brain surgery
(note: UNFUNNY)
My chest still felt warm from the gin as I glanced down at the gaping protruberance on my patient's head. I lowered the scalpel and gingerly pressed down at the base of the tumor, carving a masterful R-incision from the thyroid surplex to the obsidian cydonia. My nurses scuttled reverently around me, passing tools and napkins into my bloodied gloved hands. Suddenly I sliced through the hemoirdal artery, accidentally, and went into a silent, inner panic.
"Hand me two CC's stat! And up his morphine intake," I commanded.
"What happened, doctor?" a nurse asked.
"Nothing!" I bellowed. "I'm gonna fix this sonofabitch. Where the hell are my CC's?"
My young Brazilian patient with rock hard abs and an excellently crafted cranium minus the tumor, was tragically bleeding to death on the operating table. I turned to my most trusted nurse, Marty, and found that he was standing, staring off into nothingness, mouth agape and drooling. I looked up and saw the mark of the beast: a hovering Arby's glove.
I could smell beef and honey mustard.
work in progress
I was five the first time I discovered fear. I was standing outside in the sunlight next to the barn, a simple triangular metal and wooden structure erected next to a dusty road lined with thistles. To my back was an apple orchard in a grassy field, and behind that, a forested mountain arching sharply like the ribbed back of an ambivilant beast. In front of me, a small herd of cows trotted and grazed indifferently. One of them stood out-- a large, reddish brown bull several feet away. It was grunting and snorting, stamping its foot, and glaring murderously in my general direction.
I had seen Spanish bullfighters on television and in real life. I remembered they carried red blankets and used them to distract and mislead the bulls. I didn't have a blanket. I looked down and discovered, to my absolute horror, that I was wearing a blue and red Superwoman t-shirt. Just my luck, it was brand new-- the color stood out and in the seering sunlight seemed to pulse and emanate like those glowing, flashing lights I had seen in Las Vegas.
I ran like hell, squeezing in between in the barbed wire fence guarding the orchard, running hysterically through the hay field, yellow sticks slapping and sticking my face as I charged forward. I entered the forest, scratched myself on another barbed wire fence, and kept running and running, directionless, until I felt a sticky, stringy residue on my face and arms. In my blind fear I had passed through a gigantic spider's web, and I squirmed and squealed, and every black spot turned into a spider, every tree trunk into a waiting grizzly bear.
At twelve I was scared again. It wasn't like the fear of being grounded, or failing a test, or being the last one picked for the team in gym, or even being driven home by the police for staying out after curfew. I felt the fear of the Bullfighter again. This time the fear had materialised itself into something more concrete than imaginary-- something desperate, something wild, a solid marble tremble, a rolling back of the eyes, a tearful flitter, a scream, a grimace.
I was trying to swim to the island in the middle of the lake. It was a muddy, polluted lake, mostly shallow, with catfish and eels flittering about somewhere in the murky algaic shadows. I was a decent swimmer but I couldn't swim underwater without holding my nose. I wanted to visit the island-- an evergreen mound of dense Southeastern rainforest jutting out of the surface of the lake. I could hear the summer bleating of tree frogs and cicadas droning on and on, and I felt lazy and relaxed in the water, and I turned on my back and floated and watched the planes sputter along throughout the orangey-purple late afternoon sky. The water was like a stale bath, warm and swampy.
I noticed the island through my peripherals and began kicking myself towards it. I don't know what I was planning to do once I got there, but my determination was infallible. It didn't look too far away. I swam at first on my back, lazily, then turned and propelled myself forwards in feigned panic, pretending I was being chased by sharks and giant squids. The island was a black smudge hovering on my horizen like a mirage and it wasn't getting bigger. I could hear the baritone whirring of a motorboat off in the distance.
