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[10 Jul 2003|02:49pm] this is simply what it says to me. [&]

[02 May 2003|11:19pm] [ music | blackness, at the time, if you get my drift. ] & it is in some way related to me. the whole island is relevant & struggling for masterpiece but it doesn't realize how much masterpiece it loses every time a string is plucked & i'm not plucking strings, i'm running five finger marathons (note to self-- not a multitasker) & punishing falsified cow hide five times a week not in repentance but it repugnance of whatever crowds every fiber of my being (repugnance being only one, i think). [&]

[02 May 2003|03:33pm] [ music | a minor forest - jacking off george lucas. ] note to self-- never start a story with "i" or an empirical theory on "how things seem." [&]

[27 Apr 2003|02:50pm] [ music | fugazi - rend it. ] at the hotel there was a fish in the vase on our table &, being a little high on whatever, i dumped him in a cup & took him home. i gave lizza the flowers. she rubbed me & kissed me on the cheek a lot that night. beyonce knowles is number one on her list of people to kill because of what she did to carmen. i don't remember saying goodbye, though i probably would have if she were attractive or not so crazy because i'm shallow like that. i remember telling her that i read carmen but i've never seen it & she said but it's an opera & i said yeah but i read it & she said in french? & i said, no. when i got home i searched for papers, found none, smoked a bowl or three, listened to godspeed you black emperor (because i am indie supreme) & fed the fish pieces of a hamburger bun. today i bought him a tank-type thing & some food... he won't eat it & it falls on top of his head. i think i'm going to use one of my neglected band name ideas to name him. i even made experiments! is a really good one. i stole it from dostoevsky. i've got an anorexic fish i call "experiments" (for short) who wears his food as a hat & band practice in a studio on kamehameha hwy tonight. is that human enough? [3 .| &]

[26 Apr 2003|12:05pm] [ music | the thermals need drugs just to stay alive. ] nate: (looking at one of my party of helicopters records) what's this? brian: it's like... indie stuff... nate: yeah? west indies? it's no joke, kids. [2 .| &]

