Thursday, March 25, 2004

The Man Who Sold the World

I have been in a strange mood all day. It is a strange good mood, though.

In Latin I was making sexual innuendos fly like they were birthday balloons let into the sky by a birthday boy. And this birthday boy had already eaten his cake, and now he wanted to open his presents. He wanted a big present that was the most special present of them all. O_o [*realizes he never uses faces in here. Mmm. . .interesting.]

I am very unserious right now. My homework is in front of me, and Mitch is going, "Mitch dun wanna do his homeowork! Nyah nyah nyah! Mitch wanna go fer walk and haff fun, an take a shower too! Nyah nyah, stoopid homeowork!"

O.o

I think I've become insane. I think this is the last egg that's cracked in my head and now it's being scrambled in a little dish and now it's being fried on a pan that's full of oil and butter. Mmmm. Butter. Butter is good stuff, nice and fattening and yellow and steaming. And now the scrambled egg's being served at a dinner table. Stab stab, scrape scrape as the fork goes into me.

I've cracked the last egg and now it's being eaten.

O_o
o_O
O_O
0_o
o_0
o_o
O_o
o_O
0_0
o_0
O_o
O_O

Yeah. I think I'll go take a shower now, then, and then force myself to do my homework.

Sex= Latin for six.

Facit= Latin for "he makes."

Those Latins were pervs.
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Let down and hanging around crushed like a bug in the ground.

I've noticed I've been using fuck a lot lately in here.

I'm sure there's those among you who are "offended" by it and think it's "explicit" and that for using it I am being "ignorant" and "demeaning."

For those of you I make this post.

I use the word fuck in about four cases. And I have reasons for using them in these cases.

1) I use it to show emphasis, show I feel strongly or am feeling strongly (e.g., "Trent Reznor is a fucking genius"; pretty much anything in my last post).

2) I use it to show a high level of hatred for something or someone. To show that I cannot stand it. (e.g., "You're a fucker, etc.)

3) I use it as a highly sexual word for sex. (e.g., "I would like to fuck her).

4) I use it just because I feel like it, and because it goes well with my mood, and I find it funny to use a word that offends people and brings about controversy (e.g., look back in here for my post where I posted a quiz about the word fuck then made an entire post dedicated to the word in there).

In the end, fuck is just a word, my fuckren. That is all it is and it cannot hurt you unless you let it hurt you and you let it with open arms and without an eased understanding that I don't just use the word for no reason. I have reason. And when you have reason when you're doing something, it is justified and it is right as far as I am concerned.

The post before this one means a lot to me.

It is intimately personal as well.

I talk about masturbation. For those of you who are "church-goers" and may think "it is a touchy subject" and that "it is something that should be kept to ones' self," I say I don't care what you say. I come here to post whatever I want. That's the beauty of it: I can talk about anything and you don't have to read it if you don't want to. And anyway, we all masturbate, unless we're stupid morons that don't let ourselves. We all masturbate or have sex even if you're afraid to admit it.

Well, I'm not afraid to admit it.

There's this whole notion in America today, and has been for a long time, that sex is something personal and that it is something that should be kept away from children's understanding and kept off of TV and all this. The American psyche on sex is basically this, although it is loosening up: "Sex is a personal thing as well as something that shouldn't be talked about in public or anywhere."--you see, there's this kind of unwritten rule that you don't talk about sex, and/ or masturbation, and you keep it to yourself.

I say sex is natural, masturbation is natural (no matter what you religious zealots or likewise want to say), and I say that instead of being afraid of something that is like this, I say talk about it freely. Do what you want with it and say what you want.

The legal age to have sex here in the US is 18 years of age. I think it's wrong. I think that as long as someone is mature enough to use a condom during sex and to understand what they're doing, then they should be able to do it.

There's "statutory rape," which isn't even rape. . .it's just having sex when you're not legally able to do so. Why even call it rape? Rape is when you force someone to have sex when they don't want to. . .and that's not what "statutory rape" is, in most cases.


"Statutory rape" is defined as: "Sexual relations with a person who has not reached the statutory age of consent," not "rape."

Getting off track.

My point is, in my last post, I told things like they are and I didn't lie. I let it all out here. I suppose I can't understand how someone will feel from reading it, since it's sort of impersonal, but still, I was honest.

And honesty is something I value a lot. Honesty is what gives something dignity. When something can be honest but be dignified about it.

My point is. . .for those of you who stopped reading the last post, that is fine. I guess you can't take the truth. But I'd like to say I like the truth.

Well, enough of that, anyway.

I don't plan to ever do anything as good as the post before this one ever again, really. That post says a lot of things that I believe in.
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Lucky.

The way I feel right now makes me breathless.

I guess I never knew how much I missed my walks until I started doing it this week.

I walked another two hours and then some tonight. At first there was nothing in it. But by the end I was just walking on and it was all in a haze. And I didn't want to stop.

I listened to Radiohead's "Let Down" about seven times. Then I let OK Computer keep playing. I went though "Climbing Up the Walls" "No Surprises," and basically the whole CD until I finally came to "Lucky."

