Monday, September 27, 2004

Scared? Better be.

Unsex me, here. The only way to do that, it's to ride me like a horse. Give me more than I can take, supersaturate me with it, until I can't retain it. Until I'm about to explode with the energy, the rush. Until all it leaks out, leaves me. Goes.

Yeah, I can walk the walk. That's right. I can also talk the talk.

But most of all, I can fuck the fuck.

That's right.

This is my road to redemption. This is the one I rode. Through it, all my sins'll be absolved, all my wrongs righted. God won't forsake me anymore.

I'll be sexless.
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Sunday, September 26, 2004

You're a Naughty One, Mr. Grinch.

I bet you'd like to touch me right now, too.

But I touched myself, so too bad. You pervert.

Right now I'm getting ready for a jog. It shall be my first jog in a month or so. I've not had the time - well, I take that back. I've just been not using my time efficently. Now I shall.

Working at the Steak Buffet has been physically demanding at times, and from working there, I've gotten a pretty nice body. Not that I didn't have one before, but now I'm more muscular. And I weigh 145 pounds, about.

No, I'm not anorexic. I eat three meals each day. Although, I do try to eat decent. But a little junk food every so often never hurts.

I'm wearing a white tanktop, but it's old and too big on me. I'm going to get a much tighter one from my mother. My hair's in its usual out-of-order status - fluffled hither and thither, with little care as to its place. The girls seem to eat it up - at least, I do.

You know you'd do me right now. I'd sure do myself.

One second thought, I'll just do myself. Sorry, you can't have me. I'm taken, at the moment.

But alas, I'm alone to my sexual urges and desires - there's no one to copulate, fornicate, nor do lechery with. Woe isn't me.

I'm off.
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Saturday, September 25, 2004

Choke, by Chuck Palahniuk

I finished this book a while ago. It's honestly the best book I've ever read, to me personally.

I like how it's so different. . .how it really has no plot. How random it is. How quirky it is.

I just love it, and it's one of the funniest, best books I've ever read.

I really, really, really recommend it. Get it at the library, whatever. It's worth it.

I have some sites where they have excerpts of it. Check it out, please, and tell me what you think.

This guy's a fucking hilarious writer. I mean, God. He's so great.

Excerpt from a later chapter in the book. It's about Victor, and his job he has at a museum, acting like he's in the 1800's.

The first chapter of the book. It's not as good as the book as a whole, but it gives you a feel of what the book's like. Good stuff, good stuff, good stuff. Check it out.

If I were to write a novel, it'd be something like what he writes. All nihilistic and satirical and pessimistic.

I'm reading Invisible Monsters by him right now, very slowly since I don't have time. It's just as fucked up and great, too. Although, not as great as Choke.
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Thursday, September 23, 2004

Circle

Your life's just a circle. One big circle, spinning, going through its finite space.

Now, imagine a circle. Make it as big as you want. The bigger, the more longer it'll last. The more space it'll take up in all history.

Even if you make it pretty big, you might as well still be just a speck.

Imagine cutting this large circle into three even pieces.

One piece of this, 1/3, is devoted to work. Is wasted on working. I'd account school in here, as well. School is inasmuch work, because by going to school, you get a diploma (if you stay in), which allows you to get a much higher-paying job.

Although, you actually learn something worthwhile at school, sometimes. Perhaps you will, or do, at your full-time job, as well. But the job definitely must get old after enough years. It must get to the point where you're tired of it. Where you don't care.

The second piece of this circle, another 1/3, is for sleeping.

That's right - we sleep away. And we could sleep less, in some cases. It depends upon the person, but it's likely we could sleep less and be active more.

Sleeping, unlike working, is a requisite in our nature. It's naturally-occurring. It's got to happen.

Without at least some sleep, we'd not be able to function as human beings.

The final piece of this circle, again 1/3, is when we're actually alive. When we do as we wish. Do what we please.

Most Americans (I'm not certain of other nations) waste their time doing inane forms of entertainment.

TV is a principal example. Americans love their TV.

They'll watch the idiot box for hours on end. In fact, on average, teens watch more TV than they do schoolwork.