[27 Mar 2003|08:40pm] [ music | appleseed cast - portrait. ] i took a hard one to the mouth and as i went down i kept my head tilted up. the sky was kind of blue still and the stars were streaked as i started gaining speed. i cupped my left ear with my right hand and hit the ground. thwarting the apparition but causing some damage to my knuckles i gave him a good one in the stomach. it was a good clean punch, he was wearing a white shirt and i could see the marks from each knuckle. with an elbow to the back of his head i knocked his doubled-over figure to the ground and kicked him in the side as he reached toward me. then i took his hand. he grabbed the bottle, sprang to his feet, and let me have it right over the head. the bastard even took it out of its paper bag so it would do some damage. i was out after that. most of this is just what i was told, but i remember stars and his stained shirt. no one had to tell me he took the bottle out of the bag. i figured i was bleeding to death when i awoke in a puddle by the side of the road. he was sitting on the curb drinking from another bottle and i told him with a lot of breathing and groaning, "you should have told me you intended to kill me." he poured some whiskey on my head and i sat up, realizing i was simply wading in rain water and probably some piss. the gash on the top of my head burned like fuck and i told him so, sitting beside him and taking the bottle. he was not amused. i still had both my ears so he hadn't won. he must have known this. i'm sure he stood over me a time or two with a gleam in his eye, an idea in his head and a knife in his hand (maybe he left it in his sock though). i stood up, kicked him in the stomach, and said, this time without so much groaning and breathing, "let's walk." standing up, he delivered a damn good uppercut and i was almost proud when i picked myself up from the ground so i put my arm over his shoulder and grabbed the bottle. the street was narrow with brick buildings to our left and a chain fence to our right. and we walked. it's entirely possible that i am mentally unstable but in a kind of new way. i call it goghphobia. we must've somehow made it back to ala moana from waikiki because i woke up in the trench-like parking lot of this abandoned strip club that has all kinds of crazy sea creatures painted on the outside. it gives off a very blue feeling if that makes any sense. it does make sense if you think i'm talking about b.c. rich but i'm talking about the color. the neon sign is even still there but it's red or some variation of red. i've never seen it lit up so it could be orange or pink but it looks red. in any case my head was still stinging when i woke up and i felt to make sure my ears were still there. my goghphobia is entirely irrational because i feel that ears are quite useless. two holes on the sides of my head would be just fine, but instead we have these elaborate flaps which i can describe as nothing other than a congregation of flesh. ears make me uneasy because i feel that they have a hidden agenda. all this distrust must mean i love them. imagine it -- me, alone on my back in that tiny parking lot with my ear fetish and burning cranial hole. but that's enough of that. i visited greg in waipahu because i knew he had some vicodin but he has a really shitty apartment and it depressed me so i told him i had to go take a piss (there is no bathroom in his apartment) and i didn't come back. instead i caught a bus to the shipping docks where i spent the rest of the day. "the rest of the day" wasn't much, actually, i had left greg's apartment just before evening. the gigantic hangars and moored ships entirely blacked out the moon so it was completely dark save for the reflection on the water but even that was inconsistent, more like rippling highlights but you couldn't even tell it was water there. dylan came by a few hours after it got dark like that. i saw the moonlight on the bottle of jack he had with him and he saw it on my glasses. "fancy the quay, do you?" this was the third time this week he'd found me there. he was drunk and romantic. always with a bottle. he yelled with his arms out, spinning, "just imagine it, man!" he thought he had it all fucking figured out. he thought i had it all figured out, too, and didn't need to explain himself. he thought i'd been imagining it. i don't buy it, not for a second. i don't trust him anyway, when he gets a few drinks in him he thinks he's a poet and that's enough to make anyone uneasy. i didn't even feel like fighting him, though my head had numbed. i told him he was wrong and he sat crosslegged on the ground, he didn't understand but he didn't say so because he knew i wouldn't explain. i threw him for a loop and explained. i told him, "what you should say, man, is 'remember it.' just fucking remember it." this was too much. he hadn't expected it and hadn't wanted it though i think he understood now. he took his shirt off and jumped in the water. last time he did that i had to drag the wino son of a bitch out but this time i just threw in one of those life saver floating ring things in the hope that he would save himself. i started to walk away, considered taking the bottle, then considered my liver and left it. then i turned around and dove in to drag that wino son of a bitch out. i left him on the wooden planked ground and changed into his shirt, leaving mine beside him. he vomited and passed out. hell, at least he didn't pass out in it. he had won that night. does that mean i lost? i don't think so, but i took the whiskey with me anyway. a few days later i visited greg again. we were laying on the thatched roof of his apartment building and he told me that dylan had come by earlier and eaten an entire sheet of blotter, "he was going apeshit, man, he pissed in the fireplace..." greg doesn't have a fireplace but he kept talking so i left him that way and he must have noticed because he started talking louder -- i could hear him still when i got downstairs. i went back to the docks and found dylan. he was drunken and looking sober. "i've a cannibal living in my mouth," he said. the cigarette resting on his lower lip fell on his right thigh. he recognized me. he didn't recognize me as me, but he recognized me as someone and that was a start. and at least he wasn't drunk. i plucked the cigarette from his lap. "two points," i said, and took a drag. i looked him straight in the eye. not really straight, though, because he wasn't looking at me. "what day is it?" "thursday." he always seems to know what day it is, but i don't know if he's right or wrong... it all seems to match up and he never says "i don't know," so i take his word for it. it's not that important anyway. if it's really wednesday, i won't be living a lie. i hadn't quit smoking yet that week. i try to quit at least once a week. i finished the cigarette and with all the disgust i could muster i threw it in the water. "i'm through with this filthy stinking habit." i took the pack out of his coat pocket and put a cigarette in his mouth and one in mine. i didn't light his. "and so are you, man, you can't get around like you used to." he was either sleeping or dead now. i didn't get the impression that he was dead so i put him over my shoulder and took him to sergio's. sergio came to the door in a towel about five minutes after i knocked. smoke flooded out of the doorway and i saw two attractive girls in blue bathrobes taking bong hits, lying on an enormous bean bag chair. i told him that dylan was a little out of his head and needed a place to stay. "is he dead?" he was listless again... most of the way there he was screaming about firesticks and headlight rape. "maybe." "goddam i'm having um a little get together see you can see but just put him in the bathroom you know, throw him in the bath tub but don't turn the water on, it doesn't work anyway and the pipes might explode and he'd just drown himself anyway, i can't afford to flood the basement again..." sergio has a high voice and is so expressive with his hands when he talks that i had to step back to give him room to orchestrate. i put dylan in the bathroom and when i came back out the two girls were watching woody woodpecker, i could hear his laugh from upstairs. sergio was nowhere to be found so i told one of the girls who i recognized somehow to tell him i said thanks. they were watching the show dubbed in spanish and they laughed as the buzzard guy ran straight into a wall. i trusted the girl mostly but left a note on the door just in case. at the pink cadillac i found gabrielle working, she told me that sergio called yesterday, he was looking for me and sounded pissed but she couldn't understand him, there was too much screaming in the background, she was worried that someone was getting murdered at first but she heard giggling too and decided it wasn't that important and didn't know how to get in touch with me anyway. she said "i'm gonna take a break come on let's get some food and go down to the river." i nodded and told her to let me finish my drink first. after a few minutes i took it with me. she grabbed a bottle of wine and we left. we were there for hours and when it got dark we took our clothes off and swam, i took the bottle and a sandwich in with me and when we got out we put our clothes on and walked down to the abandoned part of town where there are whole blocks of empty shops and we climbed a fire escape and laid down on the top of an apartment building. it was a weird building, almost like the center of it was missing, there was a huge column of space in the middle of it and there were windows on the sides of the walls. we threw rocks at them. it looked like a fortress but now most of the windows were broken so it didn't look like a very safe one. the water had made my head start bleeding again and she noticed that my hair was dark and matted and asked what happened. i avoided the question. "i've been trying to stay drunk all week but i don't have any money." reminded of the booze i picked up the empty bottle of wine and threw it at one of the unbroken windows. i missed and the bottle shattered on the wall beside it. she often forgets what she's worrying about when i do that. change the subject, i mean. not throw bottles. that might work too, though. she would be off on her own tangent soon anyway. "what do you think of thanksgiving?" she threw a small rock and it bounced off the glass. "terrible." i threw a bigger one at the same window, broke it. "yeah." and then she screamed. i threw a pebble at her mouth but hit her cheek. we were pretty far apart. after that it was quiet. "doesn't it feel better when it gets quiet? it almost makes all the noise worth it." i can't stand it when people say things like that to me. "what do you have?" she took out a prescription bottle filled with assorted pills. i took the prettiest ones and went to sleep. dylan was talking with a pistol in his mouth and i couldn't understand him. it was one of those classy six-shooter russian roulette style guns. this was an odd scene to be had in the living room of gabrielle's house, there were windows all over the place and the sun was brighter than it had ever been and all her furniture was white and glowing and so was she. he was screaming but i had no idea what he was saying. gabrielle was sitting on the floor on the other side of the room in a nightgown, not looking at me or at him but between us. i could tell he was saying "you" and "me" a lot, but i don't know what he could have been blaming me for and i figured i was wrong until he finally took the gun out of his mouth just in time for me to hear a clearly defined "you" and he tried to point it at me but he missed and shot out a window. the bullet came damned close to my ear i think. he started to point it back towards his face but i jumped on him and slammed his hand to the ground. he fired twice and the bullets went through the couch and i was shocked to find that the couch cushions were filled with feathers. now i was sitting on the chest of this squirming coked-up armed madman and looking at gabrielle who was also stoned i think but i couldn't help thinking as white and brown feathers floated down over just her like she had her own special stormcloud, jesus fuck, what a beautiful girl, and she's got a white couch with feather-stuffed cushions and i'm sure someone is in love with her (though i later found out that this wasn't even her house, it was her friend's parents' house but they were island hopping, probably in maui right about now but she was still very beautiful and i'm sure someone still loved her, i forgot all about the pillows eventually). dylan was sweating insanely and i finally got the goddamned revolver out of his grasp. he was still squirming and struggling to break free so i hit him in the face with the butt end of it. i think i broke his nose and it was bleeding and swelling and that was the last time i ever saw him. unconscious with a broken face. we waited a while until we thought he had sobered up and we took him to the hospital. i spent the next three days in that house with her. eventually she said "maybe you should leave" and i nodded. we slept in the same room but i was on the floor and i could hear her fucking guys (maybe the same guy though) practically every night and i never saw a single face, i could only tell who was on top by the positioned silhouette. maybe she was fucking guys who loved her. i loved her, too, sometimes, when there was enough to drink. but i really did love her when she told me to get out. i told her so and she said "i don't love you, though, not even when i'm drunk. and you know it." i told her, "of course i know it, hell, that's the only reason why..." and the bottom line is, i was out on my ass again because i didn't pull my weight. but i didn't fuck her and it's strange how it all always somehow boils down to that. [22 .| &]

