1956... oh and 1957

sitting in coffee shop again listening to music recorded by french artist who writes poetry before singing it. quite good actually, recorded in 1956. same time as book i am reading, of letters written between jerce johnson and jean louis kerouac. one written december 10, 1957; my mother's birthday. i pop my knuckles in the silence and think of friend who hates it and also of the people whom i can imagine cringing behind me at the fool on the couch with the restless fingers. should be doing work of sorts or being productive, although i define this as productive; moreso than mindless reading/memorizing process. wish this was typed on loud rackety typewriter instead of quiet electric computer. someday i will write magical novel on typewriter and hand manuscript to publisher who will stand looking confused.

cette apres-midi, mon pere handed me a razorblade to transfer stickers from older volvo to old volvo. new and sharp, caught my skin when i felt it. wondered how much easier it would be over old dull forest-knife. oh well, gave it back when finished, carefully. car now naked and lonely, orphaned. i kissed her goodbye and wished her luck, thanking her... and well, its all personal anyways. looked out rear window at babe until house got in the way as i left. sigh...

warming up to the idea that i will be getting high by the end of the year, see it as more of an inevitability. seeing things beautiful sometimes anyway but sounds like an experience to assemble words about. some other part of life regardless, i suppose. had crazy idea to melt chapstick and mix with coke; resolid in tube. wonder what it would do to the lips, curious but hopeless. addicted regardless, to the chapstick, wouldnt change much 'suppose. this year was about being good to myself and becoming good in all aspects and ways. alas, this is just beautiful as well because as all actions are life and all life is good, is it not?

as for life, to love and be loved, interesting proposition. i dont read much between the lines, try not to in these cases. hope but not expect, s'a hard place to be. regardless, must read more and find ways to make social time last longer but work time contract over this last month. should prove interesting, if not suicidal.

rose red

it was my first thought, this morning. aside from the alarm clock, which is less a thought than a reaction, there was a song. it happens every now and then; i will wake up with a song resounding in my head that i haven't heard in a while. such was the case this time. a beautiful, powerfully driving song, about love and hate, lust and sin, and the mutual torture which binds us together.

try as he might, he's unable to speak
he grabs her by the hair, he strokes her on the cheek
the bed is un-made, like everything is
dark little heaven at the top of the stairs

it stuck with me this morning, forced my every step, measured my every breath, strikingly beautiful and foreboding. in the shower, i drew the sharp corner of the broken soap container lightly across my chest, just so it would leave a little red mark there for a while. walking to french, in the cold, i kept a sharp eye. it's something i do these days, to prevent running into those i don't want to. it hit me in class this morning, the idea, driven by the bass and raw truth. as much as i tried to forget, i didn't really want to. my stomach went sick but it was a foregone conclusion. and, to my dismay, i watched it all play out in my mind.

take me like that, ruin it all
then build it again, by the light in the hall
he drops to his knees, says please my love please
i'll kill who you hate, take off that dress you won't freeze

i got out quickly and walked back to my room. aside from being chilly, it really was a beautiful day. i knew my roommate wouldnt be there, or hoped so, and the door was locked. as i walked into the dim room, i dropped my bag on the floor and pulled up my right sleeve. it never even occured to me any other way; i am left handed, after all. the skin looked so innocent there, on the white underbelly of my forearm. down there where the sun doesn't shine so much, isn't marred by freckles or moles, just pure, white skin. so i reached into the drawer under my desk and found a knife. one special to me, really. i found it in the woods, one day, on a scout trip, years ago. a wooden gerber, with an old leather case. pretty dull, but a knife. my stomach hurt. i put the song on.

he starts with her back, cause thats what he sees
when shes breaking his heart, she still fucks like a tease
release to the sky, look him straight in the eye
and tell him right now, that you wish he would die

i took the knife, locked it open, and checked the blade. moved to a clear spot on the floor and sat down. the room didn't feel as dark as before, just right. my stomach hurt very bad. i looked at my forearm, decided not to touch the middle. it seemed like there was more to go wrong in the middle. i pressed the blade down to the skin on the inside and slid it up and down a little. not to break the skin, just to feel it. just for the little red marks. i had forgotten how cold the steel was, how frightening it became. holding the edge an inch or so above the skin, my hand shook violently, but as soon as it touched down, was calm. i had all intentions of slowly dragging it from my wrist to my elbow but it is never that easy. i dug the point in, hard, and started the march toward myself. it hurt, but not that bad. i took it maybe four inches and realized the skin hadn't even broken. really should sharpen the damn thing sometime. i started again, in this little deep gray valley in the skin, with the middle of the blade; sliced down the same area, hard. tried it again, and again. i pried the skin apart a little and tiny rivulets of blood started forming in the crease. i can't even begin to describe the beautiful color it was. there was no use in going further, this is all i really wanted anyway.

