2. All the words

All the words

I owned all their albums
I knew all the words
When their songs came on the radio
I sang along so loud.

We went to their shows, and
we screamed all the words.
I told you they were my favorite band, ever.
I never really liked them.
I just wanted you to think I did.

1. The taste of whiskey

The taste of whiskey

The taste of whiskey in my mouth reminds me of
the taste of whiskey on your lips which reminds me of
those so many nights of-- did we drink that much then-- did we
really do all that?

Are those memories of the taste of whiskey mine,
or did I make them up drinking whiskey some night?

Painting the wall

I'm looking at the painted sample color on the wall of the nursery. The nursery! The paint sample! But it looks good. Very good.

About Posting Journals, Part 2

Without being ironic, I can say that what's interesting about my journals--at least to me-- is that my "angst" or general continuous existential "issues" (crisis seems to imply a singularity which I just never had) became increasingly focused. As I solved my biggest problem, loneliness, it was replaced immediately by the sense of not having accomplished what I should [have]. And often times I still feel that way. Perhaps the daughter due in a few months will change that, too.

Oh yeah, and my parents read them at some point. What they must have thought!

About Posting Journals

I had the opportunity to read the blog of a friend, and reading her cryptic descriptions of her life reminded me so much of how valuable it was to express myself in a public place without being so public. We all share the same angst, it's just different forms. But I decided to find my old works and put them up on display. At this point, it doesn't really matter. They used to be a way for me to:
* Track who exactly was interested in my life (regular readers of my proto-blog included a now-unsurprising list headed by my wife)
* Collect my thoughts
* Be utterly incoherent and yet weave it all back together somehow
* Remind me that I wasn't the only one

I expect they can still be used for this.

My Journal, Part 6 (2002)

Having squandered much of my life on these accursed machines,
I'm left without mem'ries: I have only dreams.
(Too many days of video games and black-and-white friends)

"Cruising though a big city in a convertible on a hot summer night."

I spent my time wanting to be something I wasn't,
I try to make my mind follow and it doesn't.
(Long have I wanted to be that guy, I just can't)

"Spinning and spinning in a hazy subconscious euphoria to the
thumping bass."

Too much wasted [o]pining,
Way too much refining.
(I have cried too much and as a result tried too much)

"Those halcyon afternoons of cool swimming pools and warm sunsets."

What have I done?
Little have I won.
(I have seen a lot, sure, but to show for it?)

"Thinking about girls, the way they smile and smell and walk and talk."

Whither do I wither?
And why the hell dither?

"The way music sounds. That perfect song. The feeling in your stomach
and heart, and you know it's just right."

Crying from happiness,
Crying from sadness.
There's no dying from happiness,
Only dying from sadness.

Explosions and delusions of rapture aren't that different, are they?
They must be.

"The pure thrill of chase."

It's time to find that fun again: it's almost springtime for me.
And then there's summer!
Another chance for "almost." Is that my middle name?
"Action must be taken."
Isn't it about time that I did something about it?
Yes, yes it is, but what to do?

My Journal, Part 5 (2000)

9/28

It's been a while since I've needed this release.
All for good reason: college is finished, I'm back from Europe.
No time for much but work, which, while totally fun, has caused me
to bottle up
a little bit of this stuff.
I'm moving tomorrow, an injustice perpetrated by my neighbor, whom perhaps
I shan't love as myself, but see if there has been retribution.
Minutiae, though; that's what that is. The bigger picture is clouded by
the details.
Cliche: Luncheon on the Grass from an inch away. Thanks, Ferris, for that
one.

The sky here is beautiful, a pure blue that doesn't exist in Baltimore or
New York.
And the sun is brighter,
or maybe I just notice it more.
I don't know whether to laugh or to cry sometimes, and I don't know which
is the right way to express the right emotion--
laugh at my mistakes/
cry in happiness. Is there a difference in my oxymoronic expression?
But I konw a lot more now than I did just a few months ago.
Texas:
Who would've thought?

My confidantes I don't see much any more--
we try but it's hard--
and so I need new ones.
We all need that.
Ideas like the loudest raindrops fall.
As do we all.
But when you're up, you make it meaningful:
I want to draw out those times, but do I?
It's so hard for me to tell!
About most things.
But I'd like to think that you think I can, and that I do.
I promise that I have a good idea.
can I tell?

And I think of my favorite bedtime story:
the story of me, ah, the self-indulgent
Drama.
You know, I made it all up, and I still do.

Full speed ahead.
Whatever that means.

Boys and girls,
Watch.
It's going to be a fun ride.
Between the Stars and a Cricle, isn't that right?

I need someone here to listen to
Who's Gonna Ride Your Wild Horses?

---
10/19

The same inspration amassed
with a blast from my strange past
makes me wonder if I've relapsed.
I should've been fast,
should've asked if I might have
passed her last test first,
but what's worse is what I
could've done.

The radio station plays the music
of my life. My soundtrack, cliche like me.

More questions:
Why aren't I living it up?
Am I? Is this all I can do?
I remember there being something else;
Or this time do I mean someone else?
Was I this incomplete before?
Did I have the gaping hole I never realized?
Why didn't I realize?
Waiting for it to materialize.
I'll be waiting a long time.

My Journal in Europe

Part 1. On a train from Prague to Berlin
The American rock gives the train ride through what used to be East Germany a certain surreal quality; it is so out of place that it almost makes senese in this medieval land. A train from a modern Babylon, Prague, to one of the symbols of my lifetime, the reunified Berlin. A strange harmony here, in all these things; the great importance of understanding. It eludes me with people all too often, but I think I am starting to get it with cultures. The magnificent shock of arriving in a city and no even knowing the alphabet, saying nothing of the language. It is legendary, the modern rite of European passage, the required pilgrimage for a century. And, ah, the people. Not as different as they ought to be, it seems; most still friendly despite, well, whatever they may have to spite. We left a rambunctious city almost 1000 years old; a millenium. The sense of antiquity is pervasive, almost impossible to understand for me given my life. The link ot the past all-too-often discredited by me is explicit and ubiquitous. And then it's off to the other modern Babylon, Amsterdam, the American idol for debauchery. Whz don�t we do this in our own country? Oh, zeah, we do, but it doesn't have the inherent grandeur and overwhelming specialness that comes from the magic of being away from home. Sometimes I think it's all about being away from home, but it's not. Home, too, is good. It's all about experience, be it physical or meta-. And this land of thousand-year-old cities-cities with water for streets, and cities with places you've only dreamed about-is the ultimate, or is it developer of that oh-so-important next experience?
Part 2. Shrink-wrapped cliches for my wallet

List:
. The awesome responsibility of making thins better
. Ensuring that the future is better than the past by indulging in the
present or by mortgaging the present in a sacrificial rite
. Making sure everyone else can do the same

Therefore:
If I could only live up to these seemingly simple tasks! She thinks I
can, and if I can't, what then?

Do you ever get so overwhelmed bz existence or experience or just being
that you don't know what you could possibly do? Do you want to do
anything about it? Do you?
Do you think you're so, like, alone in the world that you find someone
that agrees with you, negating your cliched fears? Who?
Do you ever just want to indulge your senses as much as possible in as
many ways as you can find?
Do you ever think that people are amazing? Each one does their own
thing, and yet there is love?
Do you ever think of hate? Then of love? Then of the sheer
worthlessness of hate? What did it ever get you? Or anyone?
Can you let yourselfgo, imagning everything, everywhere, everyone?
Can you think about your own life on its own terms and make those terms
yours?
Can you see through the transparent and do you struggle to decipher the
opaque? Would you try? Harder?
Do you just want to know? About the human experience, about life, love,
happiness, and people? Can you imagine?! Will you try? More?
Can you life your life to the fullest, LIVING as much as possible? Do
you? Why not?
Can you grab your life and hold it in your hand and tell IT what to do?
Can you understand everything all together?
Can you imagine the implications of you?
Do you dream? Of good things and bad? Of the past and future? Of you
as yourself or as a part of something incredible? Of all that you can do?
Of all that you have done and that you will do? Of the 'unbearable'
desire for more? More life?
Do you laugh so much it doesn't hurt?
Do you want to be happy, and do you want it for everyone else?
Are you HERE to work or to play? To exist or to live? To get by or to
try? To ignore or to stare? To sleep or to dream? To hate or to love?
To be...?
What are you afrait of? What are you so afraid of? What made you fear
taking chances? Why can't you? What are you so afraid of? Are you
scared of failing? Of succeeding? Of the realization of your own
mortality? Of your own morality? Or instead do you fear the unknown?
Don't you know? What are you so afraid of?
Live.


Part 3. An Ode to, or perhaps against, the Lost Years

There are those lost years.
Those lost years you spent
doing things that now you
wish you hadn't done, but
there are also
those lost years you spent
not doing things that now you
wish you had done.

And then it comes about that
all these things that you could've
done
are set in front of you,
there they are!
You want to reach out and grab them.
But you can't,
you don't even know how!
And if you did, what would you do
with them!
Sights you never thought you'd see,
Thoughts you never thought you'd have,
And yet there they are: look!

But you don't have the courage
to ask to try. To try, ah,
to TRY.
You've mastered the easy parts of
life --
now what?!
To try, to know, to experience.
You want to try.
But you don't have the courage
to ask to try.

You start to get that courage,
but you know these opportunities
aren't available forever.
You have to leap blindly at them.
But you're too cautious for that,
ah, Prometheus, if only you were your
brother!
Everyone else is like him,
dealing with repercussions AFTER the
event
instead of before.

Ah, everyone else.
Thanks, Mssr. Sartre,
hell is other people, isn't it?
But you've learned already that
it isn't.
So how do you reconcile it?
Two choices, do or don't.

You think that you could,
and even maybe that you would,
but your problem is whether you should!

