Ghosts appear and fade away in yellow tinted rooms where dry winter sunlight filters through papery yellow curtains. Picture such a room, now, in a small home in southern Italy.
The walls are lined with cases of butterflies, printed flat with great effort and care. In the left side of the room there sits a red couch with rural, idiosyncratic patters in yellows and soft greens spotting the surface. Dust coats everything here, excepting a small writing desk, on which sat an inkwell and a lamp with a stained-glass shade and an ebony stand.
There is a man in the room, with half-closed eyes and skin of a dark tan, reminiscent of a native of southern Spain, or perhaps Morocco. In his left hand he holds a paper cup of coffee, probably from the small coffeehouse in the neighboring alleyway. In his right, he clutches a stack of letters just acquired from a post-officer whose relationship with the coffee-drinking man went back no less than sixteen years. The man sits in a small armchair immediately to the right of the door to the room, which looks out the window, to the left of which sits the desk.
As he sifts through the mail, he looks down upon a name he did not expect (and yet fully expected) to see. Immediately, he stands up and walks to the desk, dropping the rest of the letters onto the armchair.
His gaze tightens into a grimace as he reads what she had written him; an inconclusive cry for help that had less substance than the quad con panna he sipped slowly, steam wafting up and around his nose. As the sun passes behind a cloud and the space is darkened, he picks up his pen and begins to respond.
He begins with:“dearest _____,”. And at that, as light again flutters into the room, in a silence so acute that the wings of hummingbirds would harmonize with the drop of a pin, he discovers, for the first time in a long time, that he is at a loss for words.
Friday, December 31, 2010
Monday, December 6, 2010
there is an elegance to streetlights;
like someone took stars and hung them from the earth,
carried the mystique like a bayonet and lit the giant’s pathway north.
i can still hear the ringing of the cars,
a sweet symphony responding to forgotten conversation and mythical stares,
like shiny young hipsters lost in the glory of the mainstream or two stupid kids who (i hope) could feel more than just the moonlight,
but somehow i doubt it.
somehow i doubt it,
because anthem way and metal bars and terms of service and cars and streetlights give way too fast to one sided feelings and never seeing anyone ever and talking once an month and listening less
there’s an elegance to streetlights;
they paint the way for giant’s footpaths and traffic-jams and radio music and rhapsody
such is the road to chicago
such is the road to hearts
such is the road to feeling and forgetting and not wanting and living and dying and screaming and crying and laughing and listening and never talking and never seeing and never really feeling like they care, even if they do
but, i think there’s some hope left for our tumbling little world;
i think there’s an epigram that reads all your names alongside mine
i think i can dig it
i think i can bring my friends more than a streetlight ever could
or maybe not.
like someone took stars and hung them from the earth,
carried the mystique like a bayonet and lit the giant’s pathway north.
i can still hear the ringing of the cars,
a sweet symphony responding to forgotten conversation and mythical stares,
like shiny young hipsters lost in the glory of the mainstream or two stupid kids who (i hope) could feel more than just the moonlight,
but somehow i doubt it.
somehow i doubt it,
because anthem way and metal bars and terms of service and cars and streetlights give way too fast to one sided feelings and never seeing anyone ever and talking once an month and listening less
there’s an elegance to streetlights;
they paint the way for giant’s footpaths and traffic-jams and radio music and rhapsody
such is the road to chicago
such is the road to hearts
such is the road to feeling and forgetting and not wanting and living and dying and screaming and crying and laughing and listening and never talking and never seeing and never really feeling like they care, even if they do
but, i think there’s some hope left for our tumbling little world;
i think there’s an epigram that reads all your names alongside mine
i think i can dig it
i think i can bring my friends more than a streetlight ever could
or maybe not.
Thursday, December 2, 2010
Four
There was once a great kingdom, and its great king had a beautiful daughter who passed her days in solitude, weaving garments for the pleasure of her father. One day, while she was sitting beside the great river, peering across, she saw a handsome young shepherd boy leading his flock through the pasture. Immediately, she fell in love.
Thereafter, she became terribly disheartened, knowing that, due to her duties at the loom, she would be unable to pursue that love. The king, aware that by his bidding such despair had befallen her, felt great remorse, and arranged for her to marry the shepherd. There marriage was one of happiness from the start, and everyday thereafter they grew happier and happier. However, in immersing herself in her marriage, the princess had neglected her weaving and the great king became angry. Unable to reconcile with that anger, the great king banished each of the lovers to opposite sides of the great river, allowing them only to meet once each year: on the seventh day of the seventh month. On that day, a ferryman would carry the shepherd boy across the river to the princess, and return him home at day's end. However, if the princess has not fulfilled her obligations at the loom the king floods the river, and the two can not meet.
Thereafter, she became terribly disheartened, knowing that, due to her duties at the loom, she would be unable to pursue that love. The king, aware that by his bidding such despair had befallen her, felt great remorse, and arranged for her to marry the shepherd. There marriage was one of happiness from the start, and everyday thereafter they grew happier and happier. However, in immersing herself in her marriage, the princess had neglected her weaving and the great king became angry. Unable to reconcile with that anger, the great king banished each of the lovers to opposite sides of the great river, allowing them only to meet once each year: on the seventh day of the seventh month. On that day, a ferryman would carry the shepherd boy across the river to the princess, and return him home at day's end. However, if the princess has not fulfilled her obligations at the loom the king floods the river, and the two can not meet.
Thursday, November 25, 2010
untitled
foreward:
there are certain conventions of writing which i choose to disregard. they concern capital letters, punctuation, and all the stupid things that dont really matter anyway, because the only people that care about that either dont care about reading what ive written here, or their dead. most, i would assume, would fit into the first category.
im also convinced that those things make writing dead and meaningless, by trying to provide beauty through appearance. sentences are beautiful because they are sentences, not because i followed some arbitrary rules.
what im writing is the culmination of poetrycarridesinsidejokesbademomusicbloggingandstayingupallnightwithacopyofdoriangreytotalkabouttomorrow
what im writing here is prose; its a coming-of-age novel, i guess, and its one of those stupid novels that old conservatives will criticize and call promiscuous or inappropriate because they think that because its about young adults, its also for them. this is both unfair, and untrue.
this, to me, is a creative outlet, to express what i feel or dont feel or otherwise am concerned with. it is fiction. it takes place somewhere, with characters that exist only in the songs i hear and the things i read and places i go, but most of all, only exist inside my head, however similar they may seem to reallifepeopleplacesevents
it might seem to lose any sense of coherency or order in parts. thats intentional.
what im writing here is for my friends. theyll get it.
fuck you guys.
<3
-me
untitled
simsun fonts and bad music are a good starting-place, i think. i dont know you, nor do i expect to. you are a human-being, and that is enough to commend you to me. you came across this, in adumpsteroratrashcanoraplacewheremagicalthingsgo, or maybe your friend gave it to you, with asmileorfrownorlaughortear, or if im lucky, maybe they gave it to you and said ‘i cried when i read this’. i hope i can get that out of you, because i really dont need anything else, at this point, but to have somebody to share my life with. i dont know you, nor do i expect to, and i dont care. im writing this to you because i know youll read it (and if you dont, thats cool too) and youll feel something, and maybejustmaybe thatll be something to you.
i hope you never know or have to know what it feels like to give up entirely, and i hope you never have to know what it feels like to miss out on everything because your moms gone and your dad still wont lock the doors, and i hope you arent one of those people who has no genuine-ness left inside you anymore, and that you wont fuck people just because you get the chance, or that you dont truly care about your friends or your girlfriend or everyone around you. i hope you get the chance to feel genuinely happy, and i hope that you get to feel love and i hope you try drugs and i hope you dont become a slave to money or stop living because living is too hard, and i hope you love life and live it for you (and your friends too).
i wish i loved myself.
i wish she loved me.
i wish they were still around to drive up and down the roads listening to music nobodys heard of and telling jokes and feeling like (or maybe wishing that) this would last forever.
theres a black-and-white smile for each distant twink-a-lee that brightens the horizon for each tiny moment the stars reflect on windshields or waterways or buddy holly glasses or hookah pieces or glass shards from second-story windows or guitar bodies or the eyes of someone sitting alone and crying because their mom wont come home.
i wish i loved myself like they used to love me.
someone, somewhere, a long long time ago, two people fucked and made my mom.
quite honestly, she has no clue who they were, and quite honestly, nobody ever really cared that much anyway. all anyone knows is that she was born in detroit, then came south and into our little town outside chicago, all homely and midwestern with rows of houses side-to-side (but with some character, not those stupid suburb development things). i wont tell you the name, or hers, because i feel like that doesnt matter. for the sake of coherency ill call her lizbeth (no last name, she never had one anyway. ours for a while) and the place where we lived wheaton (yeah, i know, thats not near chicago, but its not where we lived, either, so does it matter what i call it?). she showed up here in the early 80s after tramping around the midwest, then started working as a journalist for a local newspaper that isnt around anymore.
my father was (is) a lawyer from ohio. he came out to illinois for law-school and ended up living in ‘wheaton’ after he got laid off by his firm in chicago. he bought a house on arlington street, four west from central, with two stories painted greenish blue with a white trim. this was in the mid-80s so he got the place dirt-cheap from forclosure, and found a bag of weed in the toilet upstairs his first day in the place. point is, he moved in for shit, which was lucky with him being out of a job. he met my mom at a townhall meeting concerning, of all things, repaving the street next to ours, norfolk drive.
