Thursday, January 29, 2004

The Division Bell

Yes, I noticed that in my last post, I put "rosemary" instead of "rosary." I've actually said them interchangably at times too. Shows how much I care about it. I did mean rosary though.

I'm in that "I don't care I'm sick of everything" mood, but I don't see any reason to rant all over about it. I don't even want to either.

Between all the homework, how cold it's been (twenty below and more), how my dad's been on me this morning (he woke me up all screaming and yelling and pulling off my sheets, and also made the biggest deal about cutting out an article for my history class, since I have to cut one of those out for the class since I have a new teacher for this class and I can't stand that class any longer because the teacher, Mr. Schmidt, I had last semester was 50 times better. Plus my dad was all over me when I said that my great grandma deserved to die, and told me I was a "Cruel hearless person." Not to mention my brother said it to my mom on the phone, and I'm sure it made her cry, and my dad even said, "I hope you know how much that hurt your mom."), just everything is getting on my nerves already. This week and last week have been particular weeks from HELL. I also haven't taken a shower for two days. I wanted to yesterday, but in the evening, of course, my dad wouldn't let me for whatever reason. So here I am with no shower, my hair all in a mess, blah blah blah.

I did say fuck you to my dad this morning...but seriously, the guy needs to lay off of me. Making a deal about cutting an article out of a paper? How annoying that is. And I don't have the time for it either.

I took a nap last night too...about 3 hours. That felt good. When I woke up, I thought it was today instead of yesterday, and I was about to go take a shower and get ready when I realized I had been just taking a nap.

Why am I even ranting here? I need to go to chemistry...and take a lab I need to do, since I was gone.
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Wednesday, January 28, 2004

Marilyn Manson-Disassociative

I can tell you what they say in space
That our earth is too grey
But when the spirit is so digital
The body acts this way
That world was killing me
That world was killing me
Disassociative

The nervous systems down,
The nervous systems down
I know

I can never get out of here
I don’t want to just float in fear
A dead astronaut in space

Sometimes we walk like
We were shot through
Our heads, my love
We write our song in space
Like we are already
Dead and gone
Your world was killing me
Your world was killing me
Disassociative

Your world was killing me
Your world was killing me
Disassociative

I can never get out of here
I don’t want to just float in fear
A dead astronaut in space

The nervous systems down,
The nervous systems down
I know
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Speak to Me--Breathe

If you've noticed, the subjects of all my posts have been Pink Floyd songs lately.

But then again, maybe you didn't notice that. And you should be assassinated for not knowing this fact, and knowing Mitch and not knowing Pink Floyd as well. Mitch lives with Pink Floyd, and breathes them. He also speaks to them. He has high hopes he will forever, even when he's said goodbye blue sky and even if he's gotten brain damage.

Hm.

All is fine, I guess. I do feel a little tired, a little this and that, but I'd say I'm fine. Or maybe I'm just saying that--I don't even know anymore. It's a lot like when someone IMs you, and the second or first thing they ask you is, "How are you?" and you're knocking upstairs thinking, "Well Mitch, how are you?" and the man upstairs isn't really answering--not at all--and you just guess you're okay.

That's what it's like. I don't know how I am--I also don't like people asking me how I am, much, either, unless they're a very very close person to me.

In real life, it's never been this case, even with my parents. I don't just turn and tell people how I am, because at this point in my life I'm all confused myself, so how can I even know how I really feel when it's just a slew of a million things I can't even finger on? Yeah.

The funeral was actually an okay experience. My only big complaint is, well, it's just too overplayed and too religious. I plan on doing some kind of post to this point. We'll see--maybe I could just use a floppy and move it over here to the school computer, thus posting it here. I have an idea. Let's just say it happens to deal with the Rosemary I had the oh-so-jovial chance to attend to. What a goddamned methodical experience; it made me wonder if Christians are Methodists or something.

So, so you think you can tell
Heaven from hell?
Blue skies from pain?

Can you tell a green field
From a cold steel rail?
A smile from a veil?
Do you think you can tell?

I've pretty much memorized this song. It gets to the point where you've listened to something enough that it just becomes you.

I think most can tell this is a filler post, and so on and so forth. Basically, anyone that hasn't heard a single Pink Floyd song, well, I believe this person deserves to redeem their lives by listening to Pink Floyd.

Think I'll end with some lyrics. These are the lyrics to the subject's title, which is "Speak to Me--Breathe." It's off of The Darkside of the Moon, an album that pretty much let Pink Floyd live on, and produce albums like The Wall.