You look out upon all that is
available, easy to get, that
forbidden fruit you've never tasted.
And now that you can smell it,
your senses are overwhelmed.
Reaction?
None.
And therein lies the difficulty.

My Journal, Part 4 (2000)

I thought that since I hadn't really thought in a while that I should. I
think I released enough before to make up for the rest of my life;
unfortunately, I still have more. Reflecting on the end of an era:
college is over, the die is cast.

I've found it that speaks for me or to me or even through me.
No, not that I'm
the mouthpiece,
the fountainhead,
the poster boy,
the quintessence (or the Fifth Element).
I s'pose I tried to be, and
it's likely that
I'll keep on trying.
Mincing words, losing my turn,
watching things burn.
There are some things you don't have to explain.
But most you do.
There's always those; explain them to me, would you?
Or whatever she said? could you?
And she'll understand: should you!
The intermixed strands of words that I was talking about.
Or maybe they're something else, that helix of reality,
or whatever stupid metaphor I try to use next, with
[my good friend yet arch-nemesis] Super Ficiality
(always, wannabe).
These past few years have been just that: few
& as much as I want them to be over
& as much as I want to get out "there"
& as much as I can't wait...
I can.
That I would've been a little smarter,
or just gone a little farther,
or maybe tried a little harder,
but it probably wouldn't have worked out anyway.

She understands, in her own way, as we all do, but
you know she has to have those little subtleties,
those itty-bitty nuances, those, well, you know, but
they're there, and as she says, they're so hers.

Oh, but it's been a ton of fun, and that's what important:
Constrained hedonism.

Drunk in New York (1999)

Drunk in New York

She's drunk in New York,
He might as well be.
I never understood her,
He just couldn't tell me.

He was deceived, confused
She was unpleased but amused.

For once, it's not me,
I don't know what to make of it,
So easily understanding
people.
You don't, can't, won't.
As he so quickly learned,
(Having been recently spurned)
"Jilted", wilted.

Is that acid in your heart,
Eating you from the inside?
I want to say,
"I think it's just in your mind"
but what do I know of it?
I'd like to think we've all been through it.
She probably hasn't and won't,
but he has, most of us.

An enigmatic turn for the worse,
He's still suffering from his curse
that he bestowed upon himself.
She doesn't even think the same way he does!
Or blink.
You've seen her, she doesn't even know it.
Where does she live again?
I can see your house from here.

My curse, too, rears its ugly tail,
or else why would this be here?

I'd say "look at me,
It's easy!
Don't you see?"
He'd say "look at me,
I'm torn,
set me free."
But that's only if he asked for help.
I wouldn't, I can't ask for directions.
Especially in that place.
It'd be,
"Here, look at me, I'm open,
exposed to the elements, just like a
sandblaster, you know a grand master of
illusion
fooled me."
And I don't want to say that,
so he certainly can't.

Or maybe that's just a dream,
finally, here, there's a difference.

Finally:
I'm not superior, just further along.
Someone already saw to mislead me, and
someone else put me back on track, maybe
a little ahead of the rest of the pack.
You have to get out of the pack.
They're blind, from what I've seen.
You know what you should do, we always
Do.
Ms. Erik R, you know you're the best.
And you're neither inebriated nor in the Big Apple.
That's -her- job.

She's drunk in New York.
He isn't, and couldn't be.

- 23-May-1999

Something, A Story of a Girl, No One in Particular (1999)

Something. A story of a girl, no one in particular, maybe several people, or maybe just my idea of a girl.

She started talking about something, but I can't remember what it was. I'm sure it wasn't important, though, but I should've listened more intently. I was thinking about something else, maybe what I did the night before, maybe what I ate for breakfast, maybe regretting something from years ago. It didn't matter, I watched her lips move, not paying attention to the shapes they made. We should've gone for coffee, that would've made it more cliche. She lives a cliche, I only try to.

I started listening when she mentioned something about money. I guess it takes a lot to get my attention. When I realized it wasn't leading to anything interesting, just her usual bills, I continued my choreographed sporadic stream of "uh-huh"'s and head nods. I returned to thinking about vanilla or something like that, maybe something I had seen some years ago.

We got up and went somewhere, I'm sure it wasn't important, maybe a bar, maybe her apartment, maybe mine. It was usual, so I can't remember exactly. I watched her walking. She walked funny, I can't help but notice, the awkward way she moved her legs like she was trying to imitate whomever was in front of her, or maybe someone from a TV show sometime. Even when she walked up steps, she did it. I can't explain it, but I watched her. I like to watch people, especially her. People act so predictably most of the time, like they were in a movie or something. Maybe a play, completely un-surreal. I like to guess what she'll do next, it's tougher with an individual.

She isn't explicit, but it's obvious she's tired of me for the moment. I've again exhausted my usefulness as a word sponge, my head nods and "uh-huh"'s have served their noble purpose. I watch her walk into her apartment building, and then I begin my walk home, thinking about her. Not really "her", but maybe a more generic "her". This particular she was what I thought I wanted, something in the way she lives. I don't have to hear and remember every word she says to know what she's talking about, she's always talking about something, and I usually can't remember. She had nice shoes. I always notice that about a person, their shoes. I walk with my head down because I'm lazy, probably, and so I don't trip over anything. I like to look at shoes, they really do describe a person. I'm afraid to characterize solely on the basis of footwear, but I can't help it (everyone seems to have a point from which they generalize). I see something about the person in their shoes. Her shoes are great. That didn't surprise me, I'd heard about her before I met her and imagined she'd have those kind of shoes. Or something similar. I was right.

And then I get home, and I'm still thinking about her shoes, or maybe the way her hair and eyes seemed so perfect together. I wasn't thinking about what she said this time, I'm past that. I'd like to think I'm beyond dwelling on every word about something that went wrong today. I listen to her when she's serious, I do, but I can't help but lose a little interest when I hear the same kind of thing again. She said something before about me, discussed me myself, but that was a week or two ago. Since then I haven't been thinking about her that much, just when I can't think of anything else. It's something to do. I have to have something to do. I think about calling her, but that would be terribly awkward. I can't help but be terribly awkward, anyway. She doesn't think so, though, I don't know why. Something seemed to make it easier to talk to her, and as much as I wish I knew what it was, I can't even come close to figuring out what it is. I look out the window over the bright city lights, trying my best to live my cliche. Success, I think. She talked to me so long tonight, and the way she looked at me. It meant something to me, and so does she, but haven't I felt that way before? Somehow I figure it out. I'll think of something.

My Journal, Part 3 1999)

10: Revitalization, for some reason, with the irony that it's Thanksgiving [11/25/1999]

I'm back to being very excited about the future. Having transitioned from a more melancholy attitude, I can't help but be happy about it. She's worried, but that's silly: doesn't she understand that if it's strong enough, it will survive? Maybe, or maybe she doesn't think it's strong enough-- maybe I don't know enough to say definitively, but it looks good from here. And there's some progress towards my twin quests, her with a him, him with a her. Not that that's the necessary outcome; people don't have to work in pairs, except in clase de espanol. Many people are quite fine all alone...or so they'd have you believe before they tear your heard out and stomp on it, when you see that they're not fine all alone, either. At least everyone's human, which is pretty reassuring. Flawed people are good people, and they're really real, too. I'm happy with them. While a recent theft from my car whittles down my Maslovian faith in human decency, I'm still on the positive side. I have to be.
Thanks for giving me a good time, everyone. Well, those of you who've contributed. Which are a few. And thanks for giving me some sense of satisfaction, whatever that means. Desperate no longer. Thanks for giving me a hope for the future; despite my past experiences, I still believe in it. Well, I guess it's worked out alright. I do alright. Now if only I can teach somebody else the same thing. They don't have to believe me, but how can't they? The virtue of my own opinions. How wonderful they are! and they're all correct.
Set the world on fire. What's the point if you don't? Goals? That's my goal. Staying elated. I think that's a good goal, obviously, and a noble one at that. Gone are the days of teenage angst, replaced with some kind of newfound optimism, but for a nearer future than usual. I just hope that our impending disasters, on the first of January, aren't too bad. I don't want a paradigm shift in my daily life, at least not like that one. Maslow enters the soliloquy again, but on the plus side of things. As bored as I am, I'm still happy. Funny, I think. Just two years ago, my soul was vacant. What'd I do? I hope it was all good. Well, most of it, at least. I just like things. I really do. It's a lot easier this way, and a whole lot less stressful. Maybe you're right. It's too difficult to actively dislike things. But you would never say that, would you? Ah, well, she understands...as always. You got to find someone like that. Good luck, I mean it. 9: What's this?

What's this about quiet desperation? I thought mine has been pretty vocal. She never lets me down, but why is she the only one? What have I done to get into this? She's the only one, really, it seems. And I don't even have to mean it that way. That way remains to be seen. But everyone else?
Desperate. Can I? Should I? Would I? Maybe, probably not, no. A scale of negatives from somewhat to very...the "no" rainbow. But in general, I'd hardly say that you could make a rainbow from "no"'s. I'm not a rainbow, and sometimes I think I'm made out of "no"'s.
And then there's the ride back up the rollercoaster, brought on by whatever it was this time. Remberances of times past? No, that rarely works. More, hopes for the future, that's what I always buy into. For me, the past isn't for emotional sale. Remember that I can borrow from the future. I'm the only awake one in the apartment as I have a drink. That's not allowed; I've decided, yet I continue. Allowance. Both ways of the word.
And I don't even need to go on about her. And warmth, as she's contented by little. Fortunately for me, that is, because that's what I have to offer in many senses. Maybe something. Probably, there must be something good in me, or maybe I'm a good actor. And if I were a good actor, then that'd be good enough. But I doubt it. I just have to remember when to stay quiet. No, start being quiet.
8: Reflections on Four Nines

I think this day, 9/9/99, is supposed to be significant. Some crazy things are supposed to happen today. I hope they don't; I'm pretty happy with the stability of the world in general. Not the stability of tyrrany, but maintaining my hopes, dreams, and chance of success. She's better now, and so we are. I'm still surprised from her psychological success. I don't want to attribute any of it to myself, but maybe she did some of it for me, too. Wow, that's pretty flattering. She always flatters me; her very mindset continuously does so. And I don't do that much for her, what did I do to get this? I need to take better notes. And when you look around, you'll see me. And I'm with her.