long story short, he asked her to go get some beers, they went home and ‘passionately’fucked each-other’s brains out on the stupid green couch he bought at goodwill. i cant walk past it, after gleaning this information from my dad 16 years later, without tearing up and wondering what wouldve happened if he wasnt so damn alcoholic and she wasnt so damned easy. but what was, was, and thats just about the extent of the metaphor.
i was born nine months later, into a world of rapestarvationmurdersubstanceabusesexliesdivorcecustodypaperselopingwiththedentistandalsolove
there are certain conventions of writing which i choose to disregard. they concern capital letters, punctuation, and all the stupid things that dont really matter anyway, because the only people that care about that either dont care about reading what ive written here, or their dead. most, i would assume, would fit into the first category.
im also convinced that those things make writing dead and meaningless, by trying to provide beauty through appearance. sentences are beautiful because they are sentences, not because i followed some arbitrary rules.
what im writing is the culmination of poetrycarridesinsidejokesbademomusicbloggingandstayingupallnightwithacopyofdoriangreytotalkabouttomorrow
what im writing here is prose; its a coming-of-age novel, i guess, and its one of those stupid novels that old conservatives will criticize and call promiscuous or inappropriate because they think that because its about young adults, its also for them. this is both unfair, and untrue.
this, to me, is a creative outlet, to express what i feel or dont feel or otherwise am concerned with. it is fiction. it takes place somewhere, with characters that exist only in the songs i hear and the things i read and places i go, but most of all, only exist inside my head, however similar they may seem to reallifepeopleplacesevents
it might seem to lose any sense of coherency or order in parts. thats intentional.
what im writing here is for my friends. theyll get it.
fuck you guys.
<3
-me
untitled
simsun fonts and bad music are a good starting-place, i think. i dont know you, nor do i expect to. you are a human-being, and that is enough to commend you to me. you came across this, in adumpsteroratrashcanoraplacewheremagicalthingsgo, or maybe your friend gave it to you, with asmileorfrownorlaughortear, or if im lucky, maybe they gave it to you and said ‘i cried when i read this’. i hope i can get that out of you, because i really dont need anything else, at this point, but to have somebody to share my life with. i dont know you, nor do i expect to, and i dont care. im writing this to you because i know youll read it (and if you dont, thats cool too) and youll feel something, and maybejustmaybe thatll be something to you.
i hope you never know or have to know what it feels like to give up entirely, and i hope you never have to know what it feels like to miss out on everything because your moms gone and your dad still wont lock the doors, and i hope you arent one of those people who has no genuine-ness left inside you anymore, and that you wont fuck people just because you get the chance, or that you dont truly care about your friends or your girlfriend or everyone around you. i hope you get the chance to feel genuinely happy, and i hope that you get to feel love and i hope you try drugs and i hope you dont become a slave to money or stop living because living is too hard, and i hope you love life and live it for you (and your friends too).
i wish i loved myself.
i wish she loved me.
i wish they were still around to drive up and down the roads listening to music nobodys heard of and telling jokes and feeling like (or maybe wishing that) this would last forever.
theres a black-and-white smile for each distant twink-a-lee that brightens the horizon for each tiny moment the stars reflect on windshields or waterways or buddy holly glasses or hookah pieces or glass shards from second-story windows or guitar bodies or the eyes of someone sitting alone and crying because their mom wont come home.
i wish i loved myself like they used to love me.
someone, somewhere, a long long time ago, two people fucked and made my mom.
quite honestly, she has no clue who they were, and quite honestly, nobody ever really cared that much anyway. all anyone knows is that she was born in detroit, then came south and into our little town outside chicago, all homely and midwestern with rows of houses side-to-side (but with some character, not those stupid suburb development things). i wont tell you the name, or hers, because i feel like that doesnt matter. for the sake of coherency ill call her lizbeth (no last name, she never had one anyway. ours for a while) and the place where we lived wheaton (yeah, i know, thats not near chicago, but its not where we lived, either, so does it matter what i call it?). she showed up here in the early 80s after tramping around the midwest, then started working as a journalist for a local newspaper that isnt around anymore.
my father was (is) a lawyer from ohio. he came out to illinois for law-school and ended up living in ‘wheaton’ after he got laid off by his firm in chicago. he bought a house on arlington street, four west from central, with two stories painted greenish blue with a white trim. this was in the mid-80s so he got the place dirt-cheap from forclosure, and found a bag of weed in the toilet upstairs his first day in the place. point is, he moved in for shit, which was lucky with him being out of a job. he met my mom at a townhall meeting concerning, of all things, repaving the street next to ours, norfolk drive.
long story short, he asked her to go get some beers, they went home and ‘passionately’fucked each-other’s brains out on the stupid green couch he bought at goodwill. i cant walk past it, after gleaning this information from my dad 16 years later, without tearing up and wondering what wouldve happened if he wasnt so damn alcoholic and she wasnt so damned easy. but what was, was, and thats just about the extent of the metaphor.
i was born nine months later, into a world of rapestarvationmurdersubstanceabusesexliesdivorcecustodypaperselopingwiththedentistandalsolove
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
Fallen Among Thieves
^i used capital letters today to make something irreversible clear. People are not good to each other. And i suppose they never will be, nor do i ask them to. But today made me angry; today made me realize the depth of the intolerance, the violent sub-culture, and the all around ignorance of american suburbia. Today, while at the park with my friends, i (or more specifically ben) was accosted by a large group of ultramasculine individuals who claimed that my friends and myself were trying to "start shit" with a group of younger kids playing football nearby, who had previously called us faggots. This group of individuals, lead by a self-righteous jackass, numbered about 40, compared to our group of less than ten. They approached us, circled around ben, and began to verbally harass him, then threatened he and the rest of us with violence. They then took ben and another of our group named tanner and forced them to play a twisted version of "smear the queer", in which they were repeatedly taken down. Tanner was hit in the face. After observing that one of this group carried a knife, ben and tanner walked across the street to escape, at which point the leader, and main purveyor of the harassment, tried (and failed) to tackle ben from behind.
and so i must say, fuck jocks. fuck kids who think they need to prove themselves with violence and sports and exercise. this is the last time i deal with it; promise.
and most of all, fuck kids who are too nervous to do anything about it. fuck all the nice kids in that crowd, who were too pussy to stand up for the weak kids who had nothing to do with anything at all.
and so i must say, fuck jocks. fuck kids who think they need to prove themselves with violence and sports and exercise. this is the last time i deal with it; promise.
and most of all, fuck kids who are too nervous to do anything about it. fuck all the nice kids in that crowd, who were too pussy to stand up for the weak kids who had nothing to do with anything at all.
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
i don't know what to write
i'm deep into po-mo prose right now. i feel like everything i've written lately reflects that, but now i feel lost. i wish i could write something beautiful, or something meaningful, or something powerful. i wish i could draw emotions in words, and make people laugh or cry, or feel like a living being. i really do, i promise.
and so, without further adieu, i would like to announce that i will be writing a short novel that no one will ever read. i hope you care enough to ask me for a copy, or a draft, or a page from the final edition with my name on it, because that would make me happy. i intend to pay for the printing of about 50 copies of it by the time i am done, and handing those out for free to whoever wants one. i also intend to have it available as an .pdf if you're really interested and too lazy/far away for me to give you a copy. so, if i ever get around to posting something that isn't completely stream of consciousness poetry or faux-philosophy, it'll be a draft of a few pages. i'll even tag them as one and the same, so that if you want to read it from start to finish as a series of posts, you can.
later.
and so, without further adieu, i would like to announce that i will be writing a short novel that no one will ever read. i hope you care enough to ask me for a copy, or a draft, or a page from the final edition with my name on it, because that would make me happy. i intend to pay for the printing of about 50 copies of it by the time i am done, and handing those out for free to whoever wants one. i also intend to have it available as an .pdf if you're really interested and too lazy/far away for me to give you a copy. so, if i ever get around to posting something that isn't completely stream of consciousness poetry or faux-philosophy, it'll be a draft of a few pages. i'll even tag them as one and the same, so that if you want to read it from start to finish as a series of posts, you can.
later.
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
so i think its time for some emo music to spruce up your day
Treetops
One of my favourite emo bands of all time. Its up there with the Promise Ring and Cap'n Jazz, in my opinion. Everything an emo band should be. Tear-drawing lyrics, melodic feel, and beautiful, miserable vocals that can make me cry just as fast as "12 sweaters red" by the Promise Ring. Two albums (that i can get a hold of):
Write Out the Lyrics from the First Crass LP on Your Math Notebook
http://www.mediafire.com/?unyioqnzmmj
just beautiful. My favourite is "lets go swimming". reminds me of treetops (because i love it that much), die emperor die!, and a better version of texas is the reason.
Twink-A-Lee
http://www.mediafire.com/?2y24njz2ht5
everything music should be. twinkly guitars, desperate singing, and lyrics to die for.
download both.
kills me they're gone.
One of my favourite emo bands of all time. Its up there with the Promise Ring and Cap'n Jazz, in my opinion. Everything an emo band should be. Tear-drawing lyrics, melodic feel, and beautiful, miserable vocals that can make me cry just as fast as "12 sweaters red" by the Promise Ring. Two albums (that i can get a hold of):
Write Out the Lyrics from the First Crass LP on Your Math Notebook
http://www.mediafire.com/?unyioqnzmmj
just beautiful. My favourite is "lets go swimming". reminds me of treetops (because i love it that much), die emperor die!, and a better version of texas is the reason.
