Carly Simon

It seems the spirit leaves you
when you become too smart
to start thinking for yourself.

Apparitions embodied by strangers,
stories and information come in
uninvited, perhaps a sign of a
higher power to tell you of worm holes
and the history of years and magic animals

and while the skin is seething with interest
and lust, the self cleaves and leaves you
waiting for all the days you remember the moment
like a simple photograph, a memory of a nice day.
a memory of young adult hormones that made you feel
like the world was bigger than everything that's been shoved
between your ears.

if you try real hard
you can hear the birds sing again
and if you try real hard
you can take note of the details.
but you're lying to yourself
so you slip back into arranging all the blocks
to make a shape or a structure you can stand on.

all you really want to do is get new blocks.

the fight against is as equally stupid
as the fight for.
there you go changing on me again.
there i go refusing to.


Everyone seems to be praying these days.
None of the people praying can figure out why.
"We have grown to such great numbers,"
said the lead praying man,
"that we can no longer account for the clarity of
our individual prayers.
Instead, the sound has grown into one collective pitch
resonating high into the heavens.
Thus do no expect your individual prayers to be answered,
but instead a universal one."
When the people heard of this misfortune,
there was a deep sadness throughout the world.

kim krans
i am not a shrinking violet

in honor of the chacos i had on my feet today...

I've decided to share some other things that have made me smile in the past week.

Ashley found this the other day while trying to figure out how to go about making a pop-up vagina for her Love at the Glove valentine's day cards.



I have mixed feelings about this one, but decided to go with my first instinct which was, "this is funny."

ok, it did make me happy. But it's not now because I can't find it again. Therefore you also will not be happy. Let's move on.

My cousin Erin posted this on her facebook a few days ago after getting back from Chicago for business.

Erin is glad to be in wisconsin - was getting really sick of suburban chicagoan coeds and their overhighlighted hair and lip gloss.

And to which I responded "that was funny" she said,

every annoying girl on UCUI campus was from naperville. I got sunburnt from their glowing blonde hair, and when one gave me her resume, her 3-inch french manicured nail scratched me. I almost threw up.

Talented shit talkers are funny.


I work at Lone Star Steakhouse in Carbondale which does not make me happy. However, one of my co-workers whom I rarely talk to came up to me and said,
"Do you like movies?"
"Uh, yea? Same as the next person?"
"Yea, ok. Name your top five favorite movies."
"Tough question."
"Just anything that pops in your head."
Going for the ultimate wash, I said "Wes Anderson" to which he exclaimed,
"I KNEW IT! You totally looked like someone who would love good movies."

And that made me happy because he made a correct assumption about something that is quite important to me as far as interests go and then had the courage to propose such curiosity in the face of a demi-stranger.

But then I immediately thought that my boyfriend doesn't do that and I got sad for a moment.

I put an old cd on and didn't realize Looper's "Treehouse" song was included in the mix and that made me really happy. Like little pleased smile happy, which is the best kind.
Here's a crappy fan video that makes me feel kinda nauseated, but don't let it ruin it for you.


My friend stello (he's over there, under Hey, I know those guys! ------------------>)
told me about vimeo, which has been a source of happiness for me. Here's one for you.

you already know. from Jessica Bigarel on Vimeo.


I made some jewlery the other night (happy) because I was left home alone with no car and no friends (not happy). Here it is. Soon to be on etsy (happy).







That's all for now.
Good luck making yourself happy.
That post was a weeks worth of material.

just a little bit

honesty is the first prize.


but it's not something we win.


is it?

Spare the Rod

spoil the child.

He that abstains from beating by way of correction
Hateth his son.


Punishment. Perhaps the way a fingernail fits perfectly under the bed of a scab beckoning you to peel away the purposefulness of its healing nature. Perhaps the way the sexes were created to fit together oh so naturally, and in so doing peeling away the horrid joke of the mismatched male and female minds.

Things feel superficial as they always do when relationships end. When all your friends feel like they were simply audience members in the show of your love life. What a dream it all was. You were all there. O hello again. Thank you for coming all this time. The reviews are out, the critics have spoken. Please, tell me what you really think. Don't hold back. It's been so long. I never would have guessed it looked like that from where you sat.

