened, too tired and inundated.

They cut the umbilical cord. They circumcise his penis. He comes to our house and lies in his crib.

---

The little thing, lying there. Goo-goo-gahgahing. Laughing that laugh. Right now weak and small, one day strong and big, another day weak and frail again, and one day, dead and lifeless and gone.

You should value your youth and covet what beauty you can find in the world. You should not kid yourself that life has a point. It does not. You should not blindly believe in a religion but choose for yourself. You should have humility and be skeptical of everything and anything. You should give value to every person you meet and understand why they are who they are before making judgments on them.

Some days you will hate your existence. You will wish to destroy. Some days you will feel hungering, lusting desire. You will wish to slake your thirsts. Some days you will feel old and rusted and forgotten, a relic from another time. You will wish to sleep forever and live another life you used to have. Some days you will feel all is mechanical, full of cogs and springs and tick-tocks, and you will feel dulled and monochrome. You will wish for color to entrance upon your eyes, to paint the colorless over in a new coat of paint. Some days you will feel a need to hug everyone you see because they are so beautiful. You will wish to know every person on this spinning ground called earth. And some days, and other days, and this day, and that day – and your life flashes before my eyes.

You will stand over the grave of a man once alive you called father. You will have whatever contortion of your face that I made you feel. You will cry tears if they are worthy of crying of me. You will put roses upon the grave if I was worth a flower. You will tell others about me as a needed memory if I was worth memories.

And above all, looking down on my grave on that day when it comes, you will be you – whoever, whatever, that is. And when you are looking in the mirror or walking along a lake and see your reflection, a part of that reflection reflecting back at you will be me. Will you smile to the reflection? Will you give it no time at all? Will you throw a rock into the water, rippling the reflection, will you smash the mirror into shards of hurting, painful glass?

---

“I do,” I said that day. I didn’t love her, but I guess I had to love you – just a little baby, held in your mom’s mother’s arms at the church’s booth.

“You may kiss the bride,” he said. I did. Her lips felt like the smacking on of handcuffs.

Although our lives are squelched with unbearable, chronic pain, we carry it with us because it makes life beautiful, even if it is without point, even if we are but dust in the wind.

I knew the second I took that kiss from her lips, felt us draw apart and leave, that this marriage probably wasn’t going to last. All I knew was you would last, and that would keep together.

---

Letter to Parents

You two are my gods, the only true and real gods I shall ever know. You both had hands at my creation. His sperm and her ovum coalesced as one creating this being now before you. In her, I developed, with her and his genes chanced together to make me what this being before you is. There was no gamble, for even god (and gods, as it may be) do not throw dice. From the moment it happened, it happened as chance, yet as it was to be.

The zygote was formed. Then the embryo. The fetus. I grew in your stomach, a parasitic thing which might as well have been a worm, but wasn’t. I had my nourishment from my umbilical cord. You often talked to me from your stomach, but I could not understand what you were saying, I could not understand you existed. My senses were senile – weak and dulled. I had no clue of the world existing outside of the confines of my little cell where I feasted and took away from you, the parasite you manned into creation.

When my time came to be borne into the world, you pushed and pushed with all the might of yourself. I’m sure your eyes were agonized with pain, your mind was reeling and thoughts spinning around. And when I came into this world, you held me in your arms and I was your child, your son.

I never asked to be created. Born. Made. I was raped into existence, I was forced to be here, to come here. If you would’ve never done what you did that night, then I would not exist. I would have no consciousness. I would not feel pain. I would not suffer. I would not feel happiness as it comes as soon as it goes. I would not know this world and its people.

I was strewn about in this world, thrown into its petty troubles. Its useless spinning, its useless scruples – its heavens and hells, its goods and bads, its rights and wrongs, its blacks and whites. I was an outcast when I arrived, a brimming, teeming thing waiting to be indoctrinated into it. Ready to be made to its ways.