Pink Floyd-Speak to Me--Breathe
"I've been mad for fucking years, absolutely years, been
over the edge for yonks, been working me buns off for bands..."
"I've always been mad, I know I've been mad, like the
most of us...very hard to explain why you're mad, even
if you're not mad..."

Breathe, breathe in the air
Don't be afraid to care
Leave but don't leave me
Look around and choose your own ground

Long you live and high you fly
And smiles you'll give and tears you'll cry
And all you touch and all you see
Is all your life will ever be

Run, rabbit run
Dig that hole, forget the sun
And when at last the work is done
Don't sit down it's time to dig another one

For long you live and high you fly But only if you ride the tide
And balanced on the biggest wave
You race towards an early grave

I'd like to also add that I read pretty crazily these last few days. The Dark Half is a very good book. The book has that small text in it and all, and I'm already on page 212 or something. It's only about 400-something pages long, so I'm already halfway done with it. Yay.

I also wrote the start of a new piece last night. I think it's going okay, we'll see where it goes. Hm.

I think I should be like Richard Bachman, Mark Twain, and all the rest of those pseudonym guys; I should get a pseudonym--that would be fun.

I mean, I do seem to have different ways I write. And the darker stuff, to me, is always my best stuff (even if others might say it's not so).
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Monday, January 26, 2004

Brain Damage

Let's see. Little time.

I managed the whole weekend without the internet! Can you believe it?

I can--and can't--at the same time.

What did I do this weekend? Not much.

I finished Stephen King's classic Carrie three days after I started it--I've already read the book once before, but now I can say I've read it twice. Woo.

Started reading Stephen King's The Dark Half few days ago. My dad had it in his book collection, looked appetizing, so, Mitch took it.

It was pretty awesome at the beginning. It talks of the man character--Thad--when he was a kid. It said he had started to get headaches, so his parents took him to see neurologists [or whatever those types of doctors are called] and they opened up his head, where his brain was.

When they opened up his skull, they found eyes and toenails in there. The doctor said it was a rare thing, but it was logical to have happened. Since sometimes, with twins, stuff like that happens.

That image is really awesome. Imagine an eye inside a brain, and some toenails. You get the picture.

Needless to say, the book's good so far.

By the way, there's a new movie with Johnny Depp coming out. And guess what? It's from a Stephen King short story [or maybe it would qualify as a novella, who knows]. It's one that I had started to read, but I've never finished.

It's called something-or-other Secret Window. The movie that's coming out is based on it [with Johnny Depp, of course].

The basis of it is a writer who's confronted by a man named Shooter. Shooter claims he wrote the story that the main character wrote, and then it goes on from there, all Stephen King style.

I honestly think the scariest book I've read is The Shinning. It didn't scare me too much, but at this point I'd say that's the scariest book I've read.

In the book, it's just pretty awesomely done. If you've seen the movie(s) of it, you get the idea.

Okay. So my point in mentioning all these books, and stuff: I don't think I'm ever going to be able to write a novel. I can't write like that, I don't think. I can't keep myself focused on something like that.

It's also funny in that I'm reading about three other books at the same time while I read The Dark Half. Let's see, I'm reading The Clan of the Cavebear again, Stephen King's Four Past Midnight still isn't finished, Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Rings isn't done either--not The Hobbit as well--reading that for the third time, I think.

I'm reading too many books, but really, for a long time, I hadn't been reading much. It's time to make up for that.

Okay.

Yeah, she died. I would like to do some kind of post on this subject, but I don't have time. I have about four or so more minutes, then it's time for school to begin.

Her funeral is tomorrow, so I wouldn't expect a post from me until Wednesday after this.

I was asked to be a pall-bearer, or whatever-the-heck-that-is-called. (I obviously don't know.) I declined, though. It had something to do with communion, my grandma said. I'm not going to do anything religious.

I'm kind of iffy on going to the funeral. But I guess I don't have a choice.

Yes. My dad told me it really hurt my mom what I said: that my grandma deserved to die. My brother was the one that brought it up, for crying out loud.

"For Crying out Loud." That's a Meat Loaf song. I think I should mention to everyone: Meat Loaf rocks.

I'd like to discuss these things at length: but here, I'll just tell one more thing, then I'm done.

When we were eating spaghetti the other day, my brother was pouring cheese. He was putting a lot on. I stood up at the table and snatched it from his hand.

My brother complains, and my dad yells at me to give it back. I do so, then he says:

"That's what people that don't have faith do."

I started laughing, right in his face.

