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.
Monday, October 29, 2007
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.
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.
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
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.
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.
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.
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.
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