[14 Mar 2003|06:44pm] [ music | the john wilkes kissing booth. ] thought, for hegel, recognizes things themselves. there is no thing "in itself," lying unknowably beyond thought, not even god. on the contrary, as we read in our text, we not only have the possibility, we have the duty of knowing him. for if the laws of logic and those of reality belong together as two aspects of the same process, then logic is at the same time a doctrine of reality, or ontology. and the principles of logic, or categories, are at the same time those of reality. the logical categories are the laws of the world, and the laws of the world are the logical categories. arrived at this point, hegel needed to take but one step to regard reality itself as the thought of a thinker, and the whole system of the world as a theology. the divine thinker thinks the world; his thought is at the same time the world and the process of his thinking the world process. the laws of logic as those of the divine mind are Reason. since they are at the same time those of the world, all that is real is rational and all that is rational is real. also, since the divine thought progresses according to its own laws, which are the laws of the world, all that is must be and all is as it ought to be. -- robert s hartman, introduction to reason in history by georg wilhelm friedrich hegel. [3 .| &]

all of a sudden people start talkin bout guns like they're going to war... [14 Mar 2003|04:11pm] [ mood | thank you, stevie. ] [ music | against me! - those anarco punx are mysterious... ] so, then people do come here in order to live; i would sooner have thought one died here. i have been out. i saw: hospitals. i saw a man who swayed and sank to the ground. people gathered round him, so i was spared the rest. i saw a pregnant woman. she was pushing herself cumbrously along a high, warm wall, groping for it now and again as if to convince herself it was still there. yes, it was still there ... the street began to smell from all sides. a smell, so far as one could distinguish, of iodoform, of the grease of pommes frites, of fear. all cities smell in summer. then i saw a curiously purblind house; it was not to be found on the map, but above the door there stood, still fairly legible: asyle de nuit. beside the entrance were the prices. i read them. the place was not expensive. and what else? a child in a standing baby carriage. it was fat. greenish, and had a distinct eruption on its forehead. this was evidently peeling as it healed and did not hurt. the child slept, its mouth was open, breathing iodoform, pommes frites and fear. it was simply like that. the main thing was, being alive. that was the main thing. -- rainer maria rilke. the notebooks of malte laurids brigge. [5 .| &]

[05 Mar 2003|01:35pm] [ music | janie always said i was a mess, i'm sorry about this mess. ] the crumpled dollar bill on the table was mine. the crisply folded one & scattered change were maria's donations. from the kitchen: "do you like rice crispy treats? apples? capri sun?" yeah, sure, sure. i didn't understand & put three quarters in my pocket. she came out with a ziplock bag full of snacks for me, "i love you, you know, fucker" & a hug as i sat slumped over her kitchen table but straightened up a little bit & felt like an asshole. i should probably go. "yes, get out of here. do you have cigarettes? i've got a little bit of weed if you want it." yes, maybe half a pack, no, keep it, i'll be all right. a smile out the door. i smoked two cigarettes at the bus stop & the rest when i got to the mall, on my back on a bench inside & ashes fell on my cheeks sometimes. when it closed i started walking & bought more cigarettes from an oriental lady in a small run-down convenience store just across from the coffee factory where i poured two cups of water & drank them outside in an alley between it and the building behind. i read rilke in the park, generously sipping from the bottle of jack daniels i had pocketed to help me sleep. like a true poet, motherfucker. a poet without poetry. in my pocket were pieces of paper that had accumulated over the course of the day, a sentence on each. most were about mistakes and the periods ending them i made as big as the letters themselves to prove that there was nothing else i could say, if anyone even glanced at them the first thing they would notice is that there's simply nothing more to be said. there were two that said i miss you & only one was in my handwriting. the other began with ellipses & was serving as my ashtray. i burned through the loops in the letters that had them. it was my poetry. performance poetry with a pack of reds. i ate an apple & laid on my back placing my backpack under my head. asleep. bum groping my ass when i awoke on my side with my safetypin earlobes bleeding, he was fondling the wallet in my back pocket & i turned over on my back. hey man, fuck off, i know you're just trying to get by but so am i man. he fucked off & i stuck my wallet in the front of my pants. eyes closed all the while. two days later i caught a ride home & took a hot shower though i was sweating when i got there. it was hot enough to make me dizzy when i turned the water off & i held onto the shower curtain rod for the love of god as if god showered in the same bathroom i did & when the dizziness passed i attempted a pullup on the rod but it broke & i fell in the tub. now bleeding from the right temple & dizzy again i stumbled naked out the door & laid on the couch as god, naked with a towel slung over his shoulder (he was always naked) walked into the steam-leaking bathroom & i said, i used all the hot water, you fuck, & he said, "man, can a guy take a shit around here without getting hassled by some two-bit asshole like yourself?" closed the door. i yelled at the closed white door, you're paying the rent this month & i'm not calling you god anymore, man, i'm sick of your shit, i'm going to start calling you earl. i fell off the couch & saw the damage i had caused to it. i was on my right side again on the floor & he said through the door, "fuck you, man, i haven't gotten paid this month." i knew that that was a lie but he knew damn well that the landlady wouldn't take a few souls for the room. he walked out of the bathroom with that look in his eye & i crawled under the table. [12 .| &]

uh oh, alliteration police. [27 Feb 2003|03:26pm] [ music | kill your cats & eat their ovaries. ] join the swim team if you love your country, god likes a man with a flag and a gun and a good throwing arm, i mean a real good throwing arm, understand? understand that in my dreams i'm figuratively finger fucking everyone, there are boxes behind doors and coats on hangers. in my dreams i'd rather be dead and there's a place i can go where they’ll say, hey, bub, in your dreams. [1 .| &]

[20 Feb 2003|09:41pm] this used to say something different. [8 .| &]

[17 Feb 2003|12:44pm] [ music | minus the bear - hey, wanna throw up? get me naked. ] brian h: how is jessica? brian y: i don't know. brian h: man i think she likes the cock. brian y: haha. brian y: yeah. [1 .| &]