Fatiqued, I turned to float on my back again and give my limbs a rest, but a heaving crest of water lapped over my head and I swallowed mud and algae. I felt the sting of liquid traveling up my nose, peircing my brain, and I choked and sank, twisting, writhing, clawing in desperation at nothing. The sun over my head became a blurred mass of white light hovering ominously, vaguely above me, in some arid, alien world that felt so far away, so unattainable. For a moment I forgot what it felt like to be a creature of the land.
Years later, on a rock jutting out of the shoreline, my friends and I sat at midnight, solemn and reminiscent over a past that had never existed yet felt as real as the buzzing in our heads. We wondered aloud where in the still water our former classmate Emily Harding's body could possibly be hiding. With a stifled sense of exhiliration, I could picture her algae and blood stained hair tangled like a nest in the twigs and reeds close to the shoreline of that island I hadn't the strength to reach. I thought it curious and ironic how morbidity brought me closer to the pulse of my veins, the electricity of my flesh, than any waking dream or Sunday morning breakfast.
The image of the island in my mind remained, and persisted, like a blood clot in my arteries or a smudge of ink on an otherwise blank page.
I could hear the roar of the crowd at the bullfighter's ring cheering, and I could see their dirtied faces contorted into O shapes, yelling and laughing, as the busybody driving at full-speed missed impact with my body by a fraction of an inch. Like the motorboat's wake had pulled me under, so had the whip from the passing vehicle knocked me down to my knees on the pavement, and I could feel the sting of gravel on my neck. I stood and walked away among the honking horns that sounded like an alarm clock jerking me out of a lethargic dream.
Blood flowed into my eyes one afternoon and dyed my vision pink. I felt nothing, but the people around me were flittering about like paniced squirrels, eyes bulging with fear, and they were babbling nonsense, and I was forced into a car. I had to sit in a florescent-lit waiting room where I bled all over myself for nearly an hour. I caught a glimpse of my sheared visage in the bathroom mirror and laughed.
Midnight on an early winter's night I was in a violet building surrounded by hoards of people who swayed and gyrated to pulsing beats that shook the walls and made the rum & coke in my glass shiver and bump. The lips of my accomplice moved up and down in an expression of concern, but I couldn't hear his words over the music. I looked up into his puzzled eyes and slid cautiously off the barstool to my feet, becoming momentarily aware of the greying of my peripherals. My heart grew heavy like lead. My insides doubled over, and there must have been a sheen of wet terror over my eyes because he stepped closer and grabbed my hand.
At the instance I felt the sweat on his palms mat against mine, the music stopped, and I felt the subtle dizziness of walking for the first time after spending hours in a moving vehicle. The club took on a new atmosphere. The voices of hundreds of drunks shouting and laughing lifted and swelled like a giant wave of static pummeling my eardrums. I attempted to say, "Let's go" but when I heard my voice it wasn't mine and it wasn't in the room; it echoed from a faraway place. I realized that my brainstate was a million miles away from my physical body. If I wasn't rescued, innately I knew from the stone weight in my stomache that my silver chord would snap and I would be forever disconnected.
hallucinatory sleep paralysis comedy hour
I wrote this last week. I really like it even though it sounds like it was written by a frumpy old guy from the 19th century who smokes opium and wears spectacles. This is just a rough draft and the ending isn't really finished.
=================
I'd like to introduce you to a friend of mine.
Every morning my clock radio blasts forth, at a jarring volume, the latest top forty hits mingled with static. Unless I happen to be feeling extremely motivated and energetic, I usually roll over and slap the 'snooze' button anywhere from one to fifteen times before finally arising. At some point during this cycle of falling asleep and waking up and falling asleep again, my friend comes to visit.
My friend never seems to be in a particularly good mood, but he's attached to me like a tumor. Some cosmic force has brought us together, and it seems that neither of us can will eachother away. He will not leave until he has taken hold of me and brought me to his own dimension.
Just this morning, my dream took the form of a videogame involving a well-built man swimming in a pool underground. Suddenly a giant fish rushed up from behind and ate the poor fellow, dying the water dreadfully red, at which point I opened my eyes and found myself back in my bed. I looked at the window, feeling as crisp and alert as the fresh snow glowing through the blinds.