7: A Different Era (July 19)

I haven't written in this little file in months. I've done a lot since then, you know, I can't really describe it all. Just more of the same, taken in just a little different light. Maybe a brighter beam.

6: Restored, Etc.

So now I have a job that is the epitome of "the game," but do I want to get into that? She's better, we're better. I'm lonely, but not sad. It's funny, isn't it! And she's so nice to me.

5: A Plunge

And then I jumped off that cliff. I still haven't decided if I'm right to fall, nose dive into the pavement or maybe an abyss that I've already visited. Probably neither, hopefully the world is round. I've lived the past year with her, and I don't want to stop. Distance forces it, but do I have to let that affect me psychologically the same way? She says she's OK-- how's that? I'm not. I live lonely but for her, for the most part. I'm sure I'll never find her equal. There really can't be such a person. Somber, you know I can't help it. Unfair, to both of us. I don't think I can do this. Maybe I don't need her, but, oh, do I want her. I just hope my gamble doesn't leave me in a heap on that aforementioned pavement. As much as I want to fall right back into her arms. "I'll only be gone for a month or two [now three?]" Is that right? What am I thinking? Though I can't ask her to wait for me, the same way she couldn't ask me to wait for her. It's a bit different. Do I really have to do this?

4:
I'm home, well, the place where I live in the off-season. There's not too much off-season anymore, I guess, and this is almost the last of it. After this summer, it's off to the real world, none of this school stuff. I look around and remember where I got all this stuff, books, music, papers, everything. Who was I with? Who was obsessed with? One of the few traceable patterns in my life is that one of obsession, and maybe my last experience with it tainted it for me, yet I can still love. I know what I did wrong, I think, and I think I know how to do it right.

One of my regrets in life would be to not share with people. I don't think what I think is for everyone, but maybe someone out there needs to know someone thinks like they do, or maybe someone should [or shouldn't]. My problem is total cerebral overload. I'm thinking about everything, and I mean it. I can't start because there's too much. Should I sit down and write the prototypical autobiographical first novel, or is that more pretentious than I want? If I thought it would be valuable to anyone, then I think I'd do it. I'm almost more worried about what it'd do to me-- we had to write that "I remember" piece, and I remember a lot. That was the old she of course, and I saw the most sentimental thing she ever gave me, a drawing of a photograph of us. But we didn't need to be there. Well, I guess we both needed to get past that first hurdle, and all in all, she made a good first real [reciprocating] girlfriend. Perhaps setting me up for my current state, a higher level than I knew existed. It's that grand interconnectedness of being that I love to be scared to think about. "Do you think that kind of thing happens?" I've seen a lot of weird things in my life, so I'm not as skeptical as I once was. Or as cynical. At least, as blatantly and wholeheartedly cynical. I'm about to accept a job with a respected company in New York City. In other words, materialize a dream. Though, will it lead in the direction I hope? What a cliche worry. I'm twenty and one-half years old, I don't need to worry about that. I'm remembering that song from Cat Stevens that my dad played for me on a 33. Didn't Katie play it on the way to school a few years ago? I can't remember, she played some similar things.

I missed a lot growing up, most of it important social developments, maybe that's why I can't deal. Well, I can, maybe I do it too well. An art, a la Plath, but her treatment is impossible for me. Is this even worthwhile, to turn all the thinking on, to consider everything? I don't have enough time to consider everything, that's too bad. I won't lapse into my typical mortality mode, since I'm not in that mood. I just can't get over -something-, what is it? I know what it's not, and too bad I'm so paranoid. That's ok, it's usually not turned on. But that's enough delving into that area. I think I'll debate writing a book more and then end up stirring up too much confusion in my mind to not do so. I'll enjoy it at least. You might, but you'll be so bored if you did. 3:
For some reason, I'm thinking about the excitement of first love, and that of first kiss. The total emotional overload. I wrote pages in my diary about it, though perhaps I had played it up so much it just had to be such a big deal. So maybe it's the thrill of the chase. The other best feeling I've had is that once the chase is totally over. You just look at her and you know. Easy enough to understand. I'm impressed. 2 (2/7/99): And so there you thought this was just a one time thing, like so much else that I've done. Incomplete, unfinished, regrettable. But who can avoid that? There's that guy who could never quite admit to himself what he wanted, and maybe that's me, too. He did, and look where that got him! (You know who you are, I hope you had fun tonight -there-). That makes sense, though, I mean, how else could it work out? I was thinking of some things, but they're mostly repetitive and the ideas are posthumous. A beautiful girl. The imagery suggested by that kind of thing. It's always that kind of thing. She told me, probably, because I wouldn't have figure it out by myself. I did, I though, but not the same way. You can't figure that kind of thing out. Well, I can't, and in my experience, it seems a person can't. I just didn't understand. I probably don't, now. Uncertainty. Losslessness. Now look what you've done, you've gone and created something. Dare it. I just want to remember to be the way I want to be. I have this plan, see, and it's a good plan, for me, but I can't bring it to fruition. That's not surprising, what is? She said it's all new to her, but you must know it isn't. 1 (2/99): It was more of an attention-getter than an explanation of the subject. You can blame me for that, and I know I could be offering my predictions on the subject. Instead, more random musings, as usual, and if I strike a chord or cliche any more, you can regard it as the oh-so-great interconnectedness of everything, if you believe in that stuff. I do, but only in a way that I can't explain. Not like you might think. Not at all.

The burden that comes from the power of writing. A computer keyboard makes me an author, perhaps undeservedly, perhaps blindly, definitely pretentiously, but that's already been established. The converstaion we're having without even thinking about it. Maybe it's not just with me. The epiphany. Of being, sure, but who can comment on that? On connecting. Establishing that aforementioned wonder, that's important. To me, at least. I'm scared of dieing. You know I am, and I can't bring myself to the total hedonism that my fear might require. I think it might be fun, but I couldn't live with myself. The irony of it all, you see. It's something to think about once in a while, but I can't dwell on it, or I can't dwell on the "bad things." Does everyone have that, too? A group of things that are deep down that surface every so often and sadden you, scare you, generally make you uncomfortable. Mine includes dieing. At my age, I can't handle my own mortality. Perhaps it'd be scary if I could, or so people tell me. Maybe I'll forget to breathe. Or maybe I'll forget to care. I have to do everything right, this is my one shot at it all. It's crazy to say that, sure, but examine it. I digress. As usual. Maybe I was telling you a story of me, I probably do, I always seem to come back to myself, relate things to myself. I can't help it. I can't help me. Cliche again, and I sigh. Can I handle all the meta's I try? Overanalysis. A bird's eye view of a bird's eye view. And so on, for me ad nauseam. Comes before a few times. It has to, or else I'll just confuse myself. The random directions a mind goes. Is it just my following the unchosen leads through my thoughts? That's ridiculous. I'm always ridiculus. Well, that's not -so- true, as sometimes I dabble in the real. The conscious is the tip of the iceberg into which the Titanic of real ran. Another pseudo-intellectualism and I sigh. I'm full of those, I can wax metaphoric and be ambiguous all day. And you still won't understand what I mean, and you might think you might, and maybe you do, but maybe I try to make them unintelligible. I can't tell. Not that I don't want to tell, but I really don't know. Saying I don't know often. Those are some things, you know. Maybe I'll write some more later, maybe I won't ever look at this again. But it's 1999. That's ridiculous. The arbitrarity of numbers. I think it's supposed to be, what, 1995? Purists can cry, I won't, I'm not a purist about subjectives. I try not to be at least, maybe there're some elegances left that I can want pure. I think there are, they're special if they are. Elegant. Slick, I might say, if I were sure of the degree of elegance. But maybe you disagree, and that's right, too.

Hopkins Rhymes (1998)

The hyena laughs his final laugh,
As he ventures off to find a bath:
Gatsby and his gang left long ago.

The old yin and the young yang:
They're a whimper and a bang,
Are in search of a man who they don't know.

They've found a new church,
Far above his glassy perch,
And they're trying hard to be swept by an undertow.

Now the gang is lost some place,
They're high in their own space,
And two of them'll return again and show...

How one mute and one cute,
With the others, they find fruit
Where the hyena vowed never again to go.

Gazing out the window, he sees
Some drunks, some cars, and trees,
And dreams of a place he'll never know.

They smoke their cigarettes and worse,
(She pulled one from her purse)
The cute one lives a curse
Placed upon him by a girl a year ago.

And the hyena's troubled by
The feline who made him cry,
He can't forget about her 'cause he loved her so.

And so he wants some other chances
To get his own so-sweet romances,
To return to him that once well-meaning glow.

And Charlie keeps him away from Johnnie,
In a few years, then he'll be gone--he
Will be with sheepskin and nothing else to show.

Comments on My Journal (1998-9)

This is a public thought journal. James isn't responsible for dementia of others.
Add to this
Untitled by Anonymous on 03/09/98 17:18

write your thoughts here



Untitled by Anonymous on 03/09/98 17:20

write your thoughts here
The sun is out today and yet I am not outside
enjoying it. I can only see the beautiful clouds
drift by from a window. Isn't this how I always
look at things? Through some form of separation.


finally by Anonymous on 03/10/98 19:15

sometimes when you finally, trully, believe that
there is not hope, that there is not meaning, that nothing
is special, that is when you have the most beautiful
moments of your life. in that respect, the littlest
something makes all the difference in the world.