[06 Jan 2003|04:03pm] [ music | shake ray turbine. ] "this is 'ode to jack.' four dogs went to the wilderness, only three came back. two dogs died from guinea worm, the other died from you, jack kerouac. well jack was not innocent. he ran over dogs. just think of it man." -- hunter s thompson. [3 .| &]

long time ago. [05 Jan 2003|12:11pm] [ music | i recall the sweetest dreams but red wine helps them fade. ] when i got there maria was leaning against a car, talking to a girl sitting against the side of the building. the girl was so skinny and as i later found out half samoan but i only thought my god how frail... "this is melissa," she said, and melissa stuck out her hand. "brian." shook it with a smile. melissa said her sister was in pearl ridge and we had to go pick her up because melissa was going drinking and her sister was the designated driver. we got in the car, melissa driving, me in the back, maria riding shotgun. melissa handed me a bag and said "do you drink?" sliding down, look on your face... "yes." "you can drink this if you want then, just save me half." i pulled a bottle of jack daniels out of the bag and opened it. we got out at safeway so maria could get some nailpolish, all night she was saying "i feel so naked without nailpolish!" and melissa said "did you drink some?" "yeah but just a few sips, i don't want to get drunk all alone in the backseat you know, ha, ha" but when we got in the car i found that almost half the bottle was gone and i drank some more. her sister's name was nancy and she was pretty and she asked me simple interview questions the same way melissa had, which amused me. "where are you from? where do you go to school?" and even "when is your birthday?" i gave her simple interview answers and hoped i didn't reek of whiskey, i hoped she didn't notice me drinking when she looked away. slide down face, it was getting blurry... good, good. we went to the coffee factory but the show there was boring so we headed over to the pink cadillac as everything was ending but i got to take twelve gallon piss number two of the night and when i came back joe had bought another even bigger bottle of jack daniels so again we were in the car, nancy driving, melissa riding shotgun, maria in the back and me out of my fucking head, drinking whiskey and thinking oh this is grand and melissa said "let's sleep on the beach sometime! i slept on moana loa one time with some friends but the bums took all the good spots so we had to get some cardboard from a dumpster and sleep on the sand let's do it sometime" and i thought oh this is grand and said "we can beat the bums up, they haven't eaten in days they're weak" and oh this is grand. slide face something or other, we came up to my house and i got out but poked my head in, "thanks for the ride and the everything and sorry about the thing at the gate but thanks i'll see you again definitely maybe next week yes yes goodnight..." [1 .| &]

word of the year for 2003: ambiguous. [04 Jan 2003|01:48am] [ music | planes mistaken for stars. ] "he looked at his wrist-watch: nearly midday. he would telephone her and make it absolutely clear that she was under no obligation whatsoever to visit him if she didn't wish to. or, better, he would be greatly obliged if she would cease to visit him altogether. 'leave me alone' he wanted to say, 'with my disease and my bilabial fricative.' and then he saw that that, of course, wouldn't do at all. moreover, the task of finding copper to make the telephone call would be, he foresaw, wearisome. let it go, he decided." anthony burgess. the doctor is sick. [&]

don't think this means anything. [03 Jan 2003|01:35am] i get this image of you hungrily and eagerly lurching towards the tylenol, wide-eyed and feasting upon handfuls with the bottle turned upside down. i get this image of you with two sides. this image of him sliding your underwear down and the expression on your face. this image of you in the dark with a butcherknife and roastbeef wrists and sometimes after i hang up the phone i cry really, really hard. no sir, no i don't sleep a whole lot at night and no sir, no i don't eat a whole lot these days and yes sir, yes i'm feeling pretty tired and yes sir, yes i'm losing some weight but this is all when i'm awake do you see now? i'm having trouble, i'm having a lot of trouble these days, do you see now? [1 .| &]

[02 Jan 2003|08:25pm] [ music | i hope when you wake up all your friends are dead. ] Am i looking for: you told me long ago that plath should be shot in your backyard and buried there. hands underwater: hahahahahaha. hands underwater: did i? Am i looking for: yes. hands underwater: that's awesome. hands underwater: i'm so cool. i really am. and i want all of you to know this. [2 .| &]

i love all of you. [02 Jan 2003|01:01pm] [ music | till never begins or till forever ends. ] i live like a diseased person now. like i'm allergic to the sun. which means i follow a strict pattern, have to keep occupied by 1) turning the music up until it's just noise noise noise 2) read a book all damned night, strain to focus through the music 3) write about the exact thing i'm supposed to be forgetting & shit! i've ruined it. when i walk by the oven now i think of sylvia plath, namely her head and namely inside the oven. & don't treat me like a fucking child. i'm a veteran to this sort of thing. a VETERAN. why are you doing this? why are you doing this to me... it's all about me. gather everything i've ever written and count the i 's and </i>me</i>'s. you'd be FLABBERGASTED. or maybe you've already noticed. last night i heard the planes again. maybe it means something? [&]

[01 Jan 2003|01:30am] [ music | said i'm done feeling like a skeleton. ] it's one thirty but fireworks are still spontaneously going off outside. at least i think they're fireworks. they sound like bombs and they very well could be but i think there would be some sort of alarm that goes off when that happens. when people start dropping bombs on us, i mean. and i don't hear planes, so i think it's okay. i'm amazed by how easily my thumb meets my forefinger when i wrap them around my wrist, that never happened before but it makes me happy -- thin wrists are something i've always admired though i know it's a loathsome quality in me. the book i'm reading is 463 pages long but it shouldn't be... i don't know why heller says half the things he does and i don't know why i say half the things i do. update: 1:41 am, i hear planes now. [&]

you said big no. [30 Dec 2002|07:47pm] [ music | we share a popular disease. ] sleeping when the phone rang. it was jordan and i didn't answer it but it rang and rang and then THIS again. i pulled on a pair of pants and checked the mail. three books came in today which means a good two days of solace. needing a good wash but too tired to stand in the shower i took a long bath reading a book so that i wouldn't fall asleep & drown myself or go insane ranting about benny ben benjamin that flowerstomping fiercelygroping smallprick thug bastard and drown myself. i read that book the whole goddamned day. near the end of it i almost cried & almost couldn't remember the last few paragraphs & almost began to fall asleep, eyes even closing until suddenly BED? FLOOR? LIGHT? DARK? BIGGER? NAKED? ORGASM? ORGASM?? ORGASM??? and oh, hell. undressing and heading for the shower and thinking i should do something i won't handle this like you would handle this i already don't know which end is up... & i don't really give a shit about my OWN memories, "i want to feel you inside me" blah blah blah. who knows, it may keep someone up at night. all i know is i slept like a goddamned baby back then. and YOU. stop pretending there's something fucking noble about it. you know where that got me? on my back in the grass, you cocksucker. but that was oh so long ago. [&]

