badbye

the title of this post holds no significant meaning. memories, yes. but nothing pertinent to tonight. well i suppose it could hold some deeper-surface-ness if i really wanted to go all dopey but i dont feel like it. its like saying badbye to the one it means something to, we fight anyway. truth being, i couldnt think of a title and my finger inadvertently hit the little 'b' key and 'badbye' popped up below the line meaning i had typed it up sometime ago but i dont remember when.

regardless, now that the post has a title it might as well have a body. whats a head without a body anyway? arent many of those known. i mean there was the chicken who survived for some odd number of years with 'is head cut off but thats a body sans head not versa vice {ever think that if "vice versa" were vice versa'd it would be "versa vice"?}.

when i die, i think it would be amazing to have a monument out in the middle of nowhere. just like...

"critter, whos the guy... that guy... the gonzo jounalist. hells angels... that guy {oh, fear and loathing in las vegas?} yeah, good book. that guy, whats his name? {i dont know but that was a good movie. johnny depp, benicio del toro... i dont know} oh come on, its fucking... fucking... {hunter?} yeah, hunter tom... fucking hunter thompson!"

like hunter s. thompson. because he wrote an essay while tripping on acid and looking for a window he couldnt find {aw hell, i dont remember, something like that}. and thats how i am now, sans acid and more of a mixture of boredom, an odd energy, compounded by the recent addition of a jury-rigged black-and-white, cookies, and a small plastic packet of chocolate covered espresso beans. oh, and i have more cookies in my bag. and its alltogether like im high on something... i just dont know what. all the frustrations of life just add up over and over again and it kills me softly everyday and i dont know what to do about it. i hear a pretty song but on the guitar all my fingers are left and they stumble and trip over each other and it comes out as fuck. and i want to break something but i cant break the guitar or any of my stuff or my roommates stuff or anything in the lounge so i stand there in the middle cracking my knuckles and thinking and get called creepy by some dude.

well thats fine cause i am sometimes, like when i stand up at the top of stairs in the dark and wait for people to find me... doubtless creepy behavior. but i dont hold cops up in alleys and make them blow me. not that creepy. however i do sit and ignore people in times like these and listen to wonderful music and read or play poker but when you have pocket aces for the first time in fucking ages and every high roller on the table folds cause the flop comes 2-4-2 and theres only a 7 and 6 waiting and theres some fucking kid with 11 pretend chips betting 0.25 every single time around and i just want to throttle him so on the last betting round i go all in because i know he wont call me and he doesnt, i just take his blinds, the little bitch (oops, im not supposed to say that).

and thats when i get up and stark around and cuss and get loud at things which pisses darcy off cause for some reason language offends her. i could tell her that language doesnt matter, its what you mean, its whats behind the words. i could tell anyone i love them and secretly want to slit their throats or i could yell about my fucking messed up left fingers and say fuck a couple times and be completely innocent. because words are only offensive if used that way. fuck shit. but i dont care if she gets annoyed. she can deal with it. i stalk and march around and converse about acid and hunter s. and shit like that and i just want to fucking do something because im clearly dying here but nobody cares. and i walk around the lounge and bang fists and pop knuckles and make rules for myself and i gather stuff and check the clock and kick around a flat soccer ball and i just want to walk to the goddamned coffee shop but its impossible.

because standing around is suddenly death and sitting around is certain suicide and though im sitting here now its ok cause im typing and being fucking productive and that means something to me. hell, its friday, i dont give a damn. and its fucking hot in here and im impressed with my ability to strike down with my left pinky finger the ctrl key and simultaneously strike up the i key with my right middle and back again after the word without looking or fucking up at all. and theres a rich girl in a bedroom who doesnt know anything about me and theres another behind the counter with guys and therefore i cant speak to her and there are girls everywhere and like jack says, the only good men are the ones that wont tell them how they feel.

and its ok that im popping these beans like lsd's because in fact i was listening to 'lucy in the sky' just yesterday and the rest of the supposed greatest album of all time earlier today. which makes it all legit, naturally. its just a fucked up night. its just a high night. its a night where anything that comes out of the old fingertips isnt checked at the door. and still nobody comments on the poetry posted below and i can plug sylvia and e.e. and walt all i want and sean will still not like poetry any more than before i started. which is ok, i guess, its just him thats missing out.

