Sunday, January 18, 2004

On Seeing Big Fish

This is why writers write. This is why livers live. This is why the painter paints; this is why the artist in any form sets his energies to the blankness of nothing.

He does it so that he shall be remembered.

Man cannot live alone. He needs someone else there by him, there with him. And so lovers love. And so writers write. And so livers live. And so diers die.

All stories, pictures, lives can be summed up in a few sentences. The story of a life: I lived. Then I died. The story of a painter's painting: I painted. Then I finished my work. The story of the typical fantasy story: An evil arose. It was destroyed.

The realized saying of everything: it was began, and ended.

So why do we choose to make things sound so much more than this? The answer's there if you look hard enough.

A writer, in most cases is a story teller: he tells stories. A painter, in most cases, is a story teller for the eyes: he tells a story with colors and hues and things the eyes can see. A lover is a story teller: he makes his stories with his passion; with the way he kisses his fellow lover, the way they coalesce. Someone who lives as a story to tell: one that is their own-and they make it as they go to their beginning, and get to their end.

It seems to say that since we are still alive, there must be something to live for. But what is it that we live for? We live to be immortal. We live in hopes that we will matter to something so much that it shall remember us. We live our stories so we can become them.

Don't think so? Well, someday you'll find it out. Everything is done in a try at bettering. A writer writes to uplift men's hearts in a personal way that perhaps only the writer will understand. In each thing a writer writes, in each character he creates, in each fiction, there is fact. Fact and fiction go along together.

In each writer's writing there is himself, staring back, like an askew mirror. Writers write to immortalize themselves, and others, and their lives. They write in hopes that someday, somehow, their writing will be read by another--that perhaps they will be moved by it--that perhaps what this writer has written (which is, in fact, himself, only in an askew way) matters. That perhaps this writer himself mattered.

All our lives we go fishing when it's not fish we're looking for. What we're looking to do is to become seamless with the water which we fish in. If time is a river we go a-fishing in, then we just need to understand this river. We need to know how it works. We need to see how we can live past ourselves.

And so we live, try to find this. And so we love, try to feel this. And so we write, try to say this, try to put down in words that cannot be destroyed ourselves in a way which is much more appealing than ourselves. With writing we are able to make ourselves as we wish we were--multi-faceted--ordinary, not ordinary, strong, intellectual, ignorant, understood, not understood. Through writing we create. And we destroy. Through writing we can become alive forever. Through writing we can weave stories so that some day, some time, we can become these stories. So that we can become what we wish we were.

If you cannot tell yourself that why you live is to live longer, then you are being a fool. The reason we live is to try and find reason--and during this time we seek to make ourselves live longer than we can.

Fostering our children, we put ourselves in them. So it is the same with an artist who paints, draws, writes, plays athletics. We wish to put ourselves into anything we can that will make us larger than we are and one day was.

How you live is how you live. But do not lie to yourself and say against what is nature--for it is nature to want to be bigger than you are. For why else would we, as writers, create a plethora of characters which are actually forms of us and others who matter to us? For why else would we, as humans, give birth to our children?

It is because we want to be bigger than we are. We want to be what we wish we were--so we weave our creations.

And someday, far away, we'll look back on it all, and realize what we have made is what we have become.


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Friday, January 16, 2004

I Hate This Word No . 1.

Word of the Day for Friday January 16, 2004 yen \YEN\, noun:
A strong desire or inclination; a longing.
intransitive verb:
To have a strong desire or inclination; to long. But all that duty must have incubated a yen for rebellion.
--Michael Tomasky, "The Candidate," [1]New York Times,
March 26, 2000 Mojo, a fellow who's started a successful ice-cream
business, likes to think of himself as "a post-Marxist with
a yen for a Porsche."
--Michiko Kakutani, "Alienated Young and Their Solipsistic
Pleasures," [2]New York Times, May 7, 1988 We come into the world with a yen for sweets (newborns can
even distinguish among glucose, fructose, lactose, and
sucrose) and a weak aversion to bitterness, and after four
months develop a fondness for salt.
--Jeffrey Steingarten, [3]The Man Who Ate Everything

Yen? Seriously, what a dumb word. I just don't like it.

I mean, Yen is the Japanese currency. Why should it mean anything else, especially something lame like this?

What a dumb word.

"I was very yenny today. The yen of my body flew about me all yened and lined, as if I was in Japan and had a large amount of yen which to spend my yendesires on. I yened to have all I had ever yened to have."

See how horrid that sounds?

I do.

I hate lame words.

Now banal, that's a cool word. Banal should be a word of the day every day.

I can just see people going:

"O Yen is Me. O Yen is Me. O YEN IS ME!"

O Yen is Me too.


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Vedevil

I wake up out of bed everyday
end up on the wrong side.
I'm not going to lie down on the floor
like I'm dead.
I'm going to shoot the world
in its head.

