Male student: I really hate the Disney Channel, anymore.
Female student: (taken aback) What? How can you say that? I love, love it.
Male student: (deflated) It just doesn't do it for me anymore. I can't take all that pop that they added.
Female student: (perplexed) Pop? Pop, what? Pop corn?
She laughs at her joke.
Male student: (unamused) No. Pop. Flash. Stuff like 'Look at this! Love this'. Pop.
Female student: (confused) Okay, but I don't know how you can't like 'Hannah Montana'. She is great. I feel like she is my little sister sometimes.
Male student: (contemplatively) Yeah, I can watch that show. She's going to be hot.
Female student: (flirty) Jerk.
She hits him on the shoulder and he lets out a chuckle.
Male student: I just don't like the Disney Channel anymore. I wish they would show some old stuff, like 'Mickey Mouse Club', or something like that. You would like it, it had Britney Spears on it before she was Britney Spears.
Female student: (annoyed) Yeah, I know.
Male student: Or, they should show 'Kids Incorporated'. I loved that show.
Female student: What show?
Male student: 'Kids Incoporated'. (singing) K-I-DS!
Female student: I don't know it, but oh! I wish they would show 'Are You Afraid of the Dark?' again! THAT was my favorite show!
Male student: (deadpan) That was Nickelodeon.
Enter Professor.
Professor: Okay, we left off last class starting to talk about the roles that Artistotle's models for ethics and morality play in the determining the psyche of a mob's mentality.
Friday, November 30, 2007
red.ribbons.hot.chocolate.
V.
you're going to bed in your sleeveless shirts with your jeans still on, shoes even, maybe. i forget. you sleep downstairs now and once i slept on a couch above you and had to leave because what if i moaned your name in my sleep? when i was sleeping she said, "you better be doing it!" but we weren't and you said "just tell her we were and that it was so good." do you think i'm a fact checker or something?
IV.
we could take a walk or we could wait for snow and gaze upon the great green pine in our backyard from your bedroom window and watch white slowly, safely cover the colors and we could forget that there will be a tomorrow and act on every impulse because i know we both need soem sort of rejuvination.
III.
I told him "we're the weirdos of this town" and he got real excited and said, "alriiight!" it's getting to the point where i'm nervous to crack right infront of you and almost everyday, i almost do, but now there's competition and close watchings and winning overs, but i already have an enemy and i think "i don't need any more of this in my life" but if the chance arose, if i should be so graced with such ridiculous desires, i would probably jump off of some height to keep from stopping my mouth from saying "yes" or i wouldn't and i would feel the kind of regret he felt in the morning, or even one single second after. just sing with me. okay? that's all i want anymore.
II.
I think if you actually wanted to talk that we could for days without sleep but we'd have it to enjoy the comforts of this great life together. i really just need to get laid perhaps. and you're the only thing that comes to mind besides that black guy who was going to sing "superstitious" but didn't.
I.
it was windy. i was jumpy. i put the sound into your ears and you gripped me hard with those big dark fucking eyes and i knew the words that that woman was singing in your ears and your stare as you listened was full of shiny stuff.
you're going to bed in your sleeveless shirts with your jeans still on, shoes even, maybe. i forget. you sleep downstairs now and once i slept on a couch above you and had to leave because what if i moaned your name in my sleep? when i was sleeping she said, "you better be doing it!" but we weren't and you said "just tell her we were and that it was so good." do you think i'm a fact checker or something?
IV.
we could take a walk or we could wait for snow and gaze upon the great green pine in our backyard from your bedroom window and watch white slowly, safely cover the colors and we could forget that there will be a tomorrow and act on every impulse because i know we both need soem sort of rejuvination.
III.
I told him "we're the weirdos of this town" and he got real excited and said, "alriiight!" it's getting to the point where i'm nervous to crack right infront of you and almost everyday, i almost do, but now there's competition and close watchings and winning overs, but i already have an enemy and i think "i don't need any more of this in my life" but if the chance arose, if i should be so graced with such ridiculous desires, i would probably jump off of some height to keep from stopping my mouth from saying "yes" or i wouldn't and i would feel the kind of regret he felt in the morning, or even one single second after. just sing with me. okay? that's all i want anymore.
II.
I think if you actually wanted to talk that we could for days without sleep but we'd have it to enjoy the comforts of this great life together. i really just need to get laid perhaps. and you're the only thing that comes to mind besides that black guy who was going to sing "superstitious" but didn't.
I.
it was windy. i was jumpy. i put the sound into your ears and you gripped me hard with those big dark fucking eyes and i knew the words that that woman was singing in your ears and your stare as you listened was full of shiny stuff.
Charles Dickens
would it be wrong (or really really right) to produce only potboilers? in essense, it's selling out purposefully, so if that's your goal is it wrong? to have a series of substanceless work. it could be so wrong it's right. so bad it's good. could that be geniune whatsoever?
a christmas carol was written to pay off debts. i can see it. doesn't make it less good.
a christmas carol was written to pay off debts. i can see it. doesn't make it less good.
we were in this car gang. not a mean one. just a group that raced cars for money. kevin costner was like the dad of the group. he taught us all he knew. some of my friends were there too. this really big, really great guy named murph, russo, heidi from the beagle club, and some others that i'm not sure of.
so we raced these skinheads won and then they invited us back to their groups house.
they were nice enough. included us in their rituals like whipping lightly in the face. thats was nice. i remember it hurting though. all was well when all the guys from both groups decided to go to the fare that was in town. while away i and the other girls started cleaning a little. i went to throw something away when i saw a 50 dollar bill in the trash that i knew heidi was looking for. when i picked it up i noticed there was more money in a small zip lock bag and more under that. i realized it was all of our money. they didnt believe in taking it, but they did want to be rude. so they threw it away. so the girls got the money and walked to the fare. russo and murph were walking together. i came to russo with the problem and he wouldn't let me talk into his ear because he though i was going to mess with him. murph was a little leery too, but finally he came in and let me talk. i told him that the skinheads had taken our moeny and i found it all in the trash. now you have to see murph for this to be a little funny, hes this really tall built guy with the most gorgeous blue eyes i have ever seen...anyway, i tell him and he starts to tear up. saying," they took my money?" while trying to chock back the tears. he climbs into this red wood wagon, balls into the fetal position and just quietly cries hugging his knees.
we get back to the house and wait for kevin costner to get back from the fair so we can all leave. i fell asleep waiting.
when i woke up "the murph" was gone. it must have been a dream.
so we raced these skinheads won and then they invited us back to their groups house.
they were nice enough. included us in their rituals like whipping lightly in the face. thats was nice. i remember it hurting though. all was well when all the guys from both groups decided to go to the fare that was in town. while away i and the other girls started cleaning a little. i went to throw something away when i saw a 50 dollar bill in the trash that i knew heidi was looking for. when i picked it up i noticed there was more money in a small zip lock bag and more under that. i realized it was all of our money. they didnt believe in taking it, but they did want to be rude. so they threw it away. so the girls got the money and walked to the fare. russo and murph were walking together. i came to russo with the problem and he wouldn't let me talk into his ear because he though i was going to mess with him. murph was a little leery too, but finally he came in and let me talk. i told him that the skinheads had taken our moeny and i found it all in the trash. now you have to see murph for this to be a little funny, hes this really tall built guy with the most gorgeous blue eyes i have ever seen...anyway, i tell him and he starts to tear up. saying," they took my money?" while trying to chock back the tears. he climbs into this red wood wagon, balls into the fetal position and just quietly cries hugging his knees.
we get back to the house and wait for kevin costner to get back from the fair so we can all leave. i fell asleep waiting.
when i woke up "the murph" was gone. it must have been a dream.
Thursday, November 29, 2007
The Messianide Blow-Up
Ummm new track...
rough very early mix...
will sound more like the album, Siamese Dream, in the end...
The Messianide Blow-Up (Early Mix)
For the grunge record...it's the title track...
rough very early mix...
will sound more like the album, Siamese Dream, in the end...
The Messianide Blow-Up (Early Mix)
For the grunge record...it's the title track...
Headlines
Did one too many lungrips before class. Listened to my music loud and felt like I was in a movie. I always enjoyed walking scenes in movies. They seem more realistic than running scenes. I've never run anywhere to make a dramatic change in my life. The music is more mellow too. It fits the mood of real life better. The "i'm trying to figure it all out" walk is am everyday occurence. It was the longest walk ever though. I felt like I could catalgue all my thoughts. Some girl involved in extracurriculars handed me a condom by the library. I though to myself "If she only knew."
I just told some University kids who are thinking of moving to Johnstown about the Collective. "There's been a punk-scene for years, but now there's even more" I said about the town.
(I thought you'd be interested because of your age and dread-locks.)
(They're blacksmiths.)
I drove up Franklin, by the Hospitals, and saw tumbleweed blow across the road.
At least we'll all die happy. Or ironically, as we try to improve ourselves.
Like the guy who had a heartattack at 30, improved his lifestyle, and dies exercising.
(I thought you'd be interested because of your age and dread-locks.)
(They're blacksmiths.)
I drove up Franklin, by the Hospitals, and saw tumbleweed blow across the road.
At least we'll all die happy. Or ironically, as we try to improve ourselves.
Like the guy who had a heartattack at 30, improved his lifestyle, and dies exercising.
School day
Had to read an excerpt from a short story to practice for end of the semester reading. Had to use microphone in tiny room. The professor from across the hall came over in the middle of my reading and asked if "the volume could be lowered substantially."
2 new entries to the bathroom graffiti war. 1 entirely new voice.
Directly below my last entry the new voice wrote: "don't fool yourself, buddy, mommy and daddy pay for his ass to be sittin here"
A response from my original criticizer to his new enemy read: "shut up, fagget"
Number of responses criticizer has left: 2
Homosexual slurs left by criticizer: 2
Held the door for a girl who was walking unusually fast. She belched as she walked past me. She nodded in thanks, with no detectable embarrassment.
Smug fuck, glum fuck aging-hipster-professor canceled class today. It was the first class of his all semester to be canceled.
Saw an advertisement for an upcoming mock accident drill asking for volunteers to be "rescued" from the river via township firemen throwing ropes to you.
Heard computer lab technician talking to male student about the death of NFL football player Sean Taylor: "It fucking sucks, man. He was doing awesome on my fantasy team."
2 new entries to the bathroom graffiti war. 1 entirely new voice.
Directly below my last entry the new voice wrote: "don't fool yourself, buddy, mommy and daddy pay for his ass to be sittin here"
A response from my original criticizer to his new enemy read: "shut up, fagget"
Number of responses criticizer has left: 2
Homosexual slurs left by criticizer: 2
Held the door for a girl who was walking unusually fast. She belched as she walked past me. She nodded in thanks, with no detectable embarrassment.
Smug fuck, glum fuck aging-hipster-professor canceled class today. It was the first class of his all semester to be canceled.
Saw an advertisement for an upcoming mock accident drill asking for volunteers to be "rescued" from the river via township firemen throwing ropes to you.
Heard computer lab technician talking to male student about the death of NFL football player Sean Taylor: "It fucking sucks, man. He was doing awesome on my fantasy team."
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
sequins.cars.lemons.
III.
10 minutes left and i hope you're home. you won't be terribly excited to see me, but i bet you are a little bit, because you can feign an unsmile when you see me, accidentally. i do believe there's something so quiet there and unidentified, or perhaps even unfelt, but is waiting to bubble up and burst all over our fucking faces, turning our insides into suprise. this scarf smells good. just kiss me already.
II.
you say you're good at reading people and you look at me for at least a minute and i think, "really? could he really know?" i saw that you use the ones with the gold wrapper. i smiled and pulled exaggerated rumblings back inside eventhough i was more than excited to close your window; there was rain and cold coming thru. you still don't have any sheets on your bed. i have some pink ones.
I.
i'd like to see your squinty eyes in the morning, i'd let in light and with the little sight you'd have you'd see me and smile. squinty-eyed smile simply from sleepyheaded dreamer whose dreams are constellations connecting every loose piece inside his heart. sometimes i almost kiss you and when you tugged on my scarf last night did you see me crumble into a tiny pile, into tiny pieces of things you don't know about? you must have at least seen the fall. woosh.
10 minutes left and i hope you're home. you won't be terribly excited to see me, but i bet you are a little bit, because you can feign an unsmile when you see me, accidentally. i do believe there's something so quiet there and unidentified, or perhaps even unfelt, but is waiting to bubble up and burst all over our fucking faces, turning our insides into suprise. this scarf smells good. just kiss me already.
II.
you say you're good at reading people and you look at me for at least a minute and i think, "really? could he really know?" i saw that you use the ones with the gold wrapper. i smiled and pulled exaggerated rumblings back inside eventhough i was more than excited to close your window; there was rain and cold coming thru. you still don't have any sheets on your bed. i have some pink ones.