You were happy, holding me in your hands, feeling pain cascading all over, ripping into you and hurting into you. But it was numbing away. It was over. I was born, another forgotten name to live his life in this world and go about his ways, and die just as soon as he was born, no one caring and no one stopping to revel in it.

His name, your husband’s, my real father, it was Tom Smith. When I was three, you divorced him. I have never known him since then.

Presently, I have immerged from childhood an entirely different entity. As a child, I was dumb, stupid, hyperactive. That was a different person who is now gone.

I find happiness in being a pessimistic optimist – meaning, I see everything which is negative in the world, and it makes me happy to know the truth without any brim of anything all too positive. I see the sun and how eventually it will turn into a red giant and swallow the earth, and everything on it, and it makes me happy – happy to know that by thinking my life is rather pointless, it is. I see that people work most of their lives, and it makes me happy to realize this and not believe that working is the main point of life – because I know there is more to life than slaving away for a society which really cares less about me, and more about the higher-ups on its shoulders.

I am cynical at my core, but outwardly I act crazily. I say things others are afraid of saying, I write things which touch my mind and feel I have a tremendous talent with words. I hope to write a novel, and am trying to write it now.

Since my mom’s divorce, when I was three, she has married another man, Terry Staebell. At this time, they are getting ready to get divorced. It is history repeating itself, something so inescapably human.

My step dad, or father as I’d rather call him, has been a good parent, despite many flaws. But, a human is never without his flaws (I am also flawed), for if a human was perfect and smooth and without ridges and mires and canyons, there wouldn’t be any dimension to them. Perfection is an impossibility, and won’t ever happen.

My father’s temperament is of an irascible nature – he is prone to get angry easily, and is as impatient as a circling vulture, wanting a dead fresh rotting corpse to feast upon and be on the way to find another. He also sometimes has gotten physical – but it has never been too bad.

Once, when I was that other person, the kid, I broke a hole in the wall when I was throwing a tantrum because I couldn’t go to a friend’s. The part I kicked and broke was a weak part of wall, but it still was not a good thing. My father then came into my room and saw it and slapped me – it was not a hard slap, but it still had the tang of harshness.

Innumerable times as a child he also would grab me by the shoulder because I would not listen to what he said.

One time somewhat recently, I was in a bad mood and retaliated myself physically. It did not go too well, and felt entirely awkward.

My dad now lives in an apartment, but when he lived here all the time, it was mostly unbearable. Each day would be a new eulogy by him about something I did wrong. I would be told over and over again that I was a “pig” my room was a “pig sty” I was a “slob.” Many times I would go into the backroom of my room and almost be on the verge of tears, but I would not cry because I don’t cry – not since I was that other entity, the kid.

Despite how harsh and brash and rash my father is, it has prepared me for the real world. Because the real world is also near the same. He has also taught me a sense of discipline and a sense of organization, even though I have none. I am a walking disaster, a heaving shoveling mess of piles upon piles of disorganization. But he tried to change that, and was rather unsuccessful – yet I’ve gotten some organization.

My dad is deeply into the Christian religion, and whenever I try to tell him my stance on religion – that I have none, and am agnostic (meaning, I believe our understanding of god is beyond us) he shuts himself out and calls me a fool because I have no faith to fall on. He then gets going on about how “I wasn’t raised” to turn against my religion.

Many times past, when I’d talk to him about other things, he would also shut me out. He would be sitting in his chair, watching TV (as so many other Americans uselessly and wastefully do), and he would tell me he didn’t want to hear “my psychobabble,” even if what I was telling him was something very deep and worth hearing. He’s close-minded, like many Americans, and it makes you feel frustrated. Frustrated that so many people are so indoctrinated and don’t think for themselves.

My mother, on the other hand. She smokes, which I cannot stand. She is rather depressive and inward. At least, that is the impression I get.