Radiohead is a fucking amazing band. I want to get some of their music uploaded somewhere so I can share it with you. Those of you that haven't heard it yet at least. "Lucky" holds a very special place in me. It's just fucking amazing.

I wasn't even seeing anything by the last part of my walk. I was just listening to "Lucky" over and over again, and I was hypnotized, I was in a haze, and I kept walking and walking forward and forward, my feet moving mechanically an fast, my head swooning down and everything all hazy.

Images flew by in my head and it was all about wanting to share this feeling with someone. To grasp it and keep it and make someone else feel it. The feeling was passion but it was beyond that. It was desperation. It was a passionate desperation that made me intoxicated with its touching of me. And all my muscles felt loose and my legs ached in the best way. Walking felt a lot like sex--at least what I have expierenced of it. At least what I've done from masturbation. Sex is about using your emotions to just thrust them out and let them out in an exchanging way. What I do when I masturbate is, of course, hump my bed. I'm not sure how other people do it but that is how I do it. And doing it like that just gets you in a hazed feeling. It's just your emotions guiding you. Your mind is free and you simply push your body up and down and you grab ahold of things in a want of feeling and release and exchange and release. It is a primal feeling and when you are truly into it it is amazing.

That is what it felt like, walking. I felt only my primal instincts grabbing me, beating in me, holding me. As I was walking images popped into my head of just going up and down and of what it felt like to masturbate when it felt the best, and I realized this feeling was a lot like that. It was just my emotions I felt. Emotions that were too strong for me to understand and too amazing and powerful to fully ever have. The emotions were so potent they numbed me, they made me keep treking on as I was walking. I wasn't even walking for all I knew. I was somewhere else. It was sensual and spiritual and it had no god and it had no rules and it had nothing but the feeling, the emotions, and the way my body felt all loose, and the way I was walking, and the way it hypnotized me and made me swoon.

I could never get tired walking like that. And when I came to my house I didn't want to stop walking. I wanted to keep walking and screw everything else.

In those moments when I was walking in that haze, nothing mattered but what was happening then. I was living in the moment. Nothing could take that from me. Nothing, not a thing, not a thing at all. It all didn't matter then. It wasn't even in my mind. My mind was clear, numbed with feeling, with real feeling, feeling that is always buried up in other feelings that are brought on by monotony and annoyance and meticulum and tedium. It was all aside.

None of it mattered then but the feeling. I did not care about the future. I did not give a fuck about school. I did not care about living. I did not care about getting a job. I did not care about College. I did not care about teachers. I did not care about Geometyry. I did not care about you. I did not care about them. I did not care about me. I did not care about this. I did not care about that. I did not care about anything and everything but the feeling and how I wished I could share it with someone and how I wished that I could keep it forever and how I wished I could keep on walking forever and keep going until I could no longer walk and I fell to the ground in a deep feeling of being tired. I wanted to keep going and never stop. I was beyond anything I had ever felt or needed or cared for, and I was only feeding off the thing that continues to drive me, the thing that continues to make me live, make me breathe, make my lungs feel like they're taking in true air, make it feel like I'm putting down words in the right way, make it feel like I'm doing it all right. It is the feeling. It is the pain and the elation and the suffering and the conquering and the controlling and the holding and the emotion and in a broader general sense it is being alive, alive and not being interdicted by anything else; not being encumbered by anything else, not being weighted down by anything else.

The feeling is a penetrating one. It gets in you and it takes control and you can feel it in you. And it drives you on. It gives you detrimination, it gives you life, it gives you breath, it gives you everything in a visceral sense that you need: it gives you the crude fashion of your fleshed being. It gives you what you are beneath all the crap compounded cumulatively over the years and years. It is a feeling buried deep away and one that only comes out for the best things, for the things that really matter, for the things that really make you alive.

I feel really sensual, I feel really out of breath, I feel really sexy. I remember as I was walking I would grab my chest and it felt so good; I remember I would feel my leg through my pocket. It's a very sensual feeling. This is the feeling of something beyond passion, beyond everything. This is the feeling you would all live for. This feeling is one that is too far and thin between, one that is snuffed out too often by outside forces, wrecked and crashed by the way things make you be. This is a feeling I wish I could share with someone, anyone, that I could get to know intimately. It is an intimate feeling and it gets inside of you, you can feel it in you.

I feel the need to physically manifest this feeling. To give it off to someone else and have an equal exchange. Instead I'm left with just myself which I've become accustomed to using.

Just, download Radiohead's "Lucky." It's so fucking amazing. It is so fucking amazing. It is amazing because it means so much more than just what it is to me. It's one of those songs that has always gotten me feeling paranormal and outside my own skin, as if I'm floating around and I am feeling the most powerful, impeding emotions that seem like they could never die but do.

Passionate desperation is such a great, great feeling. I guess that is what I would call this if I had to name it.

If I could, I would just stay like this for as long as I could and savor it. I am savoring it but I know that I need to sleep in about an hour and that in the morning it will be gone, just like a subsiding leeching thing that has ungrasped itself from you and left you back to what you have to feel everyday. When this feeling leaves, it's back to the veritable feeling of mechanical reality. That feeling that there is nothing amazing. That everything is based on the laws and the ways of things. That you're to go from this place to this place and do this and do this and learn this and learn this all the day instead of doing what you really want to.