I.
i'd like to see your squinty eyes in the morning, i'd let in light and with the little sight you'd have you'd see me and smile. squinty-eyed smile simply from sleepyheaded dreamer whose dreams are constellations connecting every loose piece inside his heart. sometimes i almost kiss you and when you tugged on my scarf last night did you see me crumble into a tiny pile, into tiny pieces of things you don't know about? you must have at least seen the fall. woosh.
this is going to be a song someday
well i could walk and walk the walk
until i've finally lost my way.
or i could talk and talk the talk
until i don't mean what i say.
but there has to be a middle ground
somewhere in the streets of this town
still asleep in the valley.
it doesn't even notice me.
i have absolved the sins of the world
so many times from my front porch.
but i always forget what they were
by the time i go back indoors.
laci says that i'm too forgiving
and i must be because i'm always forgetting
to even take her advice.
i've forgiven myself for that so many times.
but amanda used to be my best friend.
now she'll probably never speak to me again
and i think i'm okay with that.
i never thought it would be like that.
it doesn't even hurt that bad.
i never thought i would be like that.
but if i am,
is that going to bring me home in one piece or in a body bag?
or will they send my coffin back wrapped in a clean, white flag?
as the suits tell the hit parade,
"leave your cameras at the door.
we don't want the kids at home
to get the wrong idea about war."
then they lay me in the middle of the ground
somewhere right outside of this town
still asleep in the valley.
it doesn't even notice me.
i guess we'll have to wait and see
just how forgiving i can really be.
until i've finally lost my way.
or i could talk and talk the talk
until i don't mean what i say.
but there has to be a middle ground
somewhere in the streets of this town
still asleep in the valley.
it doesn't even notice me.
i have absolved the sins of the world
so many times from my front porch.
but i always forget what they were
by the time i go back indoors.
laci says that i'm too forgiving
and i must be because i'm always forgetting
to even take her advice.
i've forgiven myself for that so many times.
but amanda used to be my best friend.
now she'll probably never speak to me again
and i think i'm okay with that.
i never thought it would be like that.
it doesn't even hurt that bad.
i never thought i would be like that.
but if i am,
is that going to bring me home in one piece or in a body bag?
or will they send my coffin back wrapped in a clean, white flag?
as the suits tell the hit parade,
"leave your cameras at the door.
we don't want the kids at home
to get the wrong idea about war."
then they lay me in the middle of the ground
somewhere right outside of this town
still asleep in the valley.
it doesn't even notice me.
i guess we'll have to wait and see
just how forgiving i can really be.
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
things to do...
-don't quit daycare because i figured that i will only have to place the kids for 2 days, the 27th and 28th of december. i think thats acceptable and not considered screwing people over. i have the rest of the days off that week.
-also make a wind chime for chris
-maybe knit, or crochet...thats faster, a washcloth to go with the soap.
-don't quit daycare because i figured that i will only have to place the kids for 2 days, the 27th and 28th of december. i think thats acceptable and not considered screwing people over. i have the rest of the days off that week.
-also make a wind chime for chris
-maybe knit, or crochet...thats faster, a washcloth to go with the soap.
School day
Heard a girl tell a guy about her boyfriend's trouble with achieving an erection the previous night. Of course, it was conveyed in a much cruder manner.
Kid in front of me was chewing on his pen cap and spitting tiny shards of it off his left side. Was transfixed and mortified; couldn't concentrate on the lecture of the last part of Aristotle's "Metaphysics".
Saw a sign-up sheet for a Spring Break trip to Brazil. Was interested at first. Noticed the scantily clad girls with legions of beads around their neck. Caption read: "Rio is sizzlin'!"
Kid in front of me was chewing on his pen cap and spitting tiny shards of it off his left side. Was transfixed and mortified; couldn't concentrate on the lecture of the last part of Aristotle's "Metaphysics".
Saw a sign-up sheet for a Spring Break trip to Brazil. Was interested at first. Noticed the scantily clad girls with legions of beads around their neck. Caption read: "Rio is sizzlin'!"
Headlines
I grabbed the sweatshit today. At first I thought it was a bad choice, but after reevaluating things I bet, I realized that I made the right decision for once. I continued to think about it more than I should have after that.
At lunch I listened in on a conversation two girls were having about which dorms were worth living in the next year. I didn't have the heart to tell them that they are all shitholes. Of course, at the same time, I began to become somewhat reminscent and regretful. I should have broken more rules when I was stuck living in enclosed spaces. At the very least it would have been something to write about.
I can't think of a time when I had anymore fake friends then I did my freshman year of college. It was like normal thing to subscribe to persons who offered little to no intellectual creativity. Maybe I could blame that on the enclosed space.
I would probably have meaningless one-night-stand sex with 3/4th of the girls in this class. I should have written that down on my evaluation today.
What happened to H. Donald Cabinet? I thought we understood each other.
At lunch I listened in on a conversation two girls were having about which dorms were worth living in the next year. I didn't have the heart to tell them that they are all shitholes. Of course, at the same time, I began to become somewhat reminscent and regretful. I should have broken more rules when I was stuck living in enclosed spaces. At the very least it would have been something to write about.
I can't think of a time when I had anymore fake friends then I did my freshman year of college. It was like normal thing to subscribe to persons who offered little to no intellectual creativity. Maybe I could blame that on the enclosed space.
I would probably have meaningless one-night-stand sex with 3/4th of the girls in this class. I should have written that down on my evaluation today.
What happened to H. Donald Cabinet? I thought we understood each other.
i like the fact that people i know are clicking the same "new post" button.
i think about that stuff a lot. i was on I-90 the other day and thought that it was neat that we know people that have driven on that road before. it was a really pretty drive. i saw 3 eagles...at different times. i didn't think i would ever get to see one. they had white heads... does that mean they were bald eagles? that would be really great if they were. washington is really beautiful. around spokane. i have never seen such thick pine forests. they get an insane frost too. everyday we woke up it looked like it had snowed it was so thick. i didn't have any film for my camera, but i don't think i'll forget that stuff.
December To Do List
-Quit daycare (because i told them i wasn't going anywhere for christmas. now i think we are, and i just feel like i'm dicking the parents around. either way i guess i am, but i feel like if i quit i wont end up doing it again.)
-tell the parents that my husband is cross training and we have to move...(so they don't think i'm just quitting. thats shitty. i do know that, but i can't make my self tell the truth if i think its going to make people mad at me or cause a confrontation ...color me irresponsible)
- find new daycare for kids to go to (of coarse if we're not going anywhere for christmas this is all just talk)
- make a quilt for "jesh" -make soap to give as christmas presents.
-set up and take christmas pictures. get them developed and sent out with christmas cards(give me your address and i'll send you one)
-finally make that mixed cd for________.(you wish you knew who)
-get rid of daycare stuff
-give it to carrie, or just take it back to the FCC office
-finish modules -make another wind chime(finally get back with melissa and see if she still wants some for her store in pittsburgh)
-make list of stuff to take to pa..if going -pay carrie and tony for using their phone that week. -get that $700.00 back from madison
-send all that stuff to stef -paint something for laura...if she still wants me to.
-make wind chime for katie
ps. stay motivated and please dont procrastinate.
i think about that stuff a lot. i was on I-90 the other day and thought that it was neat that we know people that have driven on that road before. it was a really pretty drive. i saw 3 eagles...at different times. i didn't think i would ever get to see one. they had white heads... does that mean they were bald eagles? that would be really great if they were. washington is really beautiful. around spokane. i have never seen such thick pine forests. they get an insane frost too. everyday we woke up it looked like it had snowed it was so thick. i didn't have any film for my camera, but i don't think i'll forget that stuff.
December To Do List
-Quit daycare (because i told them i wasn't going anywhere for christmas. now i think we are, and i just feel like i'm dicking the parents around. either way i guess i am, but i feel like if i quit i wont end up doing it again.)
-tell the parents that my husband is cross training and we have to move...(so they don't think i'm just quitting. thats shitty. i do know that, but i can't make my self tell the truth if i think its going to make people mad at me or cause a confrontation ...color me irresponsible)
- find new daycare for kids to go to (of coarse if we're not going anywhere for christmas this is all just talk)
- make a quilt for "jesh" -make soap to give as christmas presents.
-set up and take christmas pictures. get them developed and sent out with christmas cards(give me your address and i'll send you one)
-finally make that mixed cd for________.(you wish you knew who)
-get rid of daycare stuff
-give it to carrie, or just take it back to the FCC office
-finish modules -make another wind chime(finally get back with melissa and see if she still wants some for her store in pittsburgh)
-make list of stuff to take to pa..if going -pay carrie and tony for using their phone that week. -get that $700.00 back from madison
-send all that stuff to stef -paint something for laura...if she still wants me to.
-make wind chime for katie
ps. stay motivated and please dont procrastinate.
The Harvest.
At around 9:30 PM I woke up from a one hour nap. During my rest I was listening to The Bitches Brew by Miles Davis. When I woke up I was at the 9 minute mark of Miles Runs The Voodoo Down. After laying in bed for several more minutes the word "Harvest" was placed in my head. At approximately 9:44 my friend Danielle called me to tell me that her father's favorite ambient record is Ambient 1: Music for Airports by Brian Eno. We talked about my recent liking of Pop by Gas and Time Machines by Coil --
Side Note:
At 1:06 AM, November 11, 2007 I stopped playing Miles Runs The Voodoo Down and started playing the album Times Machines. I now shut off all of the lights in my bedroom. Since I am very sensitive to light I am currently adjusting the brightness and contrast on my computer monitor. I have the contrast set to 57 while the Brightness is set to 67.
I started to discuss with Danielle my recent "body" on work. Last week I completed four projects: Six Steps, Twenty Steps, John Thorell, and Quartet for Explosive, Motor, Wind, Heatbeat, and Landslide in Two Parts. The entire time I was trying to explain my creative process the word "Harvest" was digging in the back of my mind. The last topic in our short phone conversation was a brief, abstract conversation about the harvest. When Danielle and I disconnected I did one single push-up. While I was lifting my body's weight I heard yet another external voice telling me the importance and dynamic of the harvest.
I called Dan Oatman and started to explain. I started to plant seeds on January 29, 2006. My life started on July 29, 2007. The previous night was the opening of 709 Railroad Street followed by a roof top party that conceived Siamese Dream. I spent July 29-30, 2007 throwing up. I now realize that was the first day of my life. From May 8, 1985 - July 28, 2007 my entire life was in pre-production. I was busy setting up the microphones, hooking up the camera, getting all of the lights and recourses ready. I now realize in the pre-production part of my life I was planting seeds for the harvest. I started telling Dan about my recent body of work. Six Steps to Quartet for Explosive, Motor, Wind, Heatbeat, and Landslide. I expressed that I started to feel like I was realizing obvious bodies. Here is a run down since July 29, 2007:
Body #1:
Siamese Dream I
Body #2:
Various Artists - House Party, Vol. 1
Body #3:
Siamese Dream II
Body #4:
Boy - blackbrowngreenred
Dan Oatman - 10.13.07
Body #5:
Sleeping Music
Walking Music
Body #6:
Billy Mack - Panic`er
The Naughty Naughty Nurses - Pabst Smear
Siamese Dream III
Siamese Dream IIII
Body #7 -- Harvest #1:
Six Steps
Twenty Steps
John Thorell
Quartet For Explosive, Motor, Wind, Heatbeat, and Landslide.
I started to tell Dan that each "Body" was a complete creative flow. When the creative flow was complete I would shut down until another body was started. During the elapsed time between Bodies I would sleep in irregular increments while listening to ambient music and/or noise. I continued to tell Dan that I now feel Bodies was and is and incorrect word to use for the release and creative process of my current work.
I'm starting to see everything as a harvest. As everyone knows a harvest marks the end of the growing season, or the growing cycle for a particular crop. Since I was born I've been planting seeds. Since my life started I've been experiencing the release of a harvest. The seed for Siamese Dream was planted on July 28, 2007. Siamese Dream had it's first harvest on August 6, 2007. Do you follow? The seed for Siamese Dream took 9 complete days to develop into a complete harvest. Once a harvest is done I will release the harvest in the appropriate manner. People may taste that harvest. Some may or may not enjoy the taste, sound, look, visual balance of the harvest. Everything is everyone's perspective. Everyone's Anyone. Do you follow?
When the harvest is complete it's alive forever. I'm starting to realize that over the past year I've been planting seeds almost everyday. On November 24, 2007 I woke up from a three hour nap at around 1:00 AM. Upon waking up I started hearing an external voice telling myself to start putting sounds together. I worked under this external force for about three hours. When I woke up in the afternoon I was startled to hear a new-complete composition entitled "Quartet For Explosive, Motor, Wind, Heartbeat, and Landslide." Tonight I realize that I planted the seed for this project in March of 2007 when I wrote the title down in a notebook. This project, like any different kind of crop, takes a different amount of time to develop, grow, and bloom. Quartet for Explosive, Motor, Wind, Heartbeat, and Landslide took 7 months to grow. We now have a beautiful ambient harvest that is over 1 hour long. It's full of fruit and people can taste the delicious sounds.