you'll never touch him again, so get what you can
leaving him empty, just because he's a man
so good when it ends, they'll never be friends
one more night, thats all they can spend

this isn't about being suicidal. i have only ever joked about that. this is about feeling alive for a moment. about feeling a physical kind of pain to match all the others. the problem is, i wasn't any happier afterwards than i was before. and though i can look down at it now and feel like i have something there... that's really not the point. in a way, it felt good to release a little bit of myself; as if the body were just a cage for the soul, instead of a vessel. and there were plenty of times during the day - lunch in the mag room, frisbee on the quad, people recognizing me on the way to class, frisbee golf at night - that remind me why it is better to go 'down the road' instead of 'across the street'. and it is hard to publish this, frightening even. i am not writing this for shock value, simply because it is real... real to me. and nobody worry; i guess the fundamental difference is, i end up with a dull forest knife when i really could have used a razorblade.

one more night {that was a good one}

how indiscreet

i find it is often now what is said but how it is said. this isn't to say that style can hide a lack of substance, just that there is much to be said for how well-written a piece of work is. people tell me every now and then that i have a penchant for words. it is no secret that i wouldn't mind being kerouac. we share a philosophy anyway, against revision. whatever comes out first, your gut, is usually the best. besides, half of reading is in the beauty of the language, of the words, and how better to feel the author than to read all the words as they flowed from his fingertips?

regardless, nobody ever succeeded by graduating from wake taking short-story seminars. i hate being taught how to write anyway. i like just doing it. even if its not great, its what came out of me and i like it that way. suppose i will suffer through the next couple semesters anyway, failing at chemistry and hating my life for taking so many lab classes. i will stress out about med schools and likely hate it there too. throw money into this education and go into residency and get a job. work my way up to a full-fledged anesthesiolegist and make real money. maybe by then i won't hate things as much. maybe take three days a week to drive across the country on acid and write about it. who the hell knows?

this isn't the writing you wanted to hear, is it? to be sure you didn't expect me to go off and bitch and moan to the invisible population of the world about how you mistreated me, did you? i don't understand you anyway. in fact, i wish you would figure out what in the fuck is wrong inside your head and let me back in... or at least quit lying to me and let me go.

i wish there were something to say about this place. it is sanitized, suffocating to the mind. it's a fucking dorm goddammit. dirty flourescent lamps line the hallways, making everything glow a painfully pale greenish. the walls, i'm sure, are painted a new coat of rubbery white every year. the carpet is nondescript and hard, a melange of reds, pinks, blues, tans, greens, greens, greens. the overall effect is some even more nondescript color, greenish, like a puree of creamed spinach. this is going nowhere. every single bulletin board is so littered with spent staples that it seems any moment they may start leaking whatever essence a bulletin board contains. the exit sign is never lit up and sharp-looking silver sprinkler heads litter the top of the walls like splinters. trashcans sit in the corner, looking marvelously like four large, black frogs with the bags drawn over the lips and down the front while the big flap closes on top. there is not an ounce of passion in this entire building.

it's no wonder i get so anxious sometimes. there is no escape from this place. one might consider sleep, although i can only really be garuanteed a good four hours or so before my roommate barges in, eats, shaves, watches tv, rumbles around, passes gas, and does whatever it is he does that might keep me awake tonight. during the day? classes, work, progress of all sorts and kinds. i wonder what i am doing, a lot of the time, spending so much effort learning things i despise. i would much rather be writing or making music. even art, i will have to learn how to do that someday.

in the meantime i shall plot my escape in a way that you, my dear, cannot. i can see five or six shots of jose and a lovely night. it's wonderful being a lightweight, it is.

i don't know how i became what i am now. i remember, in elementary school {probably fourth or fifth grade}, standing in line for school pictures, some of the kids would try and make me cuss. it was just something i didn't do, so i played it off and refused them. some time ago, at a campsite on a river in the mountains {funny how i can't remember a single name right now}, after dark and probably during the fire, i decided to stop cussing because i realized it wasn't who i wanted to be, as a human being. these days i just say whatever the fuck i want to because it means nothing to me. words are words, they can and should be harmless unless intended to harm. language conveys meaning from one person to another, what one means is what the other should take offense at, not how he expresses it. and i'm an alcoholic... well not really but it's easy to say i am. i'm probably not terribly smart about it either, although i try a lot harder now than i used to. i think one trip is enough for anyone.

and i still need to figure out how to get past you. i care too much for my own good, always have, probably always will. this is what i get for it, too. nobody cares that you love like nobody else you know. i don't know what problems haunt your pretty mind and i don't understand how i can't help. no one can understand what isn't explained. i guess i will survive and if you ever find yourself, we will pick up the pieces and figure out why things are the way they are, although i have a feeling, kid, you will never get there... and i will always be on the outside.