Who am I kidding, she asks and thinks no one. Sad pretty face in a mirror surrounded by naked bulbs alight enough to see the coil from which it burns. Consistent as sugar, needed like air. Where does this come from. She asks and thinks no one.

100,000 miles of mountains in the distance covered in yellow and orange and pink and lime green yarns, each foothill, each tree, each leaf a thread tied by hand. There wasn't a word from him. Each comment blasted power and passion and reason smothered down into a mutter under the breath. Not a word from him. Standing on the horns of a beast, bloodied, gallant, a heart in my hand and a gash down my own chest I take my eyes from the sky and look down at him. My shoulders drop, my pride fades, and there is nothing but disappointment as a failure to impress and evoke a word from him.

You bruised me. You bit me. You bore me. You were cheap. You were not smart. You were needy and selfish and obsessive. You were no fun. You were lazy. You were afraid of everything. You brought nothing to the table. No one really liked you, no one really disliked you. You needed a team of defenders to protect you against the truth. And I held your hand to make sure you never found out.

I was told there are two people in this world, the open palms and the closed fists. For so long, with all the effort I gave to keep you safe from you by taking on the demon of your secrets, my fist grew tighter. And the more I gave, the more I hated what I saw and the more I hated the more I fought. My knuckles were white the day your demon tore the flesh and I ran away.

But they didn't tell me what it meant to be an open palm. They didn't tell me what went with what they presented to be the better option, the one to strive for. There is nothing in that palm. That fist meant something. That fist was angry with love, angry for it, angry for wanting it, angry for not understanding it. That fist was holding on to something.

This palm admits there's nothing there.

Beautiful Mess

To be honest, I don't understand my need to keep moving. I don't. I had a home, a good one for all my formative years. I'm not running from anything...I think. There are always visits. If I have the chance to return. If they still love me enough to accept the proposition. If they're not mad that I left. If they care as little as they did in the first place.

Here we are.


I leave on Monday to fly back home to chicago, get on a train the next morning for carbondale, then figure something out. There has been no rhythm to my sleep patterns since I bought that plane ticket. I go to bed worrying, I wake up worrying. Ok, maybe not worrying. Sometimes planning. Sometimes dreaming. Often lecturing to my "daughter", some lame manifestation of my past mistakes that I'm still having trouble laughing off. I wake up counseling friends I haven't spoken to in years. Defending myself. The yellow pine cabin is quiet at night. My head I never found a way to silence. Most of the time I don't have a reason to.


I'll miss the mountain sunflowers. I'll miss all the wildflowers. I'll miss the dead ponderosa pine they chopped down two days ago. I'll miss its silhouette on a 6pm sky as I rediscover the salty deliciousness of canned beans at Mark and Marcia's kitchen table. I'll miss the water falling over the large rock just under the suspension bridge and the way it sounded like ocean waves curling through the plastic slats of my RV's kitchen shade. I'll miss the way tetley tea with soy milk would get me out of bed in the morning. I'll miss those mornings I would get nauseous from drinking too much of it as I screwed around on the internet, listening to Morning Edition. I'll miss the crescendo of coyotes in the middle of the night, a battle of angry puppies. I'll miss laying on my left side to see the stars, my right side a midnight moon. I'll miss the aspen. I'll miss the strangeness of this country. The way the mountains seem enormous but so touchable. The way they look two dimensional against the sky, as if they were painted right on the set backdrop. The way one constantly compares them to the appalachians...as if putting their lover up against the one that they really love, have always loved, with the one they will never tell.


I'll miss wondering whats next until I'm missing what I just left.

Like Tasting Stars

I moved into a motel room today, an easy move in which no friends were called upon to borrow trucks or asked for manual labor in exchange for a box of cheap beer, but still a difficult one for a moment. I’ve been told to learn where your disciplines lie as early as you can or as early as you realize you’re immediately required to have them. Once you’ve found them, congratulate yourself with a healthy pat on the back. Where you have come up short on discovery, remove everything that is tempting to thwart what you hope to improve on. That is if you can find the discipline to do so.
What I dread most about this move are those new temptations…long hot showers, the satellite tv that looms in lonely late night sleeplessness, the 4ft mirror hanging on the wall which will mysteriously pass hours as a ego-fluffing conversation companion. However in sitting in this new place I am awarded the renewal of a new space, a new nest. Hang a picture, stack your books, sit on the bed.