He's been saying this stuff on and on and on all the time. And he continually says I'm cruel and don't have a heart for saying my grandma deserves to die.

Well, I'll print off my older post and give it to my mom. We'll see what she says then.

Out of time. Going to be late, blah blah blah.

I hope everyone's good. Miss you guys, it's sure.
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Friday, January 23, 2004

Hey You

I don't have time to do some big post again, but I'll edit this during lunch and do that.

Here's the basics of what I'm going to say: parents took away my internet cord to my computer, and my brother told my mom on the phone that I said grandma Violet "deserved to die" when that's not even what I meant. I wanted to smack that kid upside the head when he said that.

Got yelled at by dad. Blah blah blah.

I have to go. Sorry for the short post, I'll edit this later.
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Thursday, January 22, 2004

Goodbye Blue Sky

I come home. My Mom's in a rush, about to leave. She tells me I have to take out the garbage, and also, she holds some papers in her hand. They're job applications I've filled out but never taken in. She says I lied to her, when I never even told her that I dropped them off.

She also says something about not liking this kind of language being used on the internet. I look at the paper she's referring to as he holds it, and realize it's just something I wrote in journalism class. It was just me typing down what people said. I tell her this, and she also mentions that my great grandma violet's dying. I say "oh well" in a quick, off-hand way.

I heard it this morning, as she was talking on the phone. I picked it up, my grandma then telling my mom she's dying. Something about seizures. Something about anti-depressant medication doing it. Then my mom saying "oh my god."

I hung the phone up then. Went to school. I was running late.

I think she deserves to die. I'm not sad about it at all in some immense extent; I mean, I do care she's dying, but it's not an immense caring like I'm sure my mom feels. My mom has fond memories of great grandma Violet taking care of her. For some reason I get the image of a pool, and great grandma Violet chugging on a sig as my mom swims.

I guess this image has a place. In Dickinson, where my mom used to live as a child, there's this hotel called The Oasis. The Oasis's manager knew my grandpa, and I believe my mom used to swim there. So I guess this image has some place actually.

I'll elaborate on why I think she deserves to die.

I've seen the way they talk to grandma violet as she sits in her wheel chair, an oxygen tank at her side, those air pipe-things in her nostrils. They talk to her like she's not a human being.

When we go and take grandma Violet out to eat food at Bonanaza's, which is where we usually go, they talk to her like she's a dog. In that sweet, overly-indearing, idiotic tone someone might talk to a dog--a cat--maybe even a baby. I can't stand it.

And grandma Violet is also extremely weak. You know how much that would suck? To have other people help you to go to the bathroom, to have to be hooked up to an oxygen tank non-stop because you used to smoke, and to also have to be helped in the most simple and easy tasks--like bathing, putting on close, just breathing.

She deserves to die. She's been suffering. I couldn't stand to be in her shoes.

They also have grandma Violet tripped up on endless amounts of pills--what they are, I don't know. Anti-depressants (and they wonder why the poor woman's depressed), probably pain killers, probably some antibiotics. I wouldn't be able to stand it. If I were in her shoes, I would've died a long time ago.

I find it noble she's still alive, but just the way people treat her is so very bittering. She's a human being, she should be treated like that. Sure, she can't do what a human being should be able to do, but I mean, she's a human being nonetheless.

Having read Of Mice and Men recently, I find that this applies to this situation well. In the book, an old man named Candy has this old, smelly, suffering dog. Candy, who, as his name implies, is a sweet man, will not part with the old mongrel no matter what.

In the book, a character named Carlson tells Candy he's going to kill his dog, that he can get a new one. Candy goes against this, but eventually gives up when he sees there's nothing he can do.

Carlson kills the dog--the dog who's suffering and in endless pain, and no longer enjoys life.

Candy later says something to the way of he should've killed the dog himself. It would've felt better that way.

The shooting of Candy's dog forshadows very very lightly of another character's death in the book, Lennie. Lennie is a mentally handicapped, big, strong man. George and Lennie have long been friends, and work together to obtain a dream: a dream of their own farmhouse. Lennie wants to have bunnies.

Lennie is made out much like an animal in the book. When he's grabbing something from a river, it's said he uses his "paws" to do it. And all the characteristics show Lennie as being, closely, an animal. I'd like to think something like a bear.

And what does this show? It shows that human s are as animal as a dog too. That Candy's dog was suffering, it deserved to die--just as Lennie was suffering for doing things he couldn't help.

Lennie eventually kills his own puppy he has. As he's sitting there saying he's in it now, in comes Curley's wife. Curley is the son of the boss of the ranch Lennie and George are working at.