life, death, and the soprano saxophone

i love my car

every now and then, when i wake up, a new song will be playing. this morning i awoke to a stout, solid trumpet riff over steady drums, rhythmic guitar, and bass. without the background, of course, the trumpet would be meaningless but it's what stands out in my mind still. that riff - a theme, a thought - would stay with me all morning, although i wouldn't remember exactly where it came from. until we were loading the car, i remembered the rest of the song. hadn't listened to it in quite a while though; no idea why it lodged itself between my ears this morning. the rest of the song, so i thought, wasn't as important as this perfect little theme. i was wrong.

the first time i listened to it, later this afternoon, was pleasant as ever, but i realized i had misjudged this certain track earlier on. the horn introduction doesn't fade, but respectfully gives way to the verse and chorus. it does this quite a bit, changing around, but never with a slippery fade, always formally.

wish i could say the same for you, a day will come soon when i'll look in your eyes but i won't see you...

this comes to a conclusion after a bit and the entire piece breaks into what i can only imagine is an orchestra pit of new orleans jazz tools. the trumpet returns with variations on his theme, a rickety ukelele replaces the guitar, the bass syncs with a tuba and slide trombone, the drums still tick away a simple solid line while, seemingly from the ashes, arises the soprano. it sits just to the right of the trumpet, just beyond it in the breakdown. not an afterthought, persay, but a marriage made in the deep south; the conservative, staccato'd, pure horn with the swinging soprano accompaniment. whenever i hear the song, i always picture the soprano as wearing a blue dress and headband with long blue ribbons blowing in the wind as she wallows around the scales, almost drunkenly.

this, of course lasts only the length of a verse or so and follows the progression established beforehand before closing - though not as completely - as the chord steps up and the chorus is repeated. it is the ending, though, that is most special.

the first time, i was floored by the sheer parade joy of the finale, and decided to listen to the entire thing again. i thought i might read a little while most of the song played, just focusing a little bit, just catching it all one more time. after it was over, i realized i had read one paragraph and spent the rest of the time with my eyes closed. when it reached the close, the second time, though i new it was coming, the soprano nearly killed me. i never see it coming, with music like this. i spend nearly all the second song thinking of ways to record this myself, learning the instruments, laying down the beats, the tired but swinging vocals.

when the soprano fell from the sky, a split-second behind the trumpet, my nose began to burn. my ears burned too, and my mouth stayed decidedly shut and tight while a thin, wry little grin curled around the corners of my lips. a small ocean of tears pooled behind my eyelids before, refused escape, retreated back to wherever they came from. you see, i am in love with that soprano; that floozy swinging twenties lady singing through the elegant woodwind. it's a happiness i can't find all the time, one that comes only with the joy of music, celebratory music. as that trumpet and soprano faded out, dancing together, i couldn't breathe.

...

later on tonight i stood outside with my mother and recounted to her the difficulties of living inside my head. my new productivity complex, the difficulties of being creative, living and having lived. what i wanted to do with my life and why the two main sides of me can never comprise a whole person. frustrations with school and with risking lifestyle for the arts. i think i am going to see a counselor about all this. i am tired of hearing how success in life is dictated by how much money you make; and am i really being selfish by not moving to africa?

i choked up telling her about my prayers. every night i pray. i say a little prayer and often, then, i remember the last night i prayed. in thie middle of this prayer i see another day has passed. some nights i just see a long string of prayers and passing days and it seems like they go by so fast. it feels like my life is slipping away. by the end i could hardly speak; i think i was about to cry.

10:41-11:34 PM Saturday, March 11, 2006

i am still struggling with the idea of writing seriously. how do you make a living writing? not much of one; i can only imagine. especially this strange, sweet vision i have of some beat lifestyle... replete with travelling, sex, and drugs. inconceivable characters and experiencing life at its most bare - the wonderful, the harsh, and the cruel. as always, though, i worry with the notion that i am being selfish with my life. i see a classic car or read an article in a magazine about how now is the time to invest in a certain ferrari - ones at the bottom of their respective depreciation curves - and think: i could do that. someday, i will. someday i will have houses wherever i want to live, eat in fine restaurants, take up expensive hobbies. this all comes about by staying in school like i know i should, going through the exhausting process of pursuing further education, getting degrees of some sorts, and ultimately a job at some hospital putting people to sleep. is anesthesiology one of the noble areas of the medical profession? doesnt seem like one to me. seems like a necessary way to demand a lot of money... and an awfully easy way to kill someone. but i've been over all this and will not bore you any more with such an internal argument. i find it quite difficult to write fiction anyway.

certainly would be a crime, wouldnt it? if i were to put someone to sleep so deeply that they never woke up, how would that look in god's eyes? taking the life of another human being... is it intent that matters? the line in the sand between murder and a simple accident, mere stupidity. does god favor people over other forms of life? people are certainly the most "god-fearing" of the living things. so would it matter if i murdered an athiest, to god? i suppose it would. and what of an animal? the argument for or against a soul in humans is certainly pertinent, but if we can agree that there is, i cannot tell you there isn't a soul hidden behind the look in the eyes of my dog when i leave in the mornings. and if dogs have a soul, why not all living creatures? does it hurt the lord every time i took the life of an ant when i was younger? is every mosquito i bloody on my arm kept on some permanent record to be referenced when my time comes? a lot of questions for so few answers. i suppose devoting my life to the road and being of no use to humanity might render many of these killings null and void anyway.