Since November 24, 2007 I spent most of my time sleeping to 1963-1966 Bob Dylan. Blonde on Blonde, Highway 61 Revisited, and live recordings from 1966 and 1964. When I was tired of Bob Dylan I would listen to Miles Davis. When I was tired of both I would listen to ambient recordings. Starting today I got easily frustrated that I have a complete outline of over 30 conceptual ideas that need executed. Now that I understand the concept of the harvest I am at complete peace.
Last night I called my friend Ivy for no reason. I'm realize today that I planted a seed inside of her. We are going to start working on a project currently titled Tone Poems. After telling Dan Oatman about the harvest and starting work on our new project Seventy Seven, I called Ivy to tell her the exciting new and developments. We talked about the harvest for a short while then our project. I realized the seed that I planted in Ivy last night is already growing. I'm not sure when the harvest will be complete but as long as we water, feed, love, and respect our seed it will become beautiful long living fruit.
The reason I am writing this is not because of the harvest. It's because of a chemical reaction in my body based on a feeling, surrounding, idea, etc. Starting in January 2007 I started having strange chemical reactions to an idea. Late at night when I would be conceptualizing an idea when I started to realized how everything inside the piece would function in a natural and organic state it would release a chemical reaction in my body. My body's temperature would change and I would feel the sensation as though I was ready to cry. This reaction felt like a complete body orgasm that would sometimes last for several minutes.
As I presented in my opening statement "I feel like every second of the day I'm getting closer to a discovery. Right now it's 12:56 AM, November 11, 2007. Approximately five minutes ago I reached a short but substantial out of body experience due to today's overall dynamic." -- This my friends is what I am really talking about. Everything that happens to me is based on surroundings. When my chemistry changes it's changing because of an emotion that releases something very pure.
I'm starting to realize that I planted many seeds. I feel some of these seeds will take several years to develop. A few days ago I saw into the future. When I turn 55 something terrible is going to happen to my skull. I think someone is going to smash my face in with a brick. I know then when I am in my 60's and 70's I am going to have the most fruitful harvest of my entire life. The reason is some seeds develop over night. I've been calling these projects "Happenings." I feel that word is still a correct representation of the creative process. Some seeds that I'm planing right this very second won't harvest until I'm 30. Some of the seeds will harvest before the close of 2007. I think before the end of the year I'm going to experience 7-12 different harvest.
When I came to this discovery I was so excited that I wanted to communicate the idea to many people. I feel that writing this post / blog will be an appropriate documentation inside the themes and ideas expressed, and my current and forever creative process. Again, I am getting close to a beautiful discovery. Something huge will happen and all I need to do is water, feed, love, and respect the seeds I've been planting.
Brandon Locher
1:52 AM
November 27, 2007
Side Note:
At 1:06 AM, November 11, 2007 I stopped playing Miles Runs The Voodoo Down and started playing the album Times Machines. I now shut off all of the lights in my bedroom. Since I am very sensitive to light I am currently adjusting the brightness and contrast on my computer monitor. I have the contrast set to 57 while the Brightness is set to 67.
I started to discuss with Danielle my recent "body" on work. Last week I completed four projects: Six Steps, Twenty Steps, John Thorell, and Quartet for Explosive, Motor, Wind, Heatbeat, and Landslide in Two Parts. The entire time I was trying to explain my creative process the word "Harvest" was digging in the back of my mind. The last topic in our short phone conversation was a brief, abstract conversation about the harvest. When Danielle and I disconnected I did one single push-up. While I was lifting my body's weight I heard yet another external voice telling me the importance and dynamic of the harvest.
I called Dan Oatman and started to explain. I started to plant seeds on January 29, 2006. My life started on July 29, 2007. The previous night was the opening of 709 Railroad Street followed by a roof top party that conceived Siamese Dream. I spent July 29-30, 2007 throwing up. I now realize that was the first day of my life. From May 8, 1985 - July 28, 2007 my entire life was in pre-production. I was busy setting up the microphones, hooking up the camera, getting all of the lights and recourses ready. I now realize in the pre-production part of my life I was planting seeds for the harvest. I started telling Dan about my recent body of work. Six Steps to Quartet for Explosive, Motor, Wind, Heatbeat, and Landslide. I expressed that I started to feel like I was realizing obvious bodies. Here is a run down since July 29, 2007:
Body #1:
Siamese Dream I
Body #2:
Various Artists - House Party, Vol. 1
Body #3:
Siamese Dream II
Body #4:
Boy - blackbrowngreenred
Dan Oatman - 10.13.07
Body #5:
Sleeping Music
Walking Music
Body #6:
Billy Mack - Panic`er
The Naughty Naughty Nurses - Pabst Smear
Siamese Dream III
Siamese Dream IIII
Body #7 -- Harvest #1:
Six Steps
Twenty Steps
John Thorell
Quartet For Explosive, Motor, Wind, Heatbeat, and Landslide.
I started to tell Dan that each "Body" was a complete creative flow. When the creative flow was complete I would shut down until another body was started. During the elapsed time between Bodies I would sleep in irregular increments while listening to ambient music and/or noise. I continued to tell Dan that I now feel Bodies was and is and incorrect word to use for the release and creative process of my current work.
I'm starting to see everything as a harvest. As everyone knows a harvest marks the end of the growing season, or the growing cycle for a particular crop. Since I was born I've been planting seeds. Since my life started I've been experiencing the release of a harvest. The seed for Siamese Dream was planted on July 28, 2007. Siamese Dream had it's first harvest on August 6, 2007. Do you follow? The seed for Siamese Dream took 9 complete days to develop into a complete harvest. Once a harvest is done I will release the harvest in the appropriate manner. People may taste that harvest. Some may or may not enjoy the taste, sound, look, visual balance of the harvest. Everything is everyone's perspective. Everyone's Anyone. Do you follow?
When the harvest is complete it's alive forever. I'm starting to realize that over the past year I've been planting seeds almost everyday. On November 24, 2007 I woke up from a three hour nap at around 1:00 AM. Upon waking up I started hearing an external voice telling myself to start putting sounds together. I worked under this external force for about three hours. When I woke up in the afternoon I was startled to hear a new-complete composition entitled "Quartet For Explosive, Motor, Wind, Heartbeat, and Landslide." Tonight I realize that I planted the seed for this project in March of 2007 when I wrote the title down in a notebook. This project, like any different kind of crop, takes a different amount of time to develop, grow, and bloom. Quartet for Explosive, Motor, Wind, Heartbeat, and Landslide took 7 months to grow. We now have a beautiful ambient harvest that is over 1 hour long. It's full of fruit and people can taste the delicious sounds.
Since November 24, 2007 I spent most of my time sleeping to 1963-1966 Bob Dylan. Blonde on Blonde, Highway 61 Revisited, and live recordings from 1966 and 1964. When I was tired of Bob Dylan I would listen to Miles Davis. When I was tired of both I would listen to ambient recordings. Starting today I got easily frustrated that I have a complete outline of over 30 conceptual ideas that need executed. Now that I understand the concept of the harvest I am at complete peace.
Last night I called my friend Ivy for no reason. I'm realize today that I planted a seed inside of her. We are going to start working on a project currently titled Tone Poems. After telling Dan Oatman about the harvest and starting work on our new project Seventy Seven, I called Ivy to tell her the exciting new and developments. We talked about the harvest for a short while then our project. I realized the seed that I planted in Ivy last night is already growing. I'm not sure when the harvest will be complete but as long as we water, feed, love, and respect our seed it will become beautiful long living fruit.
The reason I am writing this is not because of the harvest. It's because of a chemical reaction in my body based on a feeling, surrounding, idea, etc. Starting in January 2007 I started having strange chemical reactions to an idea. Late at night when I would be conceptualizing an idea when I started to realized how everything inside the piece would function in a natural and organic state it would release a chemical reaction in my body. My body's temperature would change and I would feel the sensation as though I was ready to cry. This reaction felt like a complete body orgasm that would sometimes last for several minutes.
As I presented in my opening statement "I feel like every second of the day I'm getting closer to a discovery. Right now it's 12:56 AM, November 11, 2007. Approximately five minutes ago I reached a short but substantial out of body experience due to today's overall dynamic." -- This my friends is what I am really talking about. Everything that happens to me is based on surroundings. When my chemistry changes it's changing because of an emotion that releases something very pure.
I'm starting to realize that I planted many seeds. I feel some of these seeds will take several years to develop. A few days ago I saw into the future. When I turn 55 something terrible is going to happen to my skull. I think someone is going to smash my face in with a brick. I know then when I am in my 60's and 70's I am going to have the most fruitful harvest of my entire life. The reason is some seeds develop over night. I've been calling these projects "Happenings." I feel that word is still a correct representation of the creative process. Some seeds that I'm planing right this very second won't harvest until I'm 30. Some of the seeds will harvest before the close of 2007. I think before the end of the year I'm going to experience 7-12 different harvest.
When I came to this discovery I was so excited that I wanted to communicate the idea to many people. I feel that writing this post / blog will be an appropriate documentation inside the themes and ideas expressed, and my current and forever creative process. Again, I am getting close to a beautiful discovery. Something huge will happen and all I need to do is water, feed, love, and respect the seeds I've been planting.
Brandon Locher
1:52 AM
November 27, 2007
Monday, November 26, 2007
School day
Heard the word "broceph" used by 3 different people 4 separate times.
Smug fuck, glum fuck hipster-professor had example sentences referencing Big Star and the Velvet Underground and also obscure journalist Stephen Glass, and got upset when no one responded after he asked how many of us had see Broken Glass, the movie based on his life.
No reply on the bathroom graffiti, I don't know whether to take this as a sign of victory, or going to far.
A girl tripped over the top step in the science building and she fell down, books flying everywhere. No one stopped, including me.
The black student who got offended at the use of the word "nigger" wasn't in class today. I don't know if she has been since the incident, because it was my first time being in class since it happened.
Counted 24 students wearing replica Steelers jerseys.
Smug fuck, glum fuck hipster-professor had example sentences referencing Big Star and the Velvet Underground and also obscure journalist Stephen Glass, and got upset when no one responded after he asked how many of us had see Broken Glass, the movie based on his life.
No reply on the bathroom graffiti, I don't know whether to take this as a sign of victory, or going to far.
A girl tripped over the top step in the science building and she fell down, books flying everywhere. No one stopped, including me.
The black student who got offended at the use of the word "nigger" wasn't in class today. I don't know if she has been since the incident, because it was my first time being in class since it happened.
Counted 24 students wearing replica Steelers jerseys.
Listen up.
Listen guys, buck the fuck up. Life isn't life without conflict. We've got a renaissance to focus on.
Dating Leila Bennett Part 1
Dating Leila Bennett
It started out casual. I suppose most things do these days. You can’t just jump in like it’s the pool. Everyone has to gradually check the temperature first, and then go from there. She wasn’t that type of person, though. Leila was somehow different from all the other preconceived notions I had been dancing around the previous twenty-fives years of my life. She was like all the right elements from the middle class suburban girl-next-door types from high school, mixed with that irreconcilable edge of the city, bright lights and enclosed smoke-filled spaces, everyone breathing deeper and deeper breaths just so their heads can lightly reassure them that, yes, they are still living and this is not as simple as one would typically think. I shuddered to think what she was like in college. I suppose I could have painted a realistic enough picture.
Freshman year was pretty easy. A lot of guys with no redeemable qualities whatsoever hitting on her in a barrage of regular revolting ways. Invites to parties with cheap kegs and joints rolled from the bottom of bags, bought from brothers or cousins, best friends with connections or perfect strangers who lived across the hall. She would keep small bottles in the top part of her closet for quick fixes before classes. Her roommate hated her, for the simple fact that they weren’t in the least bit alike. She had a boyfriend back home. His name was Rick or something. Something that sounded like a boyfriend back home, having absolute perfect occasions in his working class job, and showing pictures of his bitchy one-dimensional girlfriend to sluts in bars before asking them if they were up for an adventure to his parents house, new sheets sprawled out on the bed in the basement, next to the lava lamp and old Led Zeppelin LPs. He was a sick individual and Leila only met him once, that one weekend she made sure to find another place to set up shop.