i really need to break something. or jump out some imaginary window not to die but only to feel it and come back to life. but i just pop more beans and gulp more grey and hear the spanish music without listening to it because its just so fucking hot.

also, i always wondered why there was a restaurant in garner called "dos bandidos" or maybe it was winston - no matter - because if two bandidos really escaped to garner/winston and opened a restaurant to launder their pesos, would they really want to advertise the fact that they were, in fact, bandidos? hell, bandidos could just mean "wealthy and talented hispanic cooks/business men" but somehow i doubt it. i dont espika espanyol so i wouldnt know anyway. so fuck it.

if anybody out there can dig this trippy post i salute them... its really just a pile of shit. i cant decide if i would rather be dead-jack or dead-hunter. both sound equally high and fucked, i just dont know which would be more enjoyable. jack i guess. i connect with him more. and he loves like i dont know if hunter ever did.

my hands are mysteriously bruised and i dont know where from. must be from the basketball game last night, i tell myself, or the weightlifting this morning. but the bruises are on the bones and not the skin. the little thin, hollow hand-bones hurt though i cant tell where because theres no damned discoloration and after the game last night (2,1,1,1) there were two splotchy red marks behind the last thumb joint on each hand and i cant explain where those were from, except to, as i do every other odd mark on my body, blame the devil. im cursed.

i am gone. i am sooooo gone. and if you know what that means, i love you

little poem

because in winter, winds will blow
spring's rain and autumn's leaves will fall
and summer's gales will often show
what's gone will not have stood the squall
but back before the numbered days
and long before original sin
some god made true, what's washed away
will often soon be born again
so though this winter's spent alone
i know the patterns of the year
my words, i hope, fate will condone
and springtime might be drawing near

eternity

yeah you just walked in.

theres something in the moment, not necessarily a skip of the heartbeat or a shot of warmth from the core, but a special recognition. something that forces a longer look or a quicker turn of the head. i dont love anyone here. this isnt about love. not yet, and not in the near future. regardless, there are those i would do anything for without hesitation, those i could fall asleep with comfortably, with whom every brush of skin means something different. its not that i care more, but deeper, really. and there are differences between different people, of course, in the ways appreciation forms and the whys and whats of everything meaningful. its hard to tell what works and whats fun or whos more of a human being but its ok. i care.

ive always felt like i wanted someone with whom no words were necessary. naturally, any good relationship is an evolved friendship, and who better to talk to? but not mandatory, all the time. its speaking without words, whats so special. and words are the enemy. i cant change things while things are so well. while we are friends, cant sacrifice that. i can promise i never see people in an unnatural light, purely honorable and true. but things change, people talk, theres an almost unavoidable paranoia, unless you are the kind of friends who can talk about that stuff without changing the status-quo, in which case you are most likely the kind who should end up together anyway (at least thats what i always believed). i dont want all my actions scrutinized for connotation or my words taken apart and glued back together. and, more than that, i dont want to touch what exists. i revere love, everyone knows - or should know - that. and im to the point, myself, where its more important than myself. and if what is is fine with you, then its fine with me. enjoy it. i will be the best friend i can be. after all, thats all a good relationship is anyway, right?

"Since beginningless time and into the never-ending
future, men have loved women without tellnig them,
and the Lord has loved them without telling, and the
void is not the void because there's nothing to be empty of."

youre so young, youre so goddamn young

i dont worry about the title nearly as much as i used to. seems like such a small thing these days, to type something like 'goddamn'. and to think, i am so concerned at night about religion and heaven and hell. why would i want to hurt my chances? still, everyday life count for more it seems. has nothing to do with today anyway, just a line stuck in my head.

such a lovely day. i wonder if anyone knows that johnson second floor mens lounge is the best in the building. sun shining not in the windows - that would be too perfect, this isnt a breakfast nook in a country home anyway - but past it, which is fine because everything else is illuminated. listening to the travis singles collection, im surprised at how beautiful it all is, and sitting wasting time for a little while. tristessa is laying down beside me, someone i wish were so real. the book, i havent read in a year or so, but so beautiful and true the first time i read it, i cant resist another.

