Courage and Reason

You heard it through the window, the large back one above the kitchen as your mother idled, drying dishes by hand, so passe' now to think back on it. You heard them say that we were alone now. The neighbors sold out, moved out, and left our house alone on the block. You ran to your room where I was waiting, but I was already crying so you shut me up and told me to stop being a baby. We always have eachother, always. Right?

Two years later, your brother moved out, left, no trace. So what did you do? Well of course you took me back to when he was still there, still plotting his escape from the town that we all grew up in but nobody seems to want to grow old in. You took me back and we found his plans of escape and you tore them up so he could never leave you and your house feeling empty. And then you told me, you turned so seriously too and said,

"We're leaving first."
So what else else is there besides the days passed between here and Mexico? We can go wherever you want, just stay with me, and I'll never leave your side. We can even go back to that old house where your family lives.

We always have eachother, always.

Common Thoughts

"Huh, I think I have seen you around before, now that I look at you"

Yes, you live a few blocks down, you passed my street every day, you went to school with me for 12 years, you danced the night away at the end of Elementary School, Middle School, and of course Prom. You danced and I just watched you, every time.
"Yeah I knew that I knew you. You were always so quiet, but really smart and funny!"

I find it interesting that every boy you come across you can deem "funny." It kind of makes me wonder about all those boys you were dancing with all those times I sad there idly, yearbook in hand but too nervous to talk to you.
"Well that's crazy! You should have talked to me, you're so cool!"

That's a lie. We were kids. You're so "mature" now. Now the "thing" is to revel in that which was "lame" or "dorky" in the past. You hip kids love to remember the good old days and funny cartoons that you didn't even watch. I watched them, by myself and loving every minute of knowing that I wasn't going to ever become someone you would fall in love with. You don't know the fist thing about me, and after observing you for 12 years, and building you up in my mind to a position impossible to be bested by any other human, what do I have to show for it?

"...Well...Well, what do you have??"

I have you.
I have you in every subtle way you've changed into the person I always knew you'd become, and every way I can scoff at that. I'm jealous I never got to know you, you seem like a perfectly regular person.

"I don't know how to feel right now..."

Sorry, I'm a bit stiff from the tension, I've always found you attractive, but a lot of self loathing tends to cover that with resent. Perhaps, we could get lunch some time?
"That sounds good...did you really think I was anything better than you?"

Yes, I did. And frankly I still do.
"Well stop it, you're a really nice guy."

Whatever you say.

Hello Old Year

I've been lagging, it's the holiday season. It's my birthday, I'm officially a year older, fitting as the year itself comes to a close. Funny, how now most animals are packed tightly beside eachother for warmth now, thinking of making their young who will hatch in spring. Odd that my parents chose the opposite.

It snowed on the day I was born in that hospital in Houston that is no longer there. It didn't snow there again until this year. I feel that might be symbolic of my life starting over. I have come to grips with losing my grips.

I think once you feel in control of something the time is right for it to change so that you must once again begin from the bottom and think your way out. I think it's time I stopped being an accomplished teenager and started being a worthless young adult. I am inspired by my want for financial security and well-being for my family as they age, not by my musings of art or conceptual feelings of hope and change. I feel that if I can accomplish a lot very quickly, I can coast on for some time, trying to figure out what I genuinely want to do, not what will make me money.

I keep trying to find ways around the average life that every human leads, learn, work, retire, live off of what you earned when you could work while you idle your time until it's over. I think everyone tries to find their own way out, but everyone does this to some degree. Everyone dies. Everyone goes on to whatever there is (or isn't) after where we all are right now. And for the most part, everyone can handle that.

My parents told me, "God never gives you more than you can handle." And so far, that has held true. So far, every time I have been on the brink of breaking down and giving up, I've managed to make it through either by taking the high road, or being dragged by the feet to the finish line. I think I am invincible, as I have heard many at this age do, but not because I am special or can do anything. I feel like I could endure anything now, like this here, this life I am living now, is very nice, and I could have much less.

Very close to 19 years ago, I was a small baby in a hospital somewhere in Texas. Now I am a young man, firmly settled in Florida, eagerly awaiting the world to come at me, much like a newborn. I do not know what it is I am tense for, I do not know what to anticipate. All I can do is learn as much as I can about everything, and hope it leads me on to somewhere new.

At the close of the year, I am happy, I have grown. I feel it was a bit late, but I think I am always a bit behind. Luckily I look about as old as I feel. I think the cold air is a very tolerable annoyance, considering that I have a family to give gifts to, and a love to snuggle under blankets with. God has never given me anything I couldn't handle so far, so I'm taking the initiative to become an accomplished young man, before the cool weather leads way to spring, and a new round of fresh faced teenagers take up my old haunts as their own.

Brandon Flowers said
"...Someone will drive her around
on the same streets that I did...
So smile like you mean it."

Steady As She Sways

A horrible hopping, a terrible plague of furious leaping hysteria once found residence in the small town of Mulmark. The deziens, frenzied but calm, could not seem to resist the urge to simply bounce everywhere. They hopped from place to place, on tip-toes and bare feet as well as in boots and even some in roller blades. It was quite terrible.

The worst part was, the town of Mulmar, if you're unfamiliar with it, is located squarely in the middle of several large cliffs. The children were locked in doors and laid in beds and some parents even stapled their sheets down over their heads so they couldn't escape and bound away into danger.

One young boy, seemingly unaffected because he was on such a cliff when the plague struck town, noticed in great fright, several forms pogo-ing their way up towards his shady nap spot. At first he called out to them, asking why they were all coming towards him, but they all cried back in fear and expressed a longing to NOT be coming towards him. He found this strange, as they were still in fact coming towards him.

He hastily removed the bear traps from the open path, which seemed only to alarm them more as they made their approach. He stood confused and afraid, cliffside as an army of bodies rushed him, in an almost jovial manner.

What's really funny about this story, is that it was a hill actually. Not a cliff. So they ended up rolling down and laughing. This of course ended the jumping plague. It also spawned the rolling plague. But nobody ever did anything that life threatening by rolling, so what more is there to tell? Enjoy your evening.

The Effort Is The Thing

Welcome back to a past unwinding like vines, un-entwining, fingers that crossed laid lies upon lips and now come to pass are their venomous wishes. Twelve minutes past the hour and again you stumble upon the same room, same furnishings, same time. You spent three years in corridors learning facts, attribute that to a strategic plan from post-adolescents, (your parents), as comeback kids. They live vicariously through your brain attached to chords and chains, filled with buckets of stew and viles of blood of those hands who got dirty while yours remain gloved.

You pre-pretentious retro-scenester, you've yet to grasp the trends that cycle like a wash, worth about as much and not nearly as clean. Try and grasp, as fast as your idle hands can, a world that is vast and substantial, a time when winds were tranquil but medicine was not a staple of breakfast items and trying was almost worth trying. Can you fathom that? Tightly packed in your bubble wrap you must cut the chord and abolish the whorish schemes and deflated dreams of yester-year's teens.

Your efforts are a trifle, but the effort is the thing. Keep running through these halls, showing the cut and copy peer group who can scoff at whom. Stumble blindly if you can at all, and read books for the love of god, read books. Who would want to define themselves in a cycle that is even slightly below animalistic, repetitive, misleading and often self defeating? Those who choose to continue breathing make a constant statement of checking yes to the previous, so please, of this muddled mess, pull out what you can. Salvage our sullied doorways and create new exits for future feet to follow yours through.


"Stop dying, stop dying, that's the goal."
-The Fountain

Things to Get Better at

1. Drawing girls.

Subject: Alison
Time: less than 45 mins.

Self Evaluation: Fail.

Now Hear This!

From now on, every slight applied pressure will be felt.
Your fingertips even, slightly pressed to my exposed flesh.
The slightest force, only seeable on grid simulations,
Is now a tremor and a spear.

I will cringe and writhe when you strike me, however light.
But watch me swoon and sing, when you simply look my way.
Look how I'm paying you so much more attention
Do you love it?

I Has Teh Maths

Here, in this spot, years ago, stood a man.

He, amongst a crowd of naysayers, combined the unwitting and unwilling into a force that was unforeseeable, and truely unstopable.

They were not athletes, brainchildren, or artists by any means. They stood, unevenly dressed and gazes aside, waiting for something to happen. They were Apathy Associated, they were the Rain Chasers, they were the Purposeless. They could be found, individually, staring out windows into gray skies; or perhaps watching bugs toil through blades of tall grass. They were, in essence, human.

What combines in the minds of those destined for something greater? Do ties form and unite, through a common bond, or is it like magnetism, unseen but forcefully pulling together the strongest of emotions, letting them boil to the surface and over the sides until there is a flood and a whole room is painted in splashes of color?