[30 Dec 2002|06:17pm] [ music | i'm watching a sunken ship. ] "the little she'd said was enough to kill any hopes i'd had that it was all a mistake, and now i didn't want to hear any more. the sooner i could get her out of here, the better." hunter thompson. the rum diary. [&]

[30 Dec 2002|02:10am] [ music | savannah beach, georgia. (ha, ha.) ] vaudeville. insult to injury. embarrassed. mirror shame. glasses vibrate - head on chest, she hated my heartbeat. (NW summer) 138-125??? T/F fill in blank. your denial my ??????. haunted - perfect word. theory: vindictive sex = sleep like baby? i wish. "no one holds a grudge like me." skip hemingway pages. you same to me? three words. ??????? as variable. "eight eyes pin the best parts. then, with an infuriating ho-hum affectation of zero interest, four hands reach for two breasts." (w. burroughs jr, speed/kentucky ham p335) chicken context, but still... connotation is you & bad crowd... users & abusers, mainly you the victim. i'm no criminal stay away you wouldn't like it. it could be another story about the same damned thing i've been saying for years. but i'm just going to leave my notes this way. hell, write your own story. [&]

[29 Dec 2002|02:14pm] [ music | she's not the only lonely sleeper. ] "1944 were Burroughs in New York. It sucked fascinates the sounds of the Hot jazz in itself up and worked, its inheritance it in the meantime had squandered, when chamber hunter, an occupation carries in the American one the plastic name ' Exterminator ' and as title for one 1966 book published held, in whom it this time processed. In the year ' 44 fell also its acquaintance with Herbert Huncke, a smallcriminal, fixer and Stricher of the Times Square, which made it and its friends Ginsberg and Kerouac with this urbanen jungle familiar. Huncke was it also, the Burroughs on its express desire the first shot set. That may tune everything, shows however above all one: William S. Burroughs was a master of the Selbstinzenierung." da dum. [&]

[28 Dec 2002|07:50pm] [ music | don't you know the same thing almost happened to me. ] and supposing one were a great writer, a secret shakespeare of the pillow night? or really so -- a baudelaire's poem is not worth his grief -- his grief -- (it was mardou finally said to me, "i would have preferred the happy man to the unhappy poem's he's left us," which i agree with and i am baudelaire, and love my brown mistress and i too leaned to her belly and listened to the rumbling underground)-- -- jack kerouac. the subterraneans. [2 .| &]

[28 Dec 2002|01:03pm] [ music | it's 1989, stand up and take a look around. ] i called steve and said hey man let's skip the record store tonight let's just get drunk and go to the show tonight how about it? so he got a ride from adam and he came inside and i handed him a glass. we got drunk off raspberry liquor and bacardi and watched tv as birds crashed into the windows behind us. birds are constantly flying into the windows while i'm watching tv. when we got there justin was smoking a hashpipe in the parking lot and just looked at me and laughed as i gave him a thumbs up like he could actually see it. justin doesn't talk when he's stoned but i said hi anyway like he could actually hear it. he stopped laughing and nodded once. maria was late as usual. she finally came in as the first band was finishing up and josh, the lead singer/boy of the week, was walking through the door with his ex-flame who doesn't live here anymore but is visiting because she's going to move back here soon. there was a girl named shirley or sally sitting next to me and she was drunk and said you can see what you're looking at but you can't look what you're seeing at it makes sense if you really think about it you know? i said no, i don't know, maybe you should stop drinking and i was getting irritated but she just laughed and fell back on her friend whose name i've completely forgotten. i left after the last band's first song and when i got home dana was drunk off cognac and said the snow's all ugly when it hits the street but i'm the snow i'm the snow don't you see? at the time i couldn't see all too well but i said i see, i see, i see. & that seems to be the case with most things lately. [2 .| &]

[26 Dec 2002|05:50am] all you need is love, love is all you need. [1 .| &]

godspeed, indiana jellybean. [25 Dec 2002|10:42pm] [ music | give me back my pictures of me. ] this isn't as serious as it seems. you're going to apply that statement to something that's very serious to me but i am not going to be specific. anyone else reading this now is going to stop reading this soon because i am not going to tell a story. rather, i'm not going to tell the story. i can't. it hurts to a ridiculous extent. so this is a story about unimpressive phone calls that won't change a goddamned thing no matter how much i try to pretend. i don't even begin to pretend. that's how good i'm getting at this sort of thing. i grabbed a bowl of cherries and stood over the trash can, looked at the cat. my cat sits on top of the washing machine all goddamned day like he's more alone than me. "cat stevens," i say, "you've got a lot to learn, bud. no one's more alone than me." and he yawns. he yawns like he's heard it all before. sadly, he has. because i say the same goddamned thing to my cat all the time. and i spit out a cherry pit. and i think: am i doomed? are you lying to me? are you cornering me? do you want to kill me? spit. i think i just want to protect you but i'm never going to actually tell you that. can i say something about my heart without being trite? YOU KILLED MINE ANYWAY SO I GUESS IT DOESN'T MATTER. spit. ha, ha. spit. ha. it's all just a big joke because i'm full of shit. it means whatever the hell you think it means because i refuse to be specific. when i give in and tell you what i'm talking about it will be an explanation full of shit and you'll believe me. that's how good i'm getting at this sort of thing. [10 .| &]