I think what you don't know, what you don't understand, what you can't see, is the most beautiful fucking thing you can ever have. When I learn how animals reproduce in Biology, I find it isn't something amazing like I thought it would be. When I learn that all my body is is a teeming mass of cells fundamentally working together to make me tick and make me function, it is not as good as what I could create with my imagination. When I learn that language is supposed to only be used for education, and that I can't write exactly the way that I want the way I want it when I'm going to be publishing it, or am writing an essay, I find that it just makes me so fucking cut in half and feeling like I'm a dead rock mass floating in the dead void sky with its black holes and its twinkling dead stars telling you there's something more to it but there isn't. I want things to be amazing. I want them to be something that's fucking from the normal shit existence that is this world. I want to be able to feel this feeling that things aren't so mechanical as they are and aren't what we label as "reality."

This is why I write. I write to create my own reality. One that's so fucking better than the one that's here. One that I'd rather spend my time at. That is a reality that has its pain, yes, and it has its anguish, yes, and it has its deaths, yes, and it has every single human brim of emotion: but it is so much more. It is what we call "reality" and so much more. It may be from dreamer that these things are created, but with it I am able to express what I am inside. What I am once you get inside me and feel me and can touch and grasp me and actually feel into me.

That is where the images come from. The images come from another world that lives in me head. That literally exists because I need it to get away from this so-called "reality" of ours. In it, there's maggots turning into flies, there's lips kissing one another and there's a cigar smoking sky, and there's a man named Sylivan Taylor who killed his father and put a dollar bill in his head when he did it, and there's a boy who grew up and was mentally disabled and watched his mother die in front of his eyes, and in it there's suffering and tragedy and pain, and there's acceptance and adaptance and happiness and loving and every single little tiny human notion and thing that I can possibly feel and have known.

The world I create in my head is so fucking much more beautiful than anything thing in this shit world. It is greater and nothing, not a goddamned thing, can steal it from me. Reality can make it fade from me, it can try to rip it, pry it, rape it from my hands, but it will not win. It will never win as long as I can feel like I feel right now. It will never ever win and I won't let it. I won't let it. It'll have to pry my world that I have from my cold dead hands. It'll have to kill me before it can take it.

My Latin teacher says language is a form of communication. I wrote my sentence on the board, the one that said, "The crash turns to the cold boy; the boy is the sky and is nothing as no one." She asked me what it meant. I told her it meant nothing. That it was just me using language.

She then told me that language is abot communication. That it's about saying something so you and someone else can understand it.

I wanted to tell her it's so much fucking more than that to me. I wanted to tell her that words are creation for me, they are release, they are grasping, they are understanding, they are escape, they are everything and all I've ever found that makes me feel something. I wanted to tell her that language is expression to me. That it is exprssion and that sometimes I feel very lost and I feel very alone and I feel I need to write something jumbled down that will make sense out of things. I wanted to tell her that that sentence probably did mean something, but it was for you as a person to find out. I wanted to tell her that without language and how I can use it and how I can listen to it in music, without that I would be nothing. I wouldn't have any power over anything. I'd be a regular person just as stupid as anything else upholding the status quo. I wanted to make her understand that I don't give a fuck about rules of grammar or parts of speech or anything and everything that makes language mechanical.

I wanted to tell her that I've already mastered the communication side of language a long time ago. That English is like fucking breathing for me. It's like putting something in me that feels me up. I wanted to tell her that I don't even think when I put something down, when I put something down to make a point clear or say something. I wanted to tell her that. I wanted to tell her that langauge had long ago gone so much fucking bigger than just communication.

English is my native language. I learned it since I was very, very young. I started reading since I was very, very young. I started building and building and building on it since I was very, very young. I know it down by heart, I know how to use it, and I use it without even thinking a single bit. I don't even see the words as I'm writing them down. I write them one word at a time and I let them come out and I let them breathe and they feel so alive, so very alive and they aren't even words when I use them. They are just pouring and pouring out of me. I don't even have to think to spell most of them. They come freely. It's intuition.

I don't care what anyone says. I don't care what you brainwashed college students have been taught as to the formal and proper ways with language. I don't give a fuck. Language is so much more to me than that. Language isn't some mechanical thing that I can always control and own and have and know. It is something much much much much more than that. I don't see a verb when I write it down. I don't see a direct object when I write it down. I don't see a past participle when I write it down. I don't see an incorrect use of a word when I write it down. I don't see a word that doesn't even exist when I write it down.

I simply see me pouring my heart into something like a fucking madman. I see it and it makes me alive. And when it gets down to being able to know how it works and why it works and what makes it work, that ruins and and that makes it not so special.

It is like that for almost everything else. else.

I am still breathless. My hands tingle. My face tingles. It's so numbing and beautiful.

I think I'll sit here a while and feel this and then I'll sleep.

I love you. I love everything. I love it all. I love I love I love.