How then, do you handle a funeral?
These people, kids, spectators of general existance, were tasked with finding the place to have a funeral. It had to be a hilltop, and raining. It had to be cloudy and gray but still light enough to see perfectly. There had to be many in attendance, but only a few willing to stand in the cold as the casket was lowered into the soil.

Rain Chasers, as they came to find themselves being known, found the spot, not morbid or straining to the eye, simply elegant in it's perfection of emotion. They found the place where all good souls should come to rest.

There, instead of holding a funeral for a life they'd yet to give up on, they planted a tree. They sat and watched as the rain grew it rapidly, as the clouds encouraged it to reach ever higher, and as it sat proudly atop the mighty hill.

Tasked, they were, with finding a place for something good to end.
Instead, they found somewhere for something new to begin.
Is there a difference?

That man, on this day, smiled. Those who would condemn the world, but never gave enough of themselves to try and change it, found their medium. They jumped into orbit and found they could become something fantastic and uncommon. He helped them see with new eyes, through means of old hands tossing fresh dirt.

A poet once sang,

"Oh, this is the start of something good
Don't you agree?"

Don't Want to be Forgotten

So, tonight was very fun, thank you everyone.
This Christmas season seems different, my father is right.
My family has expanded.
Literally, I have a brother, I'm getting a sister.
But what was once a loose group of friends, has become second family.
I love everyone who made tonight possible, and I think we all, (in our own jenna vs. andrew kind of way) feel the same.
I hope when we go on to do great things, we stick together, so that great things will happen in all different industries, all over the world.

Thank you all.
You don't know what you mean to me.

Like Violence, You Have Me

I have upon my wall, twelve clocks.
Each is set an hour ahead of the last.
I never know if I am late, should time have passed
I am unaware, uncaring, of these facts.

Solitude in blue hues, I find quiet quite calm.
I seek hopeless abandon, but find myself far from.
Quite quaint in my pinstripes, but afraid to dress down.
I am more known in the nation than in my hometown.

I grind between my fingers like mortar and stone
A phone, yet undialed, and a speakerless tone.
How unwittingly I play, a part set for a stage
And you love will greet me goodbye, in quite the worst way.

Sorry Dudes, My Bad (Part II)

sorry i kinda fell behind here, i've been really stressing over my finals.
aka i caught lugia.
anyone know where to find pineco? he's very difficult to find.

ANYHOW

the zombie stuff my art class did like two weeks ago was just loaded online by my teacher, so please enjoy. i did about 15 of the frames. it's...kind of jumpy, but for telling that whole story in less than 200 frames, i'm very happy.

http://www.youtube.com/user/FlaglerCollegeArt#p/a/u/2/wr5vddGi0rQ

Super Day

There once was a happy little rock.
The rock dreamed of being a balloon.
Strangely enough though, no matter how often he tried to jump, he just couldn't seem to get a hold on the floating aspect of being a balloon.

Otherwise though, he had it down.

One day a small child named Tyler found that rock.
Tyler took that rock home, painted it red, put googly eyes on it, and named it a name that it did not recognize.

That rock served as a companion and a trustee for several years, realizing a potential it had never even considered itself having.

Sadly one day, it got scratched, and lost an eye.
It felt like all was lost, it's newfound purpose sullied by sour conditions.

What my rock forgot, was that I loved it for what it was, an ear to speak into with no lips to reveal. I cared not for it's appearance as it slid calmly between my fingers. It never did become a balloon.

But in the process, it realized that being a balloon was silly.
Balloons get used and fade, where rocks are more prized for their age.
He would never be consumed by the atmosphere, or be mistakenly consumed by baby animals.

He sat contently, on a shelf of my imagination, observing from under his red coat, and oddly content with his lot in life. I hope I gave him purpose, because I certainly found solace in him.

Hello Love

So it's been a while since we had a sit down.
Hey, how's it going.
Fine? How surprising, fine.
Decent.
Adequate.
Nice.
No, I don't accept those answers.
I refuse to hear another blow off comment.
Tell me what ails you, because something does.
You seem sad, upset, distant, preoccupied.
Call it what you will, you evasive word bender.

Tell me what's eating you or I won't ask anymore.
But I will, it's my lot in life.
To prove that SOMEONE won't give up on you.
You knew that you kept too much in, and that's why others left.
But I'll stay just because of that.

Are you opposed to a little fun?
Poke some at me if it's an issue here.
I'll joke you out of your deepest secrets.

Come now, look it's been almost two years.
Now the only things I don't know are petty daily issues.
Not even worth your breath.

Now I am useless, but I suppose I'll still ask how you are.
When you're genuinely fine, it makes me smile.

Almost A Song!!

Don't let them devalue your disbelief
You were right about me, and my grievant speech
My shallow feet are moored in anchorage, respite
Finds me nothing better to do than pass my time
You're getting older
Now rest.

Don't speak a thing, I only drown it with nostalgia
My quickened speech is formatted to your tone
Don't let them tell you, I'm a prince if I'm a peasant
Don't let me hold you down, but please don't scream until I'm done.
You're getting older.

Beneath My Monsterous Gown

Fold your form slowly into the shadow of my wings
Allow my talons to provide your shelter
Do not let me cage you
Simply, let me save you from the world
I have plucked the feathers from my heart
So it may better serve your discerning palette.

This, I give to you.

You Make Me Write Love Songs

We stood, clay formations, in awe of it's appeal
The shadow side of a towering mass, and darker dreams appeared
We'd never seen before on a perfect sphere a dim lit spot
And now we knew that we were wrought for more than happy tears

My crows in line symmetrical and quaint
I stood poised to rearrange the face
Of a planet I despised
But as I declared myself through crooked teeth a thief
The ground below my feet opened up and swallowed me inside

You took my empty form and crumbled it
You made it right again
You're so unkind
You stole my soul of vindication
You replaced it with a sentiment
That everything's just fine

As I approached to speak
The crowded mass of spears, gleamed high above the tiers
And the overwhelming stench of hypocrites delayed my tongue

But I spat into crowds of audience
And they stood back baffled in suspense as I pricked myself inside
And they watched it flow, an ebbing tide

You took my empty form and crumbled it
You made it right again
You traced the open lines
You stole my soul of vindication
You replaced it with a sentiment
That everything's just fine

Where can I run to?
I won't give it up.

You took my heart, empty save for stones
You carved it into bone
And now it shines with ivory
You took my hands, and fixed them up to play
Symphonic harmonies
You stole my words from me
You make me play love songs

You grinning light
You stole my anger twice
You crushed all of my spite
And you made me forget her
Allocate to me some time
To remind my what's divine
You stole my words from me
You make me play love songs

The Man Who Discovered Infinity Discovered Nothing

If it lasts forever, it is the same as when it began.

A life that is eternal, never actuatlly started.

Gravitation

I heard you screaming. You felt like it was all over, I could smell the fear on you. I stood, your fingertips to my toes, you clutching the last bit of dirt, and behind you, an expanse of sky like nothing else. You were crying and I was silently staring.

Your fingers, elegant, twisted like in a dance and you let the dirt slip from between your thumb and index. You carved a path through the sky in your mind and pretended you were falling. Perhaps you were, but I wasn't in much of a position to condescend.

See you had it wrong, I wasn't atop a cliff, I was underground. You were crouching on the last patch of dirt above my tightly packed frame. I was buried under the soil and you were trying to claw me out. So perhaps you were falling, but the sky did not consume you. It consumed me as I watched you try to revive what we both knew was no longer a soul. An empty encantation of what could have been a spark at one point, now added up to ash. Do not feel remorse, for I will feed the seeds growing beneath your feet, and I will grow into a mighty house of wood and denim and I will hold you closer inside of me than you have ever been.

Do not fall off the face of the Earth please, I am coming to greet you soon, so smile, and find distant dreams located in the starlined skyscape. My dusty fingers can already feel your feeble frame. A touch goodnight love, a kiss more in thought than practice. I still love you, of course.

But see this way, I won't be holding you down.
I will be lifting you and sheltering you from the coming shower.
And you can find yourself in me, in time.
And we can be alright, because after all, that's all there really is.

I Feel Alive

I feel alive tonight, my metal immitation heart is fluttering organic

Do you contend that fears propel us to a bloodflow that is better?
My arms are cool and calm though my hands move ceaslessly into themselves.

Do you know what it feels like to feel nothing new?

I feel alive, how strange because inside I know I'm not.
I'm just a head in a jar.

Thirteen

Thirteen warm bodies clad in cool colors sat crossly as the coarse current compelled the wooden planks onward. How far until they feel their lofty dreams can crush their darker fears? When the dark outweighs even the brightest glimmer of hope, how can you hold it steady? Silence passes and muscles relax and expressions grow calmer as the ship pushes on. Twelve go to sleep leaving one at the helm, not for them but for himself he scans the night sky, scant it seems, save for two bright spectacles.