Untitled by Anonymous on 03/12/98 03:04

Why do I keep getting into these awkward situations? Is it something I'm doing to myself?
It'd be nice to get a good resolution for a second
time.



Untitled by Anonymous on 03/14/98 23:32

I agree, Newton was smarter than Einstein



Untitled by Anonymous on 03/24/98 15:30

there's always the doorknob


Untitled by Anonymous on 03/26/98 00:57

a "she"? what for? to overcome your loneliness?
the sun you thought would make you feel better,
you say didn't. the people you say made you feel
good, no longer do. you had pleasant feelings,
but now you're scavenging for them again. such
feelings do not depend on anyone or anything.
they're not short-lived. you're too radical
and idealistic people say. no, i am just a
changing human being. i am aware of how enslaved
and attached to tradition, beliefs, memory...
my mind is, but it is through my awareness that
this imprisonment is being breached. it gets
lonely sometimes because it seems everyone
else is too caught up with their own
superficial thing. too much hypocrisy. why
am i afraid of appearing deviant? why am i so
scared? too many explanations. the more
explanations are offered, the more i am chained
back. so caught up in explanations, my head hurts.
i cannot be free if my head is contaminated
with headaches, tradition and all the rest.



so sad by You know on 04/01/98 00:50

How sad... Try that shit, what's it called? Oh, crack rock.


steamed white rice by a new she on 04/15/98 16:25

Decisions.
Unavoidable, yet formidable.
I wish someone would make them all for me.
Maybe time will tell.
There is no time.
He won't wait forever.
It felt so right, yet at the same time so wrong.
Don't want to be hasty. Don't want to hurt anyone.
But whichever way I turn, someone will be hurt.
Whichever way I turn, I'll never know what could
have been.
Passion or Stability?
Heart or Mind?
If I'm not careful, I'll end up with neither.
I'll end up with loneliness.
Maybe that's what I need.


Untitled by Anonymous on 04/19/98 04:40

write your thoughts here
drunk. das ist das antwort.
shut up
eat shit
status quo, status schmoe.
i enjoy mastrubating with my asshole, not my dick.


Untitled by Anonymous on 04/21/98 22:27

understanding doesn't come in fragments, james. it
is complete. otherwise you're still the "old" you
and what you claim to understand is merely an illusion.
look at your desire to cling to a "new" she.
look at your desire to feel wanted.
there's nothing new there.
a mere response of your insecurities.



Untitled by Anonymous on 04/26/98 22:55

lo que sera, no lo es. i hope that you have more
sunny days, james.


Untitled by Anonymous on 05/14/98 21:46

bye james.



and Do I dare? by Do you know who I am? on 06/02/98 01:42

I�m not the poet that you are, maybe if I were things would be easier, but I am not.
And I am surely not she, but I wish I were.
I wish I�d understood you better before, but I was too caught up in my own self.
Maybe someday, but likely not. (damn it, you�ve depressed me.)
I�ll keep dreaming and hoping, but eventually I will discover the reality.
Three months seems forever�




Untitled by Anonymous on 06/06/98 13:06

attachment breeds sorrow.
most of us are attached , we cling to a person
to an idea, to a belief...and when the object
of our attachment loses its significance, we
find ourselves empty, insufficient, lonely...we
strive to achieve or maintain a particular state,
or to recapture one that has been and is gone.
our emptiness we try to fill by clinging to
something else which again becomes the
obeject of our attachment.



almost 5' by just a girl. on 06/07/98 17:11

and at nite i can hear the train off in the distance and if i close my eyes tight enough i can see it's light, lighting up the sky and raping the glory of the moon. and in my car on that road where the tree lets lights sparkle through i cry and i yell at him all of the hims, i pull over at his house and get my feet wet in the creek that might be a river if the rain ever falls. and each time he all the he's looked at me with hate and pushed with rage yell at me do to their vanity and self destructive nature, i step back and close my eyes i can hear the train and the pound on my face and my body to the floor is me under that train and the warm water dripping down my face is from my tears in the sunlite, then i go to the creek and wash away, my blood, my fear, my only evidince suitable for court and i go back to him. all the hims. yes i always go back for more and my voice disappears soon it will be gone. . .



Ode to Jun Wu by The Nightfly on 06/17/98 23:14

oh Jun Wu
you are so true
so good with MIPS
just like Gladys Knight and the Pips
so good with Xspim
the future ain't dim
oh Jun Wu
my heart weeps, boo hoo hoo




Sleep. by ???? on 06/24/98 02:42

You said you would be there
if I ever needed you.
Well, now I need you. I mean,
I really need you.
And you aren't there;
you can't be there.
But it's not your fault,
so it can't bother me.
But it does.

Someone else is coming, though,
so it will be OK.
Everything will be fine.

ILY, J.



Untitled by Anonymous on 07/10/98 16:10

spontaneity for once regrettable



by on 07/13/98 15:13


Untitled by Anonymous on 07/13/98 15:13

just what i had wanted, to look at the
sky as i rest and wonder. funny coincidence
that it is from the same spot. a coincidence
that is also quite lovely. i hope that she
doesn't come. i want to be here alone. hopefully,
the other two will not show up either. and what about
the people eating outside? maybe i will see it
among them. and then perhaps i'll be able to sleep.



Untitled by Anonymous on 07/14/98 17:44

today not even the engines woke me up. overslept
for half of it. and he was just getting ready for
the next nine hours. i like to watch him move
around. i like to watch them approach him.
i can't see the face of this one. no. it's not
the one i was expecting to see.
hey mister, don't you ever go to the bathroom?
go on if you have to. i'll keep an eye on your
shop and another on my temptation to grab some
of your goodies. maybe today i'll get a hot dog.

so strange how they all appear and disappear at
the same time. they'll be gone in an hour. i wish
they wouldn't because i like to see them play.
i used to have several of those, but i never learned
how to release them.

i recognize her. it's not her. even if it was her,
she wouldn't talk to me since i have nothing to
talk about that would be of interest to her. and
yet like this she offers me her friendship.

and who are they? now i feel like I'M the one being
watched. that finger. twice. but was it the same
color? with hair sticking up like that, who
wouldn't notice.

don't get too excited. a little too big. it's only
a masculine woman. a closer look indicates that it's
a man.

mere paranoia perhaps. the finger may have been pointing
in another direction, but i may have twisted it
toward mine. i can' remember anymore.



Untitled by Anonymous on 07/16/98 23:50

the inception of a new spirit has burgeoned.
or has it been bludgeoned?


Untitled by Anonymous on 07/17/98 17:40

the same numbered spot was enough for a moment. i
couldn't resist not knowing what the other side
looked like, so i tried to break in. it was so much
easier today. linen for someone who isn't here? surely
it's not for me. no. she will be here next week.
not in with me!!?! no, dear, ...over in that one. oh!
thank you for leaving the door open. you know you did,
you just didn't puff it. i appreciate that. i'll
be out before then.

good god! i can fall out from this one. look out and
this can turn into a guillotine.



Untitled by Anonymous on 07/17/98 21:46

FUCK THIS DAMNED RETROGRESSION!!! FUCK THE IDEALS!!!
AND THE HELL WITH THIS PATHETIC STAGNATION!!! learn
from experience? the hell i don't. i live
from experience. i live from the dead fucking past,
the memories, the burdened thoughts.
if i knew how to live, experience would not matter.
if i knew how to live, i wouldn't ask what the
meaning of life is. if i knew how to live, i wouldn't
be here. yes sir--IT IS time to get ready to leave.


Untitled by Anonymous on 07/30/98 10:03

ok. let me do this again.



Untitled by Anonymous on 08/08/98 19:07

we miss your thought journal. ARe you still alive?




Me by to You on 08/23/98 22:25

Yucky Red and Green Female Sheep!



Untitled by me on 09/10/98 09:37

you are not allowed to complain about being lonely
so you're lonely at 3am, what about 3pm? or noon?
or 6:45? at least at some point there's somebody.
consider yourself lucky.


Untitled by Anonymous on 09/10/98 20:06

whoever "me" is, considers that "one" should
be thankful, or lucky as "me" would like to think,
for his/her or anybody's? presence. loneliness,
here of course, doesn't mean the emptiness of a
room that is usually crowded, but rather the inner
emptiness of a human being.



Untitled by Anonymous on 09/29/98 01:12

and did i really think it would be better after
this one? surely, if i had found this other, i
would have probably reacted with the same
apathy. the security scavenging which i disdain,
the psychological dependancies which i repel, and
yet all of which i have and keep accumulating.
understanding through another? no stupid. so what
if things seemed to overlap? is it so hard to
stand alone?



Lonely? Never again... by the She on 09/29/98 01:35

I am the she.
and I can write about HIM,
except my writing is not encrypted
like his - everyone knows who I'm talking about.
The great poet.
I love him. What can I say?
He writes poetry about me
He tells people about me
He does every little thing I ask of him,
or at least he tries to.
But these aren't the reasons I love him.
these are just extras.
I love him because he's the most kind-hearted,
sincere, honest person I've ever met;
What can I say?
He's the best thing that has ever happened to me.
I'm the luckiest person alive.


Untitled by Anonymous on 09/30/98 00:34

a fucked up fanatic? sounds like you've turned
into someone's fetish. and yet all the while
claiming to love. bravo! do more, be more obedient...
and guess what? you'll be loved even more. can we
set up another proportion here? does love have
reasons?--but please feel free to make your list
longer. doesn't the rest of the world?
is this too hard to understand? is the truth not
obvious to you? is this attachment not a mere cover-up
of your insecurities? (because insecure you are, as i found
out. talking email? but thanks for trying to "listen",
you kind-hearted soul.) sure you won't be
lonely as long as there's an escape from your
loneliness. and you're probably being very
well-entertained. no thanks. i have no interest in
devotion. good-night everybody. i won't share my
misery with yours, although yours is probably
better concealed.