Call me your
lover
death-dealer
offender.
Let's get this going
let's deal the justice.
I won't lay down on the floor
like I'm dead.

If this isn't writing
then we're not doing what we can
we're five little fingers on a mother fucking hand.
If this isn't writing
I don't understand
we're five little fingers on a mother fucking hand.

I sit here all day
write all my pain
feels the same.
Write with these words.
If this isn't writing
then we're not going to stand
we're five little fingers on this mother fucking hand.

And I want to shoot
and I want to kill
and I want to pretend.

This hand's going to be dead.
This hand's going to bend.
This hand's going to rend.
It's going to bleed
going to heed
going to see.

We're five little fingers on a mother fucking hand
and if we're not writing
we're not going to stand
and if this isn't writing
we're not going to do what we can.
We're five little fingers on a mother fucking hand.

Call me a pretender
a death-dealer
make me deader.
Call me a finger
bend me like you can
make my nails diseased.
Call me one little finger
on a mother fucking hand.
Bend me like you can.

Woke up today
on the wrong side.
Let's get this going.
Let's deal the justice.
Contemplate the world's suicide.

This isn't some fucking joke
this is my life.
I'm not a puppet
I'm not a finger to blame.
I'm not ashamed.
So bend me like you can.

If this isn't writing
then we aren't feeling bad
we're five little fingers on a mother fucking hand.
If this isn't writing
then we're not doing what we can
we're five little fingers on a mother fucking hand.
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Prison Song

They're trying to build a prison...

What did I get on my Geometry final which I took of my own free will since I was exempt? 67/100. And what did I get on my semester test? 67/100. Both the same score!

Either someone has a sense of humor, or I do. Not sure which.

Well, that's discouraging. And depressing.

For my semester grade in that class I got 74 some percent. A C. At least I got a C.

It's funny, both of those tests were multiple choice. Multiple choice is one deceptive little bitch.

They're trying to build a prison
They're trying to build a prison
They're trying to build a prison
For you and me
Oh baby you and me.

Hah. Funny how now that I'm hearing this song, I'm thinking it's about our education system.

Funny how things go like that.
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Thursday, January 15, 2004

Hi kids,

lovely hairy squirrel man here.

I've come to climb the trees and eat the acorns.
And I've come to suck the leaves.

Hi kids,

lovely day.

---

On last thought, I give all accredation to this:

The one, the only, the very singular bony,
that thing which isn't pony.

Desdos.

The sexmaker.
Comments (2) | Permalink

No. ITS NOT FAIR AT ALL.

I had the most awesome post typed up for the sex thread in OL...now it's gone.

Charles said it's gone to Heaven. Well, if it went to Heaven, God sure is a bastard.

I put so much into that post. It took my about two hours to write fully. It was long. It had allegory if you went between the lines. It had Mitchasm.

Now it only lives on. I pasted it before I was abruptly kicked offline and continued writing it to some other people. Do you have it? Do you have what little parts I can scrounge? Post it here, I don't want my post that was so awesome to go to Heaven, to God, that bastard who took it.

It was great--in it I made up this totally believable story that I had had sex with this girl named Erin Jenna Megan. And we had the best dialogue ever--hopefully someone posts what little of that was left here. I can only hope--and hope is a stupid thing. Bleh.

I hate hate hate hate hate it when this happens. Hate it and I want to shoot this computer's brain off.

I hate wasted effort. That post would've been classic.

It had Mr. Loughlin, Mr. Burns, Mr. Esten. Brek Coskones.

Mr. Loughlin [Charles] was a custodian that almost caught Erin and I in sex. He said he cleaned up after people's messes, and that some kids had left spam jars and spam meat all around rotting. We told him we hadn't seen them and had some more sex.

Then we were caught by Brek [Who would be Desbreko]. He just sat there and stared at us weird, there was some awesome dialogue again, and he told us to get our clothes on.

Our clothes were all over. Most memorably, Erin's bra was hanging aloft on the American flag.

There was also this whole bit about how I found this suitcase with codoms in it from Mr. Burns' [James] desk. The suitcase had the word "QUEEN" on it [Queen Asuka], and had some condoms in it. So I took some and used them.

Then the rest of the post was genius too. It talked about how missionary style was just a religious position created by zealots; and that Doggy Style was just a man wanting to pet his best friend, and caress and fondle and grope him. It was amazing stuff.

Then there was a whole part about how Snoop Dog was a conspiracy. That he was in on Barney--that he was probably the one wearing the suit, and he was promoting his Doggy Style.

The beginning of the post was honestly genius!

Erg. I hate this!

I guess it wasn't meant to be.

So here we have some stupid post that doesn't even amount to the post I created.