My body felt a bit stiff, as though a heavy weight were pinning me down. I flipped over the covers to find my boyfriend laying on top of me. Naughty boy! He must've snuck into the house in the middle of the night, I thought. How unusual. His head was tilted downwards so that his hairline touched my ribs; I couldn't see his face. He silently lifted his brown arms from under the covers and grasped tightly on to mine, pinning me down.
We layed motionless like this for what felt like ages. As the seconds passed, I felt a deep rumbling, the source of which I could not discern; it grew louder and more intense as menacing vibrations shook my entire bedroom. I felt as though I was tied to train tracks and the train, conducted by some sadistic minion of Satan, was fast approaching.
Then at the 'click' of my clock radio, those terrible sensations abruptly ceased, and the nasally voice of James Blunt filled the room mid-song. All was calm. My eyes settled back on the crinkly black hair of my boyfriend, who was still frozen in the same position. Seconds passed, and an odd feeling came over me; I suspect similiar to the realization of accidentally drinking poisoned wine intended for someone else.
At this moment, I became fully aware that the man lying on top of me was not, in fact, my boyfriend, nor anyone even remotely human. Rather, it was my good friend paying me an especially sinister visit. My heartrate quickened to an unbearable pace and I felt bile rising up my esophagas. My eyes bulged in abject horror as my visitor slowly lifted his head, exposing a hole where his face should be. I was staring directly into, not a few inches away, a black hole, an invection in time and space; a doorway to a world filled to the brim not with physical, material objects, but with the worst of human emotions: all of the pain, depravity, sickness, death, and fear on earth, multiplied tenfold.
I couldn't scream or vocalize at all. I could move my limbs but they were in slow motion, while the beast atop my chest flailed his own arms around in an epileptic frenzy. The music on the radio sped up to sound like a Chipmunks song, then slowed to a snail's pace like Barry White possessed by the devil, before speeding up again-- and on and on, while the rumbling sensation made its comeback. I knew that all I could do was wait it out.
Suddenly, like the snap of a rubber band, my friend and all of his accompanying dreadfulness disappeared. I was fully awake in the same position, drenched in sweat. I threw the covers off and jumped to my feet in a panic, eager to separate myself from my bed, the gateway to all that is wretched.
Perhaps one day I'll lose the battle. My curiosity may even get the better of me, and, augmented by some foolish sense of courage, I shall embrace him, embrace the darkness; let him ravish me, and carry me off into his world where we'll be united in a marriage of utter perversity.
But as long as I retain my base survival instincts, I will not give in to him, for I can't shake the feeling that I may never wake up.
doomed fiction
I will never, ever finish this. I know it. I have tried and failed to write this same damn story about 50 times over the course of the past year. I always get to a certain point and then I just can't continue. I know the characters, I know the plot, the conflict, the "symbolism", whatever, but I will never finish this. Arrgghhh.
==================================
I couldn’t help but insist that Joel reschedule the birthday party for another day. I simply couldn’t be there. Naturally, he objected: “You’re going. You don’t understand the preparation I put into this. I spent a lot of money and I intend to make it the craziest, most awesome night of your life. It might be your last birthday, after all...”
He no longer skirted around the subject and I liked it better that way, even though I knew he only did it in emotionally trying moments as a poor attempt to shock or hurt me, as if I was just finding out for the first time. “Oh, that’s right, I’m dying! I had completely forgotten! Shoot!”
Now his eyes were glaring murderously, as though he would kill me if the illness didn’t get to me first.
“I’ll compensate you,” I said.
“Are you crazy? This is your birthday. Don’t think you can just shove bills in my face and expected me to forget about it. All I want is for you to just show up. Have a good time, forget all the shit. This means so much to me, you don’t even understand.”