There is something about living in a motel room that solidifies the writer lifestyle, perhaps simply because its not quite proper. I thought of Royal Tenenbaum at 100 N. 30th Avenue. Not a writer perhaps, but a fine manipulator of language and emotion.

I read more Ben Hart marketing master today as a step in a more disciplined reaction to my conversation yesterday with Mark. He came into the office at the house, full of energy, a change from the day before when he spent the majority of the afternoon sleeping and watching Cops, a true testimony to his fatigue. He offered a trip to the hot springs, an uplifting postscript to him telling me to move out of my beloved RV. The area surrounding the springs was beautiful – about an hour south of Salida on 285 and grazing the backdoor view of the Sangres with the Sand Dunes National Park some 8.5 thousand elevated feet of naturally degraded mountain rock in the desolate distance. Last March I had ran vigorously up their relentless peaks, sand giving way underneath my feet, challenging even the slightest dare to a summit. I remember telling travel mates that I had friends in Colorado as we made our trek, but never knowing exactly where they were. I had never imagined that they were just over the mountains. I had never imagined that I would be looking at them again with such a different perspective.

As we sat in what Mark referred to as “The Lobster Pot”, 108 degrees of mineral water salty with the soak of locals and tourists, we talked about business. I kept an eye on fellow bathers who assumedly came to the springs to escape exactly the conversation Mark kept to a hint above a whisper. I had no intentions to tell him kindly to can it. Looking out was more in habit of an often uncomfortable conscientiousness. But I didn’t mind so much as I have in the past with other personalities that have been “vaccinated with a phonograph needle.” It is because the man has a passion that can’t be sealed off. And in truth, I was rather enjoying the conversation. Mostly because he offered me a job and even more so because he was not opposed to letting me do this job as freelance back in Carbondale.

It’s like watching a mind circus, listening to Mark talk. Or similar to observing gymnasts or acrobats, or break-dancers, or something that doesn’t seem humanly possible but performs before your eyes nonetheless. It’s fascinating. Trying to absorb it on a content basis is not as fascinating, but still.

We went to Amica’s and sat at the bar to avoid the inevitable wait, a testimony which was greater realized when Mark calculated the weekly profit of the place on what he calls a “bar napkin business plan.” He shot low, about nine grand off at 50,000 bucks. We were sure because the numbers were verified by the General Manager, an overgrown boy with a big beard and flip flops, sitting two seats down from us at the bar, waiting to take home a sixer of Amica’s own amber brew.

Mark and I talked about Wasps and their seemingly self-absorption because they find the act of inquiring about another individual to be nosy. Mark explains that this was his father and the most likely place where he inherited it. As long as you’re self aware, I don’t really give a shit what your personality entails. To a degree.

The man with incredibly sweet sad eyes sitting next to us at the bar had just lost his job, so to boost his spirit, his wife sent him out to look for a second home instead of job searching all day. While Mark waited for his lost pizza to be remade, he and the man talked about business. I sat in between them, eating a panini, trying to not let large bites of spicy sausage fall out of my mouth.

Migration

Mal and I have spent the past two days together. Simply in the car. The first driving to Canyon City to run errands, today on a whim because no one, not a single person was here at Sweet. We took a bypass back route from Crested Butte, Gunnison 230 or something of the like, through the mountains, cascading pines and aspen. We stopped the car at one point, just past a turnoff slightly down the mountain with campfire rings to our left. She turned off the car. The echo of silence brought a buzzing to my ears. I hung my head out the window, looked up to try and spot the swarms of bugs overhead that she pointed out. The toothpicks of white aspen trunks, a wilderness of fantasy beauty like I haven’t seen in a long time. She called the silence absolute. It was true.

