(no subject)

Yesterday I thought of viruses as han solo. And my body as the death star.

I feel that I am very close to becoming a walking warning of the dangers of the safe life. The easy life. The unaccomplished, the unfulfilled. I form projects in heartbeat and push them out in a breath. When I tell people about these things it is hard to get accross the overall scope or the idea that I am constantly building toward someething, and have been for years.

God I hope I am..

I still think I have it in me. But now is the time to find out,,,

I an starting to bekieve that spelling errors should be left. I think they are important.

(no subject)

I smash the lock with my shoulder.

I look at my friends page. Empty. A blank from the one person i still expect to be there. Hard to call this a connection anyway, but the blank page stares at me.

The lock hangs off the door.

She screams, she yells, she spends 45 minutes pointing out my flaws, my failures, my faults.

Her roommates do no intervene. They know me, know my intentions. If anything, they are glad, but most likely indifferent.

Different squares of a chessboard. Moves look different from A6.

After this the puking begins, the reason I had to break the door in the first place.

I provide trashcan, tissues, body warmth, as requested.

Sleep comes for one.

But not before she tells me she wants to die.

Not just now but in general.

I tear up.

I leave.

I smoke cigarettes with a past lover. One of two propositioned.

It stops there. As intended. It is processing. Mixing. Schema shifting.

It is a gray day when no randomly picked The National song seems to fit the bill.

I miss home.

I miss everyone from home.

I feel disowned, disregarded, irrelevant.

4 a.m. and I doubt I will sleep soon.

Even roommates drift. Imposed maturity, in the form of distance. How often does this happen?

Rhetorical.

(no subject)

I lie in bed
Or is it a coffin
It feels more like a coffin

Not altogether unpleasant
Just very still
I push my legs together and cross my hands

I try not to cry

I sink downwards
Hoping for a prick a poke
A tube of fluid a needle of @!#%!

Guitar riffs and movie clips
Someone singing somewhere
I would like them not to stop

(no subject)

The Statue Garden

It is August but the leaves have begun to fall. My feet crackle like static on the streets of my old neighborhood. I am walking my dog in a land that is now more familiar to her than to me. She leads me by the cord that runs through my left hand and around my right. I pass many familiar houses, and many that never managed to leave a mark in my memory. I remember the house with the garage, where there are always more cars parked, and the garage is filled with middle aged men discussing car repairs while respectively surrounding an old Charger. Today the garage has three younger persons inside, none of which can be above the age of twenty five. They smoke cigarettes and discuss the Olympics, which is being shown on a tv in the corner of the garage. I avert my eyes and try to dodge what is forming as a vision of things possibly to come. I see three people, in a garage, smoking cigarettes next to what is now a much older Charger. The tv has never been turned off, and ash sits ankle deep on the ground and sternum high in the lungs.
My walk continues and I pass a break in the houses, where the wood that surrounds my neighborhood encroaches upon the street. It makes its presence known with a slight path through the trees to the creek beyond, and then protects its inner sanctum with thorn bushes and hanging branches. It is nighttime now, and I can’t see beyond a few feet from where the trees begin. Phantoms of the past, shades of my friends and I rush through the clearing shouting and hacking at foes and villains, winning historic battles until the man who lives next door yells about the damage to his trees. I remember feeling poorly about fighting the branches, but a bit surprised by an older mans immediate anger. I think about taking a crack at the nearest oak, sure that the noise would bring the man bursting from his door. He is a troll in this vision, hairs in his ears, demanding payment for the path forward.
A few houses onward, in one of the houses I never had reason enough to remember, I can see a woman through the window. She does not move in the 20 seconds that I stare, her senses captivated by the tv that stands taller than she does. While thinking of this permanence, I notice her dog behind the glass front door, sitting completely motionless, its’ senses captivated by my dog and I as we walk by. I wonder what dead emperor or king they are ready to defend, worshiping other gods all the while.
I pass a street I do not recognize. It bends quickly and has no street lights. It is impossible to see more than a few hundred feet down the street, but there seems to be no way that it can connect to any other street in the neighborhood. It is simply in the wrong place. I hear a large booming bark coming what is presumably the other end, an outlet somewhere, or just a dead end.
My dog follows a large orange moon, and leads me back to familiar territory. I think of the neighborhood as a whole, and I realize that there is growth here, even where it is hard to see. There is attempted permanence, there is much decay, but there is change and rebirth as well. The forests move the streets, encroaching on houses and wrapping vines around those happy just to stay in one place.

(no subject)

There is a point where self-discovery and learning becomes self-indulgence, intellectual masturbation.

The solution dwells in application, but too many pretentious pubes never make it to this step.

And if knowledge is pointless, I would rather spend my time with an idiot that lives life well.

For that is the true art, living life well. Helping others, keeping upbeat and happy and ignoring the demons of blame, hatred, jealousy, anger, depression etc.

Fucking hard at times.

I bought a bicycle the other day. It was a much needed purchase. Now I just need a cheap sailboat I can fix up.

The east coast blanches in the summer heat. People, streets, trees all look the same. The vomit of the earth.

But today it is pleasantly cool in my living room in New Brunswick. I am not even sweating!

The other day, while in an altered state, our landlord came by to complain about rent. Or, to be precise, the lack thereof. He has a face like a mountain, and this is not an exaggeration.

Fissures and peaks, little forests of hair in his ears.

I would like to travel again this summer, and need to go camping at least once more.

Ranger danger.

Back from Ireland

A firework.

There is nothing. Still silence accompanies the lack of expectation. Ethereal and unnecessary, unwanted or bleakly anticipated.
A spark. A blaze. Instant outward expansion, explosive creation of chaos. Worlds and galaxies come into being, peak and begin to fizzle. Cultures and societies reach fantastic levels of development before burning out into nothing. But still the flares from the center push outward.
The entire works of western culture contained in a spot, a deviation from the void. As the flame begins to fade from this individual out shoot, the denizens scream and fight to personify the initial flash, to ensure that it will come again and the flame will continue to burn.
And still other sparks fly around them, and themselves return to nothing.
The firework has finished. Others may whirl around it, but they have no consequence on this space in the brightly lit sky.
The crowd politely applauds, sending off the deceased with echoes to their own thunder.


I like little exercises like this. I spend about ten minutes doing something of this nature.

I am returning to NJ tomorrow, or possibly the next day. There I will begin a jogging routine in the morning, followed by intensive writing during the normal working hours afterwards.
I am aware of my strengths and weaknesses, of the (most likely) pointlessness of such an endeavor, but here I am am. What the hell.

You remind me of home

I sit in a recliner at my parent's house in bowie. I returned yesterday, and am staying until next Friday. I am getting my wisdom teeth out Thursday, and hopefully I will see friends before Friday when I leave for Ireland with the family.

Living in this house makes me fall into such a stagnant routine. I don't see people very often, they all live far away and never come out to bowie, and I never do anything exciting with my days. I just bum around the house, then hang with my parents and watch tv at night.

Which is alright. I like spending time with my parents the people as opposed to my parents the strangers. Getting older adjusts that relationship in a favorable way.

But I can't do it for too long. Wisdom teeth, Ireland, back to New Jersey.

I had started to second guess my decision to pay rent to stay in New Jersey without having found a job. But coming back reminded me that everyone in Bowie is somewhere else, and that I rarely see them except to drink.
They have their own lives, after all.

But that said, hang out with me Maryland kids who read this. I have already told you of my interest to do so. And I will miss you this summer. Come visit.