His voice was pleading now—hurt—his baby blue eyes glazed over with a tearful sheen. I felt a little rupture in my abdomen, somewhere beneath my lower ribs, deep inside—the grinding gears of guilt. Of course it meant a lot to him. It had nothing to do with me.
“What is so fucking important that you have to miss this, anyway?” he demanded.
I shifted uneasily. Gulping was painful as my mouth was dry and there was a sore on the back left of my tongue. “I’m sorry, Joel. I just have other plans—a previous engagement, I guess you could say.”
“Well, you’re gonna have to cancel it,” Joel sputtered angrily, rising from the couch. He pulled his jacket from the coat hanger and violently shoved his arms in the holes, staggering awkwardly a bit before regaining his balance. His face was red and fuming, his platinum hair disheveled. He couldn’t intimidate me if he tried, looking like a whimpering, helpless little boy who didn’t get the BB gun he had asked Santa for. Diligently taking out the trash and doing his homework every afternoon had all been for naught—the world had turned on him and he no longer believed.
“Don’t expect me or anyone else to treat you like a frail little doll all the time,” he spat. He took a few steps towards the door, hesitated, and turned around. With a pointed finger, as though speaking to a misbehaving dog, he continued: “You need to stop using your condition to walk all over people. If you don’t come to this thing, I swear to God I’ll never speak to you again. You can be on your fucking deathbed, waiting, just waiting for someone to show up and hold your hand and tell you that everything’s gonna be okay, but no one will come, not even me, because no one cares whether or not an asshole like you lives or dies, you miserable piece of shit.”
With that, he stormed out and slammed the door, causing the house to shudder in his wake. I felt slightly nauseated. I had been foolish to expect any less of a reaction. At least it wasn’t the first time. The most painful part of this whole situation came not from the knowledge of my own pitiful mortality, but rather from having to witness the effects of it on those around me. Well, on Joel, anyway; he was all I had.
I hated to see him angry, depressed, cursing at the heavens. It was awkward, and not to mention, pathetically sad. If I cared about my own fate a fraction as much as Joel did, I wouldn’t have been able to get up in the morning. All I wanted to do was take advantage of the limited time I had and at least try to enjoy it, which was hard to do when I had a blubbering manboy sobbing at my feet every afternoon, or blowing up in frustration and existential desperation and abusing doors and jackets with his violent reactions.
Joel was, all in all, a great guy, and I suppose his sensitivity made up for my lack thereof. We had been friends since that autumn day in kindergarten when we shared a pudding cup behind the slide at recess. We cheated off each other, pulled pranks, and spread unfounded rumors about the kids we hated. Even when my parents sent me to private school in the vain hope that it would transform me into some overachieving, Harvard-bound douche bag, we still kept in contact.
========
Not finished, oh noes!
funeral
in the event that i am lowered down
deep into the ground
i'll go to bed though i may not be sleepy
curl into the folds and nurse a faint heartbeat
as my eyes roll back and i learn the art of ceasing.
=====
Or should it be cessation? Fuck I don't know.
procrastination station
Eh, I don't know. I'll come back and work on this later.
============
Grandma was an admirable woman. Approaching eighty, she still had all of the grace and charm of a woman in her prime, and double the energy. Her wrinkled, pale face could not conceal her past attractiveness; one could tell upon first glance that she had once been a strikingly beautiful lady, emanating that classic, red-lipped 50's knockout look. She was strong and bold-- a woman of the home for over half a century-- the posterchild of Good Housekeeping.
We all sat at the same table on the porch outside, grandma, my sister, and I. The late afternoon sun waned in the sky; that, combined with the home-made wine I had been consuming for the past couple hours, left my eyelids heavy and my mind dulled. I sat quietly while the other two conversed; I didn't have much to say. The smell of roast beef wafted outside through the screen door.
"Just look at Kim and Kris!" Grandma screeched. Her voice was loud and piercing, due in part to her lack of hearing. "Just look how happy they are! Both of them had just been wandering around aimlessly, with no goals and no sense of purpose, up until they had kids."