How fitting that in this one evening he finds himself staring at the same stars he never cared to consider. How fitting that this is the night he dies.

Thirteen men on a ship crash into unforseen shores, with light hiding the bluffs by making shadows seem more subdued. Twelve men survive.

But in the end, it was his time.

How touching and fitting, an ending and a beginning. Twelve men stand alone together, unknown and unwitting. A new land awaits them, while they bury their faces in their hands. One last word laid across the man now laying in the ground.

Farewell.

His accolades are acrostic, and in the end, spell out in return, goodnight.

Second Post Today

And again, with artwork!
Yayyyyyyyyy.
Whatever.

Anyhow this is my practice for my final, supposedly it's a self portrait in chalk and charcoal. I don't know.

It took about 2 hours and 40 minutes of the 5 - 7 hours I was supposed to spend on it. Again, whatever.

I think I took the picture from a bad angle because the head looks thin in the picture but it's what I'm working with on a half dead brain.

Please enjoy, or cringe, as suits your customs or beliefs.

Hey, Sorry About Friday

I know I didn't post, but I had family over.
Anyhow, my psych class was canceled, and math was boring.
So this was done in...roughly an hour total I suppose.
Broken up between pretending to pay attention and falling asleep.
It seemd like a cool concept at the time.


There is actually a lot of shading.
I used pencil both crosshatched and blended, and pen.
I used 3 different pens.
I also used an old dying sharpie for the "tail"
I promise it actually looks like I spent an hour on it in real life.

11:29

Why are you so shy?
My sharp teeth gleam in the bright lights.
My callus tendrils gyrate slowly in time.
For every one of my meanacing flaws, I am known.
So why would you fear to stand beside me?
It would only lend greater creedence to your soft glow.
Smile, it's alright.

Oopse

Hey, sorry this is awkward. The kind of, "my face is mashed up on your face beccause we're on a train" awkward. I mean...our faces are mashed together so I suppose that makes sense. So, would you like to know how this occured? I bet you would. And we may be here for a while, so here it goes.

I was in my room and it was late so my empty mind was fighting my tired eyes. They were heavy and as I rolled into my resting place I completed my nightly ritual of thanking God for everyone I loved. Stupidly though, I made a wish. This is something I forgot that I swore to never do again. But it's a bit late for regret.

Anyhow, I asked God to lengthen my arms, because my aspirations seemed to have become less lofty as of late. They were floating just above my head and just out of reach, like a lightbulb that just needed one more good turn to complete the circut. Looks like I wasn't specific enough.

My arms grew out and out, but not up. I felt them crawl across the town, each loose stone in the pavement branding my knuckles, moving with purpose to something even I wouldn't admit to selfishly wanting. They crept up to your door and rang your bell but climbed in through the window instead. They came into your room and ensared you and you felt so warm. Yes, I felt you, even though I had no control over it.

They got bored enough and kept growing, and went into my parent's old shop and started cleaning, like I promised I would last week. Cleaning each little saucer and miniature chinaware tea cup.

While they were distracted I followed them and caught up at your house, but they suddenly started going back to normal. They drug backwards across the streets, over the roads and through the river. My bones cracked and here we are awkwardly, and I can't release my hold on you.

Even if I wanted to.
Luckily, I don't though.

Void

A vector on graph, devoid of tonality
A piece of a puzzle, dull and relentlessly fitted.
How can you claim to hate humanity?
Who are you to ask who I am?

We seem to be like stars, I think.
No, not star crossed lovers.
Each person a galaxy away from one another.
And we all think we're the center of the universe.

What binds me to her is gravity undefined.
What coils me, sinks me into the ground like ripe vines?
Well I wouldn't know, I just close my eyes.
And feel myself consumed by a slow-burn.
Controlled. Nature's Fire.

Turning cogs within my brain cannot conceed.
I wouldn't give up my play for least arrogant, I plead.
And you would ask this all of me?
Well, perhaps something can get worked out. We'll see.

It's Been A While

Diary entry, Oscar Lowe

"It seems that sometimes one must force oneself to see the brighter side. Even when everything around you is set ablaze. Even when day is a constant night and your companions are simply spectral whisps. Yes, even then, and especially then, you must find the one tiny feather floating towards the earth, whole, perfect. What am I writing? This is madness and pathetic self-sympathizing."

-No signature, no date, partially scratched out

(indeciperable title)
I set aflame a city here
Inside my room my toppled tiers
They fell quite unassumed, unexcited yet entombed
In the memories of my days far long past.

-Oscar Lowe

The Best Song In The World

The best story you've never heard, is trapped.
I've caged it, concealed it.
I took your dreams and replaced them with stones.

I own everything.
I have it all in my hands.
I wring it dry of passion nightly.
I let it whisper to me, quietly.
I take note of it's notions.
I aspire to it's grandeur.

One day, perhaps, I will let you hear it too.

Thursday? Death.

I'm sure you would-be suitors have said
All of the lengths to which they would go.
I do not aspire to please or calm you
I will make you shake like nobody else.
You will hurt immeasurebly.
You will hurt from want.
How impressive are such remarks?
Very, as long as I follow through.
And trust me, I plan to.

(Reverse of a common notion)

I will follow the dark into you.
I will weave shadows like cloth.
My percise blade of silk
Cuts soft but deep.

Empassioned love in blackness.
How quick you are to touch.
And yet, my love, you forget this:
This is no matter of trust.

I will follow the dark into you.
Absolutely.
Endlessly.
No matter what.

(Do you catch my drift?)

We are two children outside past dark
We play together only in competition
Who can evade their own fears faster?
Who can sleep?
Who can find shade in the midnight hour?
Time will tell if it's you or me.

Under-Reacting

"So, I see you're calming down."

"That's what you think."
"No I just meant your breathing is more stable."

"Is that what your machine tells you?"
"Well, yes, it does. But I can also hear you. I mean, we are the only two people in this room."

"And again, that's what you think."

Beep

Hello little machine, tiny worker bee.
I observe you from afar, in the foundry, melding companions.
Constructing contraptions to keep content.
You cannot stop making brethren.
Your arms, claws, pincers, endlessly turning turbines.
Your face, a fading smile, you can only go on.
You cannot win.
But you will succeed.

No Title

There were once ten fingers, in motion towards the same end.
While five gripped closely the ink pen, five kept time.
They moved to keep the mind behind the scratchy letters working.
They moved to entertain themselves as they went.

The pen, itself feeling exhausted willed the letter to be over.
It wouldn't be read anyway, it was too full of errors.
The hands, far from deft, more daft, had mispelled so much.
The eyes, far from keen, had ignored the gramatical inconsistancies.
And the lips, as they read it aloud, knew it was a lie.
Feelings can change even while you are trying to express them.
Things evaporate like steam, or breath in a cold room.

Constants become variables, and mistakes in judgement are made.

So two hands of flesh sat idly while two clock hands swept past.
Time moved on. More breathy ghosts released from the lips.
The feet took over keeping time, while the ten fingers waited.
Looking outside the window, the world looked happy.
Quiet perhaps, but content.

I sit here waiting for a realization to strike me.
I am hoping for something new to come tear me out of my seat.
For a dream to drip from my eyes onto the paper, and be lovely.
I might never send you that letter.
My body aches and creaks along with me, my loyal companion.
Why am I so tense? It's just another way of saying I love you.

Redefine

Reallocate the vacant space
To storage room so they can say
We used our time, well, better than most
We said more words, numerical codes.

We find, in time, our solid stance
Has melted away in sinking sands
That heat to daimond and break like glass
And tear our limbs and devour our past.

We have forgotten why we came here.
Our progress has become a hinderance.
Our novelty is cheap and dispensable.
But we did what we thought was right.
In the grander scheme, we tried.
We are a Sun of Good Intentions.
Who scorched the Earth of Simple Sight.

Goodbye to those who whished on stars
Welcome to night, endless embers and chars.

Tonight I Feel Like

Tonight I feel like a storybook

I have pages bound, dissimilar, but the same.
Related, but marked wildly and uniquely.

I am an illustration, a captured moment that never existed.
A figment brought to life through symbols, by suggestions.
Your eyes are required to complete the cycle.
Your keen senses, you take in my every detail.
You read aloud the words imprinted on my flesh,
"Alas, One More Tale About Love."
You chop the words with your incisors.
You caress them with your tongue.
You ingest them, watch them spread through your stystem.

I am a virus.
I will consume you, and then leave you weak and empty.
You will feel my tiny spikes, in your wrists most of all.
As you turn the page, continually.

I am a storybook you cannot put down.
But I will be finished quite soon.
And you will be one of the priviledged few
Who know everything about me.
Cover to cover.