Deseo. by La Confidante del mundo on 11/09/98 16:43

I wish to know your troubles.
I want to feel your fears.
Life's been overly kind to me;
Please, share your tears.


"Perturbation is necessary" by Si como no. on 11/27/98 17:35

When we're with a friend, we don't think about
him. It is only in his absence that thought
begins to recreate scenes and experiences that
are dead. This revival of the past we call love.
So, for most of us, love is death. We live with
the past, with the dead, therefore we ourselves
are dead, though we call it love. We do not love
and let it alone, but crave to be loved. We give
in order to receive, but this is only the
generosity of the mind and not of the heart.



by bob on 12/04/98 00:30

You who philosophize disgrace
And criticize all fears,
Take the rag away from your face
For now ain't the time for your tears.



A Word About Us... by Some random She. on 12/30/98 02:01

Women are marriage-minded from about age two on up.
It takes many different forms, and prevails in differing
amounts from woman to woman, but it's there, in the back
of our minds, every time we hear about an engagement,
see a wedding (in person or on screen or stage), meet someone
we'd like to date. Some of us have been thinking about
a generic Him, the one we're going to end up with, since
childhood. I get through the disappointments and cope with
my lack of patience by imagining that I am slowly meeting
Him, personality trait by personality trait, and that the
whole will be even greater than the sum of those fragments.
I'm always wondering if I've actually met the specific
Him, or if I only know the one I've thought up over the past
several years. I really wonder if He ever thinks about me,
in either a vague way, or specifically about *me*.
If You're there, hello. Can't wait to meet You!



My heart is out for you,cherie. by Mr. Jackson Ruffus Miller III on 12/31/98 03:34

This is in response to the ad from the pretty lady.

Although I am a bit myopic, I am the utopic Him
you need. You will need not stay a random hag, for I will make you my wife. I am the real life Ken you've been playing with since time beyond memory. Let me tell you a word about us: we exploit our reproductive abilities--ever since we were 12 or so, the lucky precocious ones way before then. Although we yawn at weddings, we have pleasantly arousing thoughts of the disrobing honeymooners. However, a time does come when we need to start assisting in the evolution of mankind. I am ready to fertilize my seeds in you. I am real. You are not dreaming!
We will meet! *wink*


Untitled by Anonymous on 12/31/98 12:41

The sigh of the scanty in the self-enclosing
mediocrity of self-improvement. The futile
reverberations of the true, not a
longwinded syllogism out of conceit.
Result: A retarded reaction from a limited
logic. A lamentable ignorance of the
blocked inquiries, the inaction, in the
yielding acceptance of the so-called
unavoidable, the final , the dead.
Stagnation in intellectual verbalizations,
without much significance,
no change there, especially not while
tethered to something else--the mental tug-
of-war. The complete disintegration between challenge and response--- the self-protecting reactions against the unpleasant facts,
only to be justified or condemned but never looked upon. Never coming face-to-face with
the real. Disappointment then. The
illusory is much more pleasant, much more
comforting. And thankfully, while still young
and alive, the flame of discontent hasn't
been smothered in the feast of all this vapid rigmarole.



Untitled by Anonymous on 01/29/99 23:40

Why are you afraid of death? Is it perhaps because
you do not know how to live? If you had only one hour
left to live, what would you do? Would you not
arrange what is necessary outwardly.Would you not call your
family and friends together and ask their
forgiveness for the harm that you might have done
to them, and forgive them for whatever harm they
might have done to you? Would you not die completely
to the things of the mind, to the desires and to
the world? And if it can be done for an hour, then
it can also be done for the days and years that may remain.-


Untitled by mr.class on 02/01/99 02:08

i often pride myself on my ability to deal with
any and all situations. yet now, the latest did
too much damage. the damn that is my well being
has a huge crack, it is quickly deteriorating and there appears to be a flood on the horizon. not
good.
and through all of this i still see the glass as
1/4 full. optimistic, but i don't enjoy the fact that while i have a less than adequate amount to drink she pours a pitcher into the sink right before my eyes. but life isn't fair.


Untitled by Anonymous on 02/04/99 22:26

What is important is the drinking of the waters
and not how full the glass is. The glass is a
limited container which cannot be filled. It
must be broken to drink the water.-



mumbling by Anonymous on 02/26/99 17:29

When it's cold outside I like to whine.

Your life is almost over, you're, what, a quarter done with it!, better get going soon.


Untitled by Anonymous on 03/02/99 21:52

Yes. It's cold. I'm cold, but the furnace nearby
gives me hope. Hope. Alas, hope. A life lived in
fractions never adding up to a whole. Do you like
my strut? That's all it is. Just a strut. Yours
probably is too. And I look
for other things and I find other things. I go with
those for a while and then again search for more and
yet again finding more. but they're all the same,
they're just substitutes substituting for the same
inadequacy-the admirable preacher in one corner and
across the room the despicable drug addict, both
within the same cell. And looking through the bars
I imagine how things could be. I pace around the
room finally sitting on my cot to have fun with my
good friend.


Untitled by Anonymous on 06/03/99 17:58

Don't change, Holden. Stay alive!

My Journal, Part 2 (1998)

35: 12/25/98: On Christmas, a Reflection

I listen to my brother's voiced adolescent angst, and
I can see my own hypocrisy, as well as everyone's. The
circle of hypocrisy. Inescapable.
Truthfulness is itself oxymornonic.
Unfortunate.
Can't look there for constancies or even
things to believe in.
Can't find them there. Analytic, unreasonable.
Not so much unreasonable as I'm incredulous.
I am not very often, so I'd like it to mean something when
I actually am.
Main problem with us: taking ourselves too seriously.
Case in point: just think of anything.
Now that I reflect on thought, not on love, it's a little
less emotional, more thoughtful. As I bash thought.
But that's not what I mean to do, I just consider it.
Reiterate: look at me, I'm different (just like everyone else).
Pick your battles. Deviate where it's meaningful.

Anyway, that tirade is expired. Verbosity there is inane. Of course,
it's like that everywhere, just comes sooner there.
Of course it does.
Of course.

So there's most of my year, the transition from floating alone in the void
to drifting accompanied. And it makes me happy. Full circle, maybe that
doesn't make sense here. I lose my lyricism (or what maybe I thought was
lyrical) when I lose my pain, so that's my writing's excuse. The promise
of change. Constancy there. And again it's paradoxical. Solving
unsolvable problems, or at least trying.

They all said it was me. They were probably right, but she knew better.


34: 11/22/98: I Left Some

I left some of myself, maybe more than I thought I would,
there tonight.
I didn't mean to walk out, maybe just to lighten.
And I got enlightened.
I didn't know it would hurt me so much.
I didn't know I felt so much.
I just didn't know. And that's what I knew then.
And so that's what I said then.
Having had some time to think about it, I was wrong.
First impression was off, second overtakes it.
And she. Willing.
Me, out of naivete, or maybe I hadn't searched myself the right way
quite yet. Reflecting,
she's right.
I wasn't, and maybe I won't have to pay permanently.
But can she be accepting under the circumstances?
Maybe this will strengthen what there was.
I just didn't know what I know now.
It just took a few hours, that's all. With her,
that's probably
all
it should.

33: 11/16/98: Having Gone

Having gone about a month without any of this.
I guess I just didn't need the typical emotional
release.
It's all being bottled, or maybe the current died down.
I just hope I don't get too caught up in now.
It's killed me before, killing flux, and so I hope
it's ever-changing, or else it's not going to be interesting.
I mean, maybe for you it might have to remain the same.
But I'm not there yet; I'm still too immature to be
comfortable with stagnancy. Or maybe it's not that.
I don't know, but do I ever?
Matters of the life, you escape me.
Or so I've thought.


32: 9/30/98: Amidst

The pitfalls of opening yourself up to anyone
or everyone, but they're not
holes
I made. Or anything quite like that.
Conflict.
And then more conflict.
Unnecessary, the sides aren't sides, and
the words aren't real.
As usual, oh-so-unusual I sitting on the side.
Naivete disguised as mistrust,
Inexperience masked by cynicism: I've known these
things- they used to be my toys.
And they still are at my disposal, and while
I may not use them all the time any more,
I've known them intimately enough to use them
the way I need to.
Need.
Whatever that means. As usual, the ignorance reeks.
Or maybe that's just me I smell.
And she's there.
Cliche, I'm your best friend, and I've been.
Perfectly masterminded nothing, it's do-what-
you-can. And this is how I live.
At least, that's what I call it.
Amidst everything, I don't stand still,
none of this "here I stand" garbage, you
have to keep moving, rethinking,
re-evaluating it all. Take it all in.
Consider everything, as much as you can.
I've missed too much not to think like that.
And then I sit and rest far too long and as usual
forget.
My other demonic friend. I have many.
The smell of smoke, and the past beckons.
Security of that. But it was far less interesting
then, you must admit.
I try.
And I do.
Usually.