Classes were often skipped. She met those of little interest to her, all of her new college friends only offering a minor sense of fulfillment as opposed to all of those spread out across the state, or patiently biding their time back home. Girls with abusive parents and guys with all the right parts fury, left enclosed in small cardboard boxes and behind counters with registers with broken six buttons. It was a hellish region that she called home, and yet I saw how it was so much a part of her very essence. The place she needed to get away from, and yet still somewhat go back to, for an alternative view, wearing new boots, standing on snow-covered street corners, patiently waiting and looking to see if much of anything had changed. When I was with her, it was an inevitable no. Now, I’m not so sure. I find it weird that I still think about whether or not Leila’s hometown has changed. I suppose that’s just one of those subtexts that’s managed to stay with me, past the bullshit, and beyond the void of ex-girlfriend syndrome. With Leila it never quite felt like we were broken up, just inevitably waiting to get back together. I’m getting ahead of myself, though.
Sophomore year was somewhat different. She was very used to the swing of things. A Wednesday night felt like the weekend, and while there were a few jilted memories already frequenting bigger houses, nights of less than fulfilling drunken, sex on creaky bed frames, green soiled mattresses used in the sixties and continuing their job with indisputable further, always coming to mind every time she would see his brown eyes or that one’s new haircut, there was still the sense that that required liberal studies class was going to be a breeze the next morning, even with the spinning of memories from the previous night somewhat blurry and silhouetted by the darkest of circles under her eyes. It used to give me varying headaches every time I thought about her, which was all the time, even after we drifted to other more reliable staples.
This was the year she found Brock. He was good at pretending to be artsy, writing her cutesy poems on the back of homework assignment sheets, and occasionally talking about the idea of reuniting his shattered science experiment of a band, which played roughly five shows in his hometown, before deciding that they already got laid enough. There was no point in faking like they all had an artistic outlet in high school. Creativity didn’t exist then. Leila was the type of girl to write in her diary, or at least meticulously catalogue her thoughts from the past. When I was staying at her parents’ house, sleeping in her brother Dean’s bedroom, starring up at the ceiling and waiting for her soft knock on the door, I stole it from her. I was just as much in love with the high school written version of Leila, as I was the hypothetical college one. She had tons of bad experiences, similar to mine, if I were only a girl with a grocery list of insecurities. There were guys that didn’t give her the time of day, and those that did only to steal her cherished virginity and brag about it with their junky friends in the darkened purple and white stairwell. These guys were clones of Brock, all of them running off of the assembly line in linear perfection. They never had anything to say, just looks to give, and walls to lean up against.
She didn’t realize this of course, until her junior year. The summer was rough for both of them. Phone calls, and AIM conversations that neither of them wanted to participate in. He would wind up cheating on her with a girl from his high school. Her name was Sandra and she wasn’t attractive until her boobs got bigger. Some had a theory that she had gotten implants or possibly aborted ten months into the pregnancy. In any case, it wasn’t hard for Brock to fall right in with Sandra, and yet still go right back to Leila the second classes were back in. They fit together like a distorted hipster puzzle. Their hands would magnetically be drawn to one another at parties, or walking around campus, leaves falling like napalm in the background.
She never found out about Sandra. It was Elena who managed to fuck everything up for Brock, right before Thanksgiving. Leila returned home and fucked the first person who showed any sign of interest, and then the inevitable bedroom period, crying and trying to figure her life out. She had no sense of self as that semester ended. After talking to her parents, Hal and Ava, the religious nuts, they left her with a lack of options. She returned to school with no friends or direction. Classes took over, as she found other outlets. A twenty-first birthday brought with it bars and new forms of familiarity. An occasional late night here and there, blowing coke or smoking blunts with guys who she knew wouldn’t take her to the top of the world, helped her blow off all the right elements of steam. Life was a distorted figment of all of our imaginations, and Leila Bennett managed to glide on the clouds of every disappointment like hockey players on thin ice.
Senior year went by in a blur. She knitted snow hats in her lone apartment, and met a few that seemed perfect if she hadn’t already despised the human race, particularly the male facet of that race, for so long previously. A drunken lesbian experience occurred as if it was somewhere written in the bi-laws of college dating, she had to get it in sometime before graduation. Her name Susan and they were lab partners. The keg was kicked, all the beers in the fridge crushed, shots taken from less than empty bottles standing guard on the dirty white kitchen counter. They went back to her place and explored notions. That Wednesday, lab was beyond awkward. Neither knew what structures to build, what combinations of elements went together, bonded in scientific bliss. It didn’t get any better.
Then graduation. Hal and Ava were beyond proud. Dean fell asleep during the ceremony. I still couldn’t believe she actually went. It seemed strange; then again, Leila was never the type of person to avoid getting forced into anything. She would run up against thousands of brick walls with no clear and concise view of the other side. It didn’t matter, though. She could breathe underwater if she had to.
From there it became difficult to foresee where her life was going. She worked answering phones that summer, before packing her bags and heading for the city. A small filthy apartment on the lower West Side, before they decided she was a worthwhile contribution to the magazine. At that point she was twenty-four, dying her hair back to brown again. Blonde just attracted the douchebags and athletes.
The bar scene was full of minor distractions. She met a few hopefuls before deciding it was easier to be completely alone in such a cold atmosphere. Work became a life with zero hobbies. She missed out on a number of good films. Books didn’t mean much of anything to her. Music stockpiled and in vast number. She would always order between five and ten CDs every given month and see how they took. I found myself borrowing stacks from her more often than not.
I couldn’t make this girl a mix, a thought that still somehow plagues my innermost human feelings. I was never truly a fully functioning member of society with her, and yet at the same time felt less than complete when she was off doing her own thing, finding friends to fall apart with, or sitting on the sofa, meditating to whatever higher level God created this anomaly of a woman. I thought I was an atheist for the longest of times, and then it was somehow logical again. I couldn’t just blame it all on the drugs. That would have been poor judgement.
I met her on a Saturday night, on the rooftop of her building, every young and single artist looking for a variation of a perspective on how the world works, or an easy outpost to unwind from the week, throwing away time like tickets won at arcades with broken machines. My friend Quinn had invited me out of the blue on Friday. We were both at the bar, realizing that our failures with the opposite sex could be quickly drowned away in larger glasses and shots of impurities. His neighbor had invited him. They did it every week, went up to the roof and contemplated everything but suicide. People caught on quickly like it was Rocky Horror or Myspace. I could barely make out her distorted figure through the pulsing bodies full of remorse and feelings of absolute drunkenness, scattered on that roof. I had seen blurs all nights, and yet hers seemed to brighten my background. It was like a light on the tallest of hills. I was drawn to it for answers and bullshit conversation.
Quinn had already paired off like it was some sort of game. Her name was Natalie, and she was good at faking like she was an artist. I saw her photography at a cocktail party at Quinn’s apartment. It was her idea, and yet he had to host it. Already I saw the two of them meticulously falling apart. It was black and white, larger than life, and for the most part just pictures of women crying in dark corners. I called it chick art. It bothered Leila, and yet she understood. She wasn’t the biggest fan of those with cameras. She couldn’t distinguish between the two, photographer or future vanity project. Girls carried cameras like they were tickets to ecstasy.
She was done with her beer, looking for a casual way out. I was drunk and high, having smoked three bongs with Quinn prior to our search for the fire exit. It didn’t matter, though. We saw through each other, past the jilted rules and games of dating, that each had subscribed to previously. She looked at me and I became every aspect of who I thought I could be. Potential no longer floated away with grace and memories of nights spent in similar locations. I remembered everything when I was with her, every definition of Leila was somehow a term that I couldn’t forget. She had infected me, and it was only inevitable that the two of got lost in our own us-centered world.
I set my beer down and thought of possible topics, and yet conversation didn’t matter at that point. We were past it in the first five minutes, running away from familiar faces, and quickly back down the creaky stairs two floors, to her place. I could still distinctly hear “Train in Vain” as we turned off her bedroom light and searched for a place to fall apart. Talking was a barbaric ritual experienced by those who didn’t understand one another. It became like a board game. I rolled the die and saw what happened, never surprised or excited. Disappointment was a foreign extremity. We just got each other better than either of us thought we could. It became beyond addictive.
I stayed the next morning. She knew I would. It began like clockwork and ended in a dozen relapses. We should have known better. There wasn’t an escape, permanent good-byes or fond farewells, just time off. Time to think about how to remedy our distinctive problems with one another. I haven’t figured mine out yet. It’s taking long than expected.
We talked about all our bullshit that morning. Past experiences, times we walked out and later realized that staying was a better idea, or possibly ran for the hills with no sense of regret. Times we got hung up, couldn’t understand why, became innocently lost in the idea of it all. Times we just needed to forget, or run away, find answers in those that only wanted to figure out their own questions. All of it came naturally, like both understood there was no point in being that way anymore. Honesty became the best policy with us, and later could be accounted for our untimely demise. She rolled joints in record time. It always kept me awake, watching her evolve.
It started out casual. I suppose most things do these days. You can’t just jump in like it’s the pool. Everyone has to gradually check the temperature first, and then go from there. She wasn’t that type of person, though. Leila was somehow different from all the other preconceived notions I had been dancing around the previous twenty-fives years of my life. She was like all the right elements from the middle class suburban girl-next-door types from high school, mixed with that irreconcilable edge of the city, bright lights and enclosed smoke-filled spaces, everyone breathing deeper and deeper breaths just so their heads can lightly reassure them that, yes, they are still living and this is not as simple as one would typically think. I shuddered to think what she was like in college. I suppose I could have painted a realistic enough picture.
Freshman year was pretty easy. A lot of guys with no redeemable qualities whatsoever hitting on her in a barrage of regular revolting ways. Invites to parties with cheap kegs and joints rolled from the bottom of bags, bought from brothers or cousins, best friends with connections or perfect strangers who lived across the hall. She would keep small bottles in the top part of her closet for quick fixes before classes. Her roommate hated her, for the simple fact that they weren’t in the least bit alike. She had a boyfriend back home. His name was Rick or something. Something that sounded like a boyfriend back home, having absolute perfect occasions in his working class job, and showing pictures of his bitchy one-dimensional girlfriend to sluts in bars before asking them if they were up for an adventure to his parents house, new sheets sprawled out on the bed in the basement, next to the lava lamp and old Led Zeppelin LPs. He was a sick individual and Leila only met him once, that one weekend she made sure to find another place to set up shop.
Classes were often skipped. She met those of little interest to her, all of her new college friends only offering a minor sense of fulfillment as opposed to all of those spread out across the state, or patiently biding their time back home. Girls with abusive parents and guys with all the right parts fury, left enclosed in small cardboard boxes and behind counters with registers with broken six buttons. It was a hellish region that she called home, and yet I saw how it was so much a part of her very essence. The place she needed to get away from, and yet still somewhat go back to, for an alternative view, wearing new boots, standing on snow-covered street corners, patiently waiting and looking to see if much of anything had changed. When I was with her, it was an inevitable no. Now, I’m not so sure. I find it weird that I still think about whether or not Leila’s hometown has changed. I suppose that’s just one of those subtexts that’s managed to stay with me, past the bullshit, and beyond the void of ex-girlfriend syndrome. With Leila it never quite felt like we were broken up, just inevitably waiting to get back together. I’m getting ahead of myself, though.
Sophomore year was somewhat different. She was very used to the swing of things. A Wednesday night felt like the weekend, and while there were a few jilted memories already frequenting bigger houses, nights of less than fulfilling drunken, sex on creaky bed frames, green soiled mattresses used in the sixties and continuing their job with indisputable further, always coming to mind every time she would see his brown eyes or that one’s new haircut, there was still the sense that that required liberal studies class was going to be a breeze the next morning, even with the spinning of memories from the previous night somewhat blurry and silhouetted by the darkest of circles under her eyes. It used to give me varying headaches every time I thought about her, which was all the time, even after we drifted to other more reliable staples.
This was the year she found Brock. He was good at pretending to be artsy, writing her cutesy poems on the back of homework assignment sheets, and occasionally talking about the idea of reuniting his shattered science experiment of a band, which played roughly five shows in his hometown, before deciding that they already got laid enough. There was no point in faking like they all had an artistic outlet in high school. Creativity didn’t exist then. Leila was the type of girl to write in her diary, or at least meticulously catalogue her thoughts from the past. When I was staying at her parents’ house, sleeping in her brother Dean’s bedroom, starring up at the ceiling and waiting for her soft knock on the door, I stole it from her. I was just as much in love with the high school written version of Leila, as I was the hypothetical college one. She had tons of bad experiences, similar to mine, if I were only a girl with a grocery list of insecurities. There were guys that didn’t give her the time of day, and those that did only to steal her cherished virginity and brag about it with their junky friends in the darkened purple and white stairwell. These guys were clones of Brock, all of them running off of the assembly line in linear perfection. They never had anything to say, just looks to give, and walls to lean up against.