rachel, my dear, you may not want to read the rest...

on the way home from a particularly interesting restaurant near jacksonville, tonight, i asked my mother, jokingly {because she is so good}, how long it would be until we got back to the motel. she predicted fifty minutes for an approximate arrival time of 10:26. pretty soon afterward, she gave a great whimper and swerved the car a little. i looked up in time to see a silver streak out the passenger's window from the backseat and catch another swerve - into the turning lane this time - accompanied by another great worried squeal. the cat had no idea what hit it. i have never understood what possesses an animal to pick the perfectly wrong moment to run a frantic gauntlet through traffic. i barely even caught a glance of the silver cat before its existance quite abruptly came to a conclusion with an unceremonious thump under one of our rear tires. i can only hope it was suffering from some mind-numbing disease and wasn't in a proper state of mind when it happened. i doubt it was thinking much at the time anyway.

my mother drove down the road a ways with one hand on the steering wheel and the other covering her mouth, slowly drifting into the other lane while uttering a few "oh my god's", until my dad calmed her down a bit. he got her back in the correct lane with his soothing talk, telling her there was nothing she could do. i offered to drive but was turned down. my sister, in the front seat, was even more severely shocked, i think, because she didn't say a thing. we exited onto I-95 and everyone was silent for a little wihle. while not a pleasant topic, i considered all the animals i could remember being hit in my presence.

there was this cat, of course, and a squirrel i hit on timber drive on the way in to school one morning, junior year. once on the way back from soccer practice, way back in the day, in some other mother's van, i saw a rabbit run into the road, missing the front wheels of a large truck in front of us, but deciding to act against his decision to run into the road with the equally regrettable decision to leave the street, hopping just in time to catch the right rear tire. a couple years ago on a scout kayaking trip in the mountains, i was in the back seat of my dad's truck when a deer ran down the side of the mountain to our left at break-neck speed and the presence of mind to aim directly at our truck. it hit the side of the truck with such velocity that we ended up with a four-foot dent and - after further review - a pregnant doe which had died of, go figure, a broken neck. perhaps the worst of these i won't discuss in detail, as it lies too close to my heart. know that it was bad, though.

hell, i don't even know what i'm doing anymore. does recounting my experiences with roadkill serve any purpose to humanity? i am not even doing myself any good. just about the only thing on my mind at this moment is a strong desire to be in bed with somebody. not even in a particularly sexual way, just a sincere need to hold somebody close to me. the warmth of another body. i would feel much less lonely in a dark room with somebody special than in this lit motel room with my family, my laptop, and animal planet.

remind me someday to change my moral values based on experience. i think i need to sleep around with people, experiment with all the drugs that don't promise permanent damage, hitchhike across america and europe. get drunk on tequila and wander the streets of mexico city. make music on a street corner and put out my guitar case just to see what people are willing to give. find a limited supply of creative energy buried down in the depths of my consciousness and write a novel that nobody will understand but me. remind me not to die until i begin, for once.

oh, and find somebody who wants to go on this journey with me.

lonelily {part whatever}

yes, it's one of those nights. i dont really feel the compunction to write pages tonight, but i feel like i should write something. the only thing i really feel, though, is lonely. it get's old, after a while, this nightly routine. as pleasant as it was, discovering fox soccer channel a couple days ago, watching two north american clubs who probably aren't worth a shit in the grand scheme of things just doesn't really do it. {no chuckling allowed...;)} jesusfuckingchrist that cow scares me.

this... m'dear, is why tonight is ironic.

anyway, with renewed vigor for my cause... yada yada yada {that there's some writin!}... im lonely. and, you know, it isn't from not speaking to anyone - although that usually helps some - its from sitting here with nobody doing nothing significant. because if i were sitting here in the dark, typing little nothings, sap vs. la in the background, sharing this big, brown chair with somebody i cared about... this night would be infinitely better.

this isnt about lust. i am just the kind of guy who appreciates a warm body, and not just from anybody - im no whore. but from somebody i can talk to for hours, tell stories to, be engaged with. thats not such a bad thing is it?

get away, must

its suffocating in this house. literally and figuratively, i suppose. the literal will pass, its the figurative that is much more dangerous. i have written more since ive been home but it isnt to say the things i want to be able to say. i tried to record some songs this morning while i still had my sexy sick voice but i doubt they turned out real well. whatever leaves my mouth is rarely ever of much musical value. it angers my fingers, what for the work they have put in?