Twink-A-Lee
http://www.mediafire.com/?2y24njz2ht5
everything music should be. twinkly guitars, desperate singing, and lyrics to die for.
download both.
kills me they're gone.
Monday, November 15, 2010
and sometimes i want to blame myself, but you left too. so what do i do? i wish you were here to help me. dear world, i'm still here.
i want to write a few lines for every person that has touched my life.
in some ways, i already have. but i want it to matter.
i want you to know that i care.
in some ways, i already have. but i want it to matter.
i want you to know that i care.
tell me a never ending bedtime story so that i can stay up all night wishing you were back here with me but then i wake up and you're still gone
two fucking years. that's all i have back here, before i go away, to california
or someplace like that. college, then nothing. what's it like to go away?
i want to say i'll miss home, but i doubt it.
i doubt i'll miss anything about this shit-hole
except the memories i've made here.
like substance-abuse under the bridge, or graffiti-poetry or taco bell or walking into fry's late at night or sitting on the stoner hill with all my friends looking at the baseball fields, because sometimes that's nicer than the sunset.
its a weird feeling, knowing that things change. i don't know if i can take it.
i'm having trouble imagining this place with a different cast of characters;
a new dramatis personae, to discover what its like to pile onto a staircase to nowhere and to read off all the shit under the bridge and to sleep in the park sometimes and tell their parents they're at a friends. i can't believe that one day we're going to be gone, because we've made this ours.
we've spraypainted our memories on everything here, and i don't want that to fade.
but it will, and when it does, i'll hold back tears with laughter and smiles,
and think about what's next, and i won't let go of my stupid friends and i'll promise that i'll never look back, until i do.
and then i'll cry my fucking eyes out.
or someplace like that. college, then nothing. what's it like to go away?
i want to say i'll miss home, but i doubt it.
i doubt i'll miss anything about this shit-hole
except the memories i've made here.
like substance-abuse under the bridge, or graffiti-poetry or taco bell or walking into fry's late at night or sitting on the stoner hill with all my friends looking at the baseball fields, because sometimes that's nicer than the sunset.
its a weird feeling, knowing that things change. i don't know if i can take it.
i'm having trouble imagining this place with a different cast of characters;
a new dramatis personae, to discover what its like to pile onto a staircase to nowhere and to read off all the shit under the bridge and to sleep in the park sometimes and tell their parents they're at a friends. i can't believe that one day we're going to be gone, because we've made this ours.
we've spraypainted our memories on everything here, and i don't want that to fade.
but it will, and when it does, i'll hold back tears with laughter and smiles,
and think about what's next, and i won't let go of my stupid friends and i'll promise that i'll never look back, until i do.
and then i'll cry my fucking eyes out.
Thursday, November 11, 2010
miniature tigers dancing like wraiths between fingertips
i've stepped out into the street now;
ive seen god in two headlights, and i stayed, and i left.
it tastes like linoleum floors and white-washed windows and doors,
between and around and over and under and inside and out and left and right
but mostly between.
i think the same things over and over and say them with different syllables,
only who's to say whats right or not?
i think its an approaching car with 60 miles per hour on me,
because nobody, not even the rain, can make it stop.
there's a god in car-crashes, i think.
that sort of "lack" of control
that comes from being in control.
some nights i stay up on purpose until i cant sleep anymore,
just wondering why or why not;
does it really matter, in the long run?
it does. the long run, on the other hand, doesn't matter at all.
the long run doesn't matter at all,
and ive spent my money and my time and my energy trying
with outstreched hands, i promise,
trying and trying and trying to reach the sun,
but i cant. and now im cool with that.
i can dig it.
its like not knowing what a heart is.
maybe i've just forgotten, but i dont think ive ever really known.
have i?
theres a god in car-crashes, i think.
ive seen god in two headlights, and i stayed, and i left.
it tastes like linoleum floors and white-washed windows and doors,
between and around and over and under and inside and out and left and right
but mostly between.
i think the same things over and over and say them with different syllables,
only who's to say whats right or not?
i think its an approaching car with 60 miles per hour on me,
because nobody, not even the rain, can make it stop.
there's a god in car-crashes, i think.
that sort of "lack" of control
that comes from being in control.
some nights i stay up on purpose until i cant sleep anymore,
just wondering why or why not;
does it really matter, in the long run?
it does. the long run, on the other hand, doesn't matter at all.
the long run doesn't matter at all,
and ive spent my money and my time and my energy trying
with outstreched hands, i promise,
trying and trying and trying to reach the sun,
but i cant. and now im cool with that.
i can dig it.
its like not knowing what a heart is.
maybe i've just forgotten, but i dont think ive ever really known.
have i?
theres a god in car-crashes, i think.
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
inbox (30)
i cant seem to believe
that split ends and tight corners don't mean anything anymore.
where did we take this?
brackets and empty mailboxes, maybe.
probably nothing, but i think im supposed to tell you
(ask might be the better word)
control yourself, for christs sakes.
fucking bastard.
fucking bastard.
FUCKING BASTARD.
i ran out of things to say,
and im quite possibly full of thoughts,
but where do the words end?
being blown off and being left-out and being labeled again;
where do the words end, and where does the heart begin?
cliche, cliche, cliche.
that split ends and tight corners don't mean anything anymore.
where did we take this?
brackets and empty mailboxes, maybe.
probably nothing, but i think im supposed to tell you
(ask might be the better word)
control yourself, for christs sakes.
fucking bastard.
fucking bastard.
FUCKING BASTARD.
i ran out of things to say,
and im quite possibly full of thoughts,
but where do the words end?
being blown off and being left-out and being labeled again;
where do the words end, and where does the heart begin?
cliche, cliche, cliche.
Sunday, November 7, 2010
my little moment to talk
i have something i would like to say;
it may be inconvenient, it may be liberating.
i really don't know, and quite frankly, i don't care.
let me start off by quoting someone charles bukowski;
"who put this brain inside of me?
it cries
it demands
it says that there is a chance.
it will not say
'no.' "
i recently had a moment of reflection, and in that moment, i realized something.
something beautiful.
i still care. those three words mean far more to me than anyone in the entire world can imagine. they don't mean that i didn't think that i cared, nor that i, for any amount of time, didn't care.
they mean that ive realized how very much i care about everything, and everyone.
i love you. and i love the people sitting around you, and your family, and mine, and your friends, and your enemies, and mine. i love them, and i would walk through fire for them, because they are. but, and i guess if you've read anything else i've ever written, you already know this, most of all i love my friends. the people that i've chosen to surround myself with. the losers and the winners
"too much too little
too fat
too thin
or nobody.
laughter or
tears
haters
lovers"
i love them.
they are, in my little world, "god". and that's all that matters to me. if i had no money, or no food, or no home, or shitty grades, or anything else you want to pin down as bad, i could survive. because of them.
and i guess that's why i am what i am.
it may be inconvenient, it may be liberating.
i really don't know, and quite frankly, i don't care.
let me start off by quoting someone charles bukowski;
"who put this brain inside of me?
it cries
it demands
it says that there is a chance.
it will not say
'no.' "
i recently had a moment of reflection, and in that moment, i realized something.
something beautiful.
i still care. those three words mean far more to me than anyone in the entire world can imagine. they don't mean that i didn't think that i cared, nor that i, for any amount of time, didn't care.
they mean that ive realized how very much i care about everything, and everyone.
i love you. and i love the people sitting around you, and your family, and mine, and your friends, and your enemies, and mine. i love them, and i would walk through fire for them, because they are. but, and i guess if you've read anything else i've ever written, you already know this, most of all i love my friends. the people that i've chosen to surround myself with. the losers and the winners
"too much too little
too fat
too thin
or nobody.
laughter or
tears
haters
lovers"
i love them.
they are, in my little world, "god". and that's all that matters to me. if i had no money, or no food, or no home, or shitty grades, or anything else you want to pin down as bad, i could survive. because of them.
and i guess that's why i am what i am.
Friday, November 5, 2010
"Dresses" by Franz Kafka
often, when i see dresses with many pleats and frills and flounces, draped beautifully over beautiful bodies, then i think to myself that they will not long be preserved in such a condition, but will acquire creases that it will be impossible to iron out, dust in their details so thick it can no longer be removed, and that no woman would want to make such a sorry exhibition of herself as to put on the same precious dress every morning, and take it off at night.
and i see girls who are certainly beautiful, displaying various attractive little muscles and bones and taut skin and masses of fine hair, and yet daily appearing in that same masquerade, always laying the same face in the same hollow of the same hands, and having it reflected back to them in the mirror.
only sometimes in the evening, when they come home late from a party, it looks worn to them in the mirror; puffy, dusty, already seen by everyone, almost not wearable anymore
and i see girls who are certainly beautiful, displaying various attractive little muscles and bones and taut skin and masses of fine hair, and yet daily appearing in that same masquerade, always laying the same face in the same hollow of the same hands, and having it reflected back to them in the mirror.
only sometimes in the evening, when they come home late from a party, it looks worn to them in the mirror; puffy, dusty, already seen by everyone, almost not wearable anymore
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
its november
its still too hot.
wrong fucking seasons, always and forever.
but its pretty out, so its okay.
where did all the stars go?
i think they're hiding behind miniature tigers disguised as streetlights
who do you think we are?
probably tired.
wrong fucking seasons, always and forever.
but its pretty out, so its okay.
where did all the stars go?
i think they're hiding behind miniature tigers disguised as streetlights
who do you think we are?
probably tired.