There are no flowers on your grave,
there are no chains,
there I keep chanting for the the forgotten names.

You won't make the chains on me. You won't put the flowers on my grave. You won't make me shut up and quit chanting about the forgotten names: about the Poes and Reznors and Democrituses and JFKs, and Bob Dylan's and Ernest Hemingway's and H. P. Lovecrafts and any and all other names and people that didn't just label something in a mechanical way. In a stupid fucking logical way.

For those people, and for you who read this, you deserve to be remember over any fucking other people.

You people are fucking geniuses. You are fucking geniuses and don't let any of those stupid bastards take it.

Wow, my hands are so tingling. I am so breathless. My heart is beating so fast. My face, it feels so amazing. I feel like it's hard to get oxygen. Amazing. It is amazing. Wow.
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Wednesday, March 24, 2004

Happiness in slavery bring the whip to my name.

I finally found this poem! I have been searching for it for a while. For some reason, I just wanted to have it again.

I searched for it in many places:

I looked in my own Word document where I have all my poems. I searched in my LJ. Then, finally, I searced for about twenty minutes now in the Daily Poem Thread on OB. And I finally found it.

Yay. I'll add this to my poem file.

I just like that line:

"Happiness in slavery bring the whip to my name."

As I was looking through the poem thread, I noticed how quickly I used to write poetry. It's pretty insane. I've slowed down a bit now, and I only write about a poem a week, or two a week. But that's because I've been writing stories.

I think I should just start writing poems again.

I was reading over some of my older stuff. Wow. That is what I thought. Wow. And if I could do some things that amazing before, I sure as hell can do it again. . .and improve some, too.

---

You got a head like a hole
I shot it full of fire and hell
And now we eat our bones

The pretty hates in our machines
Make me want to slice the cross you bleed
The pretty hate machine that is all over us
Makes me want to die a death that crushes my ribs

And I still look at all the people
going insane
I can show you why it's going to never change
But I can't tell you why I am slaved

Happiness in slavery bring the whip to my name
Make the pretty hate machine a pony that is tame
Happiness in slavery bring the whip to my name
Make the pretty hate machine
A wound that is skeletal like steel chains

You got a head like a hole
Like a bullet died alone and hit you
And your halo is gold
So tell me why are you so alone
Why do you pray and believe you are lost
Tell me why you bleed for this cross

I can't tell you
why people are insane
I can't show you
how you can do the same
I can't tell you a thing
I am chained

My ribs are cracked
my hair is all over me down to my knees
The brutish ways breathe into me
I breathe them in my lungs and choke

My head is like a hole
Just like you it's so empty and alone

And I can't tell you why
the people are so insane
I can't tell you to do the same

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The Energizer Bunny.

61.2 % in Geometry now. Got 79 % on the test-a C+, pretty much a B. Yay. I'm passing with a D for the first quarter of second semester.

In Newspaper I never do anything. I pretty much didn't even get my story done this issue. I just interviewed Mack and Nick Oberlander and slopped some piece of shit together. I don't even think you can call that a story.

Tomorrow I plan to try to get to Mack and ask him a few more questions, and try to get a photo shoot set up, so I can get a decent grade in Newspaper.

It's funny. The teacher's all on about how we're not taking Newspaper for the grade, and I agree, but now I've found that I hate Journalism and it's a waste of time for me. Columns are all I like to do.

Mr. Winter, our adviser, was gone today and so I did nothing. I never do anything in class as it is.

I was sitting there listening to music and then Cody Arso threw some tape or something at me. I didn't know what it was but I just found out that there was some tape crap in my air. People in my Geometry class had been saying I had something in my hair but I didn't believe them.

Cody Arso's a real jackass sometimes.

He also came up to me and asked if I was done with everything since I was sitting there doing nothing. I told him I didn't care and to leave me alone. I hate it when people get all over you like that.

Then I decided I would take off my headphones and let the entire class listen to David Bowie's "Five Years," and then Cody, being the usual Cody, came over and told me to turn it off. He didn't want to listen.

Cody listens to rap. I cannot stand it and it's terrible.

So then a cool kid named John Bauer and I began playing some music. He played Led Zeppelin's live version of "Immigrant Song," which I had put on the computer.

What a waste of time that class is. I'm glad I'm not taking it next year. Nothing ever happens and I pretty much sit there each day alone listening to my music--that is, of course, unless there's Dusten Unruh beside me. Dusten's a cool guy. He was burned in a fire when he was young, and has a scarred face. When I first saw him I of course didn't think much of him, but now he's one of the cooler people I've met at school.

We were going to see The Passion together but never did. He likes movies and was all on me about Dawn of the Dead. Just a cool kid overall. One of the better people in Newspaper, and I find it easy to strike some conversation with him.

Most often we just complain to each other about crap. He had Mr. Johnson for Chemisty first semester, just like I do now, so we talk about how hard Johnson's class is, and what a cool guy Johnson is despite being Mr. Anal Homework Nazi and Mr. Anal Teacher Person.