There's many other things one could do, with that 1/3 of your life for whatever you want. Most do waste it, though, it seems. Waste it doing nothing too healthy, nothing that gives much.

And because of Americans, and their inactivity, we've got the Carb Diet.

Carbs. They're a neccessary form of energy in our bodies. Without a decent amount, our bodies can't function as well as they could.

The only true way to get fit, and stay fit, is through eating well, exercising mostly every day.

Fitness doesn't end once you've slimmed down. Fitness lasts an entire life. It's a neccessary thing if you want to live to be as old as you can, feel good as you can.

So there you have it. That's the circle of your life.

Work, sex, die. Whatever you want to take it as.

Our circles are just other cogs in the machine that's life. And our cogs needn't be functioning for everything to continue on.

We're here, and we do what we can.

But we do waste most of our lives doing what's to me a waste of time.

I never accept this, either. I don't look at things, and think, "That's just the way they have to be." No, it's not the way they have to be. It can be changed. If people just open their eyes. If people are diplomatic. If we work something out.

Things could be worse, in this world - but I think they could be better. I think there's betterment out there somewhere. It could happen. Maybe it will happen.

What'll it require? I don't know. A different form of economy? Government? Democracy and Capitialism isn't bad, but the entire prospect of working around 1/3 of your life at some job you'd likely rather not have to do. . .does it sound good? To many, no.

But you accommadate it, nonetheless.

Americans themselves, are pretty apathetic. They aren't deep-thinkers. They don't analyze situations as hard as is possible.

Just look at this: of those who are able to vote, in the presidential election, many don't.

I don't blame them. Popular vote has a miniscule meaning in the lay of the election.

It's the electoral college that matters.

I think we should change this system.

Imagine if Al Gore had become president, as the popular vote had deemed him? What would he have done at Sept. 11th? Would there even be a war in Iraq?

This country's based on a government by the people, for the people. Yet the people's vote doesn't matter but a little bit.

Although, I do understand there's people to represent you, to vote in the electoral college. But it's not a system that works.

Also, there's the two-party system. Many are set on being either Democrat or Republican, and blindly vote for their chosen side.

Most don't even look into the person they choose to vote for. They don't look deeper in and analyze.

I think there shouldn't be a two-party system. I think it should be more open-ended. I don't have an exact idea of how it would work, if it were changed, but it definitely could be improved.

I think it shouldn't be so hard to run for president. At this point, it's like Hollywood. It's not even a president I'm voting for, just some figurehead. Some idiot that's going to make some mistakes, likely.

It's a popularity contest, in a sense. Whoever looks the best, gives the best lies, gives the best false face, will win.

It's not even really about the direction of this country anymore. Nothing's too progressive. Things are much the same as they were around the 1800s, only there's modern-day problems. Different things which are repeats of some things in the past. History repeating itself.

The fact that the Iraq War is happening shows you how little control the American populous really has over the country. How much they don't really open their eyes. How little they see in the way of things.

We don't dictate much of what happens. We get some say, but the bottom line is the politicians that control the government.

I've never supported the war in Iraq. Yes, it's good we're helping out Iraq. But does this mean we want to help every country out we possibly can?

I support the troops. I see in the somewhat near future, they'll re-open the draft. That I might end up being sent. If that happens, I'll go to Canada and burn my card.

I'm not going to die in a war I've never believed in. Nor fight. I respect those who think the war is right, but to me, it's turning into another Vietnam in many senses. Mainly from there, a mistake.

The main reason Bush's doing what he's doing in Iraq is for the long-term. He figures if we show who's boss in Iraq, make it a Democracy, make life better there, that the Middle East will stop its hatred of us.

But that shall not happen. Religious hatred is a deepest root, which won't be loosened from its soil easily.

All I've got to say is, use your pieces of your circle you've got well.