Curley's wife eventually asks Lennie to feel her soft hair, and so he does. Lennie likes grabbing soft things. When Curley's wife asks him to let go, Lennie keeps at it.

Lennie eventually breaks her neck, killing her instantly. He understands what he's done, but didn't mean to.

Lennie's suffering then--suffering with the fact that George might leave him. Geoerge is all Lennie has. Lennie doesn't want to lose him.

Lennie wanders off to a place George told him to go if he's in trouble.

Eventually, Candy finds Curley's wife dead, as well as the pup. George comes in next, then Curley is alerted to the death of his wife.

Curley says he's going to kill the big bastard. That he's going to blow his brains out.

As they storm off, George follows. He's secretly stolen Carlson's luger.

George eventually kills Lennie--a man that's as much an animal as Candy's dog was--not because he wanted to, but because it was for the best. Lennie would be lynched, tried in court and definitely killed.

As George kills Lennie, he tells Lennie to turn around and look out at the lake. He points, and tells Lennie about the farm they'll own. And how he'll get his rabbits. His voice is devoid of emotion. He says it very solemnly.

And then he kills Lennie, while telling him about happy things.

I think this says things well the way I see them; that my grandma Violet has suffered long enough, it's time to put her out of her misery. She doesn't deserve to be stripped of all the things she was given throughout her life--she doesn't deserve to be talked to like she's old and feeble, and that she can't be talked to like the human being she is.

She deserves to die--to die in a good way. To die to end her pain and suffering, to get rid of all the things that plague her. To get rid of her arthritis. To get rid of her constant getting of pneumonia. To get rid of all the endless, seething pain she's under.

When I get old like that, and end up in a nursing home like she is, I won't be able to stand it. I'd rather kill myself than live in a nursing home and be treated like I'm helpless (which, I guess, will be the truth).

And just the same, I think she should die already. She's had enough pain now, and the only reason she's still alive is because of the people that love her. And I think the people that love her need to realize that she's the one that killed herself, in part, by smoking.

And guess what? It's the same thing my mom's doing to herself. She smokes and smokes, and eventually she'll be just where my grandma Violet is, and there's nothing I can do but tell her to stop smoking.

Funny how my last poem I wrote was about how my mom smokes, as if foreshadowing all this. Well, honestly, I didn't think grandma Violet was going to last much longer. She's been getting sick more often.

I think it's time the people that love her let her rest, really. Even as hard as it might be.

Who knows, she might not die. She might live longer yet. But I still think she deserves to die in a good way already, and go wherever the dead go.

Goodbye Blue Sky. That's a Pink Floyd song.

Good song.
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Wednesday, January 21, 2004

Radiohead- Dollars & Cents


There are many things
To talk about
Be constructive
Bear witness
We can use
Be constructive with your blues
Even when it's only warnings
Even when you're talking war games

Why don't you quiet down?
Why don't you quiet down?
Why don't you quiet down?
Quiet down!

You don't live in a business world
You never go out and you never stay
We'll have goals in a liberal world
Living in times when I could stand it, babe
It's all over baby's crying, it's all over baby
I can see out of here

All of the planet's dead,
All over the planet, so let me out of here
All over

We are the dollars and cents
And the pounds and pence
And the mark and the yen, and yeah
We're going to crack your little souls
We're going to crack your little souls

We are the dollars and cents
And the pounds and pence
And the pounds and pence, and yeah
We're going to crack your little souls
Crack your little souls

We are the dollars and cents
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Tuesday, January 20, 2004

Bob Dylan-Buckets of Rain

Buckets of rain
Buckets of tears
Got all them buckets comin' out of my ears.
Buckets of moonbeams in my hand,
I got all the love, honey baby,
You can stand.

I been meek
And hard like an oak
I seen pretty people disappear like smoke.
Friends will arrive, friends will disappear,
If you want me, honey baby,
I'll be here.

Like your smile
And your fingertips
Like the way that you move your lips.
I like the cool way you look at me,
Everything about you is bringing me
Misery.

Little red wagon
Little red bike
I ain't no monkey but I know what I like.
I like the way you love me strong and slow,
I'm takin' you with me, honey baby,
When I go.

Life is sad
Life is a bust
All ya can do is do what you must.
You do what you must do and ya do it well,
I'll do it for you, honey baby,
Can't you tell?

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The Boy's Died.

I
There once was a boy,
and he showered the world with love.

He'd twist and twirl on his hands and face,
land all over the place.
He'd tell his mother he loved her,
and they'd hug each other in their arms.