My sister nodded her head cautiously.
"Now, I know you're not like either of them," Grandma continued, "but at some point, you have to stop and reassess your life. I mean, you're not nineteen anymore. And where has this whole music thing gotten you, anyway?"
These words had dragged me out of my lethargic state. I sat up straight and glanced at my sister, who seemed to be squirming in her seat. She opened her mouth to respond, but grandma was on a role: "Andrew is SUCH a great guy. You should stay here, with him. You do most of your work from the computer anyway, right, so why does it matter? I definitely don't think you should go back to Nashville. You don't want to spend all your time with *those people*, do you?"
my mother thinks you're a peach
He was avoiding eye contact. Every now and then he would take a deep breath, and exhale with an exasperated expression on his Spanish exterior (I can't possibly explain it without alliteration, folks). Poor boy. Concentrate on the pizza. The pizza. Pizza, pizza, pizza.
This was funny. Just as he was trying desperately to will my presence out of the room, the town, the country, out of his spotless clean slate of a life, here I was, with cobalt blue, sinister eyes, steadily staring him down to size.
He pulled garlic bread out of the oven and set about slicing it symmetrically. I stood about two feet away.
Without looking up, he softly mumbled, "You make me... really... nervous."
I stepped closer-- too close. He eyes glanced at my eyes with a marble fear. I retreated, smiling, whispering, "Sorry."
I turned away.
holocaust shoes
I wrote this for an SA writing challenge thread. My challenge was:
"1000 words. The protagonist has very bad case of Social Anxiety Disorder that he developed as a result of all the mockery he received as a child because of his extremely ridiculous name. A pair of brown shoes must be an important part of the plot. The final scene must take place under a rainbow."I spent over three hours writing it, but uh... I'm not sure what to think. It's more than 1000 words. whoops.
Holocaust ShoesIt was just past two P.M. when he woke. Harsh sunshine stung his dreary, half open eyes as he glanced around the room. Everything was saturated in a hazy, yellowy luminescence, and his head reeled and ached with the weight of a fifteen hour sleep. Clad in only boxers, he rose from bed and shuffled miserably over to his computer desk.
His inbox was empty, just as he expected; the last e-mail had been received four days ago, and even that was just spam. Regardless, he couldn't escape the habit of checking e-mail obsessively. Just in case. With a sigh, he flicked off the monitor, ran his hands through his hair, and began rummaging through the junk on the floor in search of clothing.
"DICK!!!" screeched an arnory voice from the first floor as he descended the staircase. "It's about goddamned time you got your ass out of bed. I need you to run some errands for me."
"Richard, grandma," he said. As he walked into the kitchen, he could just barely see her ratty white hair protruding from the top of the recliner in the other room. "Wheel of Fortune" was on the television, and he could tell from slurping and sucking sounds that grandma was scarfing down some kind of liquid meal.
Richard poured himself a mound of mini toast crunchies into a green bowl. Upon opening the refrigerator door, however, he was presented with a frustrating revelation.
"We're out of milk," he shouted to the living room, his voice drowned out by a hyperactive car salesman on a commercial, which was airing at a significantly higher decibel than the game show. "WE’RE OUT OF MILK!!"
He approached her, and she stared up at him smugly. Her frail limbs were wrapped in a thick baby blue bathrobe, and her wiry hair formed a tuft that even Einstein couldn't match. "Yes, I know that, Dick. That's why you need to run some errands. All we need is some milk, eggs, and shortening."
"Why can't you do it?! You know I have classes this afternoon!"
"Stop being such a lazy bitch, Dick," she said, waving her hand disapprovingly. "They're on the goddamned computer. They're not going anywhere!"
So that was that. As much as he disliked going to the store, walking down the street, or even going outside for that matter, he couldn't argue with grandma. The afternoon was, for the most part, warm and sunny, but if he'd glanced up at the sky, he'd have noticed dark storm clouds hurling in from the east. However, Richard's head was down, eyes cast firmly on the sidewalk. He couldn't bear to look at the passing cars for fear that the occupants would notice and glance back at him. He hated that.