I'll try to do the same, and do what I can to not have to work too long of my life away.
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putting in ground

putting in ground deadly
the open fallings
through fielding lanes

pushing off wildly
the garments worn
on the crooked mantel
this painting has no strokes
the paintbrush is pointless
the paint is losing precedence
the staying hand is losing artistry
there is no reason to create

putting the last sift of soil
in the last dug hole
with the shovel’s steel
this was me here, in the ground
the body of the dead me
never to be seen again

tearing to pieces
the canvas
naked in white
not a thing to see on it

patting the soft earth
in repose with the shovel’s steel
no remorse enters these bones
this is me no more
what stands there, with the shovel
is me in my body
but i might as well be dead

throwing the mantel
out the window
glass broke to shards
picking up singly by hand
the bleeding red
comes from cuts and scrapes
pain bears no meaning anymore
let it fester, scorn and swarm
all over this machine that is my body
like nothing before

i’ve thrown it all
away
no reason to keep any of it anymore

one-by-one
i throw all my paintings
all the memories beared witness to
out the window
that’s
already broken

how they land where they land
if they break if they stay well
i do not care i never will

this is
all
in my head

it might as well
be real

more real
than this place
i feel

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(lost is this poem. . .forever)

hope supplanting itself
deep in woods full
of darkest

the barks of trees
the call of wild
the sounds of nature
the ants armying through
the holes dug from the shrew
the caterpillars, changing in cocoon
the twittering birds, nests of hay
the shrubs, foilage, weeds
all of these
inevitable to die
but still alive

here hope lingers
but deeper in, going within
the dunnest parts
where silent silence
makes meddle to noise
dwells what try as might to avoid
seeming like an endless devoid
whose black wallows decay
seeking forth to destroy the day
with it, all the forest
the dryness has its way

rain dare not cry
rain dare not try
the sun dare not blind

---

I had all of this poem written here, just now, but then, of course, when you write something that's fucking amazing, it never seems to post it.

This is all of it I have, now, and it stands very doubtful I could do what I've just done.

So fuck. And this is all I have.

When you lose something you've created, just gave birth from your mind. . .that's [one of] the worst possible injustice[s]. It just feels like you've missed a part of your psyche that's physically conjured itself up in the form of words, forever.

Oh well. Please tell me what's here suffices for something amazing?

How I wish I could give what I had before, though.

Also, I'd like to point out something I found interesting. . .something that happened subconciously.

A shrew is, of course, the mouse-like rodent. . .but also, a shrew is a woman, a bad-tempered mean one.
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Tuesday, September 21, 2004

the face whose. . .

the face whose
lines lined with petals
of liken to flower
whose mouth mouths
words with most meaningful
thought worn best with
mind-mannered interest
letting out them from within
the deepest sanctum of their
doors inbred inside their ribs
where the heart collapses a beat
upon a bleeding need

this face whose place always
is askew with smiles lightening
upon the shadows hiding deep
in the darkened
wasn't touched with the finer
judge saying, "i am happy"
today

realizing, a man such as i am
looked upon this teacher's displace
thinking, "when those who are happy
aren't happy
it hurts

"for those who are happy, despite
the underwhelming pull-down of this world
in truest form are stronger-willed
than i could ever hope to find."

so let us,
good actors in the face of fate
wear happiness that shines
even though deeper within
the curtain pall of our minds
emanciated feebles
beat bruises and make us see
the unfair crime
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Sunday, September 19, 2004

Writing this has made me that

I feel tired. Don't know why.

Went for a walk. Listened to Manson's Mechanical Animals. Headphones are broken on one side, with tape to keep it on. Couldn't hear it too well.

Hot and muggy out there. Couldn't stand it. Walking made me more tired. Only went halfway, then came home.

Time catches up with you. Always does.

4:20 p.m. Soon enough, it'll be 4:45 p.m. That's off to work.

Just this one more day of it. Then I get off. I can do it. I can do it I can do it I can do it I can do it I can do it. Stay positive. Pessimistic optimism.

Am I dead yet? Felt like I wanted to be dead the last few days.

I'm not. Got seventy more years of this. Maybe more. Probably less.

Notice how those that die young are remembered young. Their image is what they were when they're young.

Example: Jim Morrison.

I'm an attractive, sexy man now. But time'll kill it. Time murders all.

Time'll make me an old, mean, crooked, wicked man. Wait and see. It'll happen. I'll be a Scrooge, going around. Saying, "Bah humbug," at everything. As if everything's Christmas.