no, i would much rather be on a sunny stretch of grass in los angeles or, perhaps, a busy street corner cafe in vienna {apparently they are quite popular over there}. i realized last night that los angeles is 2,550 miles away from here. i have never been 2,550 miles from anywhere. i have been as far south as key west and as far north as montpelier, vermont. that's 1,770 miles. 2,550 miles is far enough for me to lose comprehension of the physical distance. thats far enough that, without the internet or phones, i seriously doubt i would ever, no matter what i tried, see someone again. that freaks me out a little bit.

but i need to go somewhere, live some. prefereably not alone, but not with a circus either. i want an apartment overlooking a cobblestone road. one where smells of fresh bread and pastry drift up and into the windows by the patio from the bakery down below. some small but open space where the paint on the walls is cracked and old bricks and mortar show through in some conspicuous places. somewhere you can walk to a fresh market for whatever you need, whenever you like. its a place for freelance work and creativity.

until now, my world has been the united states. i was born here, have lived here, and, for some reason, always thought i would end up here. in some place or another, new york if i were thinking riskily, but in all likelihood somewhere in this very state. there are problems associated with being multifaceted; among them are the desires to not only want to be a freelance artist in vienna or ios but also the half that wants to be an anesthesiologist in new york city with a house in quaint beaufort and a sailboat for trips to the caribbean or key west. a collection of classic cars at a home in the country {maybe one on the banks of a good southern river, in a glade of trees in the country, white with pillars - think forrest gump} and one very happy cow.

can these two possibly coincide? ive found i am a lot happier with someone than without, surely that has something to do with it. of course there are more sides to this riddle. why not be in a band? why not drive to los vegas in a great white whale? why not be a junkie in mexico? now im just stealing ideas. fuck, i forgot. when i become an expert in the medical field, i need to go to africa and save people. join the peace corps after college. save darfur. fuck.

i am only nineteen but i already feel like i am behind. like i havent lived enough to fill my nineteen years. so i need to live... there isnt much to write about if you havent lived. i had a moral life crisis last summer that inspired me to, well, more or less think about all this 'saving africans' stuff. how am i going to do that while hitchhiking across wyoming, high on acid? granted, saving starving, sick africans might give me something to say... i mean isnt that the end to this discussion of means? no doubt it would be fulfilling... i think a lot of this has to do with God. you know, making the most of my time here on earth, doing the most for humanity, meaning something. yes well, that apartment in vienna sounds like more fun. why is there such a damned line drawn between what is selfish and what is selfless? is it so bad to want to have fun while i am young? but if i dont get all this preparation done young, i will never save the world, own a sailboat, a classic jaguar, or a cow. i still want the cow {maybe a horse too... its never out of the question}. but what's the good of waiting until retirement to see the world? what if i dont make it that far? i could suddenly die for no reason at all while sitting here in this chair watching television and this would be the most ironic thing i have ever written.

there is also the discrepancy between people's views. there are two real contradictions to me: who i am and what kind of person i believe i should be, and what God hates/doesnt hate and what the government thinks. first, really, i dont think God is really against natural things like marijuana and opium etc. he put them here so... why is it so bad? as for the government, i dont see how any consciousness altering drugs are any different than alcohol. ive never been high but i dont see why pot should be illegal when there could be legal limitations for use like alcohol. its certainly a lot less deadly than tobacco but you dont see people looking to outlaw smokes. also, it seems that i keep myself from trying anything because its not really the kind of man i want to be. sheltered, yeah thats it... thats what im going for. also, seeing the government's views on these things, i wouldnt want to risk my future for some fun, however much living it might bring with it. so what now? i go out in the woods at night and get high like everybody thinks i do anyway. right. i dont know.

i need to find a way to quit banking on enjoying the future and get to living while i still can.

bad horoscope

i want my sleep back. last night, with living muck steadily climbing out of my bronchal tubes, settling somewhere south of my tongue, blocking my thoat... {<-- not a real sentence, unless i add the ellipses, which make it more or less simply vague...(raising the question, is "ellipses" singular or plural? ellipses are a good time, or, ellipses is a good time? an ellipses is ((ellipses are?)) more or less a group of three periods. is a group a they or an it? i guess it boils down to: is "ellipses" a term for three periods or, in the group, are each of the periods an "ellipse." you know what, the latter sounds better and therefore will be the usage in this essay)} admittedly, i wasnt really using it, but the swallowing reaction is more or less automatic. now, the frequency of this little ballad was alarming; with the cycle repeating itself more or less every time i could take a breath. to be sure there is something to be done about that? constriction: i was half asleep. or half awake i suppose, depending on your outlook on matters of life. there is a pitiful, mentally paralyzed stage stuck between entire consciousness and the reprieve of a deeper rest.