Thursday, October 28, 2010
Aren't I cliche?
I guess I'm writing this to you, even though I doubt you'll ever see it. I know our relationship is in it's infancy, but I enjoy 'this'. I can honestly say that I love being with you, and I cherish the fact that I can talk to you like another human being, and that what we have is both a friendship and more than that. And I don't want that to change. I don't want for it to turn into something superficial or sexual or anything like that. I just want to be able to be close to you. "not fuck, like in those movies. Not even have sex. Just sleep together in the most innocent sense of the word". I know we're nothing yet, but I just thought I'd let you know that I really, truly like 'this', and I'm happy that i found you.
extended metaphor
the grass keeps still time with the wind, flowing like waves of incandescent icy blue black green, or locks of red hair that seem to always feel infinite and eerily lovely; i'm spent now, keeping the beats of rain on rooftops like blood-gold fireflies humming and whispering 'finally'.
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
SHIT I NEED TO DO
i can no longer spell "whenever";
its like a mystery you solved in the first four pages,
but then you forgot the answer. i'm too hungry to care,
but the little light in the left hand corner says
"you've wasted another year"
and i can't bring myself to do anything about it.
when do you know you've fucked up?
its like a mystery you solved in the first four pages,
but then you forgot the answer. i'm too hungry to care,
but the little light in the left hand corner says
"you've wasted another year"
and i can't bring myself to do anything about it.
when do you know you've fucked up?
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
saetia
there are no words to describe my love of this band. its beautiful. great musicians, great vocals. the lyrics themselves are beautiful, with the recurring theme (to my eyes) of the darkness of relationships based on sex, and full of wonderfully poetic romantic angst. i fucking wish i could've lived in their era. just to say i met them.
http://www.mediafire.com/?whg2jdd2mjd
http://www.mediafire.com/?whg2jdd2mjd
Monday, October 25, 2010
What the fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu
I'm writing an essay for myself and everyone I've ever loved.
It's called life and it's 100 pages long.
There are no words. Only your names.
But I have to ask you to be understanding.
If your name is there twice, thanks for everything.
It's called life and it's 100 pages long.
There are no words. Only your names.
But I have to ask you to be understanding.
If your name is there twice, thanks for everything.
Sunday, October 24, 2010
im fucking dying to know what keeps you so confident
is it me?
why the fuck do i hate myself?
it has something to do with not knowing when i've lost,
but maybe i can see the planes landing in the afternoon
while i'm laying on the hood of a car and think to myself
"the more we wait"
and i feel completely inadequate again,
because happiness is a disease and there is nothing wrong with
"i miss you" anymore,
and i'm having trouble expressing myself again
like butterfly-quick kisses in the rain on playgrounds
with cars giving off the most beautiful backdrop i could ask for ever,
with a sense of a staring giving off a pretentious need to be alive
and be still, one last time, before our bodies move and quake
like sand in a hurricane,
with ice building little castles in the grass and shouting out
'love is like a wineglass' and no one knowing but me what that meant
and streaming self-expression kills me,
because i love what thinks and breaths.
we are the same, but we're all so fucking different.
can you tell me where you are?
i swear to god, if you're cold, i'll melt away all that fucking snow,
and now i'm perspiring,
where did the rain go?
where are all my semi-colons and commas?
i feel so out of place and it scares me
why the fuck do i hate myself?
it has something to do with not knowing when i've lost,
but maybe i can see the planes landing in the afternoon
while i'm laying on the hood of a car and think to myself
"the more we wait"
and i feel completely inadequate again,
because happiness is a disease and there is nothing wrong with
"i miss you" anymore,
and i'm having trouble expressing myself again
like butterfly-quick kisses in the rain on playgrounds
with cars giving off the most beautiful backdrop i could ask for ever,
with a sense of a staring giving off a pretentious need to be alive
and be still, one last time, before our bodies move and quake
like sand in a hurricane,
with ice building little castles in the grass and shouting out
'love is like a wineglass' and no one knowing but me what that meant
and streaming self-expression kills me,
because i love what thinks and breaths.
we are the same, but we're all so fucking different.
can you tell me where you are?
i swear to god, if you're cold, i'll melt away all that fucking snow,
and now i'm perspiring,
where did the rain go?
where are all my semi-colons and commas?
i feel so out of place and it scares me
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
10 things
First:
I saw 'Waiting For Superman' last night. Although the ideas were generally good, it made me want to cry watching them trash public schools, and disregard the fact that 80% of america still attends them, and not all (or even most, really) are failures in the least. the writers of the film just shot off statistics that looked quite scary, pulling a wonderful job of getting everyone in the theatre up in arms against teachers unions (which was, admittedly, slightly justifiable) using a propaganda machine much more efficient than the one we have in our public schools today. the most concentrated-on statistic was one concerning proficiency in math and reading for 8th graders tested. The directors of this film made it appear that only ~24% (according to this statistic) in each state were proficient in either of these two subjects, as 8th graders. However dire our situation may be, i am willing to stake my left hand that maybe, just maybe, the problem is not in the instruction of the students (for example, i've been in public schools almost my whole life, minus the last three years, and have NEVER experienced such a drastically low number of logical people in my life, ever, that could even compare to what these statistics show), but rather, maybe the problem is in the testing.
Second,
fucking fucking fucking fucking fuck.
i want to go to a fucking art school.
im tired of administrative tyranny.
fuck you, mr biology teacher,
fuck you.
I saw 'Waiting For Superman' last night. Although the ideas were generally good, it made me want to cry watching them trash public schools, and disregard the fact that 80% of america still attends them, and not all (or even most, really) are failures in the least. the writers of the film just shot off statistics that looked quite scary, pulling a wonderful job of getting everyone in the theatre up in arms against teachers unions (which was, admittedly, slightly justifiable) using a propaganda machine much more efficient than the one we have in our public schools today. the most concentrated-on statistic was one concerning proficiency in math and reading for 8th graders tested. The directors of this film made it appear that only ~24% (according to this statistic) in each state were proficient in either of these two subjects, as 8th graders. However dire our situation may be, i am willing to stake my left hand that maybe, just maybe, the problem is not in the instruction of the students (for example, i've been in public schools almost my whole life, minus the last three years, and have NEVER experienced such a drastically low number of logical people in my life, ever, that could even compare to what these statistics show), but rather, maybe the problem is in the testing.
Second,
fucking fucking fucking fucking fuck.
i want to go to a fucking art school.
im tired of administrative tyranny.
fuck you, mr biology teacher,
fuck you.
Monday, October 18, 2010
Sunday, October 17, 2010
i've realized i write about blake's car a lot.
nowhere is like the space between the couch and the wall.
its the place where memories (like little toys, and maps to friends houses and playing cards) like to hide and make you feel nostalgic and sick to your stomach laughing
(with the best intentions, always)
its like the buddy system and inside jokes that no one remembers but you,
and its like when he tells you to put your arm around her,
then holds your hand when you walk into lonely little restaurants
in lonely little towns
feeling perfectly content
and not alone at all.
i think nowhere just might mean love.
its the place where memories (like little toys, and maps to friends houses and playing cards) like to hide and make you feel nostalgic and sick to your stomach laughing
(with the best intentions, always)
its like the buddy system and inside jokes that no one remembers but you,
and its like when he tells you to put your arm around her,
then holds your hand when you walk into lonely little restaurants
in lonely little towns
feeling perfectly content
and not alone at all.
i think nowhere just might mean love.
Thursday, October 14, 2010
setlist for the show tomorrow.
1.Instrumental song
2.long titles are for hipster fucks
Lyrics:
its like creaking unplugged ferris wheels
to climb like autumn memories at night,
and get wasted, toss miracles off the side
and its like hearing
"get with the program"
"get your grades up";
failed expectations mean the same to me
(not one of them means anything, unless its mine i've failed)
so lets smoke up, and remember the intensity
of flashing lights, and friends, and tears, and booze
and how the memories were enough to keep us here
and its like spending the night at a friends; the word is disconcerting,
like "moms gone, and dads fucked up again"
or like holding hands in the backseat and looking for a star
or memories of wilted flowers, driving down arlington avenue
and its like saying "lets go to the beach" in winter,
casting empty glass into the sea
and hearing waves crash on the sand in waves,
because waves crash on the sand in waves.
and its like all the friends i've fucked up,
and its like all the times i've fucked up
and while i'm tired of writing love songs,
its still like typing "i miss you"
but never pressing send
but never pressing send
and its like walking home at night
maybe kinsella can keep me company;
i'm late, i'm tired, and i'm dying inside,
and i can't remember what it it felt to be alive,
and, oh my god, the music won't stop,
and neither will those headlights
3. The One Wherein There’s A Big Twist pt. 2
Lyrics: too lazy to post. NVM.
4.Jake’s Spoken Word
I spend my time nowadays contemplating the happenings of this past year.
My old love/loss, and my new. I don't know who I am, and I'm lost, and I'm angry.
Constantly evolving and changing, is just tiring to say the least.
I've talked of change for the better, but nothing ever happens. That's Me I guess.
I can't keep a heart. I barely know what it is.But still, I lay awake at night, beating myself up over insignificant things, that slowly, build up.
I beat myself up over your heart.
And her heart.
And everyone else.
I want to help, but nothing ever changes
That's just me I guess.