We saw “The Ruggeds”. An amazing spit of mountain in the distance. Close to the formations in Utah that I’ve seen in the past. Fingers pointed to the sky. Something majestic, something eerie. We named things. She named things – the wildflowers mostly. So many yellows and reds and purples on steep slopes pointing up towards blues better than most ocean waters. It was magic. My heart again, wishes to swell and explode with what I saw today.

I sit outside, after a day you wish would only close with perfection that would match. There is a moment when I am truly happy.

We arrived at Crested Butte – a small mountain town that exclaimates just over a hill on HW 50. Packed full of bustle and painted color on wood siding. Like that eclectic kitchen that trendy 20 somethings dream of. There’s a trifold of buildings, perfectly angled along the perspective of the highway, a school, middle school no doubt, with playing fields. Three young men form a square, one tosses a Frisbee to an older man with white hair who misses, bends down like an old man to retrieve it. Marcia says be careful who you call old around here. It’s a safety cliché I’ve heard a few times. She’s young. Amazingly, amazingly young.

We sit across from each other at dinner. A Chinese place with empty cafeteria fridge carts, usually seen in dorms to house salad bars. The waitress is sitting behind the sushi bar with salmon still in its warehouse package, watching TV in a language native to her own. We say we’re sitting outside, on my request – something I made a pact to do today. Have an opinion, make direction. After she brings the settings outside, we decide its too windy and carry everything back inside to a nook just off the entrance.I say I'm too fickle about atmosphere. Marcia then tells her to turn down the TV. She hopes without too much demand. She fears they might spit in her food. We haven’t ordered yet.

She wears her sunglasses at the table. I’m sitting on the side where all the light is pouring in through the pane lacking the colored glass on the top half to block the intensive glare. She asks later if its bothering me – her sunglasses. I say no. And its not. I just took notice is all.

I say I might have to go in everywhere to avoid dancing outside the stores. There’s a girl in the shop, short, brown belt on blue pants, t-shirt tucked in. She’s talking to the shop owner, so it appears. There’s a dialogue between her and the girl working behind the counter, the one that tells another woman browsing that she likes her shirt, it’s very “faded” in color. It is. I smile at the fact that this is why people live in Crested Butte.
Where in the east are you from? Says the girl with the belt.
Virginia.
They go on, narrowing down large geographic to small, based on navigational points. They come to some agreement, a common settle without real understanding. The girl with the belt explains that she came here for a class and never left. A wilderness EMT class. Shop owner selling her photos on the wall asks, “What do you do with that?”
I ask Marcia if she’s seen the Trilobite fossils. I know she’s listening.

The Thai place I talked to Kate about is indeed not closed. It may still not be that great, but its not closed. It’s just past that stretch of Salida road I know, then you merge off the right, heading toward Monarch Pass, the quiet ski town with cleverly designed ad signs. I ask Marcia why I brought the subject up, I honestly couldn’t remember.

John Denver wrote “Leaving on a Jet Plane”. We listened to it on the final stretch to Sweetwater. He also wrote that song about West Virginia (country roads take me home/to a place I belong) which I never really thought about being one place. Marcia said to call her out on being an old sap after listening to a few songs of Three Dog Night…(the world is black, the world is white) after she got on her soapbox. There’s no melody in music today, she said. I agreed, wondering in my head if there’s really any stock in age when making such an argument. But I wondered about melody. I wondered about melody. I wonder what we tap our feet to these days and wonder what foot we choose to tap to.

Over Seas

There's an Aussie on the premises.

The majority of our bang gang has started working at camp. It is titilating to see Sarah, a first time counselor as well as first time camper alive with its excitement. Yes, I got the note on the legal pad about sports and games. Here are the keys to the pontoon boat. Checks come on the 15th and the 30th of each month.

It's pretty sweet. It is. I'm not sure why those creeping demons of american engineering keep screaming in my peace. You will not be taken seriously. This cannot be a profession. Where's the money. The importance. The flaming suit and the tv interviews. Brynna said she would change the world. She understands we all say that. But she understands and is fully comfortable with the fact that her means of doing so come by "finger painting with retarded kids and making them happy".

looking it over

I'm supposed to write about what i've done each day. Thankfully, i've had a few less than i did last night, so perhaps details will abound and convoluted pieces of think will put their feet up for an hour or two.