Sorry Dudes, My Bad

I know I've been slacking with the blog posts, but I've been bogged down a lot by this art class. So I'm just going to keep posting drawings I do to at least give you something. This is why I didn't post last night, I was copying two Rembrant pictures. Enjoy.



And...



Sorry it took me a day to upload them, I finished at about one and just fell into bed. Hopefully a new REAL post tomorrow night. Thanks for putting up with me everyone!

Your Art It Brought Me To My Knees

Self portrait using ink wash and sharpie. Not bad for my second try with actual bottle ink.




"It impedes me, it defeats me, but it feeds me."

Choice

So my art class was charged with creating an animated short film. Each person will do different stills and we'll make it into one movie. To start with, everyone had to do a storyboard with sketches. Guess what the story is. Yup. Zombie vs Lightsaber.

Do I See?

My house has consumed me.
I live on the second story, in the right wing.
Your left from the street.

From my window I gaze, contemplate.
And yet, I never leave.

-Almost a poem by Oscar Lowe


These window fingers are iron bars
This door is gnashing teeth
The hours wasted away inside
Bring solace and relief

When life takes over all your time
You learn to love the stress
But when you never leave your bed
What's the reason for getting dressed?

-A poem by Oscar Lowe

An Evening Well Spent

So my art final for this half of the semester is two drawings, both about light. One is drawn from life, and one is imagined. Here's what I came up with.




And.




Have a super evening!

Lock and Key

You're a member of a very exclusive club.
We call ourselves "Lock and Key."
We meet at an undisclosed location at random hours.
Even we rarely know where we are.

We know everything about everyone, all the time.
We are sworn secret keepers.
We hold that which grips your heart gently in our hands.
We hear every whisper that leaves your lips.
We caress it and soothe it. We give it a home.
It is in our cage. They all are.
We would never share it though, it is only for us.
Our ears. Our eyes.

Humanity cannot escape the atmosphere of sound.
We reflect that burning desire to be known.
We accept that need to be discreet.
We've felt the pang of remorse.
We've enjoyed a warm sigh of relief.
Come join us in keeping the world alive. Known.
Know everything but speak not a word, is our motto.
We could never reveal our secrets.

But we often talk about eachother behind our backs.
Petty theives in white garb.
Pathetic.
Empty.
Join us.

Adequate

I'm mired down by the musing of tall grass.
I'm so distraught over the simplistic hour's pass.
I'm overworked and so under control
I'm bored to death, and it's taking it's toll.

I feel like I could be so much more than adequate, for you, for me, for them. I could represent you in such a stronger light. I could create wonders in the mind with quick words and cut glances so sharp you might just die of anticpation. But I instead live a life riddled with simplicity. I am a humble creature, choosing not to ignore the work to be done, but to simply allow the world to take me.

I let my microcosm of space, this little corner of earth I call home, engulf me. My petty worries are nothing compared to those of the grander scheme. But I could never leave. Such work to be done. I don't think I'm any more or less happy or fulfilled than I could be. I just think that you deserve more. So I'm working on that too. Twelve noteboooks of songs to get enough cash so I can buy my way out of this town for everyone that I love.

Your Lover Left You

They're setting up out in the fields tonight
They're dropping the canvas in the cool moonlight
They bend the metal into Ferris Wheels
They've got the molten process down to a feel.

They'll light your ashes but in fair return
They'll blow them into the sky and let you watch it burn
They set the stars in place and you come alive
I don't know if this town can take so much excitement.

But me, my girl and you might have to go down
We'll see who'se invited and we'll mark the sound
We wrestle our pride and fight off going inside
And we break down fast like immitation strung up lights.

We step real careful down the grassy hill
We watch the Carnival and count the time until
The gates are closed and then we'll make our move
We'll say, "Take us away, please just take us with you"

This town can't handle noise and flashing lights
But for two rotten kids we might do it alright.
As for your lover who has gone astray?
These carnival lights shine and keep all the cold hearts away.

Opposites

Some nights, I do like to stay inside. It's human, really. I'm just so tired these days and I feel bad for letting people down but I absolutely must let the sleep overtake me. And yet, on the nights when I need it most, the wild creatures I've befriended and become, sit outside my window and torment me. They won't let me leave them alone. They won't let me quit now. Some kind of friends they are. I'll quit when I'm damn well ready to.

I'm absolutely sure nobody has ever felt like this before.

I'm sure of it.

This Merry Old Town

...is ghostlike and empty.
Full in the daytime, but the tide drags it out in the dark.
Into the sea with all you own, at least one day, eventually.
What a notion that we will all be in the water soon.

So I suppose, while our days are still here to be had,
We should celebrate every evening with lights and music.
So that when the waves come to take us back into the earth
We can at least light up the ocean floor, and show those fishes what's what.

Sometimes I Seem to Be Things

Sometime, at night, we are a crowd of monsters in the dark.
Sometimes, we frolick in the emptied park and we sing.
We bound in great leaps and we play on the swings.
And we are as big as our dreams and as fun as everything we love.
We spend hours away at places that, during the day, are dull.
But at night, when we are creatures, are overflowing fountains of immitation and imagination and all of the best parts of shiny teeth in the dark.

We make shadow puppets of humans and laugh at them.

We bring bag lunches, and take juice breaks.

We roar like birds.

We growl like grass.

And we have a merry old time, until the day should come.
Then, when we are done, we run back home into our beds.
Then, when we rise, we are wholly human again.

But we still smile with a wild passion.

Clean

What? You want to stop? No, you're not allowed!!

Of course that was my reaction, whole hearted and honest. I apologize now, in retrospect I suppose that could sound a bit harsh. I like how in retrospect, we feel bad for honesty. Only lies are acceptable. But to keep with the truth of the matter, you absolutely cannot quit on me. You are so great, at everything. You can do anything you want, you've got more than potential or talent or ideas. You've got a life nobody else can compare to. You radiate light and can speak to clouds and I wouldn't doubt if you knew it but didn't care.

But some of us do. So don't you quit on us now. You're a damn fool. You're off in your own head. You're a kite and you're flying off by yourself, and I couldn't hold you here with a chain or a rope or a fist. I swear to god, you're a fool if I ever met one. And that's just what people these days need. They need a hopeless dreamer and a big heart and potential. Be a starving artist, at least for the rest of us who are full up on the monotony of life. Please. Please be what we'll never admit we live for.

Honestly? You're perfect.

Will it destroy you in the end?

Well, I'm going to stop being honest now.

At least you know we all love you, right?

Straight Talk

My blood feels extra warm tonight.

Perhaps it is thick, flowing healthily through my veins with a renewed sense of purpose. I think more likely my tumor has given up on killing me and just started trying to replicate my function. What is my purpose in life? I still don't know. But I have a heart that beats and that's more than he has. So maybe we're sharing blood now and all that is fine by me as long as it's co-beneficial.

I seem to work for two hearts, eating for one stomach but living in two times. At once, I feel planted, heavier persay. I feel grounded, not of mind, but of body. I cannot leave this place, even if I want to.

Life can consume you if you let it.

But that which defeats me, simply feeds me further.

And I am insatiable.
But I also feel very versatile, like my two hearts could gush gallons more than before. A singular man with two ties to the world. I could make you cry.

But I do not let go of my ailment, I revel in it.

I will not be just another fool.

I will be a perfect gentleman, and remove my parasite with such grace as you've never seen.

And then I will eat it and see how it feels about that.

Quiet Moon

Here I am, every night, digging two by two foot holes in my yard. Why, you ask, sir passing me by? Well besides the fact that I don't recognize your stride in my part of town, I suppose you're trustable enough. Honestly I just love telling people.

Just a year ago I was madly in passionate love and I wrote a seemingly endless slew of love poems. Sadly, that relationship ended in tragedy, so I buried them all in a bottle in my yard somewhere one evening, at roughly 2:25 am. I was in quite a fit of emotion, so I don't quite remember just where though.

The thing is, and get this, I am in another relationship now!

I have those feelings again but I forgot how I expressed them so eloquently before, when I was wholly open and purely devoted, devout, I suppose being the right word. So every night at 2:25 I dig just one more hole in my yard until I can find it, or until my yard is all one big hole.

I do suppose it could have been washed away in a heavy rain, it does flood here...

Well that's thought for another night once my digging is done, good morning to you sir, and I'm happy to make your aquaintence.

My name?

Oh my name is Unbridled Youth, thank you very much.

And I return to my selfish shoveling, simply searching for expired expressions of immitated feelings, transposed unto another host. For I feel quite strongly almost constantly, so honestly I just need a lover to promise me they accept all the affection I have to give.

This is how I thought about us before, and now that you're not part of us, I still don't feel much different about it all. One day you will find meaning in these things, for my hand is balled tight, gripping firmly at your heart strings.

Someone will love me for all the elegant words I can say.
Is it you?