For weeks on end, during this summer, she would go to the bars and get drunk with her “friends.” She would end up coming home at 1 or 2 a.m., and stupor in. Sometimes she would come downstairs and bother me in my room. She would ask me to hug her and give her a kiss and tell her everything is all right. Ask me to tell her “I love her.”

My mom hasn’t really been my mom for a long time. I feel like I know her a little better now, but I still don’t know her much. When I was a kid she never hugged me or asked for a kiss. She really wasn’t a dominating force in my life, my father was – and that’s the way it’s been.

I can tell you it is very awkward to suddenly be asked to hug someone you don’t even know and haven’t for a long while, someone who goes out night after night getting drunk, when she is thirty years old and has responsibilities to deal with which are much more important than alcohol.

Their marriage together has been shaky, but this served to efface it even further away. And now we are at this point, where my dad is at an apartment and they’re getting a divorce.

I can relate more to my mother as a person than my father. She is also as creative as I am, and used to do crafts, but has stopped. She also comes off as more caring and endearing sometimes than my father ever could.

I do not really believe in love all too much, nor marriage, due to the two divorces that have happened in my life. I don’t believe in “true love” or “the one” or any such rubbish. If I am to initiate a relationship, I will be very careful about it, and I will not marry easily at all.

At this point in my life, I am rather wild, and I won’t be tying the knot for a while.

Although I cannot really stand my parents most of the time, and I constantly curse this pointless, mostly painful (although it is sometimes enjoyable) existence, I am glad they have given me shelter and food and made whatever part of me is theirs.
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Wednesday, November 17, 2004

Eat Snake

Metal Gear Solid 3: Snake Eater apparently comes out today, and I've got it reserved. During my free period, 6th, I'll be running up to Gamestop to see if it's there for me.

I work everyday this week except I didn't work Monday, so I'll end up playing it later tonight perhaps.
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Tuesday, November 16, 2004

dormant dead

every breath breathless
every sense senseless
every word, wordless
falling from the page
upon the blackness of
a universe too useless
all is nebulous
disassociated, unneeded
pointless, without meaning
and me, with tired eyes
achy joints and my bones
protruding from my skin
and me, brain feeling dead
i am lying dormant dead
everything said unsaid,
every motion motionless
a hamster in cage on a
spinning wheel running, running
still in place, not going
anywhere
i stumble over from nothingness,
i cradle the wishes upon a star
so far, so far
away in the ever-spanning boring sky
every muscle in this formless form
pushes to the future
where dreams die
couldn't fly without any wings,
i dig into the terrain
rain falls uselessly
torrenting, wettening
exercising impunity
feeling its thinning
away
the erosion hangs
the noose for my head,
i would like to sleep
would like to disappear
over the spectrum of all time
but dormant dead i've things to do,
holding imagination in withering, dying
hands
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Sunday, November 14, 2004

Holyfuck, batman!

Well, work sucked mostly today. It was too busy for my tastes. Last weekend was so tame in comparison. But that's because it was the opening of hunting season.

I've been washing for weeks on end. Chris Olson is up on line even though I've been working there longer than him. The main reason is because of that one day, where I talked back to a customer. I guess it's a fair consequence to pay.

I still am tiring of washing. Especially when it is like it was today: you get a prebus cart, with around three stacks of plates, and then you work on that, get it all washed, and then another prebus cart comes, and on and on. . .it just never stops. I worked really hard today when it was busy to keep up.

Seth was my unracker again today. I got him straightened up a bit on how to correctly unrack. We had some fun with it. I kept calling him "bitch" the entire time, since he was my slave.

Closing wasn't too bad today, because Alex stayed behind and helped me close. His car is in getting fixed, so I gave him a ride home, as well.

Tomorrow I work 11 a.m. to close. I asked to work it, because I need the money.

I need to go start reading The Great Gatsby - it is due to be read by the 16th, but I'm too lazy to really read it. But I shall have to force myself. I'm only on page 40 in the book and it's about 170 pages long.
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