Also, I lost the batteries to my .mp3 player. I don't know where the fuck they went, but I had just changed them in History, the class before Newspaper. I'm sure some bastard stole them In Newspaper. Probably Cody, since he was listening to his CD player I remember.

I hate it when people do crap like that behind your back: when they just take something that isn't there and they don't even ask you. They just take it. And then you come back later on and find they took it.

Yeah. I was just sitting here and I decided I'd listen to my music. I push the button to make it play and it doesn't play. I open my .mp3 player and check where the batteries should be, and they're gone. It's annoying. I wanted to listen to my music.

It's time for Chemistry. We have a quiz today. I shouldn't do too bad.

Then it's Latin. That should be easy, too.

I feel really lightheaded. Earlier I felt pretty emotionless and I still feel like that to extents.

Gotta go.
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Piggy

My advice is Attack the man with the shifty eyes for it is lacking restraint.
Take A little word of advice today!
Created with Rum and Monkey's Name Generator Generator.

Well, I need to go to sleep. Starting to not feel well, and I think it's because I need to sleep.

Good night. It's time to do my favorite thing in the whole word: sleep. What could be greater?

That's right: nothing.
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Shut Up and Drive

I went for a two hour and ten minute walk tonight. That felt pretty damn good. It's nice to be back in my routine of walking at least an hour each day.

You see, last year I had started doing this. I found it made me felt very good, as well as it made my legs muscular and beautiful. I find that legs are quite sexy—I like how they can wrap around you, and they're just so sturdy and strong. They're so grabable, too. When you see nice ones you just want to grab them and eat them, like boneless chicken thighs or something.

So. Two hour and ten minute walk. I was mildly tired about an hour and a half into it. My legs were aching a bit. But it was a good ache, one that told me I was, well, exercising, which is good. It's good to be exercising again. It's not that I need to lose weight—I weight about 145 now, give or take—it's just that walking makes me feel better. It is a way to release pent up emotions. And it's exercise, as I said. Which is good any day.

When I was walking I listened to "Closer" by Nine Inch Nails about six or seven times. I listened to the song and I thought of images the song made in my head. I thought about how the song started—it was kind of a thud, then a smack. Thud smack thud smack—that was how the song went. It was like that through the whole thing. The thud reminded me of a heart. I thought of a heart. I thought of it scraping along the sidewalk—the scraping noise being the smack, and the thud being the heart beating itself. I thought of two hearts meeting one another and having sex with each other like animals—". . .fuck[ing] like a[n] animal[s]." I thought it would serve as something to write a story about when I got home. I felt inspired in some sense.

Then I listened to "Head Like a Hole" and tried to think of what that made me think of. I imagined a head that was a like a hole, and got the image of a face that was all black and sunken in. I thought that would serve as an interesting story as well.

I listened to my .mp3 player as always. It was a nice walk. It was probably the highpoint of my day. Again. I plan and wait to do it again tomorrow.

When I came home I felt very lightheaded and I sat down and got myself some milk and guzzled that down. Then I got myself a glass of ice water and sat there, resting a bit. As I was filling up my glass with crushed ice for my water, my dad came over and asked me how many hours I was going to work if I got my job at Video Action. I did not feel like talking about it—that was the last thing on my mind and the last thing I wanted to think about. I told him I didn't know but would find out once I got my interview whenever that happened.

He then asked me how much money I was going to get paid for working there. I told him I didn't care. He laughed at me and asked me why I didn't care. I said I just didn't care and as he was walking away I sad offhand that I wasn't too enthused about getting a job either. I was a bit tired from my walk and felt open. I usually never tell my dad what I really feel about most things. He ends up just yelling at me and laughing and saying I am so naive or that I am so distant or that I am so dense.

It's a lot harder for me to explain to him what I will say here in a few sentences. It's just harder to say because I know that he'll just laugh at me.

I realize that I need a job in order to sustain my life. In order to live. I understand this and I'll adapt to it. But in the end I just don't care and I would rather not work and I'd rather do what I want to do with my life, rather than end up with whatever job I'll end up with after College. And who knows, maybe I'll get a good job after College, one that I actually care about and am interested in. But I doubt it. I've seen the way the world works sometimes, and most of the time things don't go exactly as you plan. I just see working as pointless—you work to get money and then you waste that money endlessly to pay taxes, pay your house, pay your car, and then the rest you use for whatever you want—and then you're supposed to work like this. When I said this in a shortened way to my dad, one that wasn't as well-said, he just laughed at me and said I was so out of touch. As I was bending over to put away a rubber lid, I thought to myself that he was right.

Then my dad said I wasn't expanding like I should, but I was closing myself off from everything. Again, I thought to myself that he was right. I thought to myself that I didn't want my child to die. I didn't want to be like my dad is—my mom is—my grandma is—my grandpa is—my teachers are—I didn't want to be like any of them. I wanted to stay me but I was always changing and there was nothing I could do. I decided I just didn't care and that I was in a good mood and to just let it slide.