But noW
I am so afraid
I am terrified
Don't leave me alone
Im no one without my friends
Please don't leave me alone
5. My Spoken Word
Lyrics:
remember when you were a kid, and someone told you that rain was god crying, and now you're all grown up and god isn't real and now rain is just you crying, and its just blurring up my windshield, and then its her crying, and its her asking me if i could still see the rave lights and feel the hurricanes and hear the kids playing tag outside of little trinket shops on a city island street that nobody knows the name for (and even if they did, they could never pronounce it), and then i realized that she wasn't here anymore (its just the road and you and i) and then i saw it in the headlights on the sidewalk (a little silhouette with earphones in and too stoned to notice me or care if he did) but we were too drunk and we were too tired and we just couldn't bring ourselves to care anymore than when we slid on the ice on Lane and probably took out that woman with her son in the backseat, going a little too fast? because i do.
6. Spoken Word/Screaming Monologue
Monologue:
i don't believe that there is anything beyond this. i believe in nothing but humankind and our ability to adapt and change for the better. i believe in the love that i hold for other people. i believe in three hours spent sitting on a park-bench or up in a playground. i believe in sitting in a friend's car, driving the speed-limit because that is who we are. i believe in staying up all night and talking about meaningless things, and solving the world's problems while we do. i believe in coffee, in tea, in the rocky horror picture show, and in bad poetry that still can make me cry. and because of that, i am no longer afraid of dying. because i have experienced such a fucking wonderful life. i could ask for nothing more.
i fucking love my friends.
7. 10.12.1994
Lyrics:
October 12, 1994
i think i like the feeling of rain more than rain;
its the atmosphere that makes it real
and its the ambiance, and the leaves it brings;
life is made from leaves on trees that fall on streets in towns i grew up in.
and its my stupid fuckups,
and its my songs, my poems, my sketches,
its the things i make that make me alive
or maybe, its me that makes the things i make alive.
either way, they keep me up at night.
but most of all,
its my friends who keep me going,
its them who make
"im upset, man"
more than stupid words
and its me,
and its you,
and its them
and its everything in-between
but most of all,
its you.
so thank you, friend,
for being there,
and thank you, friend,
for being just that.
thank you for being.
i love you.
2.long titles are for hipster fucks
Lyrics:
its like creaking unplugged ferris wheels
to climb like autumn memories at night,
and get wasted, toss miracles off the side
and its like hearing
"get with the program"
"get your grades up";
failed expectations mean the same to me
(not one of them means anything, unless its mine i've failed)
so lets smoke up, and remember the intensity
of flashing lights, and friends, and tears, and booze
and how the memories were enough to keep us here
and its like spending the night at a friends; the word is disconcerting,
like "moms gone, and dads fucked up again"
or like holding hands in the backseat and looking for a star
or memories of wilted flowers, driving down arlington avenue
and its like saying "lets go to the beach" in winter,
casting empty glass into the sea
and hearing waves crash on the sand in waves,
because waves crash on the sand in waves.
and its like all the friends i've fucked up,
and its like all the times i've fucked up
and while i'm tired of writing love songs,
its still like typing "i miss you"
but never pressing send
but never pressing send
and its like walking home at night
maybe kinsella can keep me company;
i'm late, i'm tired, and i'm dying inside,
and i can't remember what it it felt to be alive,
and, oh my god, the music won't stop,
and neither will those headlights
3. The One Wherein There’s A Big Twist pt. 2
Lyrics: too lazy to post. NVM.
4.Jake’s Spoken Word
I spend my time nowadays contemplating the happenings of this past year.
My old love/loss, and my new. I don't know who I am, and I'm lost, and I'm angry.
Constantly evolving and changing, is just tiring to say the least.
I've talked of change for the better, but nothing ever happens. That's Me I guess.
I can't keep a heart. I barely know what it is.But still, I lay awake at night, beating myself up over insignificant things, that slowly, build up.
I beat myself up over your heart.
And her heart.
And everyone else.
I want to help, but nothing ever changes
That's just me I guess.
But noW
I am so afraid
I am terrified
Don't leave me alone
Im no one without my friends
Please don't leave me alone
5. My Spoken Word
Lyrics:
remember when you were a kid, and someone told you that rain was god crying, and now you're all grown up and god isn't real and now rain is just you crying, and its just blurring up my windshield, and then its her crying, and its her asking me if i could still see the rave lights and feel the hurricanes and hear the kids playing tag outside of little trinket shops on a city island street that nobody knows the name for (and even if they did, they could never pronounce it), and then i realized that she wasn't here anymore (its just the road and you and i) and then i saw it in the headlights on the sidewalk (a little silhouette with earphones in and too stoned to notice me or care if he did) but we were too drunk and we were too tired and we just couldn't bring ourselves to care anymore than when we slid on the ice on Lane and probably took out that woman with her son in the backseat, going a little too fast? because i do.
6. Spoken Word/Screaming Monologue
Monologue:
i don't believe that there is anything beyond this. i believe in nothing but humankind and our ability to adapt and change for the better. i believe in the love that i hold for other people. i believe in three hours spent sitting on a park-bench or up in a playground. i believe in sitting in a friend's car, driving the speed-limit because that is who we are. i believe in staying up all night and talking about meaningless things, and solving the world's problems while we do. i believe in coffee, in tea, in the rocky horror picture show, and in bad poetry that still can make me cry. and because of that, i am no longer afraid of dying. because i have experienced such a fucking wonderful life. i could ask for nothing more.
i fucking love my friends.
7. 10.12.1994
Lyrics:
October 12, 1994
i think i like the feeling of rain more than rain;
its the atmosphere that makes it real
and its the ambiance, and the leaves it brings;
life is made from leaves on trees that fall on streets in towns i grew up in.
and its my stupid fuckups,
and its my songs, my poems, my sketches,
its the things i make that make me alive
or maybe, its me that makes the things i make alive.
either way, they keep me up at night.
but most of all,
its my friends who keep me going,
its them who make
"im upset, man"
more than stupid words
and its me,
and its you,
and its them
and its everything in-between
but most of all,
its you.
so thank you, friend,
for being there,
and thank you, friend,
for being just that.
thank you for being.
i love you.
untitled
do you ever have those moments when you feel like you should just sit down and write, and nothing else matters in the whole world? i do. but then again, i still feel meaningless when i do. its the absence of inspiration that does it, because my inspiration is myself, and i am so fucking insignificant. but i still have to do it. because i love it.
'being' is the greatest gift anyone can ask for. all things stem from that. if i 'weren't', who would i be? and what, then, would make me, well, 'me'? the answer 'isn't'. but since i am (since everyone 'is'), what makes us, well, 'us'? i can tell you that ten-thousand times and still feel legitimate each and every one. its the people we love that define who we really are. there is no standard by which to define a man save the one by which he judges others; love, in its simplest form, is the measure of all things. if you don't love, you simply 'aren't'. whether its an abstract 'god' you love, or just the people around you, the fact that you 'love' is what makes you something other than just 'homo sapiens'. Love makes us 'human'.
and, being the terribly cliche person that i often am, i love the world.
i don't believe that there is anything beyond this. i believe in nothing but humankind and our ability to adapt and change for the better. i believe in the love that i hold for other people. i believe in three hours spent sitting on a park-bench or up in a playground. i believe in sitting in a friend's car, driving the speed-limit because that is who we are. i believe in staying up all night and talking about meaningless things, and solving the world's problems while we do. i believe in coffee, in tea, in the rocky horror picture show, and in bad poetry that still can make me cry. and because of that, i am no longer afraid of dying. because i have experienced such a fucking wonderful life. i could ask for nothing more.
i fucking love my friends.
'being' is the greatest gift anyone can ask for. all things stem from that. if i 'weren't', who would i be? and what, then, would make me, well, 'me'? the answer 'isn't'. but since i am (since everyone 'is'), what makes us, well, 'us'? i can tell you that ten-thousand times and still feel legitimate each and every one. its the people we love that define who we really are. there is no standard by which to define a man save the one by which he judges others; love, in its simplest form, is the measure of all things. if you don't love, you simply 'aren't'. whether its an abstract 'god' you love, or just the people around you, the fact that you 'love' is what makes you something other than just 'homo sapiens'. Love makes us 'human'.
and, being the terribly cliche person that i often am, i love the world.
i don't believe that there is anything beyond this. i believe in nothing but humankind and our ability to adapt and change for the better. i believe in the love that i hold for other people. i believe in three hours spent sitting on a park-bench or up in a playground. i believe in sitting in a friend's car, driving the speed-limit because that is who we are. i believe in staying up all night and talking about meaningless things, and solving the world's problems while we do. i believe in coffee, in tea, in the rocky horror picture show, and in bad poetry that still can make me cry. and because of that, i am no longer afraid of dying. because i have experienced such a fucking wonderful life. i could ask for nothing more.
i fucking love my friends.
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
something long and irrelevant like all the other titles
there is nothing on my ceiling but a fan and a dead-end looking down on me and what i left outside because i was too scared, and she was too hot and i was too weak and she too bold, and she had a boyfriend and i was all alone and everything was still in its sad little place (but her, as it turns out)
this was inspired by a passage from John Green's "looking for alaska"
this was inspired by a passage from John Green's "looking for alaska"
Saturday, October 9, 2010
heey, man. peace, and shit. and, like, love one another, you know?
i love when my teachers make fun of me. i spent a class taking (good humored) shit about being a total hippie. made my day. in other news, life is fragile and the bonds we have can be broken with the tension of the littlest tug. so hold on to them as tight as you can, because otherwise, at the end of the day, you've got shit to your name. no matter how much money or power or sex you have, your life will fucking suck. be a man.