She didn’t realize this of course, until her junior year. The summer was rough for both of them. Phone calls, and AIM conversations that neither of them wanted to participate in. He would wind up cheating on her with a girl from his high school. Her name was Sandra and she wasn’t attractive until her boobs got bigger. Some had a theory that she had gotten implants or possibly aborted ten months into the pregnancy. In any case, it wasn’t hard for Brock to fall right in with Sandra, and yet still go right back to Leila the second classes were back in. They fit together like a distorted hipster puzzle. Their hands would magnetically be drawn to one another at parties, or walking around campus, leaves falling like napalm in the background.
She never found out about Sandra. It was Elena who managed to fuck everything up for Brock, right before Thanksgiving. Leila returned home and fucked the first person who showed any sign of interest, and then the inevitable bedroom period, crying and trying to figure her life out. She had no sense of self as that semester ended. After talking to her parents, Hal and Ava, the religious nuts, they left her with a lack of options. She returned to school with no friends or direction. Classes took over, as she found other outlets. A twenty-first birthday brought with it bars and new forms of familiarity. An occasional late night here and there, blowing coke or smoking blunts with guys who she knew wouldn’t take her to the top of the world, helped her blow off all the right elements of steam. Life was a distorted figment of all of our imaginations, and Leila Bennett managed to glide on the clouds of every disappointment like hockey players on thin ice.
Senior year went by in a blur. She knitted snow hats in her lone apartment, and met a few that seemed perfect if she hadn’t already despised the human race, particularly the male facet of that race, for so long previously. A drunken lesbian experience occurred as if it was somewhere written in the bi-laws of college dating, she had to get it in sometime before graduation. Her name Susan and they were lab partners. The keg was kicked, all the beers in the fridge crushed, shots taken from less than empty bottles standing guard on the dirty white kitchen counter. They went back to her place and explored notions. That Wednesday, lab was beyond awkward. Neither knew what structures to build, what combinations of elements went together, bonded in scientific bliss. It didn’t get any better.
Then graduation. Hal and Ava were beyond proud. Dean fell asleep during the ceremony. I still couldn’t believe she actually went. It seemed strange; then again, Leila was never the type of person to avoid getting forced into anything. She would run up against thousands of brick walls with no clear and concise view of the other side. It didn’t matter, though. She could breathe underwater if she had to.
From there it became difficult to foresee where her life was going. She worked answering phones that summer, before packing her bags and heading for the city. A small filthy apartment on the lower West Side, before they decided she was a worthwhile contribution to the magazine. At that point she was twenty-four, dying her hair back to brown again. Blonde just attracted the douchebags and athletes.
The bar scene was full of minor distractions. She met a few hopefuls before deciding it was easier to be completely alone in such a cold atmosphere. Work became a life with zero hobbies. She missed out on a number of good films. Books didn’t mean much of anything to her. Music stockpiled and in vast number. She would always order between five and ten CDs every given month and see how they took. I found myself borrowing stacks from her more often than not.
I couldn’t make this girl a mix, a thought that still somehow plagues my innermost human feelings. I was never truly a fully functioning member of society with her, and yet at the same time felt less than complete when she was off doing her own thing, finding friends to fall apart with, or sitting on the sofa, meditating to whatever higher level God created this anomaly of a woman. I thought I was an atheist for the longest of times, and then it was somehow logical again. I couldn’t just blame it all on the drugs. That would have been poor judgement.
I met her on a Saturday night, on the rooftop of her building, every young and single artist looking for a variation of a perspective on how the world works, or an easy outpost to unwind from the week, throwing away time like tickets won at arcades with broken machines. My friend Quinn had invited me out of the blue on Friday. We were both at the bar, realizing that our failures with the opposite sex could be quickly drowned away in larger glasses and shots of impurities. His neighbor had invited him. They did it every week, went up to the roof and contemplated everything but suicide. People caught on quickly like it was Rocky Horror or Myspace. I could barely make out her distorted figure through the pulsing bodies full of remorse and feelings of absolute drunkenness, scattered on that roof. I had seen blurs all nights, and yet hers seemed to brighten my background. It was like a light on the tallest of hills. I was drawn to it for answers and bullshit conversation.
Quinn had already paired off like it was some sort of game. Her name was Natalie, and she was good at faking like she was an artist. I saw her photography at a cocktail party at Quinn’s apartment. It was her idea, and yet he had to host it. Already I saw the two of them meticulously falling apart. It was black and white, larger than life, and for the most part just pictures of women crying in dark corners. I called it chick art. It bothered Leila, and yet she understood. She wasn’t the biggest fan of those with cameras. She couldn’t distinguish between the two, photographer or future vanity project. Girls carried cameras like they were tickets to ecstasy.
She was done with her beer, looking for a casual way out. I was drunk and high, having smoked three bongs with Quinn prior to our search for the fire exit. It didn’t matter, though. We saw through each other, past the jilted rules and games of dating, that each had subscribed to previously. She looked at me and I became every aspect of who I thought I could be. Potential no longer floated away with grace and memories of nights spent in similar locations. I remembered everything when I was with her, every definition of Leila was somehow a term that I couldn’t forget. She had infected me, and it was only inevitable that the two of got lost in our own us-centered world.
I set my beer down and thought of possible topics, and yet conversation didn’t matter at that point. We were past it in the first five minutes, running away from familiar faces, and quickly back down the creaky stairs two floors, to her place. I could still distinctly hear “Train in Vain” as we turned off her bedroom light and searched for a place to fall apart. Talking was a barbaric ritual experienced by those who didn’t understand one another. It became like a board game. I rolled the die and saw what happened, never surprised or excited. Disappointment was a foreign extremity. We just got each other better than either of us thought we could. It became beyond addictive.
I stayed the next morning. She knew I would. It began like clockwork and ended in a dozen relapses. We should have known better. There wasn’t an escape, permanent good-byes or fond farewells, just time off. Time to think about how to remedy our distinctive problems with one another. I haven’t figured mine out yet. It’s taking long than expected.
We talked about all our bullshit that morning. Past experiences, times we walked out and later realized that staying was a better idea, or possibly ran for the hills with no sense of regret. Times we got hung up, couldn’t understand why, became innocently lost in the idea of it all. Times we just needed to forget, or run away, find answers in those that only wanted to figure out their own questions. All of it came naturally, like both understood there was no point in being that way anymore. Honesty became the best policy with us, and later could be accounted for our untimely demise. She rolled joints in record time. It always kept me awake, watching her evolve.
Sunday, November 25, 2007
History 195 Assignment
I've spent the past hour meticulously looking through ads in an issue of TIME from 1954. All these mother fuckers are so goddamn smug. It's all smiles and families and progression and modern and leading and futuristic and a man's responsibility and exclusive and simplified. I want to vomit. Was life really this way? Everyone was under the impression that things were getting better, correct? They really believed that. What assholes.
I have to compare a TIME from the 50s to one from 2007. I'm focusing on ads because I can't be bothered to read actual articles. I'm pleased to report that the first five advertisments in the 2007 issue are for prescription drugs. One of them can cause "suicidal ideations." Nice. The sleeping pills do that. Apparently you'll wear yourself out trying to think of ways to kill yourself. The next few ads are about heart disease and diabetes. Oh wait fuck, they are about prescription drugs again. Here's one about a hospital. Here's one about poor people and here's one about the way we are fucking the planet and ourselves. Ovarian Cancer, Overactive bladders, Depression, Bipolar Disorder, Low Food Security, Energy Dependancy, and Mucus. "Together we can prevail." You really think?
Yeah fucking right.
I have to compare a TIME from the 50s to one from 2007. I'm focusing on ads because I can't be bothered to read actual articles. I'm pleased to report that the first five advertisments in the 2007 issue are for prescription drugs. One of them can cause "suicidal ideations." Nice. The sleeping pills do that. Apparently you'll wear yourself out trying to think of ways to kill yourself. The next few ads are about heart disease and diabetes. Oh wait fuck, they are about prescription drugs again. Here's one about a hospital. Here's one about poor people and here's one about the way we are fucking the planet and ourselves. Ovarian Cancer, Overactive bladders, Depression, Bipolar Disorder, Low Food Security, Energy Dependancy, and Mucus. "Together we can prevail." You really think?
Yeah fucking right.
Deeper and deeper.
That whole post about independence was definitely a fucking figment of my imagination. Who was I kidding? The only thing that changes is how much ground is left under my feet.
And there's not much left. What were you thinking? What the fuck? What's wrong with you? How could you?
And I'm arguing with myself again. How can I win?
It just never ends. Never.
But tomorrow, I will feel different. Same with the next day, and the next..
That whole post about independence was definitely a fucking figment of my imagination. Who was I kidding? The only thing that changes is how much ground is left under my feet.
And there's not much left. What were you thinking? What the fuck? What's wrong with you? How could you?
And I'm arguing with myself again. How can I win?
It just never ends. Never.
But tomorrow, I will feel different. Same with the next day, and the next..
blades like breezes
written 10-26-07
For one quick moment all I know is the wind that cuts my skin.
Invisible, in motion, the softest touch from deep within.
Gone with sorrow, gone with joy, stripped bare by the tender flow.
Contentment breeds an empty shell,
the only thing I long to know.
Pull my hair and sting my eyes so as to cry for open space.
Bellowing, eyes a'locked, the rosy flesh adorns my face.
Tension from transparent hands that wrap my body tight,
A flesh cocoon, the rapture felt in giving up the fight.
Holding close my skin, the wind's howling and dark tones.
The hatching of a butterfly and deep howling of my own.
Blinded by the evening glare and rumbles shake the ground,
The animal inside, the bursting rapture I have found.
Bolts of light and blades of wind that kiss my lips,
the tension as my flesh befriends a love that whoops and whips.
My wings ablaze, the flight I take that frees me from this sight,
Blades now breezes, soft and gentle, I illuminate the night.
Bolts of light and blades of wind that kiss my lips,
the tension as my flesh befriends a love that bares a whip.
My wings ablaze, the flight I take that frees me from ground's sight,
Blades now breezes, soft and gentle, I illuminate the night.
For one quick moment all I know is the wind that cuts my skin.
Invisible, in motion, the softest touch from deep within.
Gone with sorrow, gone with joy, stripped bare by the tender flow.
Contentment breeds an empty shell,
the only thing I long to know.
Pull my hair and sting my eyes so as to cry for open space.
Bellowing, eyes a'locked, the rosy flesh adorns my face.
Tension from transparent hands that wrap my body tight,
A flesh cocoon, the rapture felt in giving up the fight.
Holding close my skin, the wind's howling and dark tones.
The hatching of a butterfly and deep howling of my own.
Blinded by the evening glare and rumbles shake the ground,
The animal inside, the bursting rapture I have found.
Bolts of light and blades of wind that kiss my lips,
the tension as my flesh befriends a love that whoops and whips.
My wings ablaze, the flight I take that frees me from this sight,
Blades now breezes, soft and gentle, I illuminate the night.
Bolts of light and blades of wind that kiss my lips,
the tension as my flesh befriends a love that bares a whip.
My wings ablaze, the flight I take that frees me from ground's sight,
Blades now breezes, soft and gentle, I illuminate the night.
Saturday, November 24, 2007
Dear M.J., Thanks for the Help
I once wrote you a letter,
“I like the way you play. This is for class. I’m in fifth grade.”
You replied with a thoughtful invitation
To join your basketball camp. With, perhaps,
A few ads for sneakers.
You were concerned. I was never good at basketball.
Or baseball, or football, or soccer, though
I played a mean badminton in 7th grade.
I later learned from meat-heads,
Cheerleaders, and The Breakfast Club that
Nerds help you write papers, not members of
Any sports team.
This is a half-assed explanation
For my unwritten fifth grade paper.
But, Brian Johnson won’t write anymore.
When Space Jam came out –
Damn, that was bad – I didn’t buy.
It was better than Kazam…
Should we even talk about Kazam?
No. I’ll leave it to Wikipedia as of November, 24, 2007:
The film received overwhemingly negative reviews
From almost every critic.
It currently holds a 0% on Rotten Tomatoes.
Rest assured,
I didn’t buy it like I once bought your shoes.
I got my ass kicked in a mall
For wearing that pair of Air Jordan’s.
Later, I played my guidance counselor
With free Pirate’s game tickets in exchange
For writing me out of gym for two years.
I graduated; so, I’m assuming he bought it.
Enough about the past. We haven’t
Talked in a while; so, I’ll fill you in:
I am still relatively poor. Tonight,
In my apartment, I am wrapped in a gray
Nike sweat shirt; it’s six years old,
Once black, but faded,
The right sleeve is burnt.
My friend still has a ball
With your handprint, but
Tonight, I am thinking about
Smaller hands, two or three
To fill yours and still
Short of palming,
Feeling the garments they
Will never own.
It’s a joke, do you get it?
These clothes own us.
I almost look like everyone else.