The Quiet Moon mocks me, laughing at my simplicity of mind and deed. And yet I tap merrily to the beat of my shovels unearthing my past beneath dirt until my fingernails are as black as my ambient skyline.

I Feel Just Fine

*New Happiness Coming Soon*

Why Do You Keep Telling Me What's Real?

12:00
Stopped writing your letter, will resume tomorrow.

12:35
Fall into my sheets, coiled close like a serpent and a cape and everything warm and comfey combined.

3:09
Awaken to a strange light, and tiptoe to my brother's window.

And that's when I observed them, every single animal was leaving.

They were going in line, en route, to the top of a hill on just the other side of the woods at the edge of town. Quietly, in no rush or order, but in such a fashion like might never be seen again.

Twas strange how unsurprised I was, that at the end of the day, the creatures are the innocent ones. They get taken to, what might literally be, greener pastures.

I caught a glimpse of the Savior of the Animals and he looked at me and I felt alright. No remorse, not pain persay. He just spoke, continuously, with all of his body, with every motion and gaze. And I still felt alright about what he told me.

I knew that it was time to go to bed again, and he bid me farewell and promised me good tidings should I ever need to call his name.

Funny thing is, I didn't.

The woods whisper to me just fine already. So when my day comes, I think I'd like to be set out on a boat, into the big pile of oak leaves, and see where the rings of the trees can take me. Down into someone else's sky, I suppose.

Goodnight to the creatures outside, and I'll see you soon.

There Thrice Was

There thrice was a girl, for she needed me only thrice, who'se life was rife with burdenous strife. In the daytime she smiled and seemed so alive, but the night hours revealed the wrinkles in her eyes. And she lied through her teeth, so they dulled all the while. No more whites to her name, she operated in grays, until she found a boy who told stories that might soothe her sullied hopes.

How nice to be needed, and all cautions heeded, I sped of to save this soul of such sorrow. I told her a story that started last night and lasted far into tomorrow. The characters were flawed and all fumbled with claws to paint in soft pastel colors. There was a boy and a well, and a dreamer who fell (into a deep sleep), and even one tale about lovers.

So this girl who was lost now found purpose at cost of attachment to the tale-teller lips. But in all of my dreams, such fantastical things could never have come to exist, without some prodding from the mind of a girl passing time trying to cheer the whole world up by herself. So I'll take one for the team and devote my midnights it seems, to making her smile and laugh.

100 Posts

"An Origional Tyler Poem,
Summarizing Every Blog Up Till Now"
I tried and failed to be a ghost
Inside one hundered single posts
To write about her every night
And keep that image well in sight
I clenched my teeth and wrote some rhymes
That fade with stories, and now 2 dimes
Replace my 20 pennies.
What a joke.

Through other's eyes I seem to gaze
Into a world, and quite amazed
Find that it is not so unlike mine
And my nervous fingers, like bones, do grind
On asphalt streets, in perfect lines
For every tale, yes every time.

A picture is 500 words
Nothing to me, not much to her
I drew a face and the forest heard
And he smiled back sir, quite absurd.

What monsters could lurk in my head
Before I fall into my bed
And fear the glory in my dreams
Reserved for others, or so it seems
My wrinkled nose and darkened eyes
Gaze proficient tales and creative lies
I quote the artists that I despise
Because I envy them.

So hold on tight for another round
One hundered loves left to be found
Let's start again in another town
The Midnight Press can run things now.

Nirvana

I know this guy who lives underground
He really likes roses, or so it seems



I could use a friend to say they love me
I'm gonna make a sound you won't forget
Afterwords I swore that I would haunt you
Now I'm just way too tired to give a shit.

-"I Was A Cage"

I'm A Mechanic

Act I
I'll break it once I build it
So I'll mold it from it's pieces
Feel it shaking when I breathe it come alive

Then it stumbles and it topples
Watch it rust to worthless bobbles
And I hold it in my hands and watch it die


Act II
Smokey pipe of great creator
Whisps with fumes of constant thought
He contemplates and masquerades her memory
As a soldier jane, a work of art.

Goodbye young soldier, though you did fight hard
You only played your part
Through grim bones and lymestone
Now it's off to the scrap yard.

Yayy Mark!

One day while hiking in the woods, Mark met Valgor, The Giant Evil Troll of Decption, Trickery and General Misdeedyness.

Valgor turned out to be a very fine fellow and, as a matter of fact, he and Mark played a rousing game of Backgammon.

On the way back home, Mark stepped in dog poop.

How To Mistake One Person For Another

Have you ever met one of those people who seems like some other people? They look like two of your friends mashed into one?

Well let me tell you, I am one of those people, and I am not two of your friends mashed together. I don't know what bands you like, and the fact that you refrence an inside joke involving the term "moose pants" that makes no sense, really offends me.

Maybe I have a personality of my own, like a normal human being, huh? Maybe I have had life experiences and everything you assumed about me on first glance was as much a stereotype as any sexist comment about whore tattoos could be.

Don't look at me like an alien now, don't look mad. Is this how your friend would react? Wouldn't you feel worse if I was actually someone you cared about?

Well then, I guess I'm not. And I guess that's what I've been trying to prove to you this whole damn conversation.

Get it?

Hold Your Tongue Love

It seems to be getting away from you.

Well you're not the girl I met at the show
18 months and 12 years ago
We grew like vines and now that we're old
We hold eachother up, safe from decay
For even just one more day
I don't regret a thing.

He's Naive

I examined the expanse
through telescopic glass.
I shuddered at sounds
that could be heard throughout.
And suddenly, she tapped my shoulder.

She led me onwards,
to where we began;
A small little house,
on a large stretch of land.
And suddenly we ran.

We crept so loudly
and screamed so soft.
Each breath like symphony
between the clenched, crumpled cloth.
And so suddenly, we stopped.

We gasped in the air,
to forego floating off.
We looked on outside,
and the solace we sought
Breathed, ever so gently, down our necks.

And we lay there and shook for a good hour.

Tyler Says

I am beginning to believe (audacity, audacity!!) in determinism.
Hear me out here.

Life cannot be fated, because events have not happend yet, so fate cannot be a factor.

Life is predictable though.

We fight off the idea of a defined, set, this-is-how-it-goes kind of reality on principles, of "well yes but if i had ____ then ____ instead of ____." or perhaps, "well _____ happened this time but LAST time we tried that, ____ happened."

but listen here.

I am a subscriber to the "we are products of our circumstance" notion. Simply, given your body type, (size, color, etc) and physical factors (brain structure, physical deformities, etc.) added onto the reality you percieve, shapes you wholly.

so yes, it is not fated to happen, because you could have done something different.

but you didn't.

you are a product, a variable with a fixed value. so given a situation with other set variables, no matter how much you debate, you are going to make the decision you make. maybe it's not the same as last time, but you probably have your reasons.

i do not believe in fate.

but i am starting to think that we are all variables in some grander equation, mixing and matching in infinite ways making countless solutions.

what problem are we solving?

I Am So Good At Losing Things

Like the tips of my fingers for example.
They submit to repose as more callus skin forms over the torn surfaces.
No blood was shed but my senses are now dulled thanks to endless nights on metal strings and plastic pens and fictional tears of inconsequence.

The last night, I should denote, I saw the strangest thing...

Oscar Lowe's Notes

Upon Seeing A Young Boy
There is a young boy walking down the street at 4am.
He just wants to get some sleep and I just want to be him.

Who is he?

Why, at this hour between the moon's solid stance and the sun's sharp awakening, does he patrol the empty expanse of this town like a soldier on watch?

And yet, his face is a sea of emotion. At once cool and calm, but obviously reserved for fear of showing that which lies just beneath the surface. The infinate possibility for human decency is lost on me as I superimpose my soul onto his worried face.

I have made up for him, for me, a story of endless torment, compassion, and eventually love. He may be but a single soul walking the gravel roads that line the interior of our corner of Earth, but his is a tale worth telling. I envy his every step like a man with no legs.

Who is he? And then, who am I? This entity in wonderment. This narrator, side character, reader and editor.

I have sewn for him all the seeds of success, all he must do for me, is take one more step.





...and the monsters breathe in, breathe out...

What Is This?

It was early morning out on the rooftop.
I was searching the skyline for planes.
I always wait to see one crash into a star.
I always wait to see you.

I couldn't help but make you the subject,
My dreams springing from my truer self,
The one who cannot resist.

So I wrote stories in my mind.
I made universal truths for myself.
I occupied my days with things that distract.
And yet I filled my nights with cool reflection.

It was early morning out on my rooftop.
I was searching myself for answers.
I always wait to see two souls collide.
I always wait to see you.

What is this essense of engulfment?
Who are these hands working for?
What of myself could you ever truely trust?
How could I prove that my work is for you?

Well I think it's quite obvious that it is.
Another night alone on my rooftop.
And I saw a plane crash into a star.