Thursday, October 7, 2010
wait, what.
i have not forgotten you
but you've forgotten that.
and i've never felt better
than under a downpour of you
(under a storm with 4 letters in its name)
with clouds of idioms and idiosyncrasies
leaving me open like a casket
and hanging like the convict
in the appletree
but wait. there's more.
but you've forgotten that.
and i've never felt better
than under a downpour of you
(under a storm with 4 letters in its name)
with clouds of idioms and idiosyncrasies
leaving me open like a casket
and hanging like the convict
in the appletree
but wait. there's more.
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
"and there's nothing stronger than her prayer, nothing stronger than the smell of reds; my father's reds"
don't blame yourself, for anything. and don't blame the world either. life is beautiful. life is fucking gorgeous. i love you. all of you. thank you so fucking much for making it all worth living, yeah? i want to drive around anthem with all of you in a car a little too late at night with no more room in the backseat for the rest of my life.
Sunday, October 3, 2010
as a reminder, nothing matters anymore, so shut the fuck up and keep on living like we have been
remember when you were a kid, and someone told you that rain was god crying, and now you're all grown up and god isn't real and now rain is just you crying, and its just blurring up my windshield, and then its her crying, and its her asking me if i could still see the rave lights and feel the hurricanes and hear the kids playing tag outside of little trinket shops on a city island street that nobody knows the name for (and even if they did, they could never pronounce it), and then i realized that she wasn't here anymore (its just the road and you and i) and then i saw it in the headlights on the sidewalk (a little silhouette with earphones in and too stoned to notice me or care if he did) but we were too drunk and we were too tired and we just couldn't bring ourselves to care anymore than when we slid on the ice on Lane and probably took out that woman with her son in the backseat, going a little too fast? because i do.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
photographs, a shit memory, and sex
one of those things is something i'll never have, and one of them is something i'll never lose. then there are shitty memories. i take those shitty memories in pictures, not to look at, but to make the moments last forever. isn't it perfectly wonderful to know that something will last forever? that a moment you held in your hand will never leave? that, no matter how beautiful or melancholy it was, you've made it infinite?
i could take ten-thousand pictures, if i had ten-thousand moments and 400 rolls of film, and i would never look at a single one. that would take away from the memories. that would make it less real, and more of a still image. there's a mystery to things that i just can't comprehend, sometimes, but then i think back and realize that i know everything i need to. we are all we've got. we are the lovers. we are the last of our kind, so link your arms, and keep your chin up, and i swear that we'll be fine.
i could take ten-thousand pictures, if i had ten-thousand moments and 400 rolls of film, and i would never look at a single one. that would take away from the memories. that would make it less real, and more of a still image. there's a mystery to things that i just can't comprehend, sometimes, but then i think back and realize that i know everything i need to. we are all we've got. we are the lovers. we are the last of our kind, so link your arms, and keep your chin up, and i swear that we'll be fine.
Saturday, September 25, 2010
why i should post more
because, for once, i enjoy this. and spending time with my friends. and bad midwestmo bands.
because i love it. because i have nothing else to do.
and because i want nothing else to do. but not really. i'd rather be with my friends
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
and a pavement covered in skid marks
i think i saw oil in the snow
when you drove past our old place;
and i think there was something on your windshield.
and what should i do with the car?
its torn to shit,
and i just have no idea.
its weird, i think;
when i look back, the only thing i see is the back of your seat
rolling a little too fast down Lane,
a little too dark to see,
and a little too much ice on the road
and the only thing i hear is something i think sounded like your neck snapping;
they told me you died instantly,
but i'll never know
and i smell oil and taste blood
and they told me he was drunk,
but i'll never know.
i see you sometimes, mom,
driving past our old place.
i run outside, but i'm too late.
i'm always too late.
by the time i've reached the street, you've turned on to Lane
and all thats left of you
is a little oil on the snow
when you drove past our old place;
and i think there was something on your windshield.
and what should i do with the car?
its torn to shit,
and i just have no idea.
its weird, i think;
when i look back, the only thing i see is the back of your seat
rolling a little too fast down Lane,
a little too dark to see,
and a little too much ice on the road
and the only thing i hear is something i think sounded like your neck snapping;
they told me you died instantly,
but i'll never know
and i smell oil and taste blood
and they told me he was drunk,
but i'll never know.
i see you sometimes, mom,
driving past our old place.
i run outside, but i'm too late.
i'm always too late.
by the time i've reached the street, you've turned on to Lane
and all thats left of you
is a little oil on the snow
Monday, September 20, 2010
well, then.
this is awkward. i wrote a poem at school. and forgot to bring it home. which means, in essence, i have nothing to post. so i'm posting this; i know it seems like nothing, like meaningless jibberish, which, in a way, i guess it is. but, to me at least, it means a whole lot. more than you know. more than you can ever guess.
i love my friends.
i love my friends.
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
ive been walking for so fucking long
its like a christmas card you've knocked over
because christmas isn't real
and who cares anymore,
i mean, really
?
we're all grown up now
("i am writing to you because she said you'd listen and understand and didn't try to sleep with that person at that party even though you could have")
i feel like the snow collecting on my driveway;
there's nothing left but long movies and drugs and,
"darling, i think we should go to sleep now"
("i just need to know that someone out there listens and understands and doesn't try to sleep with people even if they could have. i need to know that these people exist")
but, goddamnit, i've been living so long
and i drive to mountains to watch stars with friends
and i go to games, and i watch everyone else slip away
and i watch bikes rust and friendships die
(and i think that's the hardest part)
and i watch trends change and i watch myself grow up
to the background of a field of flowers that die every year
then spring back up when my friends come home.
("i think you of all people would understand that, because i think you of all people are alive and appreciate what that means")
its harder than it sounds to be in the moment
but, i think i've had it down for 15 fucking years
and i think i've got life down too;
i wish i was the one to say "i feel infinite",
but i feel infinite.
i feel fucking infinite
("so, this is my life")
"'we accept the love we think we deserve'"
Thank you to stephen chbosky for writing the most powerful book i have ever read. i wrote this for me, but if it weren't for you, it wouldn't have happened. i could've used my "favourite quotes" from "the perks of being a wallflower" but then i would've had to type up the whole novel again. so i chose the first page. beginnings, i think, are almost as important as the plot.
because christmas isn't real
and who cares anymore,
i mean, really
?
we're all grown up now
("i am writing to you because she said you'd listen and understand and didn't try to sleep with that person at that party even though you could have")
i feel like the snow collecting on my driveway;
there's nothing left but long movies and drugs and,
"darling, i think we should go to sleep now"
("i just need to know that someone out there listens and understands and doesn't try to sleep with people even if they could have. i need to know that these people exist")
but, goddamnit, i've been living so long
and i drive to mountains to watch stars with friends
and i go to games, and i watch everyone else slip away
and i watch bikes rust and friendships die
(and i think that's the hardest part)
and i watch trends change and i watch myself grow up
to the background of a field of flowers that die every year
then spring back up when my friends come home.
("i think you of all people would understand that, because i think you of all people are alive and appreciate what that means")
its harder than it sounds to be in the moment
but, i think i've had it down for 15 fucking years
and i think i've got life down too;
i wish i was the one to say "i feel infinite",
but i feel infinite.
i feel fucking infinite
("so, this is my life")
"'we accept the love we think we deserve'"
Thank you to stephen chbosky for writing the most powerful book i have ever read. i wrote this for me, but if it weren't for you, it wouldn't have happened. i could've used my "favourite quotes" from "the perks of being a wallflower" but then i would've had to type up the whole novel again. so i chose the first page. beginnings, i think, are almost as important as the plot.
Monday, September 13, 2010
free-styling and why its dangerous
will: I'm doper than the pope, higher than a frequent flyer, pass this joint around help me set the world on fire, if you feelin shitty, just suck on a titty, life ain't all that bad, don't think of the shit that you could have had, just enjoy the present and eat the broiled pheasant
me: i can do better
will: do it
me:i'm flyer than fly, fucking ready to die, got my .45, gonna blow your shit to the sky; i'm fucking doper than dope, my shit can tear out the pope, and if you think you can dance,you think you got a chance, i swear to god i'll kill you right where you lie; you get your ass up, bitch, i got my hands off, bitch, i'll fucking smoke you like you need a fucking tampon, bitch
will: you win
me: i can do better
will: do it
me:i'm flyer than fly, fucking ready to die, got my .45, gonna blow your shit to the sky; i'm fucking doper than dope, my shit can tear out the pope, and if you think you can dance,you think you got a chance, i swear to god i'll kill you right where you lie; you get your ass up, bitch, i got my hands off, bitch, i'll fucking smoke you like you need a fucking tampon, bitch
will: you win
lets do the time warp again!
on friday night i saw the Rocky Horror Picture Show with christy and saira. best fucking night ever. i ended up getting home around 4 in the morning. i won't go into too much detail, to protect the identity of those involved, and because i assume that you are pretentious enough to have already seen it, my constant reader. i will say, though, that if you are so presumptive as to have watched it on dvd, you deserve to die. in the most literal sense of the word "die".
Thursday, September 9, 2010
indifference is a crime
and so is controlling how long student's hair should be. i'm starting an organized protest movement against administrator-based tyranny. INJUSTICE, LET THIS BE OUR FINAL BATTLE
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
things i regret, and things i never meant
i wish i could write a poem about what i regret;
like wasting two years on you, darling,
or like tripping on cellos,
or like not telling her "i love you"
because you told me not to.