Speaking of Christ. I'm being crucified more readily on my cross as we go along.

Drove by a church eariler today. Said, "Got Purpose?" on it. Said to find purpose at the chruch.

What a lie.

My purpose is to have no purpose.

And if I've got to give a purpose, my purpose is to die, ASAP.

To save us all time, don't read ASAP's letters one-by-one. Read it like you'd read "a sap," only without the space.

You yourself are such a sap.

Love me, hate me, what's the difference?

Guess that's a suitable end. Maybe not.

Just don't give me a gun right now. I'd kiss it and it'd make a virgin forever out of me.

Decided to put my mood at devious. Writing this has made me that.

The whole gun ploy would be bad. Need to fuck some nice lady before that.
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Thoughtless thoughts.

My arms ache. My mind feels like it's barely functioning. I can't concentrate. I realize it's 11:30, and that if I'd've closed, I'd've gotten off about this time. But I didn't close. My dad got me to trade with Chris Koontz, so I could go to a movie.

The movie was lame. I didn't even see the movie. I couldn't concentrate. I watched the movie but it gave me nothing. It was just images. It meant nothing.

I'm in misery. I feel like I want to cry. I'm too strong for that. Through the whole movie, I thought about how I'll ask Chelsea Lee to go see a movie with me, or something. I realize how desperate I am. How that she'll probably say yes, but I don't know what'll happen from there.

It would be nice to disappear. But that isn't happening. I'm stuck in this humdrum existence. There's no turning back now.

I wonder where I'll be, in the future. Who I'll be. What job I'll have. I wonder if I'll become a famous novelist. When that thought comes to mind, I don't think it'll ever happen.

I realize I don't look forward to the weekends anymore. It's busy at the Steak Buffet on weekends, and I always work each day of the weekend, at least 5-10.

Today felt like murder. Towards the end, I was tired. I was washing.

I need someone. I want someone.

I wonder what it feels like to kiss. I wonder what it feels like to love. I wonder why I'm even alive.

I wish I could control my life. I wish I could only live in the good parts.

I wouldn't want to know everything. I wouldn't want to control everything. It'd make it boring. I just wish I could get past this part of my life. Go to a part where I have something more than myself.

I don't want to remember working. It's gone. It's as if it never happened.

I should get a different job. One that pays more than a little over minimum wage. One that isn't so physically demanding. One that doesn't take so much out of me.

Not that it always does.

I wish everything would stop. I wish it wasn't the weekend. I wish I was at school. I wish it was Wednesday or Thursday, when I don't work, only go to school.

I'm running out of things to say. I don't even know why I said anything.

Everyone has their problems. Everyone has their own set of eyes. Everyone has a different heart. It beats different than mine.

Everyone has their own self. Everyone sees everything from themselves.

I think I'll go to sleep.

I think first I'll write something.

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Friday, September 17, 2004

Oedipus Complex

I
Mommy and Daddy were at it. In each other. Giving in. Getting the emotions out. Feeling burning passion. Doing a catharsis. Having it. Twisting and writhing and touching and feeling each other.

Then Mommy felt it.

Then Daddy felt it.

She outpoured the immense feeling racking her whole body in an articulation of pleasure.

His face tightened and strangled.

These two are just machines. That’s all.

Machines built by other machines to make more machines so those other machines can make more machines.

The things with tails are in there. It’s a fight for survival. They’re trying to make it to the ovum. Trying to make a zygote. Trying to fulfill their purpose.

One makes it. That’s me.

II
She pushes and pushes. Pain racking her body. Her part is showing. My head is coming out of it. It’s something much bigger coming out of something much smaller. She pushes and pushes. The doctor tells her to push harder.

I’m out of Mommy. Full of blood. With that umbilical cord. The cord which was my life support all the time. Which let me grow.

They clip off the cord. I’m wailing in Mommy’s arms. What a puny excuse. I don’t know what’s in it for me, don’t even have the clue. I’m crying now, but over nothing.

They circumcise my penis. My sole meaning of living. It wasn’t then, and won’t be for a long while. But it will soon enough. Give it sixteen years. Maybe a little more. Then it will.