and, oddly enough, im drinking an odwalla 'superfood' smoothie. i think i was in the mood for something "healthy" after health class and wandered over to the benson sundry to see if they had any clif bars. none of those but i came across an entire refrigerator of these odwalla things. of all of them, it was most fitting, it felt, to get the wierd one. claims to be a blend of apple juice, peach, mango, strawberry, and banana. plus, amazingly, wheat grass, barley grass, and wheat sprouts. truth is, its dark green, thick and is smothered in little black specks. ok. doesnt taste that bad, though. kindof like apple juice but a little thicker. that and a special K bar for good measure. yeah!

im so healthy, im so goddamn healthy.

hm, i just noticed the bottle says "enjoy by jan 18"... oh well.

and theres a bunch of people in here but all i can hear is mumblings and intonations of their conversation over the music. i guess its like listening to a song for the first time. and they all leave but people keep passing and im never alone. still such a lovely day.

math notes

last friday -

prof. has a hokey high voice like david sedaris but without the class. it is by no means intimidating. he proudly does example after example with an air. black on black with white shoes. has got his t-shirt tucked in, like an old man. writes and erases over and over. chalkboard is an ugly lady who puts on more makeup everytime she looks in the mirror and never takes any off. dust everywhere, invisible but burning.


today -

i feel the need to be artsy. the time prof. was calling names i looked at my pen (green) and wished - my phone rang - i could see it as a weapon, as a tool, an extension for art. im not really a good drawer but i scribbled a flower and it looks quirky so im proud of it. and im thinking about writing. not just these words but more important ones. i want to believe in something. i want to write like jack and nick, write about love and loss, of life and death, about the things that weigh on my mind. problem is, it takes a certain time, a certain balance of depression and motivation to get it all out. a certain combination of lonliness, boredom, and opportiunity. i hate to say it, but when i am truly happy, i rarely feel like writing about anything meaningful. they say in psychology that depressed people have a more accurate view of themselves and their life. i feel like i am getting more done slowly scribbling these lines out than paying attention to prof. speaking on graphical antidifferentiation. this is more real to me, more pertinent to life. ive been over it all before anyway.

i have a vision of my future. its another one of my pretty thoughts that rarely turn out that way in real life. its a day just like today. pretty warm but with a pleasant breeze, even in january. i am out running with ginny. sometimes its on the sidewalk heading to luter from johnson, sometimes in the shade heading north on the outside of kitchen and poteat. im wearing a white t-shirt and basketball shorts that look normal but feel too long. theres a little flash mp3 player strapped to my arm - though i dont have it yet - so i can play dave or ben or sufjan or whatever. the camo hat's on backwards to keep the hair out of my eyes and im standing in the mizuno nirvanas waiting at home. the asics socks are rolled down just a little bit to look right. sounds lovely, im ready.

something like 2:47

i just picked a nice number. it was actually finished at 2:57. then again blogger usually lists publishing dates as when they were started... so it doesnt really matter, right?

im back at starbucks for once. lord knows this place means a lot to me. its more or less an anonymous place, how many of them are around anyway? but this one is special, this one means something, not for what it is, exactly, but for what is been here for. i dont know how many times afterschool i would come by to do homework or waste time. its not the drinks i come for, more the people. usually always see someone from high school here. more or less planned. theres a chair to my left, a big, brown cushy one, where i sat talking to someone i cant even describe anymore for four hours or so, until everyone in the place had substituted a couple times. and the one im in now, and the one across from me too. countless memories, conversations, time spent with someone special. i cant say how much i miss it.

now im sitting here, more or less anonymous, listening to some of the most beautiful music ive heard in years. its less comfortable than before. seems like everybody has somebody, there are maybe three people in here, including myself, unattached. they converse loud as they want to, the volume grows between songs. im perpetually tempted to look out at the parking lot, to see if someone would come and visit, but i stop myself. id rather be surprised. i do love a good caramel macchioto though. cant quite figure out why my hands are so pale white and cold. they shake when i try and keep my drink steady. i dont have an explanation for that.