(but maybe, just maybe, i'd regret that too)
but, regardless, there wasn't a time i wasn't happy,
that i also wasn't fucking infatuated with you.
you fucking whore, if i wrote a poem about what i regret,
it'd be a letter to you.
but i could never sign my name.
like wasting two years on you, darling,
or like tripping on cellos,
or like not telling her "i love you"
because you told me not to.
(but maybe, just maybe, i'd regret that too)
but, regardless, there wasn't a time i wasn't happy,
that i also wasn't fucking infatuated with you.
you fucking whore, if i wrote a poem about what i regret,
it'd be a letter to you.
but i could never sign my name.
Thursday, September 2, 2010
i wanna know all the love i've got
shortcuts: press Ctrl with:
theres not a key to type
to put emotion in words;
especially in the word love.
its a dead word;
its a dead word, because
we make it an
"its everything"
theres not a key to type
to put emotion in words;
especially in the word love.
its a dead word;
its a dead word, because
we make it an
"its everything"
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
20 pages of shitty emo poetry
and all i got was a stupid certificate. i'll show you
i'll show you
i'll show you.
or i'll fucking die trying.
i'll show you
i'll show you.
or i'll fucking die trying.
who are you and what have you done with
i wish i could say everything will be alright;
instead, all i can do is smile and whisper the truth through crooked teeth.
and i wish that football games and saturday nights tired and hungry and feeling alive
could be enough to make me forget that you were everything i didn't want
but i still wanted you;
and it took me so long to figure out why.
but now that i know,
i can't fucking stand you.
i can't fucking stand you,
but you won't fucking leave me alone
instead, all i can do is smile and whisper the truth through crooked teeth.
and i wish that football games and saturday nights tired and hungry and feeling alive
could be enough to make me forget that you were everything i didn't want
but i still wanted you;
and it took me so long to figure out why.
but now that i know,
i can't fucking stand you.
i can't fucking stand you,
but you won't fucking leave me alone
Monday, August 30, 2010
"otherwise, you'll kill yourself"
i think i'm screaming in a monologue,
and writing in a song
and i think i'm watching with a half-closed eye
and trying not to smile
when you tell me that you are happy;
life needs more happy people
and it needs more sad ones,
too;
they make it feel better to be happy,
and they make it feel better to be happy
and they, and they, and they, they make it feel so much better to be fucking joyful for once
but i think, seriously,
that you should watch the way you look at her;
it'll hurt, man, but
its just you and me
against every fucking thing
and its too late;
so watch out, man. don't fall for her now
or you'll just kill yourself.
otherwise, you'll just kill yourself
____________
and writing in a song
and i think i'm watching with a half-closed eye
and trying not to smile
when you tell me that you are happy;
life needs more happy people
and it needs more sad ones,
too;
they make it feel better to be happy,
and they make it feel better to be happy
and they, and they, and they, they make it feel so much better to be fucking joyful for once
but i think, seriously,
that you should watch the way you look at her;
it'll hurt, man, but
its just you and me
against every fucking thing
and its too late;
so watch out, man. don't fall for her now
or you'll just kill yourself.
otherwise, you'll just kill yourself
____________
Sunday, August 29, 2010
and if my heart just stops, keep me alive for a minute. i want to know if a curtain drops
sorry its been so long; i spent the weekend either jamming with jake or not sleeping at leif's. that being said, i want to inform you that, for the first time in a long time, i'm really excited about something. i feel like, for once, this band is going to go somewhere. i don't mean just play a few gigs, and i also don't mean make it big and sell out. i mean to say that maybe, just maybe, we can record an album or a tape or a demo or an EP that WE are happy with, and that one person, just one person, can appreciate for what it is.
in other news, today felt like a La Dispute day. don't ask me why, because i don't know. but,
"its not the petty imperfections that define us, but the way we hold our hearts, and the way we hold our heads; i hope they write your name beside mine on my gravestone when i'm dead. and when we are dead, let our voices carry on, to find a better song and sing along"
So sing along.
in other news, today felt like a La Dispute day. don't ask me why, because i don't know. but,
"its not the petty imperfections that define us, but the way we hold our hearts, and the way we hold our heads; i hope they write your name beside mine on my gravestone when i'm dead. and when we are dead, let our voices carry on, to find a better song and sing along"
So sing along.
Thursday, August 26, 2010
how i feel and why it scares me
sometimes i feel like cutting my wrists open and painting a mural with the blood; if there was ever a god, he gave us the most beautiful paint, and made our bodies an art form in themselves. the purpose of the body is to be beautiful; destroy it, paint it, dye it, clothe it however you want; that is your personal masterpiece, and today's society is throwing that away.
in other news, i'm free from the bondage i've felt for the last two years. but i have to say, thanks. i couldn't have asked for a better time, but now its time for me to try and rebuild the bridges you burnt for me, and find the opportunities you hid from me. but i'll be okay. just give me a few months to forget your name.
in other news, i'm free from the bondage i've felt for the last two years. but i have to say, thanks. i couldn't have asked for a better time, but now its time for me to try and rebuild the bridges you burnt for me, and find the opportunities you hid from me. but i'll be okay. just give me a few months to forget your name.
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
"goodnight and goodbye, and thanks for the good times"
the intro to my essay on thomas more's 'utopia'
Tort, Franco
Humane Letters 10A
26.8.2010
A State of Nature:
Can the concept of individuality exist in More’s Utopia?
“If this myth is tragic, that is because its hero is conscious. Where would his torture be, indeed, if at every step the hope of succeeding upheld him? The workman of today works everyday in his life at the same tasks, and his fate is no less absurd. But it is tragic only at the rare moments when it becomes conscious. Sisyphus, proletarian of the gods, powerless and rebellious, knows the whole extent of his wretched condition: it is what he thinks of during his descent. The lucidity that was to constitute his torture at the same time crowns his victory. There is no fate that cannot be surmounted by scorn.”
-albert camus' 'the myth of sisyphus'
There is, in all human beings, a degree of consciousness of their ‘human condition’. This is, in part, what makes us all human beings. Without consciousness, we are nothing. Without consciousness, we are automatons. Albert Camus made this clear when writing his essay “The Myth of Sisyphus”. He wrote, “If this is tragic, that is because the hero is conscious. Where would his torture be, indeed, if at every step the hope of succeeding upheld him?”, and in this statement reveals much about the nature of a human being; we only suffer if we recognize our suffering; we only exist if we recognize that we do, and therein is individuality. In the underworld, Sisyphus recognizes his condition; he contemplates it as his rock returns to the base of its hill, but in the suffering brought on by his consciousness also lays his joy; he is human; “All [his] silent joy is contained therein”. In Thomas More’s novel, Utopia, he makes such a concept very clear. The citizens of Utopia do not suffer, because they are made to be happy. They are content simply because they do not know the concept of discontent. Most of all, however, they are content because they have lost their human-ness; they have lost their individuality. The citizens of Utopia are incapable of being individuals.
Tort, Franco
Humane Letters 10A
26.8.2010
A State of Nature:
Can the concept of individuality exist in More’s Utopia?
“If this myth is tragic, that is because its hero is conscious. Where would his torture be, indeed, if at every step the hope of succeeding upheld him? The workman of today works everyday in his life at the same tasks, and his fate is no less absurd. But it is tragic only at the rare moments when it becomes conscious. Sisyphus, proletarian of the gods, powerless and rebellious, knows the whole extent of his wretched condition: it is what he thinks of during his descent. The lucidity that was to constitute his torture at the same time crowns his victory. There is no fate that cannot be surmounted by scorn.”
-albert camus' 'the myth of sisyphus'
There is, in all human beings, a degree of consciousness of their ‘human condition’. This is, in part, what makes us all human beings. Without consciousness, we are nothing. Without consciousness, we are automatons. Albert Camus made this clear when writing his essay “The Myth of Sisyphus”. He wrote, “If this is tragic, that is because the hero is conscious. Where would his torture be, indeed, if at every step the hope of succeeding upheld him?”, and in this statement reveals much about the nature of a human being; we only suffer if we recognize our suffering; we only exist if we recognize that we do, and therein is individuality. In the underworld, Sisyphus recognizes his condition; he contemplates it as his rock returns to the base of its hill, but in the suffering brought on by his consciousness also lays his joy; he is human; “All [his] silent joy is contained therein”. In Thomas More’s novel, Utopia, he makes such a concept very clear. The citizens of Utopia do not suffer, because they are made to be happy. They are content simply because they do not know the concept of discontent. Most of all, however, they are content because they have lost their human-ness; they have lost their individuality. The citizens of Utopia are incapable of being individuals.