I Was Just Kidding

It doesn't hurt.

That is inapplicable.

Just try and figure me out.

It Hurts

Removing my ribs, singularly.
Feeling my heart drop fast.
Your fingers feeling through me.
How quick the time will pass.

In the space between bated breath and suffocation, we sit, still, with eachother, alone.

In the expanse between us, a void, a universe, a nothingness. How quickly the gap closes.

I want it too.

Alice In Wonderwaffles

"Have you seen my blueberries? I get the feeling you may have seen my blueberries," he said.

She looked at him quizically, "But you're standing right there with them."

He smiled then quickly shook it off into an angry tone such as had never been heard before and yelled, "So then stay away from my blueberries you fool! You're a stupid, stupid girl!"

And suddenly he disappeared, and eventually, so did she.

The Interesting

Such a feeling to hold in your hands
A human life, quite a grain of sand
Compared to the others but what could she be
When she grows and leaves home for a life in the city.

Five seconds of revelry at a baby girl
Changes quickly to fear, awknoledging our world
Is the place not to be without safety's defense
But you can't protect her forever, or make any amends.

Hold on while you will and I'll give you a chance
To teach me of trust in this world's great expanse.

I'd Hoped For A Different Result

There is no comfort in the palms that support my spidery fingers as they peruse the keyboard tonight.

My artwork is inapplicable in a changing environment.
My ideas are reverseable like a jacket.
My confidence is sailing low towards the sea.
Yet my prospects seem bright, and I don't know why.
This internal motivation to continue building has yet to cease.
I cannot stop trying to improve myself internally and externally.
I cannot ever be truely happy, by your terms love.
But that fact alone brings me joy you cannot imagine.

I will never be complacent, lazy, wasteful.
I will always know that at least I'm trying

And that's more than I can say for him.

I posted last night with harsh tones, reflecting on all of my friends individually. I deleted it because I realized I lost the purpose of this project. This is something bigger than me because it is less real than me. I can bend my reality here. This is not a place to show you the knots and sores where reality bent me.

I will continue writing and trying to tell you a different story nightly, although I have already become repetitive, finding a niche at most. More than likely I will become like any antiquated songwriter, always searching to explain that story that has always compelled them. Or perhaps a madman on the street, shouting that the end has been coming since the late 60's.

I hope you forgive me for my temporary lack of self control, these spurts come on sometimes. I think I whine too much but there is so much whining left to be done beneath my surface. If I can salvage my mind into something that reality cannot grasp with it's leathery talons, perhaps I can retain that force of power that can never be fully described.

Motivation, guilt, experience, knowledge, power, charisma, prowess, instinct, mood, shape, form, light, talent, color, word.

These unspeakable terms I find myself holding just on the tip of my tongue, waiting to be whispered into your ready ears.

Let me resume my mission.

My Heart, My Heart!

I'm So Broken

219
Then everyone turned and ran to hide
The Doctor first and Me behind.
They said, "the evil's come to pass,
Our hiding places will not last."

The Doctor's cure to this disease
Was strange to me. Though I, naive,
Could not see beyond the throws,
Watched him place the crosshairs below his nose.

An evening gown in ladie's red
Came from his face and forth he bled
Unto the ground and so it seems
This cursed plage, it ends with Me.

Oh Becca, (Don't You) See

So here we are, it's 3:11 not 11:45 like when I usually post.
I'm going on a trip and will return Sunday night.
To tide you all over, I'm going to post every song I've written since I started keeping track of them on my computer and not in various notebooks.
For those of you who have physical copies of my Ruby Slippers and Crash songs, these are not them. Some have already been posted, deal with it.

Hopefully this will tide you over until Sunday.

Leave me lots of comments alright? :D

-time passes-

alright i took all the songs down

that was a limited time deal and i hope you all enjoyed it

just keeping you all on your toes :]

Scales

The annoyance of being an artist is you always focus on art.
Artists make art for artists.
Singers sing songs for musicians.
Only skeptics buy into hypothetical situations.
Only the decided can argue against the divided.

When you're in charge of writing other people's dreams, sometimes you wonder if they appreciate the faint hints of excellence you include. Like a slight background symphony hidden by a large man with a jackhammer. Why do yours always come out as nightmares? Talent? I doubt it. You lust for the life of another, and yet another lusts for the dreams of the dark.

Typical wanting what you don't have story I suppose, except maybe you don't learn in the end that you always had what you wanted. Maybe you were wrong with both choices and you're actually an accountant not an artist.

Who could you be if you wrote other people's dreams?

Step, One, Two

So once again, now that I've accomplished the goals I've dropped them.
I wrote the songs and forgot them.
I know that I can and move on and
I get so much praise for so little.

Before, if I was frustrated I would hit reset and retry.
Now I fight until I win then put down the gloves.
What is worth it to me?
What is worth holding on when I could care less?

The victory isn't the focus, but it's the peak, afterwhich I feel my interests wane.
Another project, another theme, another self that I could be.

How hollow the work is.
It shows potential, and yet it is finished.

I know I can, so I don't.

You all see the budding form, I see only the lines.

What is this reliance on new material? Why do I stop caring?

If art is an expression of self...I really don't give a good shit if I'm lonely.

How can I force myself to hold on?

the prize goes to...

As an assignment, we were supposed to draw two self portraits with only a sharpie, I happend to recieve a red one. They were to focus on line and contour, expression of form rather than realistic shading or symbolism. Let's hope I get a good grade on this. Sorry to waste tonight's post on schoolwork.



Instead of another profile of my face I decided to do perspective for these...this one focusing soley on my pants, so the two dimensionality of it borders on boring line art. But I like how it turned out...I want to write on the ground, facing the implied body, not the audience,
"What Giants See"



This one I did with my left hand, noteably more challenging. Hence the stupid squiggley lines. But I'm overall proud of it. Comments?

So Here We Are

Unformatted, uncut, indecisive and tangled up.

I painted a picture of eternity upon a canvas meant for a simpleton.

I spoke with words in song using a tongue built for lovers.

And yet I cannot seem to express still, that which chisels away daily at my very heart.

"It's just paint, they're just words.
Fingers are for feeling
Fists are for beating
Scabs are for healing
And blood is for bleeding."
Name that tune!

Haha, goodnight everyone.
I hope getting cryptic is worth it for some of you.
Wordplay being my forte, I felt like weaving rhymes would better suit my time than stories that show how boring and unorigional my mental mechanisms are.

Let's see if poetry suits me.
Remeber that time I sent you those lines?

She knows who she is.
Thank you love, for reminding me who I was.

She knows who she is.

And Here Again

It's time to put on the happy face and the sad hat, making for ideal dreams in my melancholy mind.

Somewhere in between reality and a lie, my truths are less the stories and more the rhyme. An author abounding with arrogance defeats his own desires as his demons devour him.

How translucent, yet shielded I remain. I contemplate my safety and wallow in the stains on my resume. My feelings detained for later days of truth, nondescript and fantastic.

This is not the life I live, or the one I want, this is something else entirely, a world you created and I told you about. How does that make you feel? Being God is a burden, one would assume.

In the words of Oscar Wilde
The truth is rarely pure and never simple.
Happy trails to open conversation, as I bait you in with contemplation, simplicity and foolery. How lucky you are to wear my words on your sleeves, and how difficult they were to create. My throat gives you no more. Cherish.

Please don't hold on, it's getting worse.

Please don't listen, I'm a mad man.

Please draw me in closer...

I wanted to speak candidly, but this shining armor weighs my morals down to the dirt and my boots crush the grass on the shady side of a makeshift oasis.

Obscure? Perhaps.
Meaningful? To someone, perchance.

Did it ever mean a thing to me before I knew you loved it?

Does that even matter?

Colors You Love

I tried to explain without words what I wanted to show you.
I tried to capture upon a canvas a moment in passing.
An instant.
A flash.
And it hurt when I failed you.

Sometimes I paint only in black.
Sometimes I painy only in the colors you love.

I painted a picture of eternity.
I showed it to you, you smiled, I smiled.

But I only smiled because you looked so happy.
I didn't see anything.

So come on, come on!
Life is wasting away!
Come on, come on!
We can squeeze one more day
Out of these things we've made
Everything that I create

Is composed of the colors you love.

Closer and Closer

The main thing with people like him is to not get impatient. Sure, he's said the same things a thousand times, sure he's going to tell you the same tired story again like it's new and fascinating. What you've got to remember is that he is like a small child, always fascinated. What you've got to do, for him, is put on that happy face every time and be encouraging. People like him need a solid foundation.

Kicking him to the floor does not count.

No mam, tough love is not the same with people like this.

Look, we ARE professionals here. Trust me, your boyfriend seriously needs help, I know he seems fine sometimes, all the time, whenever, but he is unstable. He is not fit for society. Sure we let him sing his songs, it calms the other patients. That doesn't mean we trust him.