the drive here was one of the most enjoyable in a long time. alone in my car, good dist-fuzz early 00's version of 70's rock. its quite a feeling, riding around in sixty degree january weather, windows, sunroof down, blasting distorted fuzzy rock that youre sure nobody in the county is listening to. an album youre almost positive nobody in the state owns. and its almost a shame, in a selfish way, to enjoy that when you know these guys should have made it big. that and last night, different album, different quirky piano and angry lyrics sound and no, its not who yall are thinking (though i love her too). my dad and i were coming home from the hockey game; he was following me, jeep and volvo. instead of going home the standary, boring way, i went the long way, through downtown raleigh. i love driving at night, more than a lot of things. took hillsborough st. from the fairgrounds straight down to the capital building and salisbury (i think)...(but probably not, maybe dawson) out down to martin on a detour down to blount. i love it down there, at night, when there are few people and the buildings are lit up. its clear and beautiful. probably took twice as long as it should have but dammit it was nice. i hope he didnt mind.

im not going to get into what i really meant to write about but i guess i will do it later. and im sorry if i dont sound exactly the same because i dont feel exactly the same. im so comfortable at home in a dark room, where i can pick and choose my words to suit me perfectly. there is nothing rushing me here but the mood is busier and it forces me to unload without so much consideration for how i go about it. hell, you probably dont notice it but its there. oh well, i guess thats fine too.

i realized something last night that im not sure will carry over at all into my everyday life. i was listening to a different album, different girl, different piano, on the way to the hockey game. it was so wonderful and made me so happy that theres nothing but love that can describe the moment. you cant believe that there is any way to meet anyone whose record you own but i can never stop myself from thinking that all those guys that hurt you, all those guys that treat you bad, the ones in the song.,, i am who you want. and maybe thats just naive but it cant hurt. im pretty sure anyone who can play the piano and can sing as beautiful as they are...

but it sent a notion my way. being the way i am, i shouldnt settle for a random somebody when i loved such ideas as a recording artist. if i was so confident i could be the saviour of this random musician, her counterpart must exist somewhere. all the images from the songs describe somebody else. and for them, im waiting.

rain

its raining outside... it feels a slight bit appropriate. it hasnt rained in a good long time and ive been walking in it, just to and from places. doesnt bother me, it isnt very hard, just there. just cold and damp.

i get the notion, for the first time in my life, that its time for me to go. i need to leave this place, home, create it somewhere else, with someone else. my dad is the only one thats the same, in a good way. and hes wonderful... my sister is still a bitch and still mistreats my parents every time she opens her mouth. my mother, whom i have always been closest too of all, is changing. most of the time, when we are alone, or at home, things are fine. but its become clear that sometimes, noticable times, she is turning into her mother. i love my grandmother too, never have a bad word with her but she is how she is. my mother complains about the way she is frustrating and mean to people when she goes out, but its probably just because she is old and wants things her way. chews people out at the vet or whatever, its nothing i ever see. my mother doesnt understand that she is the same way sometimes. its embarrasing to someone like me, just naturally easy to get along with {i hope}, the way she is.

there was a sign by the picture-cutter we bought offering free paper with the purchase. she didnt know what paper it meant and took it up with the poor cashier girl at the counter. the girl looked tired but made an effort to be friendly and help us out however she could. my mother made a comment about there being a sign about paper and questioned how she should know what paper they meant, was she supposed to bring paper up there or did they have it back there? see, we dont particularly need paper, its just that it was offered. the girl didnt know what she was talking about but grabbed a sales handout to find the picture-cutter. mom made some comment saying she should probably scan it to see if it would register. her whole demeanor was just sarcastic. i tried to put my hands in my pockets and look friendly to make up for her. she couldnt find it in the sales guide and my mother told her to forget about it, seeing as she didnt feel like walking back there and figuring it out herself. the poor girl offered to go back there and look at it but my mom told her, tersely, that it wasnt worth it. So she finished our checkout and thanked us. I made sure to speak up a kindly "thank you" just so she would know i was there. i felt sorry for her... and myself. i dont want to think people change.

i also dont want to feel like i dont belong here anymore. ill be heading back for semester two at wake in a couple days and im used to thinking it would be rough, moving back. i want to belong here like i always have. maybe this happens to everyone, i dont know. easy as it is for me, on days like this, i withdraw. well, i withdraw from my family and open up to the rest of the world, however that works. everyone else listens. if im lucky, they respond. my mother is like that, i just dont want to approach her right now. just silent for a night, speak if i need to, in private, to my dad. theres something i need to talk about anyway. not wondering how that will work out.

i apologize for another melancholy post. i have a lot to say about 2006, a lot of optimism stored up inside. maybe sometime soon ill find the motivation to expel it all... if youre lucky ;)