{christ this song hurts to listen to... brings back memories of a lot of tears}

usually this stage is associated with a discomfort of some kind, obviously, keeping you from gaining unconsciousness. i have had uncomfortable nights before, the sheets were wrong, i was too hot, whatever, where i lay there half-dreaming but unhappy because things weren't right. problem is, im just unconscious enough not to know what to do about it. this is a terrible thing, knowing something isnt right but not being capable enough to correct the problem. how many unhappy nights have i layed there, miserable, and simply took it? i remember last night, for an hour or so: dreaming, breathing, being annoyed that i had to swallow, swallowing, dreaming, breathing, being annoyed that i had to swallow, swallowing... etc. must be the life of a goldfish... except im pretty sure goldfish have fewer problems. besides, they wouldnt remember it in the morning, would they?

i always sort of thought i would be a writer someday. well not really. i mean it wouldnt be my main source of income, but i always thought i would. garp is a writer. apparently it isnt easy. i have also always {or for at least the last hour or three} wanted to own a house in some ancient european city. it seems like just the place to sit on a park bench or a downtown street corner and watch a tree, foreigners, or a quickly buzzing and sputtering austrian neon sign. it seems like, in those places, the words would come so much easier than here, at home, in a dark den with a bright tv showing the western conference basketball championship, laptop on... well, lap, headphones in... just sitting... i want to be the next kerouac. badly. i can feel him inside me. i mean, i suppose i will have to be jack on my days off from putting people to sleep but that shouldnt stop me, right? maybe theres a bit of hemingway tucked away too. maybe when i sail down to the keys, i will feel more like ernest. i will need a lot of six-toed cats and a used bar urinal but yeah, i could be ernest.

you know, maybe someday i will find my own thing. be it in vienna or key west or the subdivisions of faux-rural north carolina. i will sing to some small microphone some song that, maybe, i wrote. and in my own voice {although this sexy sick voice is pretty cool...} to boot. so far, however original i think i am sometimes, ive been living a life of covers. every real song i have ever played, written by someone else. every good thing ive ever written, usually while thinking of someone to emulate. i have this thing for originality that says: "unless you change something when you write it, it should stay as it is." makes writing poetry pretty difficult, when everything is a first-draft. so i dont know, maybe im just faking it. these couple paragraphs will never mean that much to anyone. no universal truths exposed. no particular entertainment value. i am pleased, however, that i dont particularly mind all the words that have come out so far. garp says his mother would read her autobiography and not enjoy what she was reading, even though she just wrote it. and thats the way it goes, a lot of the time, but tonight is a little better. its a little bit pleasing. and, after all, i can ease off that itch for productivity a little bit. check it out, i wrote some more. good for me.

night loves.

another sunny day

happiness is... relaxing in preparation of impending relaxation.

ive found some of the happiest times i have had at wake this year have been lunches in the mag room, before a vacation. today, for instance. i had a french lit midterm at ten, the likes of which i can only pray about now, and organic at noon. but after that, after a slap on the back from sean and a reminder that we were indeed, done... everything was ok. and we walked to the mag room and sat down with friends, most of whom were also done. and you dont worry about getting out on time because there was nothing to do but pack up and head home, wherever that is. so we sat around one table and ate, joked, and laughed {i just close my eyes and try and find my happy place... oh... he found it}... thought i should remind yall of that one. got up and left when we felt like it, went to the deacon shop for a change. hell, i even found a hat i liked and bought it. that, my friends, doesnt happen every day. after a while, down to the post office with wipp... i havent spent time with her in a while, that was pleasant. and then to reynolda with wipp... and benson with wipp... and a hug from ko...

after a little final packing, i wandered out to student drive and sat for a minute or two sorting through some odd hundred cd's only to look up and see the shuttle driver right in front of me wondering if i wanted a ride back to campus. bless him, lord knows how long he was waiting there trying to get my attention. turn on some damn, damn good music... my god. and ashley was grateful for her ride. that really goes a long way, when someone is actually appreciative of a favor... but its nothing really, no skin off my back, my pleasure really. and just as pleasant to talk to her too. back on down to johnson and shes going down the hall recruiting people to help move how much stuff? a good five trips worth. oh but she's leaving a lot of it at home. mhmmm. so patrick, clay, shannon, and i {after grabbing a load of my own stuff, for starters} worked our way over to the other wing and loaded up with all kinds of girly bags. had a big girly parade down out front of johnson where i could drop my stuff off and hers as well. back in for another last load of mine and out where people were gathering between the two cars, fire lanes and whatnot, in a circle. i knew that nobody was ever going to get off with people all gathered around like that {try and make that sound clean...} and i was wondering where ka was, who was supposed to be there to say goodbye but was conspiciously absent. turns out she was walking toward johnson with darcy carrying some godawfullybig duffel back between the two of them. i suggested to patrick that we go carry it for them, such chivalrous gentlemen, and on the walk over he suggested we just jump over the back. go figure, i start jogging and jump over the bag, throwing a little ankle grab in for good measure. we are carrying this thing in johnson front entrance when i say to him, "you know, that could have been really bad, couldnt it?"... well yeah, i could easily have bit pavement right there but i didnt so whatever. long story short, we all laughed and joked and hugged and wished well and i put on some amazing music and left. my paragraphs are too long.