The post was honestly amazing. I wrote an entirely good story just about how Erin and I first had sex, and it would've tricked endless people, and endless people would've posted saying I was crazy.

I also said at one point, "listen sexhopper."

This is pretty useless, isn't it?

I'm denied my genius for the day, goddamnit.

I need to go to sleep now, too..
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Wednesday, January 14, 2004

Geometry Ain't So Great to Me

01/09/2004 TEST Test Chapter 6 71/100 71 C
01/13/2004 TEST Test Quarter 2 67/100 67 D
01/15/2004 TEST Test Semester 1 ( )/100


Well, these are the tests we've taken in Geometry. AndIhavetogoandthiswon'tspace I always seem to get thiscomputer.

This just annoys me. I even studied..

I did even worse on yesterday's test.

Damnit. And I'm guessing I'll do just as badonmymathone.
Oh well.,

Won't space,annoyingme. Yeah.
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Monday, January 12, 2004

Slow and Patient Wins the Race

Which Neglected Mario Character Are You?


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Climbing Up the Walls

I have no clue why it's spacing like that.

Scroll down, heh. Too lazy to get it to work..

Oh, and everyone should use tables. Tables are fun.

Class/Teacher	Q1 Grade	Q2 Grade
US HIST 1898 Schmidt, G. CHS	B 87	A- 92
AP ENG 11 Jundt, B. CHS	B+ 91	B+ 91
JOURN N Winter, S. CHS	B 85	B- 80
GEOMETRY Kosse, K. CHS	B 83.3	D 64.2
COMP PROG I Sauer, D. CHS	A 95	A 98
PE 11 Murdock, M. CHS	B 91	B 92
LATIN I Brandt, L. CHS	A+ 101	A+ 98

Stupid Geometry. Bleh. I got 71/100 on the test we took Friday; not too bad, but it still wasn't enough to get my grade to a C at all. We have another test tomorrow, semester test. I'm thinking of also taking the final, we'll see (we have final test exemption at my school.)

Also, I find it funny I have never gotten an A in Gym class. I think teachers are biased.
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Sunday, January 11, 2004

Meatloaf-Objects in the Rear view

Objects In The Rear View Mirror May
Appear Closer Than They Are

Lead Vocal: Meat Loaf
Piano: Bill Payne
Guitar: Eddie Martinez
Bass: Steve Buslowe
Drums: Rick Marotta
Synthesizers & Programming: Jeff Bova
Background Vocals: Todd Rundgren, Kasim Sulton, Max Haskett
Additional Vocals: Rory Dodd, Ellen Foley

The skies were pure and the fields were green
And the sun was brighter than it's ever been
When I grew up with my best friend Kenny
We were close as any brothers than you ever knew

It was always summer and the future called
We were ready for adventures and we wanted them all
And there was so much left to dream
And so much time to make it real

But I can still recall the sting of all
The tears when he was gone
They said he crashed and burned
I know I'll never learn
Why any boy should die so young

We were racing, we were soldiers of fortune
We got in trouble but we sure got around
There are times I think I see him peeling out of the dark
I think he's right behind me now and he's gaining ground

But it was long ago and it was far away,
Oh God it seems so very far
And if life is just a highway,
Then the soul is just a car
And objects in the rear view mirror
May appear closer than they are
And objects in the rear view mirror
May appear closer than they are
And objects in the rear view mirror
May appear closer than they are
And objects in the rear view mirror
May appear closer than they are

And when the sun descended and the night arose
I heard my father cursing everyone he knows
He was dangerous and drunk and defeated
And corroded by failure and envy and hate

There were endless winters and the dreams would freeze
Nowhere to hide and no leaves on the trees
And my father's eyes were blank
As he hit me again and again and again

I know I still believe he'd never let me leave,
I had to run away alone
So many threats and fears, so many wasted years
Before my life became my own

And though the nightmares should be over
Some of the terrors are still intact
I'll hear that ugly coarse and violent voice
And then he grabs me from behind
And then he pulls me back

There was a beauty living on the edge of town
And she always put the top up and the hammer down
And she taught me everything I'll ever know
About the mystery and the muscle of love

The stars would glimmer and the moon would glow
I'm in the back seat with my Julie like a Romeo
And the signs along the highway all said,
Caution! Kids At Play!

Those were the rights of spring and we did everything
There was salvation every night
We got our dreams reborn and our upholstery torn
But everything we tried was right

She used her body just like a bandage,
She used my body just like a wound
I'll probably never know where she disappeared
But I can see her rising up out of the back seat now
Just like an angel rising up from a tomb

And objects in the rear view mirror
May appear closer than they are

And objects in the rear view mirror
May appear closer than they are

She used her body just like a bandage,
She used my body just like a wound
I'll probably never know where she disappeared
But I can see her rising up out of the back seat now

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