31: 9/8/98: Back to School, Too

It's ironically three AM.
For the first time in many nights, I'm alone
but lonely? That's my demon; I avoid it as much
as I can.
The same thing happens again, and I spout pseudo-
intellectualism, as I have before and can't help but
continue.
The cycle of cyclic thought: I embody it, I am it.
I take comfort in the thought that isn't everyone else, too?
They're affected by it. Just like me. Who'd have ever thought
they'd be just like me? Not me.
Of course, you know what you're talking about, and I have
my own little take on it, another thing I can't help but have.
Relentless (drivel, is it?) emotional outpouring, the
would-be quintessence of my oh-so-idealistic soul.
We do have souls, don't we, mom? You told me we do.
Of course it took someone else to demonstrate it to me.
She means to me: all that is good with the world, the nice part,
(just like Arnold in Twins) filter out all that garbage.
She can't help but have (who can help?) the occasional lapses
into that deep dark zone out of which I recently crawled, though as
always, hers is custom tailored for her. I don't think I helped
dig it, I think I just shined a flashlight into it. For whatever
that's worth. Which is usually as good as it comes.
Time passes, and I reach for the old standby; bet on a winner
(my air conditioner is loud and obnoxious).
I recite adages like I wrote them.
Maybe I thought I did, many I may as well have.
I'm not -that- creative.
Obviously, the visual arts aren't my forte, in any sense of the word
(which?).
The bad times are long gone, it's the era of good feelings, isn't it?
Mental party time (it's excellent, I remember).
The interconnectedness of it all.
Weren't you thinking that when you were talking to me?
Weren't you thinking about how you could relate such-and-such to
so-and-so?
And didn't you do it?
What kept you?
The same thing that kept me, isn't it? It keeps us all.
Nah, we're not -that- interconnected.
Well, she and I, maybe, but the rest of you have to wait before we compare
our links to the collective unconscious. Are they links or notes?
I have to get up in a few hours, this helps me sleep.
Am I suddenly entrusted with the DJ-ship (!) of this radio station
(they're playing the very songs I want to hear) or is it all part of the
good ol' interconnectedness?
Maybe this is what everyone listening to the radio at 3:13am on a Tuesday
morning wants to listen to. (Is that solely consisting of me?)
I'll see her later today. Will she realize her importance?
Of course, the eternal struggle with her, this time an unspecific her.
Just a generalized depersonalized her.
Now to talk more about the specific her...


30: 8/17/98: Return to Would-be Eloquence

And now back in my "home,"
In the plush climate control,
I get some time
(or maybe, am forced to take some time)
alone.
Of course, we all know how I get when I'm
alone.
Considering that universal demon who manifests
himself (herself?) inside us: it's my past.
I guess it took me longer than usual to mature.
Embarassing, and I can't believe I did what I did.
What was I thinking?
I was only off by 2? 3? years.
That's all it took.
And I think I made up for it,
The amazing accelerated experiences of first
being away from "home."
And the developments of emotional attachement,
their severance, and now their renewal,
better than ever.
Did it help me not to see things then?
I can't imagine a "now" having done all 2 years
before I have.

I'm not that sick anymore, maybe I just have
boredom.
I'm too lazy to call my friends. Isn't that
representative
of something?
And I've never been so excited about a new car.
And I'm working the whole time to make up for
my terrific summer.
She's lonely, and I am, but it's only time and space,
not emotion.
Those years ago, I'd say I was beaten by physicality,
now, blindly following ideas of relativity of perception,
I oh-so-intelligently dismiss it and say I can wait.
Which I can, I have.
Of course, it didn't turn out so well that time, but well, this is, well,
different.
Much different.
Isn't it always?
Variety is the, the rule.
I'm emotionally flatlining, at zero, not on one side: it's the
loneliness that was conquered so well the past few months.
It's all about timing, and I lost my watch.

So I'll see her again in a little while, in the meantime,
I have to find ways of achieving all those wonderful things
I, I, I, I want to give to her.
There's my proof to myself that I am alive and well. At least, well.
For the most part, I'll believe it.
Funny about love.
But maybe I just won't admit it.


29: 6/25/98

Nothing for a while, no news
is good news.
I wasn't there once,
I was sleepy; mono does that
to you.
I just hope she isn't worried about me.
That's the problem. Role
reversal.
Forgive my lethargy, it's only temporary and
clinical.
I won't copy your abbreviation, only echo it.

28: 6/4/98

Now that I have something wonderful,
characteristically
I begin to ruin it.
I don't want to, as it is so
great, so
fulfilling, so
fantastic, such a
fairy tale.
Monstrous I doing it again.
Now it's all about her, as am I.
What can she do, say, feel?
I waste my effort on frivolous
actions, words, emotions,
because I am paralyzed, mute, cold,
to what I really have.
Senses deceive me for a split second of
indiscretion.
I don't feel like that all the time,
I'm not like that (so I truly hope).
My attempted lyrical, metaphorical letter to her
to ease my pain, to try to make up for my
poor: timing, taste, you know the rest.
Inklings of self-pity, I can't allow them either.
She has given me everything,
I want more.
She has done everything for me,
I ask more.
I can't ask that of her, she's not some
commodity or security,
(though she may be in other senses)
cliche: she's priceless,
but she is.
The way she [anything she does] I love.
And no, I can't change that little bit for
her.
I try.
Trying isn't good enough, at least not this time.
This time of importance I can't just try.
Yoda to Luke when Luke says the same thing.
cliche: he's right.
Can she have me back?
Not the same way, probably, for I've spoiled that.
I can't ask that.
But I'll be happy any way I can have her back,
I really would.
Not that she's lost, and not that the way
she told me I lost her is the point,
but the way that's beyond how I lost her,
the feelings behind it.
All this to say I'm sorry.


27: 6/2/98

Settled for this bit of the summer, I am
No longer alone.
I make her nervous and doubting,
But no doubt I can reassure her.
I needed that reassurance, and she
Gave it to me.
Cliche, but it's really great.
Seething optimism again, is that
Really how I am?
My old facade merely that?
Must be, (wouldn't that be nice)
And they keep on going.
It's so great to
Have something again, to
Have someone again.
The specifics make it even
nicer.


26: 5/30/98

So now I'm back in Baltimore, but alone.
Every time the apartment complex's door opens,
My heart jumps.
A car pulled up and a figure got out, walked toward
the complex. Too bad it wasn't her.
Loneliness is inversely proportional to proximity.
I'll see her soon; I have to.
It's one thirty, and I'm lonely.


25: 5/22/98

From Los Angeles, a week on the road through the US.
Three thousand miles give you time to think.
I'm right.
Problems of the past gone.
Now what do I have to worry about? I'm sure I can find something.
Or maybe I really don't have to.
The Grand Canyon really is,
but don't get me started on Oklahoma City.

24: 5/10/98

It's been two weeks and some since I last needed my creative
Outlet.
What do I do now that all that I've asked for I have?
The last few lines that Gene Wilder says in Willy Wonka... come to mind.
The sweet melody of optimism replaces the old drone of my past.
The fact that my computer doesn't work doesn't bother me.
I have other things on my mind.
The reconstruction of my self had ended; it's complement begins.
Sometimes she sings so loud.
Without having to mean to.
She lets me sing so loud, which is what I wanted.
For the first time in a long time
I'm genuinely, thoroughly
excited.
That's more towards what I think the meaning of life should be,
anyway.


23: 4/22/98

It's too bad she had to go home
I really wanted her to stay, but
maybe it's better this way for her.
Is it time I had some time alone?
(I usually feel fine).

The simple, beautiful two words:
don't leave.
Maybe last time
I left one time too many,
next (this?) time I won't.
It's time.

An update on the old she and I
remember how I miss it all.
I suppose the last few days
have reminded me, too.
A warm body is nice, but my,
how the warm heart and mind
amplify.

And me, the beacon for the indecisive:
I've made my decisions and await
yours, slow in coming, but I understand.
I always understand.

Yeah, sure there's always a light on, just sometimes
it's too far in the distance to see. My night
vision is not very good.
Please hand me that flashlight (I prefer it to
a candle).

and thanks, sleeper on clean sheets.
But it's your fault they're clean.

I miss her already, but
I don't want to be
manipulative.
We'll figure it out:
how can we not?
the wants and shoulds have lost relevance,
it's all the same.
Maybe.

I hope.
Better: I want.


22: 4/19/98

The entries come rapid-fire,
as has my life.

Now that the other string is cut,
I'll wait until she's ready,
and hopefully, it'll be with
me.
I'm so happy that someone wants
me
to be there. I will.

Did I do this right? Did we?
I think so.

I feel so much better now.


21: 4/18/98

It's even good with no
strings
attached. It's easier this way now.
I understand, I really do this time.
A question I can answer and be sure.
I don't understand the bigger picture,
but I'm not complaining.

It's all in search of a new she, and look,
there she is: resolution.

The sun is shining brightly, there's a cool breeze, and I'm happy.
A week ago, I was a year behind. This week, I caught up.

she did it


20: 4/17/98

So we were right all along, it was she.

Too bad we had to taint it, or did we?
A string of good and a touch of bad leaves me more confused than before.

Why not me?


19: 4/12/98

Que cera cera.
I'm so annoyed.
Whatever is so right.
Just tell me how to find the right kind of person; maybe I don't need a
relationship
right now, but at least let me play.


18: 4/11/98

Tonight I ran down memory lane.
Cataloging my life for the past few years brought with it a characteristic
showing of
emotion.
Ticket stubs from movies, sometimes two for the same, and museums; I've
done a lot of
stuff.
Of course, I already knew I did a lot of
stuff.
I thought I'd like to come home again; I want to be back at my real home.

My parents again.

This place reminds me of the old -me-. I don't like the old me, back in
Baltimore, the new me. Only a few more hours.

And, there is hope, and there's even reason for hope.

Matthew Sweet, you're right, but are the piles of circumstantial evidence
enough?

And, someone else wanted to make me happy. That in itself does.
It's too easy.
So much for negativity.


17: 4/9/98

So it's a little better,
Does she know what I know?
Or do I continue my overanalysis?
Is another she right, is her guess better than mine?
And why do I love crypticism so?
I feel like I should be living a life prescribed by
fortunes in fortune cookies.
The mystery of other people
and the question of emotion.
Helpless and helpful, I sit.
Oh, so idiosyncratic I.
But is that really what I mean?
When you have to beat them off with a stick, then you'll know you're
doing something right.
Or is that not what defines it?
No, no, it's not. When you don't have to beat them off with a stick, it's
then.
So the old she found somebody else, and the old she regains her emotional
dependence, which the old she denies in the way characteristic of the old
she. At least the actions of the old she are now independent of the new
me.
the possibilities of a new she are exciting;
the probabilities of a lack thereof, depressing.
Enya from the next room over, and I, playing the cliche, dream.
Have all my decisions been bad ones? Can I actually trace it all
back to a few key errors? Or is it not that simple, a compound
of mistakes?
Shambles one minute, unbounded hope the next. I don't want a dampened
emotional cycle, do I? The inherent artificiality scares me.
Dependence is something I save for people, not things.
If only it were that simple. I value my hesitance to move that
recently-displaced dependence to some recently-discovered chemicals.