I tried to tell my dad he was closeminded but I suppose he wasn't and he was just telling me like it is. My dad then gave me a scenario of getting paid more money at one job, and asked which I would choose. I told him it was obvious I would choose the larger salary and I told him that it didn't matter what I got paid. I would be paid at least minimum wage and that was fine. I should've added that I would take any job I could get as long as I could have it and it wasn't too hard and I could just get some money and experience, but I compacted that to just saying that I was sick of looking for a job and I'd take whatever I could get. I then just didn't care what he was saying anymore. I did not want to stare down this old monster again. I was in a good mood and I didn't want to look at it. I responded to whatever else he said with my mmhmm's. I remember he also said that I can't make a living writing poems. I wanted to say I wish I could but I didn't say anything. I told him that I was just being honest when I told him I didn't want a job. He said that's no way to think and that he can't believe I was thinking like that. He said his usual "Jesus" remark. He said that I do nothing. All want to do with my life is go to school and then come home and go on the internet. I didn't care and was passive and decided he was right. I was useless and I had no pride and I had no ambition.

And I don't. I don't care about school. I don't care about doing well. I don't care about exceeding. I don't take honor in cleaning my room each day and making my bed like my dad harps on. I don't take pride in anything other than my emotions and writing. And the things that I think matter.

I thought over what he said. That I could never make a living writing poems. He was right. I felt writing die in me again and I still wondered, again, why I keep it alive. I still wondered why I keep on saying I want to be a writer when it's something that'll never happen. I just don't know. That is all I can say to myself. All I can do is dream, but the dreams are dead but I keep them alive and smile and grimace and it'll all work out in the end—things always work out in the end, don't they?

I was putting away some knives when I thought of suicide. I realized that I wanted to live, and that when I thought of suicide I was only joking with myself. I told myself it is just me thinking in multiple ways—that I was thinking of my options. And I will choose to live no matter what. And I don't know why. The only reason, I told myself, is because I want to live. I couldn't take my life anyways and it's a stupid thought. What about my parents? They would be crushed. What about writing, what about that, even as useless as it seems to be lately. What about the future.

What about the future? Sometimes I wonder if the future is even going to come. I wonder if that is even going to happen. There is nothing I can do but accept it. Adapt to it.

And that was that. I had heard enough and he seemed done. I was glad I needed to get the hell away from the monster that was the future and what is going to change. I went down in my room and I wrote my story. It was pretty ambiguous but it made some sense. But in the end it makes less sense than it does, and I decided it just reflected my overall feeling and how I've felt for a long time, as long as I can remember since I was a kid—I was confused. I didn't know what the hell I am doing here. I was thinking I didn't belong. That what I wanted was something I could never have.

I am so paranoid and full of fear. Sometimes it hurts too much, no, it always hurts too much and I push it aside and I just say live. Live and do what you can, hopefully something you do will matter. But most of the time I don't do anything that will matter and I see that I'm just your average person. Which is fine and good. But other times I feel I could do so much more, if I could just make a living with my writing. If I could make a living and give people this gift I have to give.

There is nothing I can do, though. The world is too big and I just don't care. I am being twisted and eaten by the way things are each day and it's starting to make me not care and do what it says no matter what. I need to keep the part of me that writes alive and to do that I need to push the uncaring one aside. How long can I do it is the real question it appears.

I told him as I walked down here that I wouldn't tell him how I really felt then. That is why we aren't too close other than I love him because of how he keeps me strong sometimes, and how he slaps me in the face with reality like he did. I told him that I guess being honest meant nothing then.

"Guess I just got to keep myself to myself as always then," is what I said as I walked downstairs. That same old card. The one I choose to open and end everything with, to win everything with. It's the only card that seems to work and not make things be changed from where they go now.

Be quiet and keep yourself to yourself. Be the introvert.

That's me there. That is what I am: I keep myself to myself. It is hard for me to open up to anyone but myself, and opening up to myself isn't even opening up to myself: it is more like looking deep inside myself, and it only makes me go deeper in me and nestle in there deeper too.

There's nothing I can do to stop the way I am, though. The way I am is made by seventeen years of causes and effects now.
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Closer to God

Thud-sssmack. Thud-sssmack. Thud-ssssmack. The sound. That sound. This sound.

It is a heart. Beating. Then being hit. Beating. Then being hit. Beating. Then being hit.

It is a heart. Beating. Then scarping along the sidewalk. Beating. Then scraping along the sidewalk.

Thud-sssmack. Thud-sssmack. Thud-sssmack.

It continues on its way. It is dark. Beside it is a street. Cars' headlights flash. Zoom by. Engines can be heard. Tires spin.

Some streetlamps line the sidewalk. Give out light. They look like beacons. Like small suns.

The heart leaves a trail of blood. It scrapes and keeps bleeding more blood. The trail continues on for miles. Far back all those miles lies a prostrate man on the ground. He is stomach-side up. His eyes are wide open. He wears a white shirt, the middle containing a hole. Blood surrounds it. Slanders about the rim of the circle of the torn shirt. Looking in the hole there is his intestines. There is his lungs. The lungs still move up and down, slowly. The man's ribs are open like two doors. His heart is gone.

Thud-sssmack. Thud-sssmack. Thud-sssmack.

The heart stops dragging itself. In the distance, coming from the other side, comes another heart.