If you look close though, and
You’ll have to with the hood up,
You’ll see it there. That ending;
The worn out socks
The small heels lifting and falling,
While walking that
Relatively uncomfortable stretch home.
Sincerely,
Me.
“I like the way you play. This is for class. I’m in fifth grade.”
You replied with a thoughtful invitation
To join your basketball camp. With, perhaps,
A few ads for sneakers.
You were concerned. I was never good at basketball.
Or baseball, or football, or soccer, though
I played a mean badminton in 7th grade.
I later learned from meat-heads,
Cheerleaders, and The Breakfast Club that
Nerds help you write papers, not members of
Any sports team.
This is a half-assed explanation
For my unwritten fifth grade paper.
But, Brian Johnson won’t write anymore.
When Space Jam came out –
Damn, that was bad – I didn’t buy.
It was better than Kazam…
Should we even talk about Kazam?
No. I’ll leave it to Wikipedia as of November, 24, 2007:
The film received overwhemingly negative reviews
From almost every critic.
It currently holds a 0% on Rotten Tomatoes.
Rest assured,
I didn’t buy it like I once bought your shoes.
I got my ass kicked in a mall
For wearing that pair of Air Jordan’s.
Later, I played my guidance counselor
With free Pirate’s game tickets in exchange
For writing me out of gym for two years.
I graduated; so, I’m assuming he bought it.
Enough about the past. We haven’t
Talked in a while; so, I’ll fill you in:
I am still relatively poor. Tonight,
In my apartment, I am wrapped in a gray
Nike sweat shirt; it’s six years old,
Once black, but faded,
The right sleeve is burnt.
My friend still has a ball
With your handprint, but
Tonight, I am thinking about
Smaller hands, two or three
To fill yours and still
Short of palming,
Feeling the garments they
Will never own.
It’s a joke, do you get it?
These clothes own us.
I almost look like everyone else.
If you look close though, and
You’ll have to with the hood up,
You’ll see it there. That ending;
The worn out socks
The small heels lifting and falling,
While walking that
Relatively uncomfortable stretch home.
Sincerely,
Me.
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
I was feeling very anxious at work all day, begging the stupid arms on the clock to turn a little faster and stop this pussy-footin' around bullshit.
I slurped up the last drops of my coca cola like a vacuum on amphetamines and left the office, shutting the door, playing obsessive compulsive and making sure it was locked twice...i left the building, murdered elvis, and hit the glamorous little button on my keychain to unlock the car that my parents gave me cuz i'm a spoiled brat.
anyway, i found a parking place on my block, and walked through the door of my cheap, garbage scented apartment...my wife had set up an elementary rube goldberg machine.
when i opened the door, the tv set came smashing down on my head.
i preferred this to another episode of FRIENDS.
I slurped up the last drops of my coca cola like a vacuum on amphetamines and left the office, shutting the door, playing obsessive compulsive and making sure it was locked twice...i left the building, murdered elvis, and hit the glamorous little button on my keychain to unlock the car that my parents gave me cuz i'm a spoiled brat.
anyway, i found a parking place on my block, and walked through the door of my cheap, garbage scented apartment...my wife had set up an elementary rube goldberg machine.
when i opened the door, the tv set came smashing down on my head.
i preferred this to another episode of FRIENDS.
To Do List
This is a to do list. Things I'd like to do. This is about ideas, right? Not just finished projects. So ideas, yes, my ideas
-I was thinking about making clothing and jewerly. Heather Feather Designs. How adoreable is that name!? This summer I was all about making feather hair clips like the one the chick in "Fast Times at Ridgemont High" wears. My hair wasn't long enough to wear one before, but it might be now. Anyways, I guess I want to make a lot of jewerly using feathers. I think they are so pretty. Plus, that really fits the name. Annnnd I really want to make shirts with molecular structures on them. I really hate organic chemistry but I really like the way they look. I think I'd really like to turn that big ugly courdoroy shirt that makes me look like a butch into a dress of some sort. I don't know if I'm girly enough to make all these things.
-A My Idea of Fun Food Book. I want to hear about food traditions, party food, food made when people had no money, date meals, cooking failures, comfort foods, family recipes, and generally anything about food. Not REALLY a cookbook, but sort of one. I want it to be more personal... I mean, we ARE what we eat. Food says sooooo much about who we are. I really hope Kelly writes all about the 12 foods her family makes on Christmas. It's some Polish Tradition. I really hope someone sends me a recipe for pot brownies, too. Ben said he'd write about his former Cheezit obsession. That's fucking perfect! I think I'll write about Byzantine Catholic Easter baskets and some culinary school mishaps. Other stuff too. I'll have to contact Rose about her gobs. Apparently they are legendary and they would fit in SOOO well! Hopefully she doesn't keep the recipe secret. I also hope that I don't get flooded with vegan recipes. That isn't what this is about. Hopefully people include lots of pictures, and not just of food. Hopefully dudes will contribute just as much as the girls will. I need to put more thought into this.
-I want to document the 6 years my parents were married without children. They took a lot of fucking brillant pictures. I'm not sure if document is the right word.
-Bedroom pictures. I want my closest friends to get all the shit that matters to them in their bedrooms, pictures of family/friends/cats, awards, trickets, lamps... just anything that says something about them. I guess they would be called portraits. Then, sometime down the line, say maybe 5, 10, 15, I want to track them down and take the same type of picture and see how it's changed. I'd contact them all at different years, though. That's gonna be quite the long term project.
-Shelving Unit. Our kitchen is really depressing and disorganized. I'm gonna try to change that. Kelly wants to help. I wonder if we'll be any good at this.
-Lounge songs written by Dane, performed by me. I'll have to ask him again if he wants to do that. If so, I'll have to ask him to remember that my voice is lower than his.
-I was thinking about making clothing and jewerly. Heather Feather Designs. How adoreable is that name!? This summer I was all about making feather hair clips like the one the chick in "Fast Times at Ridgemont High" wears. My hair wasn't long enough to wear one before, but it might be now. Anyways, I guess I want to make a lot of jewerly using feathers. I think they are so pretty. Plus, that really fits the name. Annnnd I really want to make shirts with molecular structures on them. I really hate organic chemistry but I really like the way they look. I think I'd really like to turn that big ugly courdoroy shirt that makes me look like a butch into a dress of some sort. I don't know if I'm girly enough to make all these things.
-A My Idea of Fun Food Book. I want to hear about food traditions, party food, food made when people had no money, date meals, cooking failures, comfort foods, family recipes, and generally anything about food. Not REALLY a cookbook, but sort of one. I want it to be more personal... I mean, we ARE what we eat. Food says sooooo much about who we are. I really hope Kelly writes all about the 12 foods her family makes on Christmas. It's some Polish Tradition. I really hope someone sends me a recipe for pot brownies, too. Ben said he'd write about his former Cheezit obsession. That's fucking perfect! I think I'll write about Byzantine Catholic Easter baskets and some culinary school mishaps. Other stuff too. I'll have to contact Rose about her gobs. Apparently they are legendary and they would fit in SOOO well! Hopefully she doesn't keep the recipe secret. I also hope that I don't get flooded with vegan recipes. That isn't what this is about. Hopefully people include lots of pictures, and not just of food. Hopefully dudes will contribute just as much as the girls will. I need to put more thought into this.
-I want to document the 6 years my parents were married without children. They took a lot of fucking brillant pictures. I'm not sure if document is the right word.
-Bedroom pictures. I want my closest friends to get all the shit that matters to them in their bedrooms, pictures of family/friends/cats, awards, trickets, lamps... just anything that says something about them. I guess they would be called portraits. Then, sometime down the line, say maybe 5, 10, 15, I want to track them down and take the same type of picture and see how it's changed. I'd contact them all at different years, though. That's gonna be quite the long term project.
-Shelving Unit. Our kitchen is really depressing and disorganized. I'm gonna try to change that. Kelly wants to help. I wonder if we'll be any good at this.
-Lounge songs written by Dane, performed by me. I'll have to ask him again if he wants to do that. If so, I'll have to ask him to remember that my voice is lower than his.
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
Becoming Modern Parts 7 & 8
She sat down at the table; both Ernie and myself surprised in different definitions of the word. He felt her radiance instantly. It transferred much better in person rather than on the page. I could never create a perfect parallel for Ramona James. She was always far too complicated of an individual. If an alien abduction acquired Ramona as their test subject, they would have to reconsider all previous research on the race itself. She was an exception of shear dynamic magnitude; a thought that never quite managed to work its way out of the cerebral cortex, despite all the endorphins released, and temporary flashbacks to times designated for those who were attempting to forget. I was always excruciatingly bad at such a process.
“Well, I know you’re thinking about how much of a surprise this is right now, right?” She said the perfect thing right off the bat, cutting through the bullshit with pure precision. I felt lost in an abyss that was far too familiar. I was searching for inspiration from all those who were less than charitable, and then all of a sudden, I was twenty-two, standing in smoke-filled rooms, watching refutable subjects fall apart in passing. Scared little girls crying in corner over guys who said they loved them. Guys on phones telling their friends to come over. Our eyes meeting like there was a war in the background. I wanted to run away again, and to simply forget about the concept of tomorrow.
“Yeah. I’d say that’s it Ramona.”
“Well, I was expecting to see you either.”
“Yeah, this is troubling, huh?”
“You could say that.” Ernie stared blankly at the two of us, talking and living off of our once doomed relationship. He was confused and would never completely understand. Even after running through all the grammatical errors and missing words, Ernie couldn’t see in the finished product what I saw once again in Ramona that night, and what I would continue to see, even if it was simply a mere blast of utter remembrance. I had never completely fallen out of love with her, just faked it like a true-seasoned pro with later conquests, and then saw things differently with Lorna. I didn’t think about missing her, or what she was doing. Serving tables and stuffing singles into her apron. I was a bastard of honest caliber.
“Uh… I’m sorry. This is Ernie, my agent. Ernie this is Ramona. A… An old friend.”
“Nice to meet you Ramona.”
“You too Ernie.”
“But uh… Ya know, I think I saw somebody I know by the pinball machine, so I’m gonna let the two of you catch up, and I’ll take a look at this, and we’ll talk in a bit Jude.”
“Yeah, alright.” For once in the long and troublesome period of time that I knew Ernie, he understood. He walked off to the other end of the bar, and began to start from the beginning, rereading the new chapters, and occasionally looking up to see if I was in the right frame of mind. We ordered shots and mixtures to which I wouldn’t completely remember the next morning. I began to crawl back into myself and see the family sloppy mess of an individual, being social with somebody who I almost vowed to never speak to again.
She laughed at my jokes like we never met. I caught up quickly. Arthur had fallen through months after my retreat, a testament to which she had to see for herself. It wasn’t enough for Ramona to simply listen to my warnings. I was no soothsayer of perceived discourses, but rather just the person who knew all of them too well. My friends didn’t come with me. They talked to Ramona in the same way when she was with Arthur. Given, I had run for the hills, my trunk full of sentimentalities, but in any case, it didn’t seem right. None of it was right. Even though, she had lived her life in a way that I hadn’t thought about, it still seemed like I was doing heroine or once again lounging in the lights of former loves.
I could see the younger Jude standing drunk and alone on a snowy street corner in the city reiterating softly to himself that it wasn’t worth it. She wasn’t worth it. We were over. A betrayal of Judas-like proportions. I wasn’t even close to being a figure like Christ. I couldn’t bring myself to be a martyr. It would hurt too much.
All inclinations were resurfacing. I went to the bathroom and thought about opening the window and hopping out. A few passer-bys would stare, but other than that I could live with myself. My reflection always managed to look exactly the same. I had grown older and my sense of self had diminished with parades of fuck yous from younger more fully functioning atrocities. I hated them all and for reasons to which I could never completely justify to myself. Oscar was far too social to be my son. There were mix-ups. Hospital faults. I wasn’t meant to be there with both of them. I should have ran back to her, and sent checks in the mail. Arthur was meant to fall through. Why hadn’t I thought of it like that? Why was I so much happier when I avoided the inevitable thoughts of the future? It didn’t seem like me. I didn’t know me anymore, though.
She re-ordered us drinks. I saw them on the table as I walked out of the bathroom. Ernie stopped me two steps, smelling like cheap perfume and vodka. He looked happy for once; more levelheaded in the sense that one could easily see how shitty he was when he was drunk. Not as if he hid it better when he was sober so much as missed footsteps and incessant leaning seemed to suit the figurehead of Ernie better.
“So uh… I met this girl over there. Tammy is her name, I think, I’m going home with her.”
“Alright that’s fine.”
“So are you going to be able to handle yourself? I mean, get back on track with the novel and everything?”
“I think I’ll be able to figure it out Ernie.”
“Okay, cool. Well, have a good night tiger.”