My parents.

The old she, a new she, the supporting cast: dramatis personae is right.

melancholia strikes again, back to the neutrality of averaging a week of
emotion. Thank you, and you, and you. I have neglected.

Good-bye, confused but happy, twisted but unwinding, quick but getting
quicker, soft and getting softer, old she. Enjoyed your stay.

Now for a greeting...?


16: 3/28/98

I'm calmed down, and maybe I'm thinking a little bit more rationally.
It's nice out again, and this time it's helping.
I'm on the upswing of the periodic emotion.
Why do I care so much about judging?
They're right, maybe my overanalysis handicaps me. But I know no other
way.
Is that a valid excuse?


15: 3/24/98

Having a good week in the sun didn't help me with loneliness.
I want to figure things out yet again; I'm eternally figuring things
out.
I want another "she"
Have I closed all the doors?


14. Questionable Circumstances 3/12/98

I wonder what things mean.
Do I overemphasize the small?
Is it all in vain?
Ah, well, resolution will come.


13. Back to Normal 3/7/98

With my inhibitions lowered,
I have no one with whom I can
use my new-found openness.
Too bad, though, as I long to be elevated
to a status shared by many a code-named
wonder.
The phone rang; it's not for me, it's never for me.
I question repulsiveness in its most literal meaning.
I can't help falling into the depths of before
when I look at things.
The taste of "not quite" lingers on my tongue.
Instincts gain more credibility.
Why did you (singular and plural) leave me?
Deserted, I sit
and wonder about
what really might be wrong with
me.
Diagnosis: hell if I know.
I try, usually really hard. There's something
intangible
that's missing. I feel
incomplete
without the magical quality.

My versatility is a fatal flaw.
I can't commit to a style, only a person.
I grasp for the fleeting moment,
only to feel it slip away like an greasy rope.
Grease from my hands, but also:
it was already there.


12. Optimism 3/5/98

And now, I want.
Surprisingly enthusiastic,
I want to walk the streets of New York at night, then be
whisked away by a limo, wherever I want to go.
I want to live life.
I want to ride through Los Angeles, during a warm summer night,
in a flashy convertible.
I want to live life.
I want to eat that perfect picnic on the sunny day on
the National Mall, or maybe a beach, or it doesn't matter where
as long as it's sunny.
I want to maintain this mood.
I want to live life.
I want to do everything, everywhere, all at once, fast, fast, fast.
Stuff, stuff, stuff.
Simplistic? Not for me.
It's here, mine for the taking,
What the fuck have I been doing all this time?
I want to go to London & Paris, finally,
and break free of this burden of shelter.
Oh, yes, I need a lover who won't drive me crazy [etc].
But for now, I'll compromise.
I want to drape my feet over, say, Angel Falls, or
wherever, whatever.
How long can I hold this surge of feeling?
Emotion, please don't be fleeting.
I would scream the words to the soundtrack of my life right now.
Yes, it's beginning to take shape again.
Can I really convince myself of all this?
Damn, I hope so.


11. Back to the Melodrama 3/2/98

No longer does the rain amuse me.
I'm tired of the dreary dampness.
It's a no show, and I go so slow.
The transformation...(if only it
were of my reputation). It's not
so easy to change;
rearrange my life, you say.
There's no way, at least, well, maybe, I guess.
It's not so easy to change.
you are so welcome for pointing out the Obvious.
I'm quick to defend my defenselessness.
And I'm envious of your relentlessness.
trite, I say, i am, and I am.
I worry that my emotions are cliche.
It's all about the cliche, isn't it though?
ah, why won't she talk to me, who(m)ever she is?
at least, I hope she's out there.
maybe she just doesn't realize it yet.
maybe I just don't.
but I have eroded into giddy optimism.
make it stop before I get & stay happy.
no, don't.
maybe the sun will return.

I hope the sun returns.
I'm getting sick of the rain.
As much as I like to get wet and stomp through the puddles,
I've lost my fancy.
(doo-do-doo-do here comes the sun, I say...it's alright)
(ditto that sentiment)
sniffle, sniffle. am I holding back the torrent of emotion?
or do I just have a cold and my eyes are irritated?
I don't think I want to know.
Nah, there are so many good things out there.
or so I've heard--so they tell me.
& that's all I ask for this time, someone new.
how pathetic.
ouch.
and the circle of pessimistic self-degredation continues.
I think it was a figure 8 for a while.
and I know it was completely different for a while.
please let it return there.
(think happy thoughts)
and I don't want to become the prozac posterboy.
maybe I'll haveta.
or maybe I'll get motivated enough to change things myself.
ack, there's that creeping optimistic tone.
is this a call for help? you'd better fucking believe it.
but it just might be directed toward myself most of all.
don't I love me? I can't remember. I have, at some point or
other.
all it takes / took is / was a little self confidence
it's hard when your confidence stems from outside;
do I have to manufacture it all myself?
that's annoying.
but the sun will shine someday soon.
(there will be joy in Mudville--reverse the ironic (but not for -that- reason) story?)
I yawn and need sleep.
i'll make up a life for a while.
but I like my real one enough.
it's annyoing sometimes.
especially when you like people so much...
yet have really set yourself up not to.
the frustration,
too little motivation,
and so here I am.


10. Rebirth of Cynicism? 2/28/98

Again:
Faith lost.
Needs replacement.
Change the damn channel.
I think the batteries in the remote control are dead
and I'm too lazy to get up and do it
myself.
And the cliche goes on, but fortunately, the metaphor won't.
Oh, and somebody please tell me what I did wrong.
Or at least point me in the right direction.

My Journal, Part 1 (1998)

1: ~1/5/98

I'm uncomfortable, insecure, unstable; I'm moving again, but only in thought.
Do you know what it's like?
Of course you do, you've lived the human experience.
You are the human experience.
I am the human inexperience, well, I was for most of my life.
And now that I've done what I wanted to do, I wish I hadn't done some of it.
So I didn't know what I had.
No, you don't know what you've got 'till it's gone.
But it's not always better to have gotten it.
And then you tell me that it's alright....everything is going to be alright.
Historically, that's inaccurate.
Then again, things have turned out pretty well, haven't they?
You think so, too. You were one to agree with me.
You really think I'm resiliant?
How come I hurt so much?
You say everyone hurts that much. Why don't they show it?
So you're better at disguising it than me. How did you learn?
Well, I'm sorry if I get along with my parents.
And now I have friends, too, to get along with.
No, I don't know why or how I got them, they just kinda appeared.


2: ~1/5/98

And my diary was destroyed a few years ago. Ironic, isn't it, that a hard
drive crash deleted my record of five years of my life? My pivotal years
were wiped out just like that. But that's what happened metaphorically
that summer, too. My past was too marred to want to remember. Too bad I
only remember the bad. But that's not as true as I thought; that was back
when I could make myself happy. Ambition drove me, or ego, or whatever.
Now it's difficult to set myself in motion.
But then again, maybe it's what was to happen. Isn't everything?
And then I have those thoughts of universal vertigo, where nothing is
anything in particular.
Dismiss them I must, in order to retain my demeanor and composure.
I need them both.
And what of the invisible voices? They don't need to be attached.
Anywhere, anybody. Raw emotion, that's what she called it. Silly
computers.


3: 1/13/98

Despite being back in the company of friends,
I'm still lonely.
Despite being back where there are things to do,
I'm still bored.
Despite being home,
I'm homesick and sick of home.
Placeless, timeless, I am.
It's a lot different when there's not somebody out there. There's no one
to grab ahold of, and that's what I need. Too bad [I don't know if] there
aren't any interested parties. I doubt there are. It's not me, it's not
them. It's the combination, it's the way things have worked together.
She thought that it didn't really matter if she lived or died; I love to
live. It matters to me. I would be very upset if I died, all other
things equal.
Perhaps one day I'll be pleased to make their acquaintance, and the next
they'll be happy to be my friend. And then maybe they'll understand me,
cliche style, but of course they won't. Usually. Some have, some do;
I'm scared to think what they would think of me if they understood me.
There aren't any skeletons in my head's closet, as far as I know, other
than the obvious ones. Or is that oblivious ones? It's the same result.
How long can I maintain the emotional semi-solitude, the confinement of
being single again?


4: 1/16/98

So now I'll step onto the soapbox:
Attractiveness.
What makes it?
I won't even mention fairness.
Oops.
And now step off it.
Actions don't equal sayings. And vice versa. It's pretty annoying, but
that's the way it [obviously] is. Side note: I came up the following
dichotomy today: west coast : valet parking; east coast : parallel
parking. Just so I remember it, there it is.
Why are people knowingly self-destructive? Why do people engage in
behavior that encourages things they don't want? Instant gratification?
Is that the penultimate cause? But apparently is isn't, because sometimes
people save up for things (metaphorically as well as literally). Anyway,
the bit of outright complaint that I have right now is that I'm not
appreciated, but oh, well, another thing to shove into my pocket of
whine.