This one is bigger. Moves with more speed.

It makes a trail. Just as the other heart. The trail goes back miles. Far back all those miles lies a prostrate woman, who is back-side up. In the middle of the dress she wears is a hole. Blood has congealed on the outside ridges of the tattered shirt. Inside the hole you can see her lungs. Her intestines. Her lung still moves up and down, like a sac someone uses to hyperventilate. Her ribs are completely broken aside. Her heart is gone.

The two hearts are now beside one another. The woman's heart begins spreading open. When it is done, the heart looks like the nubs of two legs, and a whole in the center.

The man's heart stretches outward. It gets as slender and long as it can get.

The man's heart stabs into the woman's heart, going in through the hole. Inside, the men's heart goes then comes out, goes then comes out. All the while the two hearts keep thudding.

Thud-thud-thud-sssmack. Thud-thud-thud-sssmack. Thud-thud-thud-sssmack.

They move so fast that they smack against the cement and make loud noises. Their thuds continue to get louder. The two heart's blood is coalesced and intermixed. It begins standing in a puddle as they continue to rock back and forth, faster and faster.

Miles away, the man lying prostrate on the ground begins rocking back and forth. His face shows an intimate pleasure. His blue jeans he wears showcases a large outward thrust in its center. His body begins to flesh with color. His lungs suck in and out faster. He grabs breasts that are not there and cradles a body that is not there.

Miles away, on the opposite side of the prostrate man, the prostrate woman grinds back and forth. Her face reads pleasure. Her nipples stand out through he bra and her dress. They are hard. Her body begins to flesh with a pale red color. Her lungs suck in and out faster. She fondles her hands in the air, grabbing a body that isn't there in a passionate way.

Thudthudthud-thud-thud-sssmacksssmack. Thudthudthud-thud-thud-sssmackssssmack. Thudthudthud-thud-thud-sssmacksssmack

The hearts are fucking like animals.

A rush of pleasure touches the prostrate man's genital area. His face twists to an even deeper, more intimate pleasure. He feels the pleasure take control of his entire body and keep its central point on his genital area. The orgasm. It is now. He can no longer hold it back and he ejaculates. His jeans show a wet mark. At the microscopic level sperm flow free on the cloth of his briefs. They uselessly fight against the fabric to try to get through. To try to be what they were programmed to.

A rush of pleasure touches the woman's cervix. It blooms and fingers her outward. Her hips get wavy and a pleasure strangles. It explodes and ends. The orgasm. It is now. Then it is over.

Thudthudhtud-thud-sssmacksssmack. Thudthud-thud-sssmacksssmack. Thud-thud-sssmack. Thud-thud-sssmack. Thud-sssmack. Thud-sssmack. Thud. Thud. Thud.

The two hearts lie there. The man's heart exits the woman's. It shapes back to its regular form. The woman's heart shapes back to its normal state. They lie there, together, looking at the stars in the sky for a while.

Many pedestrians had passed while the hearts lay there, all over one another. None had seen anything. They had continued on their way, as if they saw nothing. And as far as anyone knew they had not seen anything. The only thing they had seen were two ants on the floor, fighting one another it appeared. And that was all. They were red ants, the more observant ones had seen. Red ants: the ones whose bites sting like a fucker, burn on you and seethe.

But most had not even seen the ants. They had not even looked.

Many feet came close to squashing them. None did, as if guided by some force. Each veered away before it was too late.

Lying there, the two hearts' veins suddenly enwrapped each other. They complicated one another. They were now interconnected and served and beat as one. They lay there longer. Writhing here and there, as if they were speaking a language to one another.

Then things began changing. Time began running backwards. Feet began walking back towards the two hearts. Everything replayed, only reverse. The hearts' veins became unconnected. The hearts began shaping back in reverse They man's heart began penetrating the woman's heart. It was out in this time. They began changing back to their usual appearance backwards. They began scraping back to their bodies in reverse.

In another moment, of time, another continuum, the two hearts began to seizure as time kept going forward. It is as if they knew what was coming.

A car screeches directly unto the two hearts. The car had veered out of the way of another car. On the car that had caused the other car to veer, there is a large cross. It is on the top, held there by thick rope. In the cross sits a visceral form of Jesus and a representation of his crucifixion. If anyone had been able to look closely at the cross carried on the car and what Jesus looks like, they would have seen where his heart is it was torn out. That had happened long ago when it had been made. It had been an accident. The driver of the car was a priest by the name of Herberton Dawis. He was approaching his church on a usual trip. He was not paying attention and was thinking about God. The car that had veered was commandeered by a woman named Mary Matthew. When she gets out and the police come, she says it was an act of God that she was able to miss the car.

The hearts feel the cold dead touch of metal. Their veins are severed and crushed. They breathe their last few dying thuds. Then all is quiet. All is silent. In a pool of blood crushed under the car, the two hearts wait. But are never found. They were never even there for all anyone knew. When the police had taken the car and looked under, they had seen the pile of blood. They said Ms. Matthew ran over some animal—a squirrel perhaps, maybe even a stray dog, maybe something else. Ms. Matthew was never able to tell them the license plate number of the car she almost hit. The only thing she could remember was reacting.