“Thanks. You too.” I heard them laughing like alley cats as I sat back down at our table. I didn’t want to drink anymore. Too much had sunk in for me that night. The perfect picture of what could have been was now only slightly disoriented. She told me things I didn’t want to hear about. The brief history of Ramona was a mess with zero breaks in-between. After Arthur there was a slew of losers with various occupations. Then the marriage. A friend of her cousin’s. They met on the Fourth of July and proceeded to make bad decisions together after that. She moved to a different city with him, before he cheated on her and she considered abortion. It was too late, though. Annie was already one.
They moved back in with her parents as she attempted to figure her life out. A college degree sat silently in a desk drawer for awhile as she worked in all the wrong places, before getting a call back from an agency, miles away from my current staple. Annie and her moved there that summer, and were attempting to become somewhat settled, just the two of them, a mess of indecisiveness. I felt shades of pity, portions of remorse, and above all else regrettable sympathy. I didn’t want that for her. She almost looked happy walking into the bar the night, as if she had it all figured out. I could have helped. I would have been there through all of it. It hurt to think about regrets that were only surfacing that night.
I wanted some aspects of my life to just be simple. I wished for it to be worse. However dull it was, I still had some things to fall back on. I wanted to be cut loose and yet knew that I would be no different from any of the others if that happened. I didn’t want to be Arthur anymore. I was perfectly okay with just Jude. He did the right thing, and I hated him for it, but it was what had managed to happen. Ideals from different foreshadowed figures all coming together to make decisions so much easier. I was Jesus and Buddha, my father and my mother’s son. I was drunk and lifeless. She would understand. I couldn’t be him anymore. It didn’t fit.
“So do you wanna come back to my place after this beer?”
“What?”
“Annie’s at some party. She met some guy and they’re there, but uh… Do you wanna come over to my place?”
“I’m married. I have a son, a mortgage, a shitty job, and the worst of dispositions Ramona. Why would you wanna sleep with me now?”
“I didn’t say we were gonna sleep with each other. I was just being friendly. Inviting you over for further conversation.”
“I told myself that I was done talking to you a long time ago.”
“I thought things change.”
“They do, and uh… I hope everything works out for you. There are tons of others who are down and out right now. You just gotta look around for them.”
“You told yourself you would do this if we ever ran into each other again, didn’t you? No matter what we talk about, how each of us feel, you wouldn’t fall right back in, would you?”
“You’re dead on again Ramona.”
“You always hated that about me.”
“Yeah, I know.” I paid and walked out of the bar. I can still see the image of her sitting alone at that table, like it was burned into my very soul. I was always the worst at walking away. In fact, it had never occurred to me to do so up until that point. It’s even stranger to think about now. I was crazy and still wishing to be twenty years younger. Nothing was improving other than my spite for all those previous incidents. They were somehow magically a part of who I was, and that was the last of them. I attended Arthur’s funeral on a Sunday. His brother called me out of the blue to fill me in. Ramona wasn’t there. Our lives had moved on at that point.
I drove home with little direction. I was dreading thoughts of the next morning, impending hangovers and half-finished sentences with little to no grounds for improvement. I saw two cop cars pulling over some teenager. It felt good to just drive by unnoticed for once. It brought me back to the way things were. I barely recognized him as I passed. I didn’t want to turn around, but knew I was going to have to. It was somewhere in the bi-laws. Even a drunken reminiscent mess of a father has some kind of responsibility.
“Hi Gina.”
“Oh, hey Oscar. I’m glad you could make it.”
“Yeah, me too. This is kind of crazy, huh?”
“Yeah, you could definitely say that. Where’s Harris?”
“He’s off somewhere with Elisha.”
“Elisha Whitman?”
“Uh yeah, that’s the one.”
“Are those two dating or something?”
“I don’t know really. They’re just kind of fooling around I think.”
“Oh, well… She’s a pretty big slut.”
“Is she? I wouldn’t really know.”
“Craig’s cousin said she jumps around a lot.”
“How would he know?”
“Both him and Craig were guys she jumped around to.”
“Whatever. I’m not gonna really worry about it.”
“Yeah, I guess you shouldn’t. It’s just that your friend might get hurt.”
“Getting hurt’s an inevitable part of life Gina.”
“Yeah, I suppose you’re right.” She passively paused, browsing the living room for further exploits. It was a mess of aspects displaying the human condition as a mere target on a dartboard; something that could be easily forgotten with enough alcohol and self-loathing. I would learn to break away from similar events and displays of partial affection later in life, but at that point, I was basking in the glory of petty and available escapism. I wasn’t the person who enjoyed parties. Later I would go for the sake of causing scenes, but at that very moment, I felt as if I was enjoying it, even if it was brief and superficially drawn out.
“So I think I’m gonna go talk to the guys over there. If I don’t see you later, have a good night Oscar.”
“Yeah, alright…” She walked away as if there was some sort of quota she needed to fill. I couldn’t provide any kind of interesting outlet for future endeavors, and while aspect of my former self felt as if my appearance at that particular social outing was a mere stepping stone in the latter developments which would inevitably occur between Gina and myself, the small vague whispers of a conscience which I had been regularly ignoring for the past few hours or so, began to reiterate all the known fact as if it were a monkey banging cymbals together.
This was how it was going to be for some time. We couldn’t simply transfer over to other sides, and while I saw sparks of firecrackers going off in the background of my head, she simply saw me as somebody who was a regular customer in her deadweight job. I began to slowly fall out of love with Gina Gearhart that night, a constant descending chain that is still violently fleeting to this day. I was a drunken fish out of water and alcohol.
I stood in line for about ten minutes before the football player four people ahead of me walked away from the kicked keg. I looked for Rosa only to find her tonguing with Malcolm Breyer by the basement door. Every person was pairing off like it was somehow a part of their disillusioned destiny. I tried calling Harris only to get his voicemail. I felt lousy, intoxicated and above all else utterly alone. It wasn’t even that late. Almost eleven during the summer felt like six in the winter. I walked out the front door, past some smokers and back onto the disheveled sidewalk.
I was becoming too good at recognizing disappointments moments before they happened. It was a trait that would stay with me through the thick lies and pleasant facades from girls with varying perspectives of the world and guys who only wanted to sound interesting for long enough to sleep with them. I could see through all the bullshit, and yet it only turned me into a less than likeable person. I would meet those who seemed as if they shared a similar life’s philosophy, only to have it quickly shatter in similar recognizable moments, myself stationed in the most admirable of corners in rented living rooms.
I would fall in love occasionally only to later have it flesh out into a mere infatuation. I would run away from stagnant plans of shallowness, only to later regret it while lying on the cold mattress alone, full of nothing but sequential answers to all the primordial questions. I would become uniquely alone, and later long for the days full of less than nothing to do. Lorna and Jude would have the basement redone my sophomore year, and I would eventually fall into place in first a city and later another hole. My sons would hate me, and my daughter would date every kind of wrong imaginable. I didn’t understand it too much then. It just felt like the inevitable sinking that goes along with youth.
My father picked me up on the side of the road, looking beyond drunk and somewhat regretful. It was a side that I wasn’t in the least bit familiar with. He was all of a sudden human again that night, as I rolled down the window to allow both of us the room to breathe out loud. His breaths were deeper, took longer, and seemed more fully realized. He was in another place all together.
“So should I ask?”
“No, don’t. It sucked. I don’t wanna talk about it.”
“Well, okay.”
“What about you?”
“Let’s just say I have a lot to write about again.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“So Ernie’s not staying at our house tonight, is he?”
“I don’t think so. He met somebody at the bar. She looked like a regular, but it’s not like that matters to him. He comes into town to go to different bars and sleep with all the regulars.”
“Well that’s kind of fucked up.”
“Not much isn’t nowadays.”
“Yeah, I suppose you’re right dad.” We both silently listened to the radio after that. He stayed up in the office for awhile as I could hear the faintest sound of the keyboard in-between songs. Lorna came home late and the house became silent. His second book managed to go somewhere. I have yet to read it. There were so many others projects to work on. I couldn’t find the time to breathe let alone try and attempt to see things the way my father did. His protagonists always started out so unlikable. I hated the fact that I could relate to them so well at the start of things. Harris filled me in on the rest of the night the following morning. Our tradition of thoughtless suburban rambunctious tribulations continued the rest of that summer. Time slowed down to a crawl as we listened to some of the same songs on repeat. They always managed to sum things up better than the both of us ever could.
The End
“Well, I know you’re thinking about how much of a surprise this is right now, right?” She said the perfect thing right off the bat, cutting through the bullshit with pure precision. I felt lost in an abyss that was far too familiar. I was searching for inspiration from all those who were less than charitable, and then all of a sudden, I was twenty-two, standing in smoke-filled rooms, watching refutable subjects fall apart in passing. Scared little girls crying in corner over guys who said they loved them. Guys on phones telling their friends to come over. Our eyes meeting like there was a war in the background. I wanted to run away again, and to simply forget about the concept of tomorrow.
“Yeah. I’d say that’s it Ramona.”
“Well, I was expecting to see you either.”
“Yeah, this is troubling, huh?”
“You could say that.” Ernie stared blankly at the two of us, talking and living off of our once doomed relationship. He was confused and would never completely understand. Even after running through all the grammatical errors and missing words, Ernie couldn’t see in the finished product what I saw once again in Ramona that night, and what I would continue to see, even if it was simply a mere blast of utter remembrance. I had never completely fallen out of love with her, just faked it like a true-seasoned pro with later conquests, and then saw things differently with Lorna. I didn’t think about missing her, or what she was doing. Serving tables and stuffing singles into her apron. I was a bastard of honest caliber.
“Uh… I’m sorry. This is Ernie, my agent. Ernie this is Ramona. A… An old friend.”
“Nice to meet you Ramona.”
“You too Ernie.”
“But uh… Ya know, I think I saw somebody I know by the pinball machine, so I’m gonna let the two of you catch up, and I’ll take a look at this, and we’ll talk in a bit Jude.”
“Yeah, alright.” For once in the long and troublesome period of time that I knew Ernie, he understood. He walked off to the other end of the bar, and began to start from the beginning, rereading the new chapters, and occasionally looking up to see if I was in the right frame of mind. We ordered shots and mixtures to which I wouldn’t completely remember the next morning. I began to crawl back into myself and see the family sloppy mess of an individual, being social with somebody who I almost vowed to never speak to again.
She laughed at my jokes like we never met. I caught up quickly. Arthur had fallen through months after my retreat, a testament to which she had to see for herself. It wasn’t enough for Ramona to simply listen to my warnings. I was no soothsayer of perceived discourses, but rather just the person who knew all of them too well. My friends didn’t come with me. They talked to Ramona in the same way when she was with Arthur. Given, I had run for the hills, my trunk full of sentimentalities, but in any case, it didn’t seem right. None of it was right. Even though, she had lived her life in a way that I hadn’t thought about, it still seemed like I was doing heroine or once again lounging in the lights of former loves.
I could see the younger Jude standing drunk and alone on a snowy street corner in the city reiterating softly to himself that it wasn’t worth it. She wasn’t worth it. We were over. A betrayal of Judas-like proportions. I wasn’t even close to being a figure like Christ. I couldn’t bring myself to be a martyr. It would hurt too much.
All inclinations were resurfacing. I went to the bathroom and thought about opening the window and hopping out. A few passer-bys would stare, but other than that I could live with myself. My reflection always managed to look exactly the same. I had grown older and my sense of self had diminished with parades of fuck yous from younger more fully functioning atrocities. I hated them all and for reasons to which I could never completely justify to myself. Oscar was far too social to be my son. There were mix-ups. Hospital faults. I wasn’t meant to be there with both of them. I should have ran back to her, and sent checks in the mail. Arthur was meant to fall through. Why hadn’t I thought of it like that? Why was I so much happier when I avoided the inevitable thoughts of the future? It didn’t seem like me. I didn’t know me anymore, though.
She re-ordered us drinks. I saw them on the table as I walked out of the bathroom. Ernie stopped me two steps, smelling like cheap perfume and vodka. He looked happy for once; more levelheaded in the sense that one could easily see how shitty he was when he was drunk. Not as if he hid it better when he was sober so much as missed footsteps and incessant leaning seemed to suit the figurehead of Ernie better.
“So uh… I met this girl over there. Tammy is her name, I think, I’m going home with her.”
“Alright that’s fine.”
“So are you going to be able to handle yourself? I mean, get back on track with the novel and everything?”
“I think I’ll be able to figure it out Ernie.”
“Okay, cool. Well, have a good night tiger.”
“Thanks. You too.” I heard them laughing like alley cats as I sat back down at our table. I didn’t want to drink anymore. Too much had sunk in for me that night. The perfect picture of what could have been was now only slightly disoriented. She told me things I didn’t want to hear about. The brief history of Ramona was a mess with zero breaks in-between. After Arthur there was a slew of losers with various occupations. Then the marriage. A friend of her cousin’s. They met on the Fourth of July and proceeded to make bad decisions together after that. She moved to a different city with him, before he cheated on her and she considered abortion. It was too late, though. Annie was already one.