The boy is dead.
The boy is dead.
He's dead
He's dead.

Like a mirror you can't always see it right.
Like a kiss you can't always feel its might.
Like a boy you can't ever be so small.

Now's a time to be so small
in a time so big.
The boy's dead, took him in a hearse.

Hearses can't hear,
and I think the boy was alive.
And I think the embalmer didn't know.
Baby it's so long to go.
And the boy's dead.

He's dead.
He's not here to stay.
Bury him
solemn dismay.

Solemn dismay.

Bury him.
They killed him.
He's dead.

Now's a time to be so small
in a time so big.

II
Where's the feeling gone
where's the touch I've always known.
Dead.

Dead
on the surface
but alive
and moving.

The boy turned to a man.
And the man buried the boy.
And the boy was still alive.

I heard footsteps upstairs,
it was his mother.
The boy's mother and she was walking.
And I wonder if she's going to come.
Is she going to yell?

Why doesn't she sleep?
Why does she care?
The boy's dead.

The boy's bare.

He doesn't kiss his mommy anymore,
and he needs to go on when he feels so sore.
His mommy thinks he hates her,
he doesn't know anymore.

"Love you," she says so often.
And all the same she smokes away.
Killing herself where the love fades.
Selfish dead going away.
She's killing herself with her own ways.
The boy doesn't know what to say.

"Love you," she says so often.
And he loves her too.
But how he doesn't know.
Is it even true?

The man says nothing
and the boy wants to cry,
and kiss and hug her.
But the man's killed him.
You can't say much when you've died.
Best to just shut those eyes.

There is no answer to the love.
And so the boy gets more dead and done.

Wishing for something I've never had.
Wishing for faith that isn't from the sky.
When it comes it'll fall.
When it comes it'll probably break us both.

Wishing's for the boy.
He's got to die.
He's already dead.
Shot him right in the head.
But it wasn't anything he said.

Dreams are wishes and they are there.
And the boy wanted to be scientist.
Then a geneticist.
Where has it gone?
Where is it still alive?

Don't know.
It died.

Can you bury something that's always alive?
Can you feel something you want to bide?
Can you reach with your hands and feel?
I can't.
I've killed.

Dreams are fading
wishing for them back.
But can't have something
that isn't there.

Want to snub this all
like mommy does with her cigarettes.
Want to smoke in the ashes
like mommy does with her cigs.

Want to feel the smoke
as it burns
and feel my heart
beating, thudding
blurred.
Want to feel alive
not held back in this hell.

Want to even things out
want to know all ends well.

Want someone there that knows me more
that feels closer and can feel these sores.

Might as well not wish anymore.
Might as well just be so sore.

She smokes the cigarettes
and I wish my thoughts.
Contemplating what it's like to have lived
while she's sucking it dry as she inhales.

Told her once
told her twice
told her many times
too many to suffice.
And she still smokes every day.
And the smoke fills the room
and smell it in dismay.

Never gonna end
it's never gonna stay.
She'll kill herself
while the boy rots in his grave.

I guess it's an equal exchange.

A life for a death.
It's never going to change.
I guess it's an equal exchange.

Can I tell her I love her?
She can tell me the same.
Guess I just don't want to matter.
Guess I just feel me change.

Guess I'm going to have to
watch her die.
Nothing more to do
I'll be fine.

Nothing more to do
I'll be fine.

She'll fall over
it just takes time.
I'll even out
it just takes time.

Nothing more to do
I'll be fine.













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Monday, January 19, 2004

Sexaholics Anonymous

Please, report Mitch to Sexaholics Anonymous. Being still a virgin, this man is being brought to sexual deprevation by the frustrating lack of things but himself.

That is all.

[Translation: Mitch feels sexy. Enough said enough gone into it, I think.]

My next post will be about UFOs. (No one better ruin it, either, that knows what that means--for it shall be a fun post indeed.)

Mitch is going to sleep soon. Ah. Bed. Nice comfortable sleek and sexy, perfect for a Mitch to habitualize and proclivitize in. Ah yes indeed. The grandeur of a sexy beast a bed is, the shaper of it all.

I feel like I could scream sex out to the world loudly. But I'll do it here instead.

Sex sex sex.

Yes, I can see those innocencial forms clattering away--it's like the slaughtering of the lambs, clarice. It won't stop.

Make it sstop clarice. Make it stop.

Please stay don't leve stay a while don't leave don't please leave stay.

They're coming back clarice, the lambs or coming back.

How amatory. How veritably designated.
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