stopped for gas... what odd stuff happens. traffic was particularly bad, friday afternoon i suppose. lots of wake cars leaving. lovely. oh, but oh! the happiness.

packing and leaving, carrying ashley's luggage, saying goodbye to people in the lounge... it was the happiest i have seen the johnson community... ever. everybody was in such a good mood, so willing to help out, to smile, hug, wish well. it was amazing. everyone just exuded this excited looseness. i guess its that impending relaxation. everybody's got their something. the happiness stuck with me, as i finished out that album to be replaced with another, completely different. one i havent listened to in a year, probably, but knew every single damned word. i amazed myself. while 40 was hairy through g-boro, 421 south was nice. i love long highway trips because, so often, you will find friends out there. at least, its what occurs to me. some of these people, would draft, stick together. i dont know why. we would all pull out behind each other and keep together like buddies... lord knows. i was in convoy with a silver ford sport-track, a new white dodge magnum, and a new red nissan titan. it was lovely, really. after a while, the sport-trac exited and the magnum dropped back in traffic but the titan stayed with me till i got off at siler city, 64. and thats when the magic happened.

first, my favorite song queued (?) up in random. without thinking, i looked down to check the track, soon as it began, because it sounded so familiar. not only my favorite song on the album but one of the best, to me, ever. and i sang, as i had been for so long at that point... and still knew every word. now, i skipped over to the right lane leaving siler because some guy was in my way and noticed there was a small black honda civic coupe in front of me. one of those old two-doors with a little spoiler. i didnt recognize the plate but i figured i wouldnt anyway. a girl from my highschool drove one of those. i mean, i dont really see many of those anyway but i havent seen the girl since last summer {although i drank her vodka in the fall...} and i talk to her a lot these days so i pulled up in the left lane and gunned it, regardless of all the horror stories ive heard of small town cops and their traffic enforcement. and so it was. her, that is. i was amazed. i mean, i knew she went to g-boro and would be driving home the same way but i never really expected it to be her. that kind of stuff just doesnt happen, you know?

i slowed the car down a bit and sortof cruised beside her at the same speed for a couple seconds, the entire time looking right at her {no, not at the road... but it was pretty straight}. and, naturally, she noticed some guy almost passing her but deciding to drive right beside her and gave me one of those double-takes where the first small glance says "who the fuck are you? creep" and the next big, wide-eyed smiling face says "fucking hell, i havent seen you in forever, this stuff doesnt really happen!" so i kind of smiled at her and she kind of smiled and me and my stomach turned a knot i didnt see coming. but i pulled in ahead of her and waved {intentionally} like a big happy retard and she waved like another big happy retard from behind me and we drove for a while, together for the first time in... forever. we texted a couple times; she had bojangles and i had sunflower seeds and a lime pepsi. she didnt have a stereo so a couple miles down the road i called her, told her i felt sorry for her, and played her a song off mine, through the phone. im not sure how good it was, though, cause i was singing the entire time, and made sure to sing into the mic for the last verse just so she could hear me for sure. and when she finally exited some miles up the road she stuck her arm out the window in heavy traffic to wave at me and i did my best back. and the entire experience just made my week.

but that's not all!

upon arriving at home late, i jumped in the car with my mother and headed back into the city to meet my father whom i accompanied to a hell of a hockey game. the canes won, 5-2 as i semi-predicted and the entire thing was both entertaining and entirely wonderful. and i drove back and we got to talk and whatnot and when i got home there was three pieces of frozen white pizza waiting and i ate and was happy and yay.

but, seriously for a second, the best part of my entire day...

you. i swear, like i said, i didnt really plan on bothering you while you are out in wild, exciting california but hearing from you anyway was wonderful. and this is going to be honest in a way i usually avoid while writing publicly because i think i should be, like i know you are. im not going to go on for twelve pages here but really... i find it hard to believe, sometimes, that you are real. i dont deserve this, dont deserve you. i cant believe you when you say such sweet things, that you actually care. nobody treats me that way. this isnt a call for sympathy or a lesson in self-esteem but really, nobody ever treats me like that.

you, youre special. youre fucking weird, and i love it. you are beautiful in a way i dont think you understand. and you make me feel special, in a way im sure you arent aware of. you dont know what you do to me, how i feel. sometimes when i go back to johnson late at night, people look at me funny because i am so happy. truthfully, i havent enjoyed life this much in as long as i can remember. and i get along so well, just walking the quad, whenever i do... its different. theres this relaxation, a confidence, a surefootedness that hasnt been there. god knows its you. people are so much easier to deal with because theres a facet of existance, the one that dictates that people are either alone or not, that doesnt matter anymore. not right now.