I’m a fat baby, like them all. Puny, helpless, weak, and stupid. I’m in my Mommy’s arms. The first few minutes of being alive. The first few seconds of the hell, as we know it.

There isn’t anything more you could ask for.

But maybe there is.

They name me Eddie. My middle name’s Rent. Last name’s Benshaw.

Eddie Rent Benshaw. A terrible name for a terrible man. Not then, but soon enough. Give it a few years. Give that little twerp, that little useless excuse for a life, give him a bit. You’ll see. Wait, and you shall see.

III
Eddie is fifteen. Eddie doesn’t remember being a baby. All he knows about it is what he’s seen from the projector movies his parents made.

Eddie watches these videos each day, paying especial attention to his Mommy.

In the video with his Mommy giving birth to Eddie, Eddie notices what a nice thing she has. He wonders at its beautiful shape, its perfection, how the hairs are coarse and oh-so-nice. Eddie notices those nice legs, too. He thinks what those legs are like wrapped around you. They must feel sleek and oh-so-right, Eddie thinks.

Eddie watches the video with The Dog, Danfer. Danfer’s a terrier. In the video, baby Eddie goo-goo-gah-gahs with a small ball in his hand, and tries to throw it. Little baby Eddie is a puny excuse for a baby, and doesn’t throw it too far. It lands a few nanoinches away from his weak hand. What a loser.

The Dog is a good sport, so he goes after the ball. His tongue pants out of his mouth as he pounces on the ball. In a blur of speed, it’s in Danfer’s mouth.

Mommy can be seen a ways away, walking back on the sidewalk with the mail in hand. Eddie likes her hair. It’s nice and long, blowing a little in the weak wind.

She gets closer and closer. Puny little Eddie starts crying, since he’s all in a fit because the dog took the ball from him.

Mommy picks up little baby Eddie. Eddie notices her breasts jiggle as she does it. He likes the fluidity of the movement.

“Poor Ed-Ed, don’t cry, honey,” Mommy says, kisses crying little baby Eddie. Not on the lips, but on the cheek.

The reel ends. It’s over.

Eddie wonders what it’d be like to be kissed on the lips by her. She has full rosy-red lips. Kissable lips.

It would be nice.

Eddie puts in another reel. This one’s their vacation to Disney Land.

Eddie’s hand escapes into the great beyond of his pants as he stares at Mommy’s fine ass as she walks. It’s so fine. He’d like to have it.

It starts to move up and down in there, to and fro.

Eddie knows he can’t always have what he wants.

But someday.

IV

Mommy told me about it. About when I was three or two. She can’t remember the age for sure.

She took me to a psychologist. He looked like you’d think a psychologist would look.

Big white beard, big round glasses. Gray-white hair. Wearing a nice white suit. White and pure as a ghost. His name was Dr. Jons.

Mommy said this psychologist told I her I was developing the Oedipus Complex.

That’s when you decide you want to marry your Mommy and kill your Daddy.

When the psychologist looked at me through those eyeglasses, with those beady eyes, Mommy said he asked me, “Do you want to marry your Mommy?”

“Wes,” I said. “Ihw’ve aways wantted two.” Mommy said she had a laugh about that one. She couldn’t believe what an Angel I was. She was always calling me her Angel back then, she said. Angel Ed-Ed. I was her kingdom come. All she could’ve asked for.

Then he asked me, “Do you want to kill your Daddy, Eddie?” Those accusing eyes. Those beady eyes. They were on me, Mommy said. She felt my tension.

“Kwill?” is what I said. I didn’t even know what it really meant. I said, “I dwon’t no wat dat mweans.”

“It’s when your Daddy is never your Daddy again,” he said. He said, “It’s when you never see your Daddy again.”

I said, “Ih dwon’t wike my dwaddy.” I said, “I dwon’t noe doh. Iht’ed bwe nice witout hwim.”

The White Psychologist said, “That’s all, Eddie. You’ve been a good boy. You can go. Your Mommy will be there in a moment.”

I left, and from then on I was diagnosed with the Oedipus Complex.

Had it ever since.
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