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Swear words are fun, and fitting. I fucking hate bullshit censoring assholes.
in more important news, affection sucks. i hate knowing that no matter what i do, i have an infallible ability to fall for people who will either never feel the same, or forget that i exist sometimes. it drives me insane. and its terrifying, too, knowing that, no matter what, i'm going to be let down. i actually despise love. in the undying words of the blood brothers, it rhymes with hideous car wrecks.
i had an awesome summer, untainted with that emotional bullshit that snowing wants to fuck. and yet, somehow, i managed to fuck it up. and now, i like a girl who is, in a seeming trend, in a relationship with a friend of mine. and, yes, i know, its highschool. but emotions are emotions, and they are what make us, you know, us.
that being said, a poem;
October 12, 1994
i think i like the feeling of rain more than rain;
its the atmosphere that makes it real
and its the ambiance, and the leaves it brings;
life is made from leaves on trees that fall on streets in towns i grew up in.
and its my stupid fuckups,
and its my songs, my poems, my sketches,
its the things i make that make me alive
or maybe, its me that makes the things i make alive.
either way, they keep me up at night.
but most of all,
its my friends who keep me going,
its them who make
"im upset, man"
more than stupid words
and its me,
and its you,
and its them
and its everything in-between
but most of all,
its you.
so thank you, friend,
for being there,
and thank you, friend,
for being just that.
thank you for being.
i love you.
dedicated to my friend. he knows who he is, and if i speak his name, it'd be an injustice to it
i had an awesome summer, untainted with that emotional bullshit that snowing wants to fuck. and yet, somehow, i managed to fuck it up. and now, i like a girl who is, in a seeming trend, in a relationship with a friend of mine. and, yes, i know, its highschool. but emotions are emotions, and they are what make us, you know, us.
that being said, a poem;
October 12, 1994
i think i like the feeling of rain more than rain;
its the atmosphere that makes it real
and its the ambiance, and the leaves it brings;
life is made from leaves on trees that fall on streets in towns i grew up in.
and its my stupid fuckups,
and its my songs, my poems, my sketches,
its the things i make that make me alive
or maybe, its me that makes the things i make alive.
either way, they keep me up at night.
but most of all,
its my friends who keep me going,
its them who make
"im upset, man"
more than stupid words
and its me,
and its you,
and its them
and its everything in-between
but most of all,
its you.
so thank you, friend,
for being there,
and thank you, friend,
for being just that.
thank you for being.
i love you.
dedicated to my friend. he knows who he is, and if i speak his name, it'd be an injustice to it
Monday, August 23, 2010
long, unrelated titles are for hipsters
its like creaking unplugged ferris wheels
to climb like autumn memories at night,
and get wasted, toss miracles off the side
and its like hearing
"get with the program"
"get your grades up";
failed expectations mean the same to me
(not one of them means anything, unless its mine i've failed)
so lets smoke up, and remember the intensity
of flashing lights, and friends, and tears, and booze
and how the memories were enough to keep us here
and its like spending the night at a friends; the word is disconcerting,
like "moms gone, and dads fucked up again"
or like holding hands in the backseat and looking for a star
or memories of wilted flowers, driving down arlington avenue
and its like saying "lets go to the beach" in winter,
casting empty glass into the sea
and hearing waves crash on the sand in waves,
because waves crash on the sand in waves.
and its like all the friends i've fucked up,
and its like all the times i've fucked up
and while i'm tired of writing love songs,
its still like typing "i miss you"
but never pressing send
but never pressing send
and its like walking home at night
maybe kinsella can keep me company;
i'm late, i'm tired, and i'm dying inside,
and i can't remember what it it felt to be alive,
and, oh my god, the music won't stop,
and neither will those headlights
Sunday, August 22, 2010
sorry i missed a day, but
i was too busy partying it up with a bunch of friends at a resort. i'm honored to be part of a group of people like them, that has some sort of metaphysical bond. its actually, though, kind-of humorous; not one of them thinks like i do. my closest few friends can sit with me and talk about religion or philosophy or politics and be completely at home being our hipster countercultural selves, but with these people, i feel like we are family even when they disagree with me for foolish reasons and don't like to even think about politics. just a thought.
anywho, i've got the song filial by Pianos Become the Teeth stuck in my heads. its a beautiful piece of music; reall heartfelt.
Lyrics to Filial :
Too seldom sanguine,
Always crying over closed doors
You should feel like you should,
You should feel like you should adapt well with a wistful heart
I could never take it, but I'll give you your breath back
Infants and whales still have the holes there, never proving to be born on time
You keep your eyes to the light between finger and thumb and the sky just laughs as I Stare at the grass,
The sun, the green, I want the snow years ago
I'll say it about routine
I cant wait, I can't wait
I want the genes
I want the era before me
I want ideas as imprints
I want the future, I want the future
I want your mistakes, what we were, what I was, what I'll be, what we'll see
Hunters only stop to see the scenery when they've caught up,
Watching what we have in common that makes us the men some love
I'm not telling you who the rhythm is from, something to look forward to "while im young"
One day at a time, I'll never say anything when no one is looking
I'll be so old, finally seeing
Picking right days as they come
Learning days said like this
As purses and sheaths
anywho, i've got the song filial by Pianos Become the Teeth stuck in my heads. its a beautiful piece of music; reall heartfelt.
Lyrics to Filial :
Too seldom sanguine,
Always crying over closed doors
You should feel like you should,
You should feel like you should adapt well with a wistful heart
I could never take it, but I'll give you your breath back
Infants and whales still have the holes there, never proving to be born on time
You keep your eyes to the light between finger and thumb and the sky just laughs as I Stare at the grass,
The sun, the green, I want the snow years ago
I'll say it about routine
I cant wait, I can't wait
I want the genes
I want the era before me
I want ideas as imprints
I want the future, I want the future
I want your mistakes, what we were, what I was, what I'll be, what we'll see
Hunters only stop to see the scenery when they've caught up,
Watching what we have in common that makes us the men some love
I'm not telling you who the rhythm is from, something to look forward to "while im young"
One day at a time, I'll never say anything when no one is looking
I'll be so old, finally seeing
Picking right days as they come
Learning days said like this
As purses and sheaths
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Cannabis Cookies! and why its now cool to be hip
its hard to come across a reason to be alive, sometimes. especially when what you are and want to be has become a social cliche. i'm deeply hurt that all of a sudden, its cool and trendy to be, well, cool and trendy. why is it the new trend to be artsy and different? all of a sudden, skaters are wearing short-shorts and beanies. these are the same kids that jumped me and scream "faggot" (while wearing the ever popular bob marley t-shirt) while i wore my own, HAND-CUT short-shorts. now they're into fake indie music, buying pre-cut jorts and beanies from pac-sun. i have to say, i can't wait for trends to change to something different.
in other news, i finally found myself a scarf. and no, i'm not wearing it because its "what the hipsters do". i'm wearing it because i genuinely like the way they looks. i also made a really deck pair of shoes today, out of a pair of flip-flops and some fabric. because i wanted to have cool shoes. how long before they start selling "home-made-esque" shoes at pac-sun, along with "home-sewn-esque"-shirts (which i also make)? fuck the consumer culture.
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
the blood brothers!!!
love love love, love love love,
laave love love LOVE love love,
it rhymes with pity now
So today, i auditioned for my school's high-school select-choir. I found out that i can sing WAY higher than a friend of mine, leif swenson. i have a high b. so i can sing three b's. without falsetto. can you? which leads me to the blood brothers. who doesn't love old post-hardcore? AND I CAN SING THE HIGH PARTS.
laave love love LOVE love love,
it rhymes with pity now
So today, i auditioned for my school's high-school select-choir. I found out that i can sing WAY higher than a friend of mine, leif swenson. i have a high b. so i can sing three b's. without falsetto. can you? which leads me to the blood brothers. who doesn't love old post-hardcore? AND I CAN SING THE HIGH PARTS.
Sunday, August 15, 2010
driver's permit tests, and why i should get to vote.
today i went to driving school, and took my permit test. i passed, if you were wondering. i'm going to be driving a volvo station wagon. but after leaving the dmv, i was left with the implication that the democratic system of the USA is a complete joke. why is it that our nation trusts individuals with the privilege (and it is just that, a privilege) to drive, and not with the responsibility (and it, too, is just that) of voting? why am i not as deserving of that right, yet a 23 y/o alcoholic who can barely spell his name, let alone decide who should run his country, is? the worst part is that many of these individuals who CAN indeed vote often don't even have an understanding of the issues at hand, or the candidates, or the parties, other than what is taught to them by their parents or their place of worship. are we, as human beings, so easy to influence by sources that, for all intents and purposes, shouldn't be related to politics at all?
i am not, however, advocating any intellectual restrictions on voting. i think everyone who is trusted to drive, which puts the lives of others in their hands, should also be trusted to make decisions that also concern their own lives.
18 is an arbitrary number. think about it.
Friday, August 13, 2010
I spent most of my day lamenting the fact that i wasn't around when bands like the blood brothers and cap'n jazz played (and yes, i do know they are back together. but its not the same).
i hope to whatever god you subscribe to that you never have the misfortune of having to attend a school that requires you to dress and act a certain way. it's one of the greatest evils of the modern world that human beings are having their individuality erased and their minds reprogrammed by self-righteous officials who claim to hold the moral high-ground. on such a note, i would like to add that i am in a state of entirely warrented ecstasy over the court decisions in california over the past few weeks regarding gay rights. sexual deviancy shouldn't be treated like a crime.
also, i recommend highly the album "People Without End" by an emo band called Tiny Hawks. Excellent music, great lyrics, and a technicality that seems far-out considering its a two-peice band. i'll post a download link when i find one.
Thursday, August 12, 2010
My first post, and what i intend to do here
I am a human being. My mythology is my history, my stories of the past. When we grow up, many of us- whether by accident or design- lose part of that. I'm a depressing kind of person, when it comes to talking about growing up. I feel like i've lost a lot of my childhood, and am missing out on the "growing up" that i want to do. I currently live in Arizona, but i spent a good part of my childhood in the midwest, and given the option, it would be a midwestern culture in which i would choose to spend my youth. It has an atmosphere of human-ness to it that the west has yet to emulate. Maybe that is because it has its own history. It has its own mythology. It has had its own chance to grow up.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)