No that does not condone you not trusting him.

You have something over him no ammount of clinical respect for us will ever compare to.

You have his heart.
Well I'm sorry if you don't want it! Sometimes you just need to be there for someone.
Please just give it some time. You seem to be his connection to the real world. Please help us help him.

Please just give it some time.

For him.

Likewise,

Paying attention to the small things makes you ponder the futile.
Loving the irrelevant is passionate, but not productive.
Procreate!
Who can claim to never waste?
I trust that you see the forest and the trees.
Just one interests you more. Right?
Procreate!
Maybe the fact that you came back to questioning yourself is the answer within itself.

And the Truth Is

...that no one really knows

what the fuck it is you're doing

so we hide ourselves appart

and we just keep it moving on.

You Were A Raincoat

When I was younger, much so, almost a month ago, you were a raincoat. You wrapped yourself around me and kept me slightly hot, but not too bad. You kept my frail form, already weakened by sickness and restlesness, from the cold rain that would surely be the death of me. You, your bright colors, always perky on dark days when you know you'd stand out most against a gray sky. How cute you were. You made us both stand out, like a walking lighthouse, shining on everyone as it passes.

We were a two person lighthouse and you were my raincoat and we were much younger and now we seem different. Maybe now that the sun is out, my colors will seem more passionate in contrast.

I Know This Is Belated

This is riding the fine line between belated and never sent.
At which point should the sender just forget it?

"It's the thought that counts"
Counts in seconds and only lasts a few.
I was the one who kept my mouth shut.
I was the pride you grabbed by the reins.
I was burning up and loving every minute of it.
It's not a feeling or a word or a song.
It's not written in any book.
It's smeared on the faces of the young.
It's carved into the skin of the old.

This is almost not worth saying.
Meaning being meaning wether expressed or not.
Time being relevant, our bones lasting longer than our skin.
But the dirt lasts longer than our bones.
So maybe when we're dirt it will be opportune.
I'll step up and apologize.
It takes me 12 seconds to come up with a witty response.
I plan everything I say to you.
This is the search for another way to spin the wheel.
This is a sound you cannot hear because it's all around you.

I know this is belated,
But I love you back.

...fun!

"She said oh, don't be so greedy,
You're a starving artist!

Oh, and I'm so needy,
But look how far this flaw has come."

This Martian Ends His Mission

My father told me a story once about when he was a younger man, and he sat his parents down.

He was very concerned.
He asked them, in all seriousness, if he was an alien.

He felt disconnected from society. He didn't understand other people. He didn't want do deal with a confusing and ever changing reality that, although subjective, was none the less difficult to muddle through especially for an intelligent young mind.

They just laughed at him, they thought it was a joke.

He never stopped believing.

One day my father sat me down.
He told me he saw how concerned I was becoming, and that I could relax, because we were a family of aliens.

Strangely enough, that was the most comforting thing he could have said.

Pairs of Shoes

How interesting, the Book of Memories.
Like reaching into an ocean and pulling out a different sounding chonch each time.

Other lives through others eyes.
I feel like a painter not a writer, although painting is the weakest of my strong suits. I feel like each story is a new color to my pallete. A new blend to mix and toss like a master glazing the canvas lightly and delicately, only to find a new way to work the scheme later. Improvement for the sake of boredom.

Each misconception is a bonus color I keep hidden away.
Who I thought you were, in my cynical dreamer dreams, remains in my back pocket for use in the undoubtfully unplesant tomorrow. And if not? Then it will rest like an infant, peaceably, until needed.

How wonderous meeting new people is.

Shots

No, I'm serious.
When you see me, you best back the hell up.
Cause I'm way more important than I am.

I've been bragging about my money since before I had my money.
Of course, that was just to make the transition easier for you who know me.
Did you ever doubt I had my shit together?
Like I didn't have this whole thing wrapped up before I even started.
Come on.

I was laughing my way to the bank before I even started, it's just too damn easy.
Plans? Ha. No.
It's a blueprint baby.
You don't even have to think.
Think I'm a genius? Nah, I'm an opportunist.

But when it comes down to the line, which of those two would you rather have paying your bills?

Think on it.

Head In A Jar

"Life from behind 3D glasses is highly over-rated.
We always love reaching out to touch things.
But don't want them to touch us.
But that's the downside to 3D,
It works both ways."

You're Not the Same And I'm Not the Same

I havn't.

Gone crazy that is.

If you havn't gone crazy then I havn't gone crazy.
I wrote a song about being crazy and I drew a picture and I stopped and I felt strange being that person. Impersonating the unwell. We are very similar and he doesn't even take the right medicine for what he's got.

Please lower your voice when you talk to me, because when you speak, it sounds as though you are yelling at me.

I apologize to you all personally, myself this time not a fictional character or creative line whipped up to sound more profound than any statement really can be.

My dramatics, idiosyncracies, general nonsense.

I think I'm strange.
But I doubt that I am.
Nobody else seems to think so.

It's weird that it's not weird.

That make sense to you?

Sometimes I feel like you don't appreciate me and I want to yell at you.

But I know that I barely deserve any of you.
Now I'm fed up with reading this, I want to erase it.

but here it is right?
You want to see how I think?

You want to see what's real?
Really I'm just frustrated at being inadequate to the artistic fantasies I surround myself with daily, hourly.

I'm just sorry I'm not around for you more.

And if you think I am, I'm even more sorry.

Because trust me, I'm not.

I suppose I don't know.

But that song was a joke and it was sarcasm and it was happy.

Why do I feel so miserable for him.

God don't leave me alone here again.
Personally, I am afraid of the dark, yes I am.

I pull my sheets up and just pretend like I'm not afraid of what's looming just above my head and I pray and force myself asleep.

But I pass it off real smooth and I write and I seem to be more appreciated as an Idea than as a real person, and I agree.

You can see where I'm going.
Can't you?
You know what I'm trying to say and you can apreciate that someone is trying to explain the unexplainable and attach feelings to colors and words to birds nests.

It just makes me want to be a real person less of the time, and an Idea more often.

I am happy.
I revel in the uphill struggle.

Just because the hill is either invisible or not there at all, doesn't matter much to me at all.

Sleep well, my friends.

Please smile when you see me frowning, because I'm playing out a story in my mind and I'm being a boy who has a lot to deal with, but I'm helping him get through it.

I can save the entire fictional world in my head, and I'm doing it.

One person at a time.
You all are the best.

Love, Tyler.

That Poor Boy

What a difficulty for an aspiring dreamer to sulk in the high grasses of the backyard.

To mope with two bare feet in the lake.

He sits and ponders and yet his muse eludes him.

Why has she forsaken you, you poor, misunderstood child?

You deep thinker, a soul seeker.

It's okay, those clouds up ahead look like rain, perhaps it will remind him of the day that life was static on the television screen and his shoes had holes in them.

But what if they aren't rainy?

What if it's just not that bad?
The boy with the wooden face sits in his room all alone, wondering at the outside world and it's splendor, trying to recapture an ever-more elusive memory of the world he once enjoyed.

And now he wishes he had simply enjoyed the colors rather than trying to see the tiny rainclouds orbiting the bottlebrush blooms.

But he is alone again, and will continue to be.

At least his muse has returned to him.

Sadly, his pens have all run dry, and he doesn't really feel like writing anyway.

"Maybe tomorrow."

Fireside Chats

A Note to His Wife (abridged)
...I don't know if you're seeing these things I'm seeing.
But you're doing a damn great job of seeming like it.
I don't know where this is leading me, if anywhere at all.
I can't stop hearing them, seeing them, strange ghosts.
All I can do is write and sketch poorly what I remember.
My notebooks are tired and repetitive.
My eyes are ringed and bloodshot.
My hands shake and cannot grip.
But my chest kicks at me like I'm an old mule.
It ushers me onward relentlessly.

You're a saint for staying with me.

I wouldn't ask any more of you if I wanted to.
My love, you are truely the only thing I have left.

This empty house would bend to hold me down to earth
But you would embrace me and ask me why I did not ask you to fly away with me.

Thank you.

-Oscar

No Present

I have nothing to give tonight.
I am mentally and physically exhausted.
I don't know why I feel like I'm letting you all down.
Maybe it's something I invented to motivate myself.
Old people in love is very adorable.
Adults can only seem to meet other adults in bars.
If God is a loving God, how far does love transition to forgiveness?
How far does forgiveness transition to acceptance?
Tolerance?
Expectation?

I don't know...things that are running through my mind seem jumbled.
I want to do so much, and I can see it all falling together I just need to be more like Captain America and have the charisma to convince others.

I had a vision of a black spot on white paper.

It branched out like a tree and started to grow with anticipation and planning.