i was thinking, while laying out on that blanket on davis field a couple nights ago, of how wonderful things would have been had you not said all those things the night before. but when i think back, hell, it was probably a good thing. it was wonderful as it was. i was almost surprised to be invited to the poetry and film things but my god... it was encouraging to me, not really a shock but a solid forward push, a concrete idea that things are going to be ok. not ok, really, really great. know why? because we can be friends. we can be amazing friends. because i didnt even think, didnt even try, and it was easy. you were easy, we were easy. its not work spending time with you. i cant say that about everyone.

so... thank you. thank you for everything. thank you for walking with me, for laying on davis field, for laughing at my jokes and listening to my music, for watching my movies and sharing your bed. thank you for leaving sweet messages for me to wake up to, for still wanting to talk to me while youre in california. thank you for making me feel like someone that deserves someone like yourself. and please, dear god please, i hope i can make you feel the same way.

g'night

summer breeze

sometimes, no matter which way the wind is blowing, your hair gets in your eyes.

and so it was. sweet spring night, huffy summer breeze. sometime before the humidity will descend on us, sickly heavy and thick, but the breeze over the basketball courts was something to contend with. no matter which way you turn. but its majestic really, indecisive. i can try and practice a free-throw and soon as i raise the ball that wind will whip up a fury. little bits of leaves flying at my face, dirt in my eyes, and the ball? fuck me. no, sometimes it just gets angry. howls up in the trees over the dorms and all you can do is stand there, ball-in-hand, and stare at the sky, at the submissive old trees and wait because after a short delay, it'll hit you too. but its funny cause theres nothing you can do... throw whatever shit up's got the pop and it aint yours anymore. but people come and people go. some came and talked shit to each other for a couple minutes and left again. so its just me, two courts, four goals, twelve hot burning lights and me. a couple girls walk past confused, talk loud. some go to their cars, back. two walk past singing aladdin and now i cant get the shit out of my head. s'another night. arabian night. arabian days.

i go home out to the coast
it starts to rain, i travel out on the water, alone
taste the salt and taste the pain
im not thinking of you again

blowin' through the jasmine in my mind

oh what a lovely sound!!

my skin is...

who the hell knows? who the hell can see that im sitting in a dark lounge quickly rocking back and forth in my chair to the song-of-the-night of which im sure everyone knows one line of, just not the same one. maybe if everyone sang in order for once. i dont try and make sense, just to me and the music...

white as parchment
drier than a downtown office building
where the air is tight

and it isnt the chocolate-covered-espresso beans speaking here, no, its something more. i cant bear to draw the comparisons; for your benefit i will abstain from mentioning the name. im sure the conclusions you draw will be close to the truth, but know, oh no, just know, its such a good thing. such a good thing. {such a good thing, prettier than brackets, in fact}. just how hard is it, when everyone loves you?

can you feel it? what to feel? easy. feels easy and exciting and carefree. yes, we can be friends. and we will be damn good at it too. and all the words i am afraid to say, they will be there too. jesus, for now, how much wonderful is lost for definition? not too much, i should think. i should hope.

thats not all, no, there will be snacks, there will

i should think. or should i refrain from thought too deep? breeds paranoia, it does. certainly something to avoid. certainly something to guard oneself from. guarded. applies still? does it? i have no idea. i know i dont want to be shreds and i know you dont want me to be, but fuck it if i just want to find out how it feels.


berlin, berlin, berlin, berlin, berlin, berlin!


no, we will be fine. we? is we too much definition for you? take your time, take your thoughts, take your blankets and pillows and virgin knuckles and little pin-up blue and gold flags and loose ceiling tiles and doom, ah, take your doom all the way west and when you come back... having thought and considered and plundered and reconsidered and been jet-lagged and probably high a couple times and whatever it is you do when im not there... we are going to a film festival and we will stay up past your bedtime and we will not fall in the pit of doom, you will see.

tit for tat and bone for bone

this, m'dear, this is confidence. this is patience and whatnot. this is everything grounded in a pinch of ridiculousness. this is a little bit of oddball and a cup and a half of lenin and... and... and...... at least im not a bad vegetarian. although... i dont know how i would have anyone who wasnt, really.

i am... my skin is... i am... so much better than before. so much more in control, so much better, so much more ready... for whatever, whenever, however. this is possibly the most complete i have ever been. because you arent like a good song, no, so much more. run so much deeper, so reactive and random. i am afraid of good songs. i used to be afraid of you but not anymore, i reckon. a good song i can listen to too many times and be sick of, can be stuck in my head all day long and i can want an escape from. but no, a real human, a real soundboard... never gets old. i say never in the sense of well, say, in the past week or so. im not sick, not tired, not bored of the thought.

a toast to you, my inappropriate friend... godspeed to the bathroom tiles!

i am so fucking happy, people have noticed. were you aware? i should think not. not to pressurize, my friend, not to pressurize. i rock. left to right and back again, bum bump bump bump bum. i know some of the words. life is a song and im learning the lyrics just slowly, just so. just so...


the case is closed


and when i see you again, i expect nothing less, nothing more than, nothing less than a glance, a smile, a step out of beat, and i will return the favor ;)