[25 Dec 2002|01:26pm] [ music | he's gonna start a waaaaaaaar. ] "i think sum of da reviews i read so far arnt doin justice for dis cd . .hey itz a mad cd , i admit bands lyk slik shoes r more pop den punk but most ov da song on dis r punkas n itz hard 2day 2 b a christen punk band n get ne credit . .wit biga bands lyk relient k gettin all da attention in da pop world n makin most ppl think dats da extent ov christen punk . . 2 every christen band punk or rock we all look up 2 u down ere in aus . .so keep on rockin dudes m/ dont give up gods der man" from www.punkreviews.com. [2 .| &]

ben. benny ben benjamin. [23 Dec 2002|03:25am] [ music | i know a girl who sells herself around. ] conflicts left unresolved tonight. you're still a song to me but now a song about something else and i don't ever want to listen again. now i've got a guitar with new strings, i've got a song in mind and her phone number is somewhere, i can find it. screaming someone else's song tonight, just like him but a little different from what he did. this is so important and i've made it into something about songs. something about fucking songs and not girls who lie like music & boys who burn like vinyl. was it fucking special for you? you said special fucking isn't something important, for you. just don't talk to me about love. don't ever, ever bring it up. his name is louder and i don't even know it. his name is fucking deafening. ( combined three related entries to conserve space! ) [3 .| &]

[21 Dec 2002|11:28pm] [ music | just another crowd. we need a gathering instead. ] what sorrow for a saturday night! thirtysome people scattered in a parking lot and i'm eating gummy worms with maria, later standing alone and hoku passes by, says "hey man come stand up front can't be antisocial it's christmas you know?" big smiles. i know, i know. i'm not sad but man, hoku, we gotta do something about this place. do you feel it? bad vibes tonight. bad vibes. but man, everyone's having a good time, i'm glad i'm glad. otto made the brownies over there, i hear they're good. i don't eat that stuff myself but i'll get you one if you want. do you want one? i'm going up front anyway you know? he pulled out a cigarette tucked behind his ear, i kept my mouth shut, he put his hand on my back and we walked forward. [1 .| &]

[19 Dec 2002|03:28pm] [ music | take a guess, motherfuck. ] hey little alternative girl, said don't you wanna be my friend? you know i'm singin all my songs for you and it's all right if you don't understand! (trumpet solo) [&]

[12 Dec 2002|09:14pm] we were sitting on a bench on the ground floor of the museum of modern art in chicago. that's how impossible it was. behind us was a fountain with assorted fish and a spiraling staircase. for the third or fourth time that day we had run into a guy with thick dredlocks that just passed his shoulders. like a dream that's how impossible it was. the first time we saw him julia asked if he had any weed. (i don't smoke it, i was just along for the ride. in this particular summer i was even straight edge, otherwise i would have said give me a pack of cigarettes and we'll have a party on our hands, ha, ha, ha.) "do i look like the kind of person who would do that shit?" he said. "you just go around asking people that? talk to the kids outside the art museum." the last part with a lowered voice and laughs all around, all the way around. that wasn't why we were in the museum, it wasn't even the same museum he was talking about. we had both forgotten about it until we saw his dredlocks bobbing through the double doorway. all kinds of things upstairs boggled my mind. it was the summer before freshman year and i had no idea what to make of this abstract mumbojumbo, for lack of a better word. (believe me, i searched for a better one.) julia and i were at this point friends but a little more. one night she had come to my room, she had a lot to talk about, she had an insane mother and a craving for a boy she called trick. his name was patrick and i thought trick was a very loveless nickname, as i think all nicknames are. she never used the word love, though. she just told me about the hickeys he gave her, hickeys like bruises on her inner thighs. i never saw her inner thighs. but that night she cried on my shoulder. literally. we were on my roommate's bed and he made a joke about it later but blushed, realizing that what he had walked in on was something personal, something more important than sex. he didn't know she kissed me, though, he just knew what it was like to need something and he knew she needed something. he was muslim and taught me about it. i think that anyone who follows a religion knows what it is like to need something. the only difference was, he was following a god figure and i had a girl in my arms following a loveless boy named trick who could apparently give hickeys like none other. this is a story without pattern or meaning. it started in a museum and i backtracked to the first time she kissed me on my roommate's bed. i don't remember his name which kills me because he was a truly awesome kid. i think it started with an A. the security guard stared at us in the museum because julia looked weird. on this particular occasion she was clad in fishnet and a misfits shirt and a torn up skirt of sorts and harley davidson boots and god knows what else. but she was pretty. she wore my boots one time, though they were big. i relay the story like we were cute together but we really weren't. she cared about me as little as i cared about her. she slept next to me sometimes and though i wanted to put my arm around her, i didn't. just my stomach to her back. because we slept on our sides. because i think she cared a little less. but she wanted to see my scars. i told her razorblade stories and she said let me see them. i showed them to her and she was interested but she didn't care. i answered the door in my underwear sometimes, even, because she didn't give a shit about what my torso looked like. or my arms. or my legs. or my bare wrists or my bare face. that was nice. that was really nice. she liked my photographs though. i showed her one i took of a girl whose name i've also forgotten now, but she was sitting on the rocks beside lake michigan where you could see the city in chicago like an island, she was sitting on the rocks and writing in a notebook. i stole a black and white polaroid from behind her, one strand of hair blowing east, pointing towards the city. i called her vitamin c because her hair had so many colors in it. and her clothes were so many colors. do you remember vitamin c? you probably do. i'm never going back, though. i'd love to but i don't need the escape anymore. and this one goes out to you, A. and this one goes out to a summer that was nice. a summer that was really nice. [2 .| &]

mele kalikimaka! [10 Dec 2002|07:55pm] [ music | never ending math equation. ] so i'm making my brother an acoustic mix cd for xmas. joan of arc - what if we are not after all all destined for greatness? kind of like spitting - valentine's day is over. all-time quarterback - sock hop. modest mouse - lives. bright eyes - waste of paint. cap'n jazz - ooh do i love you (acoustic version, of course). the used - on my own. ben gibbard - dinner at eight in the suburbs. the ninth and ash project - the day you left. (local thing) dashboard confessional - hands down. the new amsterdams - that side of me. songs: ohia - goodnight lover. matt skiba - soul to keep. deathcab for cutie - 405. hot rod circuit - this is not the time or place. the lyndsay diaries - the magic in the number nineteen. hot water music - bleeder. good? bad? [10 .| &]