There's a dog next to me. Candace's dogface, Diliah Dee. She's chocolate colored, with a few white spots in between her shoulders. Two black nails on her left paw, three on her right. I think her ears are clipped...like cat ears. Big amber eyes, and a pit snout, where all the hair is rubbed away to show brown freckles around her nose. Wide set jaw like Luke Wilson. She reminds me of a pig, but i can't say why. She rode with Kent and I out to Opie's Kitchen on little grassy lake where we climb. Her back legs on the blue blanket in the back seat, her face on the console in between us. She's quiet. Kent says that the more human behind the eyes, the smarter they are. I think that also goes to say a little something about some people i know.

We climbed a little. Told Kent that there are less trials of error when you're more of a cocky asshole. I traversed the far rock we found when we first came out there in two trials. Maybe being cocky presents you with the challenge of having to put your ass where your mouth is.

Green abounds since the last time I was out there. The forest floor is covered with heart shaped leaves, some organically shaped puzzle pieces, the compass plant that apparently sends its leaf points out in direction towards the four navigational points. I argued that North was indeed not the direction that Kent suggested earlier. I often stand against his opinions just for the sake of it. I don't argue, i just disagree without reasoning. Mostly because i have no clue of things so concrete.

We ate hefty sammiches at the base of the Rocky ledges waterfall across the road. Everything bread, LTOP (lettuce tomato onion) chicken, turkey, veggie cream cheese and a careful blend of ranch dressing and mustard so that the tartness of the mustard didn't take it all to itself. Diliah rolled around in something decaying and drank the stagnant water by our feet.


We walked the trail. Rocky ledges is, from what Kent tells me, the most sought out trail in Southern Illinois, due in large part to its dense and diverse wildflower population. I learned about a CCC project that started in the 30s which explained the dense softwood pine growth along the trail. We argued whether these regions were once underwater. Again, no sound reasoning. I just thought that once this was true.

Brian and Kathleen were having a surprise baby shower for Kathleen's second kid. When i arrived, people were sniffing at brown masses inside numbered diapers. Different brands of melted chocolate bars filled the bouquet. Guess what baby ate, get a prize. I don't know these people, barely know Kathleen and Brian, so its awkward standing there listening to B&K trying to guess each others answers to random questions (when did you find out K was preggers, where did you last have lunch together, what percent of the time does B clean the house) while their friends made bets on how many they would correctly match. Everyone undershot. Me, 14/20. I won.

It's nice to be around them hippie trendy young adults with kids. Keeping it real and not chasing tail or throwing up off the porch. I know nothing is different, we just take on different appendices...babies, houses, jobs, cars. We talk about how much they charged us for the garbage can at Bed Bath and Beyond or what wall color we just put up last month. But hell. Better that than a slurred blurb or the stammer of "fuckin..." interjected between every other word as we search for the next. I'm ready to get up early and get to bed the same. I dunno about babies, but I'm ready to pretend that adult thing. In moderation. You know what I mean.

As of now, I found some Boards of Canada, thought of Jodo. Ate some edomome drank some water. Tried to change my default password on my wireless because ACE1335 is stealing it, i swear. thought about going out for tomato juice. thought about what next.

well there's that. we have that.

a wise woman told me i should keep a schedule. she told me a lot of things over the years, the same years that i've managed to keep thoughts secret and aloud on a page where everyone can read if they wish. he wondered what it meant that they could.

i forget without reminder that things were once easy. easier. why? because there were less thoughts. not so much of big life and big bills and big dreams we chase down paths we're brought up to realize as paths. i forget with learning, there comes a change of contrust. construct. i meant.

life presents itself in an metric shit ton of generic terms. i'm supposed to learn lessons, don't know when i'm learning them, what i'm supposed to make of them and forgive me jesus, never know when the day comes when action proclaims that i've learned from enough to pronounce something better to the alternative. so. what are we so worried about.

i remembered the outside today. i simply put some kids in a canoe or two. why do i struggle to defend the space it takes for a person to say hello, my name is. thank you for this.

hey, i'll do my best. it's good to be back.

i told you id be here

cliche. lets examine what were afraid of repeating.

a phrase or opinion that is overused and betrays a lack of original thought.

have we gotten to that?
have we put ourselves so far beyond into the potential of what could
that we can no longer derive our own words to express the things
that we have spoken again and again that the fact
that we say in repetious fashion derived by the outstanding mind

that we cannot continue

my mind is in a state
that i can't be me in any place.