Each branch grew a new one, and slowly but surely, all I now see is a fuzzy black smear with few white spaces shining through.

It's become confusing and I can't quite tell if I'm going to get where I'm going or get caught up in all the self-invented brambles.

But the journey is an irresistable one.

In the words of Kanye West,

"I know my destination
I'm just not there in the streets."

be tea double you's!!

OMIGOSH TYLER DID MORE THAN ONE POST A NIGHT!!!
it's because it wasn't related to my actual post.
deal with it.
if you (or your friends) would like to recieve emails when i post a blog so you don't have to keep refreshing the page in anticipation (i know you do) comment this post with your email adress (or name, i mean i know you all already) and i'll set that whole deal up. i can do these things.

also.

for those of you who don't know (which is like nobody on here but i figure'd i'd be official and post it anywho) i have a music myspace at myspace.com/anythingiseverythingmusic and i have a song roughly based around that post from last night...like the second one under this. go take a listen eh?

and finally.

COLOR OPTION FOR THE SHIRT!
OMIGAWDDDD COULD IT GET ANY COOLER??


so please my friends, whore me out to YOUR friends.

maybe not people who couldn't give a shit.

or people who my apparently 12th grade level writings will confuse and bewilder.

but surely you have some friends who like useless babble?

or trees that look strikingly like the cover of ...Is A Real Boy?

or music that sounds like Max Bemis trying to sing a Postal Service song?

idk, just gimme some help eh? help a brother out? a blog is nothing without readership, and i'm trying to get the music(myspace) writing(blog) and art(also on blog) to kinda go together.

i'm considering having things once every now and again where i write part of a story and you guys all get to comment and finish it for me, but that would require a larger readership to be any fun.

awesome adult level mad libs lol.

also i want guest artists to do things based off of the blog/songs (already HIGHLY related) for more shirts.

help a brother out eh?

you know you can afford it.




DOUBLE BONUS POINTS IF YOU KNOW WHAT THOSE LAST TWO LINES WERE REFERRING TO!!!

Here We Go Again

And so it went, every night.
My tired bones removed themselves sleepily from my work at some ungodly hour and I would feel such an urge to just fall dead where I lay.
Instead I trudged outward into the blackness, my hands knowingly seeking his warm comfort, my giant guardian. He remained camly outside of the only door into my chambers until the dawn broke, lest some ghastly phantasm should arise to give me night horrors.
Such a proud beast, noble of complexion and wise in his gaze. I don't know what compassion he felt for me, why it was his sworn duty to watch over me, but I don't complain.
Who asks our savior why he saved us when they think it might jeapordize their wellbeing?

None.

So I whisper warm words of soothing to him as I stand beneath this massive chest nightly. I ask him what those cool eyes have seen. He never responds but perhaps leans in closer, if but an inch.

Companionship, care, the most difficult to attain when comfort and respect among men is all we can earn, or truely care to at least. How strange it is then when the true blessings of genuine consideration fall upon us. And who is our sworn protector?

But a figment. A ghost like the rest of the ghouls that wrack our brains. But this one carries the emblem of friendship across his breast, and I would trust him with my life.

Goodnight old friend.

Love in the Seasons

I wanted to write something...I don't know...maybe not good...meaningful?
I suppose I wanted to move you, sway you, make you smile or laugh.
I wanted to start abruptly and end surprisingly and look calm like an actor.
I wanted to be new and origional but accessible and human.
I made a list and I scrapped it and I started over and I didn't even write it.
What's the point right?
You expect too much from me. You don't even know.
The silence kills me.
You've already heard this a hundred times.
I've said it a hundred times and you never heard me say it.
But it's for sure that someone else has said something at least very similar.
That's for sure.
Love isn't the right word....
I want to write a letter and not put my name, but I want you to know it's me.
I just want you to want to write me a letter.
And it's totally fine you don't, I understand, I'm just me right?
I'm just that guy you know. I'm your friend sometimes and you talk to me.
Love doesn't describe that.
That's not love.
What is love?

A Never Sent Letter
Hello.
I don't know exactly what I'm writing here since it's 3 am and I'm supposed to be at your place at 7. I mean you didn't ask me over...but I planned to be there at 7 with some hot coca and maybe flowers and I wanted to give you this. I don't even know why I'm explaining this, I mean, you'll be there...
Anyhow, I just wanted to let you know.

I think I might love you.
I mean it hurts to think that when Christmas rolls around that I'll have a present for you but I won't be able to see your face in the morning like some other guy will.
I don't have much money and I don't really have anything special going for me.

Hell, I don't even know why you're friends with me.
I just can't stand the fact that I could lose you to someone who doesn't love you like I do. When the snow falls down I want to walk through the city with you and hold hands and keep you warm with a very oversized blanket. When the boys get back from the war, I know it's all over for you and I. So this is my holiday season I suppose, Christmas in November.

I guess I'll see you in the morning.

Progressive News Everyone!

Good news everyone!
(fry, leila and amy cheer, bender drinks another cold one, zoidburg sifts through more trash and hermes isn't in this episode.)

I made an offical blog image! Huzza!



What's more?? I wasted my day editing the image, and made a potential SHIRT DESIGN!!
OOMIGAWSHHHHH



People interested in purchasing said shirt should encourage me to get my lazy ass to zazzle and make it then open up an etsy and sell it to them!

Artists should help me make more designs based off my blog post!

Tell your friends!

Tell your mom!

Don't tell your dad or he'll make me stop seeing you!

Come on people, let's get motivated!

Well Fed on Fun Times

It's one of those camps.
You sit idly in the woods for days, mask itchy and heat intolderable.
You just sit there with the others, kicking rocks over or something.
Boredom.
Then suddenly it's all, "GRAB THE CHILDREN! GRAB THE CHILDREN!"
Someone's mask falls off in the clamor and they are sent, shivering, to the ground.
Rigormortis sets in promptly and the nerve gas intoxicates their airways.

Sirens, lots of them.

Just another day here at camp.
Hopefully when you get back from the war, we can make some nice cakes.
I am slightly confused, since the war seems to be here.
Where did you "go off" to?

Are you piloting that airplane?

Presently, Mediocre Sailor

I was a very young man before.

Now I remain a young man, younger than my years at least, in my face, or so I'm told.

But some things have changed me I suppose.

Being supplanted from one location to another, chasing loves on a whim and landing in a new town with nothing to sell but my boots.

I had dreams before, of flying and falling.

Now I don't really remember the things that pass my eyes when they are closed. I could have sworn I knew love, but I guess I forgot it.

There was a tree my father planted in the yard when I was still a very young man.

He told me to race it.

We grew up and I won for a few years but slowly the tree came to dwarf me.

I spent summers with my love beneath it's shady branches, sipping cool lemonade. I always hated tea. I asked him kindly if I could mark him, and he said alright. I carved the name of my love into my brother's side. He didn't wince.

As I came home from afar one spring time, I was in a careless stupor, and I jumped into him and screamed at the good lord above as to why life had to be like this.

He hugged my legs and kept me from God's good gravity.

Things change though. He never left home.

When I grew too old for longing, I found my father's old handaxe, and I furiously beat my brother oak. I demanded over and over he bring my father back. I screamed and he sat and he watched and he bled not a drop. I tasted salt in my mouth from exhaustion before it was done.

I live in a house now, my brother surrounds me, and I am less alone than I was when I couldn't see where I was going in the city.

I apologized to him, and I knew I was wrong.

He said, "It doesn't matter much to me, I still feel the same."

When my love returns in the springtime, maybe we will sit beneath his great arms again and sip some cool lemonade.

She loves tea but I love her too much to care about that.

Thinking

Things that might pass through your mind when you've got enough time to waste for the two of us

-Just because this isn't as bad as it could be doesn't mean it isn't that bad.

-Being dead might beat being all alone. Or it might be the same thing.

-A cushion and a pillow are not one in the same.

-Remembering is for people who aren't doing that anymore.

What if You Could Touch my Heart?

Mr. Lowe's Notes
The best way to deal with unruley children is not to make them afraid of the monsters in the basement. It is to make them afraid of the monsters in you.

Oddly enough fear is a much greater motivatior than happiness.
How infinately impatient we are with those we wish to love dearest.
I often wonder what Oscar will think of me when he grows up.
I can only do what I know how, I am only a man.
But I would stop living just to watch him smile.

How strange the human heart.




An Oscar Lowe
My Father
My father was never a drinker
But nightly he would sit and tinker
In our shed on a beast, for four hours at least
And once I saw it move it's fingers.

The spiders that lurk even fear it
The monsters beneath, make a great fit
They ask and they pray for the bed where I lay
They could share for the night, save their spirits.

How strange the cold heart of an old man
How calm and how deadly his eyes
He provided my dinners cooked nightly
But I can't help but hope...........