[09 Dec 2002|08:45pm] [ music | what if we are not after all all destined for greatness. ] i believe that spiritual people are full of shit. i hate people who say "faeries" and "vampyres." i'm in love with a beautiful girl who has a boyfriend. i am in love with a girl who must hate me for bringing this up every time. i'm feeling so sick right now that i'm drinking milk. it's disgusting but it's the best i can do. i owe things to people and i wish it was money. it's not such a glorious thing because i'm not the first she'll have seen and i'm not the first to have seen her. it's all a part of that whole selfish thing i do. i'm listening to the dismemberment plan and if you're not you just missed a song where the verse goes like this: "launched all the world’s nukes this morning hoping it would kick-start something. some of them went off course and hit the moon instead -- it was kinda pretty. hasn’t been a whole lot of looting, on the other hand, oh, it’s fucking freezing. someone on tv said something about going underground. guess we better start digging." that was the second song i've posted in a row. i worry when you know exactly what i'm saying and why i'm saying it. that's not my intention at all. to be understood? no ma'am. i am listening to something different now. this band does a lot of sampling with bird chirps and telephone rings and car horns. it's pretentious music but it's honest and it makes me feel honest too. if you're not listening to joan of arc you just missed a song that goes like this: "fingering scars over a beer. for all ten commandments and twelve steps i'll play dumb all day but the night's too long. i'm singing this in my friend's kitchen. we keep beginning again and again longing to belong to only each new beginning." i am five foot ten and weigh 128 pounds. the point of this is to describe "right now." the point of this is actually something you don't know, though. that's the point, remember? [&]

no fair, why don't you seem to care. [08 Dec 2002|10:57pm] [ mood | smithy. ] [ music | placebo. ] sweetness, sweetness i was only joking when i said i'd like to smash every tooth in your head. sweetness, i was only joking when i said by rights you should be bludgeoned in your bed. and now i know how joan of arc felt, now i know how joan of arc felt as flames rose to her roman nose and her walkman started to melt. and now i know how joan of arc felt, now i know how joan of arc felt as flames rose to her roman nose and her hearing aid started to melt. [4 .| &]

[08 Dec 2002|02:01am] [ music | unname everyone. ] it means more than ever now. at this point, your intent doesn't mean shit. again with the shaking. i sleep on the floor curled up in my jacket. and this is my sorrow. i've got friends who don't have floors, and this is my sorrow. when you're homeless everywhere is your home. i've got friends who sleep in the park and they can't even buy a goddamned pack of cigarettes. i can't buy a pack of cigarettes either. we share sorrow. it's not so big for me. this is the kind of thing i write notes to myself about. this isn't the kind of thing that makes sense to you or to me. this isn't the kind of thing that i knowingly know about. this is just the kind of thing that almost makes me cry on a saturday night. almost. [&]

[08 Dec 2002|12:06am] [ music | mindless rebellion. ] fuck you fuck you fuck you. blurry eyed because i had planned on saying something different tonight. give me a highlighter, i'll show you what's important. [&]

[06 Dec 2002|05:01pm] [ music | hassan i sabbah. ] possibly knocked up and crying. weeklong boyfriends with weak sperm and boyfriends who don't wear condoms. girls who moan with their head back and eyes closed. girls who lie to me about saying my name fucking someone else. never said my name fucking me. girls who call and call and call. and i'm the type of boy who pluralizes everything because i like to generalize. i'm the type of boy who doesn't answer the phone when i see your name. and i'll bet you're slicing yourself up right about now. and i'll bet that's not my problem. because i'm cold when it comes to you and that doesn't just mean i'm shaking. i'm shaking. so answer me this: why why why. [2 .| &]

[01 Dec 2002|10:25pm] [ music | the firebird band. ] tonight i'm reading bukowski and thinking about sorrow. girls with curly hair and girls who don't look me in the eye anymore. how many times can again happen? i put the book down often and thumb a full pack of brown-filtered cigarettes. full minus one. open, it's like a box-smile with a missing tooth. the music i'm listening to makes me feel like i need to confess. like i need to say something about love when i really don't want to when i really need to when i really shouldn't. i got up from a bed in another room to write this. i didn't know why and still don't. i had an idea, i had a story to tell, a story about lying through my teeth, and that's all i can remember, through my goddamned teeth. there are five hours between us and it doesn't seem right. that can't be what's supposed to happen. you're asleep by six o clock and i can't bring myself to eat dinner. i'm all too familiar with waiting in parking lots. this is my idea of local romance. you wouldn't understand but this is how i want it. this is a story about lying through my teeth, through my goddamned teeth. [2 .| &]

[28 Nov 2002|11:34am] [ music | the party of helicopters. ] i am anti-thankful for bastard movers who put huge gashes in my out of print party of helicopters LP. THAT MEANS VINYL. [4 .| &]

[27 Nov 2002|02:53pm] [ music | shake ray turbine. ] when i talk to her she lightly punches my stomach. holds my arm. bumps into me when we walk. it reminds me of the word "courtship" and i wonder if she thinks i'm a better kisser than noel. doubt it. "what time is the show i'm going." all in a breath. all without inquiry. she's so close i can tell she's wearing clear contacts. "eight." she's so close i can't find the time to smile, to say "o clock," to fix my sunken hunchback slouched figure before she leaves. and she leaves. and gives me one of those 1950's sitcom "way to go kiddo" shoulder punches. looks back as she walks away. i imagine she's looking back at me, but i've begun to wonder if she has secretly adopted my religious code, my watch-your-back aesopian moral philosophy. i knew i would write this and was ashamed. i looked down as i waved goodbye. [1 .| &]

[26 Nov 2002|04:43pm] [ music | mrs train. ] there was a boy with an ukelele and a girl singing. waxing hawaiian. it was chemistry and i lit a cigarette with a bunsen burner. waxing pensive. reminiscent. dreaming of curly haired girls and early nineteenth century new england, men in slouch hats in the pouring rain. i drew a face on a piece of lines paper, held it in the flame. it was a bald figure because i was still dreaming of curly hair, long as eternity when it falls, i was taking up all the hair in the world. doc came over, i threw my baby cigarette stub in the sink. "i was surprised at your grade." i'm sorry. "you had an A last quarter." i'm sorry. "now you have an F." I'M SORRY. "44% as a matter of fact." I'M FUCKING SORRY. "are you not feeling well?" IT'S BEEN A LONG COUPLE OF MONTHS, I'M SORRY. "tip-top, doc." "well, if you have any questions, don't be afraid to ask." A REALLY LONG FUCKING COUPLE OF MONTHS. "right." and i write about morning like it was centuries ago. and i dream of centuries like they were mornings this week. and i picture them in your hair. [1 .| &]

lots of pictures these days. [25 Nov 2002|03:29pm] [ music | kill sadie. ] --- maria: what do you call those people that go "chika chika" with the turntables? oh yeah, dj's . . . [6 .| &]