In this same time continuum, the two bodies which lie in their areas got up. They had no hearts. They began cutting away their flesh at the same time. From their flesh they fashioned a cocoon. It was not technically a cocoon, but it serves the same purpose of them. In their cocoons they grow wings. At the same time. Their hearts continue to be gone.

When they come out of their cocoons created from their skin, their bodies have disintegrated. All that is left is bones. Ribs. Skulls. The two arm bones, still all intact, are fashioned in the shape of a cross, perpendicular to one another. Both in the same way for the man's and the woman's bones.

Their souls begin rising into the air. They are now closer to God. It was an act of God that they were able to feel each other's hearts. It was an act of God that they were able to grow their wings. It was an act of God that they got nooses above their heads that are attached by a string to their necks and choke them up. The woman and the man meet at the gates of Heaven. They are closer to one another than ever before.

Once admitted into heaven, they find it is not heaven at all, and that they were in a purgatory all along, and still are. In heaven, the gates open, they find each other at their sidewalks again, a good miles away from each other. Each at the same time, they thrust their hands into themselves. The woman does it from behind, bending her arm in a physically impossible manner. Their hearts in their hands, they crash to the floor, and their hearts being their way back to each other, to face each other and fuck once again.

The other continuum of time, going backwards, goes on while all this goes on. In this continuum of time, the man and the woman's hearts go back inside of them. They move backwards, thrusting each other's hearts back into one another with their hands, seemingly mending the hole they created in one another with their bare hands, their fingertips. Time stops going backwards then. The man walks forward at a brisk pace. He is thinking about school and how much he hates it.

On the other side the woman walks. She is thinking about how much she hates her dad and her sister. She is thinking about how much she wishes she could not live with them.

Once walking a while, the two pass each other. The man looks at the woman and finds her attractive. His flaccid penis suddenly erects and hardens. The woman thinks he looks intelligent in a sexy way but is not turned on. They walk by each other without even knowing anything. Without even caring. They are just objects to one another.

In the puddle of blood, where the hearts were squashed by the car, in the continuing purgatory, there is a reflection. In the blood reflects the man walking by the woman and both doing nothing.

As the two hearts fuck like animals, the pool of blood they create glistens. Inside the pool of blood is seen the puddle of blood found at the squashed car, and in the squashed car puddle there is the two walking by each other, not knowing what they could have been and just seeing each other as objects.
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Tuesday, March 23, 2004

Afterimage.

Mimmi's given me a lot of love. Let's give some back, shall we? (On a side note, I need to write a story, and I also need to analyze my own stories, etc, because that would kick ass.)

You are a sun,
star in the sky,
you radiate.

You are a sun,
and a sun undergoes chemical
reactions; radioactive actions.
you burn it all away.

One day
you'll meet a man,
he'll be an Earth,
with soil, atmosphere,
water and land.
You'll shine on him
as you can.

Ultraviolet, radiation light
you'll pierce his ozone,
his atmosphere.
You'll break through
him.

He will be a man who
is round in what he thinks,
keeps going over it all.
He'll be a man who is not
openminded and follows his laws:

He'll follow gravity's rule,
the one that says gravity always wins.
He'll go in certain motion,
the sphere spinning devotion,
the monochrome monotony ocean
of the way he thinks things have to be.

You'll be a sun,
and he'll be a plant,
on the Earth,
in unfertile soil.
Just a seed,
you'll feed
him your warmth
and he'll absorb it.

He'll take your carbon monoxide
then he'll make it oxygen.

You'll give your carbon monoxide
then you'll let him change it to
oxygen.

Photosynthesis, synthesis, synthesis,
the change in the green.
The seed growing,
leaves sprouting, blossoming flower,
rose red thorns.

Rose red
thorns.
Rose red.
He'll have.
Rose red.
He''l have.
Rose red thorns.
He'll have rose red thorns.

You'll let the thorns
pierce.
You'll let the thorns
pierce, pierce
you'll let the thorns pierce.

You'll be the nurse,
quiet and driving the hearse,
with the placenta in you.
He'll live in your womb
umbilical cord sucking through
feeding off you.

You'll be the nurse,
quiet and driving the hearse.
You'll be the nurse,
quiet and driving the hearse.
The hearse.

You'll be driving the hearse,
you'll steer him there,
and you'll make him grow
from your womb, in his cocoon.

On the outside he looks
like a grown man
but inside he's a child.
You'll make him grow
but it won't be so futile.
He'll be more of himself
all the while.

You'll be the quiet nurse,
driving the hearse.
The hearse to lay him down.

And when your star, in 6 billion years,
grows big and large and you engulf him
with your heat,
and he ceases to exist and you cease to exist,
you'll both grow to a white dwarf,
small and Pluto.

You'll be small
and Pluto.
Small and Pluto.
Small
small and pluto.

You'll grow to a white dwarf.
Coalescing in space,
the black devoid place.

You'll be coalescing in space,
the black
devoid
place.

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PM is to AM as death is to life: minutes go by in a breath.
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