Richard's shoes were brown, plain, and worn out-- ripped, scuffed, and full of holes. These were the same pair he'd been wearing for at least three years, and they were the only shoes that currently graced his closet. He always liked shoes such as these: plain, simple, old-fashioned. Ever since he was young, he always preferred this style to the more conventional sneakers, and he always kept one pair, for years, until they became virtually unwearable. Holocaust shoes, the kids dubbed them.
"Hey DICK BONER, where'd you get those shoes? The HOLOCAUST?"
"Dick has a BONER for dead Jews!"
Memories poured into his mind, and he found himself boiling with resentment. The holocaust jokes were really the least of his worries as a kid. Every morning in middle school, upon entering homeroom, the entire class would pound their fists on their desks rhythmically, chanting, "BONER! BONER! BONER!" until the teachers were able to quiet them down. For the rest of the day, he would be used as target practice for thrown pencils, crumpled papers, and spitballs. The most popular game in P.E. for his peers to play was "who can make Boner cry first?". The victor would be rewarded with high fives and back pats, while Dick shivered in the corner of the gym, gobs of snot (and sometimes blood) dribbling out of his nose.
These thoughts followed him as he walked through the parking lot, through the automatic doors, the bakery, and the frozen foods aisle. He found himself wandering aimlessly, warily avoiding the eyes of anyone passing by. His hands and forehead were sweating, and his heart seemed to be beating through his ears. Finally! The eggs; and just a bit further down, a jug of 2% milk. He didn't care about comparing prices or brands. He just wanted to get the fuck out of there.
As he approached the check-out aisle, he couldn't help but notice through the massive front windows that it had begun to rain. Not in sprinkles, but in hard, bullet-like torrents, and the sky had turned charcoal grey. He moaned, flipping his head back in exasperation. Then he saw the cashier: a young man, with yellow hair and a freckled face, whose face bore a wide grin.
"Well, look who it is," the cashier remarked, teeth gleaming. "If it isn't Dick Boner! My God, I haven't seen you in forever!"
Richard's stomach dropped. He cleared his throat and spoke hoarsely: "Can I just. Check out my items. Please."
"Of course," the cashier replied, "hey, you remember back in the day? We used to call you BONER and you used to wear those weird ratty shoes, and your grandma was like a crazy cat lady... you were funny, man, those were good times. $5.23 total."
Richard stood rigid for several seconds. Then, uncontrollably, like a rubber band snapping, his right arm launched forwards, hand clenched to a fist, and punched the yellow-haired cashier right in the mouth. The man toppled sideways on to the cash register, before staggering forwards a bit, blood streaming out of his nose and mouth on to his green employee apron.
Dick ran.
He ran out the "IN" door, into the downpour. He ran and ran, aimlessly, and wanted to keep running forever, until his lungs burst and his legs collapsed from under him. He'd die in the gutter, in the rain, like a Jew in the Holocaust. After an indeterminate length of time, the rain stopped as suddenly as someone turning a knob in the shower, and Richard found that his will to die wasn't as strong as he had previously assessed. He stopped, gasping desperately for air, for he hadn't exerted any kind of physical effort in years. Finally, he regained a bit of energy, and when he looked to see where his legs had carried him, he saw a row of vivid colors gleaming through the leaves of the poplar trees. It was a rainbow, emanating vivaciously through the drab grey-blue sky. Richard was awed by its luminescence, for its colors seemed so intense-- almost otherworldly.
The last ten minutes, as well as the present moment, felt like a dream. He didn't know why he did what he did. He didn't know why he was feeling so peculiar-- gazing at that rainbow, breathing in the fresh air. His mind felt clear, and strangely elevated. Inexplicably, he felt like smiling; and he did. He held his head high as he began walking, looking at each passenger in each vehicle straight in the eye, and he didn't mind if they were looking at his holocaust shoes.