Making Shit is Easy

It is. It just takes time.

Here i am again anonymous world! Here i am with nothing much to say except

making shit is easy and i can't keep up with all the things in the world that make me dance. Wowzers.

like this, whole thing, all right there, just one little site with a whole lotta brilliance and work behind it.

Wooster Collective.com

Damon Ginandes
Red Hook, Brooklyn

anyway, i was going to write a letter. that's what i was doing originally. Originally, we were all doing something.




Happiness isn't something you go out hunting for, it's not something you end up finding. It's uncovering what's already there.

the nomad to the vagrant, and a lover's real estate

we long to live, to travel, to seek the new and obscure
we tend to do it, humbly, without pride in standoff, but pride in the aptitude
of courage as a fearful lion; those demons in which we do not know
are much more promising than those we already succumb to.

theft from this place challenges the mortal pockets from which it came
bottles empty, rooms vacant, streaming sounds from instruments without strings
drain drink suck away from dues never repaid
even in gratitude, great things great thinkers spent forever to explain
the wise sit still while the facts are laid out with

A+B=C.

i remember still driving in a silver and blue GMC Safari
through a small town, lined with quaint restaurants, craving to make sense of cute boys.
i remember thinking about my sister in college as i write her down into pages of a notebook that never get filled. it was warm i imagine. things were green. to have her on my mind meant that we were somewhere in Iowa, or Georgia, or a place i have no idea where.
But i feel, there.

I remember still a restaurant, dark, narrow, with high ceilings. The walls painted a shade of blue like the blurred vision of a starry night. I remember a table in the front corner, a lip of the tri-walled space spilling out onto the more warmly lighted entrance. I ate soup in a sourdough breadbowl for the first time. The place, wherever it was was different than that van.

I remember stewed tomatoes in a cellar at williamsburg, after we saw people dressed in costume, living the life of lives spent and dad saying that he didn't much care for stewed tomatoes. I love stewed tomatoes.

if we lose our memory, do we lose our minds?

57% of your saturated fat intake
based on a % daily value
of pride.

happy anniversary, darling

When people talk, listen completely. Dont be thinking what you're going to say next.
Most people never listen.
Nor do they observe.
You should be able to go into a room and when you come out
know everything that you saw there and not only that.
If that room gave you any feeling, you should know exactly what it was
that gave you that feeling.
Try that for practice.
When you're in town stand outside the theater
and see how the people differ in the way
they get out of taxis and motor cars.

There are a thousand ways to practice
getting in to somebody else's head for a change.

what i could have said

if you'd slow down a minute to let me finish.

If Akatiff seems impatient, its because he's obsessed with results.
As a kid growing up, he once worked 13 straight hours to build an oscilloscope
even though he didn't care what an oscilloscope did.

but that takes time.

the extra button

sewn into my shirt tag
could give me the second chance
to show a change could be had

how to lose how to win
could get lost in passing words
and the sirens of a nearby ambulance

a bicycle tire under a benz
used in making polite requests
stones the healer of a nearby trend
and insults the dealer when affections commend

five days in hell
five days of consumption
brain badgering witnesses
of some kind of corruption

the thoughts of a child
grow up in depression
only when the distinction
gets the best of decisions.

you better believe
as much as you speak
when the responsibility
is worth the upkeep

it starts with F

The only passion we been havin
Is the smoke we’ve been passin
Between two lips in a kiss undefined
But baby I don’t want another hit of your green shit
I’d ask for your heart but I can’t find mine