[20 Nov 2002|10:31pm] my humble victory stance. it's a collapse of defeat. i know exactly what i'm talking about but it has nothing to do with victory. it is based on a motion picture ending and i'm fifteen years old. it is based on an ending that never meant this was over. out of the fucking SKY i tell you. out of the fucking sky. [2 .| &]

& fuck you. [20 Nov 2002|08:01pm] [ music | john vanderslice. ] hahahaha. taken from givemeahifive without asking. [1 .| &]

this isn't writing, this is talking. [09 Nov 2002|01:18pm] [ music | commander venus. ] so jordan said "come bowling with us." "who's us?" "nina kevin and me." "i don't know nina and kevin." "yeah you met them the other day." "okay." so he called kevin and there was no answer. and he called nina and there was no answer. he and tait shamed my family name in mario kart and we decided to go to joe's. according to jordan everyone will be there. i don't know joe either. on the way we met everyone excluding the two. i didn't know everyone. i don't know anyone. we went through introductions while one of the girls was jumping up and down and screaming "peeeeeeee!" and i laughed. they told us joe was in the studio in waikiki and we turned around. at jordan's house nina called and kevin was over and they didn't want to go bowling anymore, they didn't want to go see a movie with maria. i yelled "let's wing it!" and we did. kevin was there within ten minutes. we found them downstairs. nina stood by the stairs, kevin had thrown himself in a chair. he said his stepdad was going crazy, we can't go back to his house. we can't go to nina's house. and we couldn't go to my house. so we would be back at jordan's soon. we stopped by burger king and jordan stared at my lack of burgerness. i explained. he stared still. "how long?" "about two years." jordan said "i couldn't go a day without eating meat" and nina burst into madwoman laughter. i was confused. kevin informed me that nina is convinced that jordan is gay. i laughed too. we left. at the shopette we saw natasha and her creepy friend. natasha, for the record, is fucking retarded. they left and as we left chris came in. natasha was outside talking to evan, sitting in the passenger seat of chris' car. i asked for a cigarette and he said "chris is inside buying some." chris and i coincidentally crossed paths once again by the cigarette stand thing. i asked if he'd buy me a pack and he gave me an odd look. he doesn't like me anyway, he definitely doesn't like doing things for me. "you know, i just left my i.d. at home." chris: uneasy laugh. he agreed, i handed him a pack and four dollars. "you should bring your i.d. more often" he said. i laughed and said thank you. it meant a lot to me but he doesn't care so i didn't tell him. a handshake and i was in kevin's car again. jordan had rented a bad movie and when it ended tait turned to me, "practice tomorrow?" "yeah." left. the couple was sprawled out on the bed, kevin half awake, nina still laughing at something stupid tait had said. jordan put a cd in and kevin said "i hate punk music." more laughing laughing laughing. kevin was frowning frowning frowning. i was smiling awaiting nothing. [3 .| &]

[07 Nov 2002|06:22pm] i deal american: I HOPE THEY MAKE IT IN DOWN SYNDROME SIZES. i deal american: like "SHORT AND FAT." hands underwater: HAHAHAHAHA [&]

the concept of past & present tense escapes me. [06 Nov 2002|10:10pm] there are always orange stage lights at concerts and i'm in love with them. maria falls in love with male forms that move yet i have evaded her and i have tied her up and dragged her here. that's a lie. she agreed after a bit of bartering. the people on stage were people i've seen on tv. that's something i never get over because i'm shallow. autographs and handshakes excite me because i've seen those hands on tv and i really am shallow. people i knew i would see were doing things i wish i wouldn't have seen and i was feeling lightheaded. i waited for a signal and every pounding word sung seemed to flash a sort of neon contructionworker orange so i lit a cigarette and stared directly at kristin. ha, ha. you probably don't like smokers. i could only see arms around her and couldn't see whose they were. maybe they weren't anyone's. maybe she brought fake arms to drape over her shoulders just to piss me off. i exhaled upwards and looked away before she did because i'm not strong. because i wear glasses and she's got terribly angry/sad eyes that could angrily sadly devour mine. they would make a noise that sounds like CHOMP and i wouldn't need to wear glasses anymore. i could wear patches like a pirate and never leave the house again. i can tell she hates my nicotine costume and i start singing. i can live this down i suppose. [3 .| &]

i'm embarrassed to be me. i'm going to start lying. [04 Nov 2002|03:54pm] [ music | appleseed cast - on sidewalks. ] INTO when i answer the phone i don't turn down what i'm listening to. i'm mostly ignoring her. i'm carrying on ten thousand conversations and she's asking me, "what?" "nothing." most times i forget she's on the line and i say "jesus fuck, you're breaking my heart!" and she's asking me, "what?" "nothing. i'm not talking to you." and i never am. and i'm never worrying about love, i'm worrying about getting twenty dollars to go to the show, but i really am worrying about love, i'm wondering if a beautiful girl is going to ask me for a cigarette and a light and some advice. she'll play guitar and we'll exhale together. we'll make our own clouds, we'll flick ashes into our own sky and make our own sparkling tobacco ember stars. & everything happens in the space between two long drawn-out words. THIS [1 .| &]

[27 Oct 2002|02:25pm] [ music | sharks keep moving - arizona. ] i sat in the backseat and listened to their sibling rivalries, something that might have been cute but it had been a long day and i fondled the wrapper of a new pack of cigarettes. they were marlboros and they made me excited. they always do. i stuck one in my mouth and closed my eyes. this is what i heard: "blah blah blah." "blah blah blah blah!" "blah blah..." something along those lines. i was in this battlefield because greg had just bought himself a drumset and needed to borrow a boom stand and giving me a ride home was the easiest way for him to get it. i got out and immediately lit my cigarette, still stuck in my mouth. i ran inside, put on some music, grabbed the stand, handed it to greg. he was kicking gravel with his hands in his pockets on my back porch like a four year old effigy. "what the hell are you listening to?" i looked at his distillers shirt and his 4skins jacket and i laughed, didn't answer. he shrugged his shoulders and got in the car. he yelled thanks and backed out of the driveway. ashes flew everywhere as i drove my cigarette into the side of the garage and i smiled as they landed on my shirt. the phone rang and i lit another cigarette, walked down the street, wondered how fast the cars were going. not fast enough, no sir. [1 .| &]

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