Dick Boner was happy.
freewriting exercise #1
I have to start freewriting now because that's what the book said I should do, it'll be helpful and i'll realize things without censoring myself and hopefully my thoughts will be able to come out clearer. i don't know why i am so obsessed with writing when it seems like my writing is so bland and i doubt i'll ever get anywhere with it but i will keep trying. it's almost useless though because i can never finish anything i write. i have the whole idea for the i've got it all thing all panned out in my head but for some reason i just wrote those first few paragraphs, which were quite poorly written and now i can't seem to finish. i used to think my problem was not being able to come up with ideas but now that has changed, i have so many ideas i don't know what to do with them all but the execution isn't there. i don't know how to write what i want to say. like in the shower i thought about a girl named lilith like the jewish bible story thing which i don't know much about. and lilith would exist in this fantasy world (i was reading CS lewis so i got inspired) and she'd be a slave who would escape and wander out into the forest, eating berries to survive... and she'd see the world and it would be full of men dominant men who take advantage of her, and in turn she learns that this can be used to take advantage of THEM too... and somehow though some kind of story, set of ideas, whatever happens.. i want it to be long. she becomes the queen of the land, or the ruler of the world or something, the first female to do so, which sounds like a glorious feminist book to write, but really it's about REAL feminism, which isn't feminism at all it's what's the world... egalitarianism. and her name is lilith because she rises to the top through NOT GOOD ways, immoral ways, preddicial ways and on the surface it seems like a victory, a triumph for the female sex but it's NOT. therefore she is lilith, the first eve, but the one that was banished (i guess?) before the real eve takes her place. hence lilith stands for a false feminism, a turning over of sexism, placing men below which is what many think feminism really is, but it's not.. so lilith is the fake eve, she's not a real woman, she is false and untrue. and only until lilith can be replaced with the real eve, the real woman, can the female species celebrate. so that's what i was thinking for a novel, like a real long vast novel )if i'm capable of writing such a thing. but i don't know if it would be good or stupid, i doubt i could be dedicated to it to write it well and make it have an impact i really doubt my abilities but i want to keep working on them because i feel like i have something there, something deep within me that i want to SHOUT out to the world. but is it worth listening to? that's the question.
and i keep thinking about universities and colleges and higher education and about how it seems so important to me now... like in some ways i want to get a masters in something and i even fantasize in getting a doctorate (but inwhat?) but i highly doubt i have the intelligence or the icommitment to go so far. i believe well i don't really know what i'm trying to say. like maybe i feel like i'll die if this student loan thing with mom doesn't work out because even though i know i have a tendency to hate school and hate studying, really in my heart i love it and cherish it, and i feel like in these summer months when i have nothing to do and nothing to study i feel empty like something is missing. i hated school so much and then it ended and i miss it so bad. so i fi can't go this semester i feel like my life will lose all it's meaning even though i know i have to create the meaning for my self. i just feel like a nobody, a lazy slob a coward in life. and in some ways school feels like the only way to save myself, like a candle in the dark, and it'll lead me out of this black hole i've been in, to a sunny place high on top of a mountainand there i'll stand and make some sort of name for myself, make a difference and play a radio with happy songs and all that.
poem #1
how sweet it is to extoll your virtues through badly written poetry
and see the stars and moon not as themselves
but tainted and blurred through eyes heavy with lust
(so I write, "oh how the beauty of nature is synchronized
with the beauty of our love")
and
--written fall 2004?
I have a large stash of random poetry I've written throughout the years. I figured I'll begin by posting one per day. I actually kind of like this one. The "and" is not meant to be artsy; I was going to continue it, but I guess something distracted me and I couldn't get back into my train of thought. I like it better this way. It's short and sweet.
diesel high sulfur off road
This is where I'm going to post shit that I've written. An archive of abyssmal crap. Hooray.