They moved back in with her parents as she attempted to figure her life out. A college degree sat silently in a desk drawer for awhile as she worked in all the wrong places, before getting a call back from an agency, miles away from my current staple. Annie and her moved there that summer, and were attempting to become somewhat settled, just the two of them, a mess of indecisiveness. I felt shades of pity, portions of remorse, and above all else regrettable sympathy. I didn’t want that for her. She almost looked happy walking into the bar the night, as if she had it all figured out. I could have helped. I would have been there through all of it. It hurt to think about regrets that were only surfacing that night.
I wanted some aspects of my life to just be simple. I wished for it to be worse. However dull it was, I still had some things to fall back on. I wanted to be cut loose and yet knew that I would be no different from any of the others if that happened. I didn’t want to be Arthur anymore. I was perfectly okay with just Jude. He did the right thing, and I hated him for it, but it was what had managed to happen. Ideals from different foreshadowed figures all coming together to make decisions so much easier. I was Jesus and Buddha, my father and my mother’s son. I was drunk and lifeless. She would understand. I couldn’t be him anymore. It didn’t fit.
“So do you wanna come back to my place after this beer?”
“What?”
“Annie’s at some party. She met some guy and they’re there, but uh… Do you wanna come over to my place?”
“I’m married. I have a son, a mortgage, a shitty job, and the worst of dispositions Ramona. Why would you wanna sleep with me now?”
“I didn’t say we were gonna sleep with each other. I was just being friendly. Inviting you over for further conversation.”
“I told myself that I was done talking to you a long time ago.”
“I thought things change.”
“They do, and uh… I hope everything works out for you. There are tons of others who are down and out right now. You just gotta look around for them.”
“You told yourself you would do this if we ever ran into each other again, didn’t you? No matter what we talk about, how each of us feel, you wouldn’t fall right back in, would you?”
“You’re dead on again Ramona.”
“You always hated that about me.”
“Yeah, I know.” I paid and walked out of the bar. I can still see the image of her sitting alone at that table, like it was burned into my very soul. I was always the worst at walking away. In fact, it had never occurred to me to do so up until that point. It’s even stranger to think about now. I was crazy and still wishing to be twenty years younger. Nothing was improving other than my spite for all those previous incidents. They were somehow magically a part of who I was, and that was the last of them. I attended Arthur’s funeral on a Sunday. His brother called me out of the blue to fill me in. Ramona wasn’t there. Our lives had moved on at that point.
I drove home with little direction. I was dreading thoughts of the next morning, impending hangovers and half-finished sentences with little to no grounds for improvement. I saw two cop cars pulling over some teenager. It felt good to just drive by unnoticed for once. It brought me back to the way things were. I barely recognized him as I passed. I didn’t want to turn around, but knew I was going to have to. It was somewhere in the bi-laws. Even a drunken reminiscent mess of a father has some kind of responsibility.
“Hi Gina.”
“Oh, hey Oscar. I’m glad you could make it.”
“Yeah, me too. This is kind of crazy, huh?”
“Yeah, you could definitely say that. Where’s Harris?”
“He’s off somewhere with Elisha.”
“Elisha Whitman?”
“Uh yeah, that’s the one.”
“Are those two dating or something?”
“I don’t know really. They’re just kind of fooling around I think.”
“Oh, well… She’s a pretty big slut.”
“Is she? I wouldn’t really know.”
“Craig’s cousin said she jumps around a lot.”
“How would he know?”
“Both him and Craig were guys she jumped around to.”
“Whatever. I’m not gonna really worry about it.”
“Yeah, I guess you shouldn’t. It’s just that your friend might get hurt.”
“Getting hurt’s an inevitable part of life Gina.”
“Yeah, I suppose you’re right.” She passively paused, browsing the living room for further exploits. It was a mess of aspects displaying the human condition as a mere target on a dartboard; something that could be easily forgotten with enough alcohol and self-loathing. I would learn to break away from similar events and displays of partial affection later in life, but at that point, I was basking in the glory of petty and available escapism. I wasn’t the person who enjoyed parties. Later I would go for the sake of causing scenes, but at that very moment, I felt as if I was enjoying it, even if it was brief and superficially drawn out.
“So I think I’m gonna go talk to the guys over there. If I don’t see you later, have a good night Oscar.”
“Yeah, alright…” She walked away as if there was some sort of quota she needed to fill. I couldn’t provide any kind of interesting outlet for future endeavors, and while aspect of my former self felt as if my appearance at that particular social outing was a mere stepping stone in the latter developments which would inevitably occur between Gina and myself, the small vague whispers of a conscience which I had been regularly ignoring for the past few hours or so, began to reiterate all the known fact as if it were a monkey banging cymbals together.
This was how it was going to be for some time. We couldn’t simply transfer over to other sides, and while I saw sparks of firecrackers going off in the background of my head, she simply saw me as somebody who was a regular customer in her deadweight job. I began to slowly fall out of love with Gina Gearhart that night, a constant descending chain that is still violently fleeting to this day. I was a drunken fish out of water and alcohol.
I stood in line for about ten minutes before the football player four people ahead of me walked away from the kicked keg. I looked for Rosa only to find her tonguing with Malcolm Breyer by the basement door. Every person was pairing off like it was somehow a part of their disillusioned destiny. I tried calling Harris only to get his voicemail. I felt lousy, intoxicated and above all else utterly alone. It wasn’t even that late. Almost eleven during the summer felt like six in the winter. I walked out the front door, past some smokers and back onto the disheveled sidewalk.
I was becoming too good at recognizing disappointments moments before they happened. It was a trait that would stay with me through the thick lies and pleasant facades from girls with varying perspectives of the world and guys who only wanted to sound interesting for long enough to sleep with them. I could see through all the bullshit, and yet it only turned me into a less than likeable person. I would meet those who seemed as if they shared a similar life’s philosophy, only to have it quickly shatter in similar recognizable moments, myself stationed in the most admirable of corners in rented living rooms.
I would fall in love occasionally only to later have it flesh out into a mere infatuation. I would run away from stagnant plans of shallowness, only to later regret it while lying on the cold mattress alone, full of nothing but sequential answers to all the primordial questions. I would become uniquely alone, and later long for the days full of less than nothing to do. Lorna and Jude would have the basement redone my sophomore year, and I would eventually fall into place in first a city and later another hole. My sons would hate me, and my daughter would date every kind of wrong imaginable. I didn’t understand it too much then. It just felt like the inevitable sinking that goes along with youth.
My father picked me up on the side of the road, looking beyond drunk and somewhat regretful. It was a side that I wasn’t in the least bit familiar with. He was all of a sudden human again that night, as I rolled down the window to allow both of us the room to breathe out loud. His breaths were deeper, took longer, and seemed more fully realized. He was in another place all together.
“So should I ask?”
“No, don’t. It sucked. I don’t wanna talk about it.”
“Well, okay.”
“What about you?”
“Let’s just say I have a lot to write about again.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“So Ernie’s not staying at our house tonight, is he?”
“I don’t think so. He met somebody at the bar. She looked like a regular, but it’s not like that matters to him. He comes into town to go to different bars and sleep with all the regulars.”
“Well that’s kind of fucked up.”
“Not much isn’t nowadays.”
“Yeah, I suppose you’re right dad.” We both silently listened to the radio after that. He stayed up in the office for awhile as I could hear the faintest sound of the keyboard in-between songs. Lorna came home late and the house became silent. His second book managed to go somewhere. I have yet to read it. There were so many others projects to work on. I couldn’t find the time to breathe let alone try and attempt to see things the way my father did. His protagonists always started out so unlikable. I hated the fact that I could relate to them so well at the start of things. Harris filled me in on the rest of the night the following morning. Our tradition of thoughtless suburban rambunctious tribulations continued the rest of that summer. Time slowed down to a crawl as we listened to some of the same songs on repeat. They always managed to sum things up better than the both of us ever could.
The End
Can I swing $80 though?
If I save $80 a week for the next 15 weeks I will have 1,200...I will leave for a month, March probably, and go to Chicago, Ohio, and somewhere else. Rent will be less and when I get back I will pay off my debt...or maybe I will do that before. It'll be good to be by myself.
ugliness.
i force myself over and over to
pry this thing apart from you,
but i know that
i have been manipulated in a way
that makes me scream without the sound,
so fucking hard and so fucking quiet,
and so much fucking harder because i scream
so quietly,
forcing any feeling to run faster than
the loudest beatings of that
stupid
fucking
thing
inside my chest.
there is a place,
a raging confined space inside,
made for the weakness it takes to hate,
and an aching void, begging anything outside
of it to step right in,
but nothing crosses the threshold,
because nothing is strong enough.
the nothing is biggest and truest
and my being longs to feel nothing,
to give nothing, to take nothing,
to not be moved by the hiding beauty
any longer because what does
movement mean when we are alone?
i force myself over and over to
pry this thing apart from you,
but i know that
i have been manipulated in a way
that makes me scream without the sound,
so fucking hard and so fucking quiet,
and so much fucking harder because i scream
so quietly,
forcing any feeling to run faster than
the loudest beatings of that
stupid
fucking
thing
inside my chest.
there is a place,
a raging confined space inside,
made for the weakness it takes to hate,
and an aching void, begging anything outside
of it to step right in,
but nothing crosses the threshold,
because nothing is strong enough.
the nothing is biggest and truest
and my being longs to feel nothing,
to give nothing, to take nothing,
to not be moved by the hiding beauty
any longer because what does
movement mean when we are alone?
Monday, November 19, 2007
Thanks for letting me follow you when we climbed through Arthur Russell. My knees got so dusty and dirty, and I think my lungs did, too. You heard me coughing. It blended in with the record, and so I let my hands blend in with the loose boards. They blended into me and the result was all splinters. With all that dust and dirt, blending and splintering, I think I'd like to get inside Arthur Russell again real soon.
wearethesea5: i'm the most productive when i'm depressed which is strange but welcoming
brandonlocher: well yeah --
brandonlocher: i don't know if i'm depressed.
brandonlocher: i don't talk to anyone really. i don't want to be around friends. i'll do things. like i re-arranged my room. put together 10 albums in my head. then i take a nap. i'll sleep for 3 hours in this in between sleep / awake state. right? then i wake up with new ideas. like someone is making me do stuff.
brandonlocher: i just woke up & knew how to make my room.
brandonlocher: and it's brilliant.
brandonlocher: it's like a post-modern masterpiece.
brandonlocher: i'm serious.
brandonlocher: i might take pictures.
brandonlocher: but now i'm sleepy again.
brandonlocher: so i'll bullshit online for a little bit.
brandonlocher: then i'll fall asleep.
brandonlocher: but still be awake.
brandonlocher: and think about the craziest things ever.
brandonlocher: but never remember them.
brandonlocher: sometimes i have flash backs.
brandonlocher: and it all makes sense.
brandonlocher: like i'm doing this photography piece.
brandonlocher: & it's going to be a photography.
brandonlocher: i might do it tonight? i need to find a way down to 709 with this massive wooden mirror frame. i mean, i don't feel like calling someone. but it's done. i'm a step closer. it's like i'm not even inside my body anymore.
brandonlocher: right?
brandonlocher: it's like this is all ready done.
wearethesea5: :-)
brandonlocher: well yeah --
brandonlocher: i don't know if i'm depressed.
brandonlocher: i don't talk to anyone really. i don't want to be around friends. i'll do things. like i re-arranged my room. put together 10 albums in my head. then i take a nap. i'll sleep for 3 hours in this in between sleep / awake state. right? then i wake up with new ideas. like someone is making me do stuff.
brandonlocher: i just woke up & knew how to make my room.
brandonlocher: and it's brilliant.
brandonlocher: it's like a post-modern masterpiece.
brandonlocher: i'm serious.
brandonlocher: i might take pictures.
brandonlocher: but now i'm sleepy again.
brandonlocher: so i'll bullshit online for a little bit.
brandonlocher: then i'll fall asleep.
brandonlocher: but still be awake.
brandonlocher: and think about the craziest things ever.
brandonlocher: but never remember them.
brandonlocher: sometimes i have flash backs.
brandonlocher: and it all makes sense.
brandonlocher: like i'm doing this photography piece.
brandonlocher: & it's going to be a photography.
brandonlocher: i might do it tonight? i need to find a way down to 709 with this massive wooden mirror frame. i mean, i don't feel like calling someone. but it's done. i'm a step closer. it's like i'm not even inside my body anymore.
brandonlocher: right?
brandonlocher: it's like this is all ready done.
wearethesea5: :-)
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