Go ahead and tell a woman she’s crazy
Emotional, irrational, coy and catty
But gentlemen it’s universal knowledge to me that
Intellectual hedonism breeds temporary insanity

At the end of this catharsis
I’ll break didactic ceramics
Like the natural plates
And the shifting of tectonics
Levees will bust, floods will rush in
Bridges will crumble at the feat of the question

Is your fortitude bigger than a façade of fornication
When a girl is bumpin ugly with a spiritual masturbation
Will you consider your retardants against the flames I spit
Will you gather the ashes of whats called commitment
To postulate more than the sex of a double X
And to believe in the brilliant spirit of a phoenix.

is that you? i thought this was supposed to be in confidence

where the spark beings.

(tribute to Kohei Mihara, sounds vs. words, pictures vs. images, and the culture gap. I wanna say Milton, but see, its all to the point of attempt)

would they look at me and think of when it will end. The drama, the cinema. The picture played out in anticipation.
No one meets anyone at the terminal. No one meets anyone with a coy stance, the one with a greeting worth the irritation that gives prelude to the runner up feeling to the word.

For clarity.

coy |koi|
(esp. of a woman)
making a pretense of shyness or modesty that is intended to be alluring but is often regarded as irritating.
(she treated him to a coy smile of invitation) ital.

O WORDS. O MY WORD.
i question sometimes.
why try to fit in a mans world when the world, let it be viewed as "owned" by men, struggle to define our actions, movements, intentions. O so many subjectivities! Does it not mean we wish to process the world by the same words? Like love, so to use such an unoperative word, define itself by only the one/two souls who wish to worship it.
Who needs a higher education in romantic literature when those that have expressed so many times ago are still expressing again and again.

Is that you? I thought this was supposed to be in confession.

write babies, write. Who else to hold to such an enduring term than those that take every moment as a a a a A A A A A A
RE-CREATION.
a rebirth. power and love to those nameless faces that have paved my way, but honey, did you get lost just the same?

over/under
what the fuck is whelm.
do we whelm the self or does the self whelm us.

what a preposterous philo-quasinum.
o i could shit a brick on words.
see, everyone understands that dont they.

good luck to you my intelects. good luck to you.
a world to impress, so the world to digress.
good luck to you with
hello.
goodbye.

we're so much cooler if we're multi-liguistic.

lets define, from once again, my mac push button F8, (what the (conpir))theorists) of apple think about

BEING SMART
INFORMAL having or showing a quick-witted intelligence.

i am excluding information to fit my own interpretation. thus, the media.
does objective journalism exist? a question i rub my eyes to and reach for something....my fridge.

i chill my whiskey.
i chill. sometimes.

i can only give something far more than objective. i give it my own.

i want to write my professors and tell them sionara...
ive meet someone that brings me to this place again

what can i say
i like recreational chemicals.

a vent? a moment. the night was meant to be mine, but honey monogomy was never my thing. plan my day around where i get my next fix and spend the rest thinking about where the world gets its next dollar.
discipline, like most things, comes in depleatable resources.
how do i explain to the ones ive lived up to that ive died short of the potential ive consumed.

Esteemers

fun is fleeting, this is the come down.

biochemicalhorrormonalyselfdefeatingintellectualbreakshit warfare is
rustling the trees outside my window.

here they come, here they go.
who are you
today
to me.

marks on my calendar, voids beneath skin
beyond comprehension.
are we really ok without being in the know.

my smile is gone, mischievous was never enough.

i need to sit and meditate. reiterate some positive phrasing.
ill get done what i needed to today
and retreat upon the creeping in of tomorrow.

does the pressure peruse you?

is the feeling true.

is it exciting because we recogonize that it should be.
is it intense because we want it that way.
is it lovely because thats just what we're looking for.

we're all circular constructs. there are no square pegs. we fit into one another.
where is the black and white world.

am i bored thus lonely. am i bored thus depressed. does boredom rule a world that doesn't sit still, only to feed our heads.
embrace your boredom.
listen to its unresponse.

you are not responsible for my unorthodox complex with being responsible for others emotions.
but it pains me greatly to feel your hurt.

it only puzzles me to feel my own.