5: 1/23/98

Yes, I know how important people are.
I've even figured out how important physical contact is.
And, yes, my manner has been less than adequate.
And what about that I've forgotten how to find her again?
I mean, there's always been a "her"-- and it even started working out.
You think I can do it.
Maybe I can, but maybe I need a little help.
Well, maybe as much as last time, as much as she gave me, but you, you can
help me. I know it.
Yes, instigation has always been a fatal flaw.
No, I can't remember that Greek word.
You said you know I can do it, that I just need to discover this.
As trusting as I am, I am reluctant to believe you.
It's always been about how little I can do with people.
Sure, I see my life in those terms.
A good friend, only to those who find out.
I know that's cheesy & the like, but it points out the extent.
No, not at all the intent, I'm too shy for that.
I know it's an excuse, a cop-out.
I know I want things to fall into my lap, but I want to go out and get
them.
But I'm afraid of failure. I will be afraid of failure.
It's not worth jeopardizing, it's never worth it.
Why can't I say never?
You're right, I don't know the future. I know the past, though.
Yeah, perhaps maybe someday I'll try to forget it.
sigh. Where is she when I need her again?
And who is she? (this time)


6: 1/25/98

It's been two years now and in that time
I've
overcome
Naivete Anxiety.
Now I just have to
overcome
Loneliness, etc.
I didn't need pills as
anti-depressants
I needed her.
So now I need a replacement,
That hole is gaping.
And enlarging.
What have I done to alienate myself in this way?


7: 2/4/98

So now I sit here, not that
depressed
just melancholy.
Looking into the stagnant water
back at myself, and also around at
all the creatures of the forest.
And now there's the question
of uniqueness. Not existence
anymore.
Everyone is unique?
Nah.
I've seen the clones &
drones &
all the cliches.
Like me.


8: 2/12/98

Silent Jim lights his fifth & final cigarette of the day.
I check once again to see if anyone wants communication.
The phone rings; someone is disappointed that he's not
here.
(Are people disappointed when I'm not there?)
(Does it matter? Should it?)
I cough from the smoke and remember how the music was so
good
that night.
And how it was so painful three-quarters of a year later.
Jim thumbs through his CD's, trying to find his emotional state as
prescribed by Dylan.
People can be qualified by a musician. (Categorizing people is something
you -can- do here; I should tell her there's not much of a choice).
But then I wouldn't want to be. How scary.

Just because everyone else is doing it doesn't make it right.
Actually, it does. Morality is the majority.

So there's the seeping populism. I'm excusing it to explain my existence
as I've made it. The foundation is weak; the bricks are opinions. Should
my house of cards be based on twos and threes? But then that reminds me
that aces are one or eleven.

Addendum:
I re-read my earlier poems.


9: 2/25/98

Then again, maybe I was thinking something that was just a bit wrong.
Maybe I was thinking that I am something I'm not; trying to play the part of a role that
I just don't understand. Maybe I never will. Ah, that's too definitive.
I finally hope history repeats itself.
To her: where are you? who are you?
Watching television at 3am [and I'm lonely].
Damn, I need some...close personal contact.
Damn, I need some...affection.
But that all gets back to initiative, which I don't have, and the
Catch-22 of it is that maybe I need it to have what I need, but I can't
get it unless I have what I need. Ah, sweet confidence.
Now: if only I could get that back. I just need a break-- a good break.
A desperate cry for help would be in order here, but I won't be that
forthcoming.
Again, oops.

One Minute (1997)

one minute. a two-minute composition.

In one minute can I compose
but in one year I can't even
begin
In one minute can I act
but in one year I can't even
decide
In one minute I can solve
but after one year I still have no
solution.
In a few minutes, well, that's all it takes.
In a few hours, that's a train ride away.
In a few days, that's something to hope for.
In a few weeks, i'll be home.
Somewhere in between, that's all it took.
In a few months, i'll be working.
in a few years, i'll be me.
any more periods of time are too distant to think about.
damn.
someday I'll have to reconcile with the fact that I'll be
Old.

Howl 2 (1997)

(with apropos apologies)
Wanna-be Howl 2


for Stacy, who couldn't be here to see it



I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by themselves, wanting more,

lusting for the next high, the next hit, the next trip,

those who out of contempt had their destinies chosen for them,

who normal for most of their lives exploded into drugs and altered their

mind, unable to escape the desire for escape could not change the
circumstances,



who drove through the dark night, faster & faster, to get to some place they could not

name but drew them nonetheless for they had been told about it,

who watched from the highest towers of Babel the sparkling cityscape and

reflected upon

their faux triumph over all the other players of the game spinning the

world around to suit themselves,

who self served one billion served drive-thru commercializing everything

denouncing it as

they go along making more money, hating the popular loving the unique,

making the unique popular,

who shopped at the Gap at the mall & wearing khakis and Nikes of Mr.

Jordan, thinking

how beautiful were their clothes, finally seeing what others calling in

they could be calling trite and right,

who starved for attention and food spent their last nickels on more drugs

just to make it all

better only to give themselves a temporary relief from their imagined

horrors of

life,

who traversed the great I-95 in search of the glory of New York only to

find Delaware, its

turnpikes & those too of New Jersey, etc.,

who raved and danced and drank and drank and smoked etc. until they could

no longer

feel their bodies or have a need for them anyway,

who could not make a decision because they had not been told how to &

perpetuated the

myth of indecision throughout Boston,

who sat alone in their rooms, garages, cars, contemplating their fate,

never getting enough

of their Recommended Daily Allowance of vitamin Reality,

who talked of God & Jesus and then of money and power, realizing that one

is the

other�s apotheosis but equal in their minds in not only complexity but

also

importance,

who did not listen to the Surgeon General and smoked to spite themselves

and their

parents though accepted by friends alike & friends dislike,

who praised Kerouac & Rousseau�s ingenuity, loving Plato & Russell &

Nietzsche & Hemingway, never having read Playboy,

who fought the habit only buying a pack of Camel Lights and smoking them

all in one

night and not caring and not remembering and not seeing,

who wandered around deserted suburban streets with yellow streetlights &

green street

signs in the frigidity of summer waiting and expecting the change in

reality to come from the trip,

who played football & basketball & soccer, etc., knowing their luck but

not

acknowledging it yet taking the spoils of popularity and position in the

grand high school scheme,

who e-mailed love letters waxing ecstatic, poetic, philosophic, to tell

their loved ones

three to ten thousand miles away about their dog & car & love,

who photographed the beer can that everybody loves, displaying texture not

symmetry,

and being loved by everyone but themselves, sleeping in the same bed every

night, damning self immolation and glorifying New York & Matisse,

who went to Virginia because it was free and there proceeding to immerse

themselves in

counterculture, whatever it may be being, finding the answer lying in the

same place in a different form,

who went to Georgia because it was natural, noticing the Thoreauvian

setting and

recreating Walden without the individuality just the good parts, loving

the leaves etc.,

who went to Chicago because it was good, loving the status quo, loving

talk radio &

George Bush & Ronald Reagan, waxing rhetorical, unable to escape their

upbringing, staying put because it�s safer,

who brought to the Museum of Modern Art their sense of unique perspective,

finding it

written in the museum�s pamphlets, hailing the taxi outside as though

nothing happened,

who trashed, burned, scorned by his classmates, continuing his tradition

of excellence, did

he break down? and leaving the relativity of existence,

who loved Rand & Aristotle & the like, caring for themselves, creating the

facade of the

paper mache building of personality, framing their philosophy and raison

d��tre around the antiquated and overused popularly disavowed

masterpieces,

who went to the Ivy League for the name and fame and game,

who ate those little pieces of paper to learn new things about the world

and learning

mostly that the things weren�t what they wanted to learn and there

reasoning the duality of being and adopting schizophrenia and eating

Prozac & Zoloft and cleaning their clothes with color-safe detergent,

have determined without that much of a doubt that existence is futile

though being

challenged from among their own ranks or self,

my god, he hath wrought a modern age of mythological connectedness and the

Internet

(thank You for your fiber optic one point four four megabits per second)

and the Web and such and the evil lurking therein,

and who has thus recently come to the conclusion Deus ex Machina is not

really all that

real, scaring everyone off in the meantime,

couldn�t wait to learn Einstein & Planck & immortal Heisenberg only to

find the rigorous

tedium of university,

stifled by form and restricted by limits bounded on all sides by the

impenetrable

exaggerated inflated pseudo-establishment, eternal in time space money,

will become the Phoenix, the President of the United fucking States and

all her empire and

replace Gates & Greenspan & Buffett & them and therefore become them.

My Life in Three Parts With No Musical Accompaniment (1997)

My Life in Three Parts With No Musical Accompaniment
or
Above the Stars & a Circle


Overture:

You can go home again
I have seen it
You just can't fit in
I have been it.

Way back in eighty-six
My life was
stable so far.
(she didn't count).
Then:
We went to Baltimore
(to inspect it, to move there)
And then (as often happens)
Plans changed,
rearranged:
and we ended up further south
(instead).


Main Sequence:

So some time passed
And more time still,
Moving so fast
Against my will.

So then we were all in one place:
Myself only, lost in space,
Dreaming of something
that comes from stability
(who would she be? where was she?)
But no, they say, you get
experience
From going from place to place.
They say dislocated sometimes, too.
They have a lot to say.

Nonetheless,
(perhaps,
more or less)
I kept on dreaming
And sometimes screaming
(as circumstance warranted)
And then I found that place
of happiness,
(did I meet her?)
only to find (not Gideons� Bible)
That I had to leave shortly.
They say you get
experience
From going place to place.
I get that, sure I do.
I also get frustrated.
I also get depressed.
Experience:
It�s over-rated.
I�m experienced.

So I tried again, once more:
(hopefully) the last time.
After a while, it was better
Than before, the best it�s ever been.
(I met her)
And of course, I had to leave shortly.
(supernova)

Denouement:

There isn't one.
It's not over.
It's the never ending sequence:
The roller coaster of emotions.
I ride on it, but my
seat belt isn't
fastened, and I don't
keep my arms & legs inside the vehicle at all times.
I should.
And I should deal with things.
Clearly and brightly, I know it.
Beautiful, damned lucidity.