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...........

No Story

Tell me how the one about the carrot boys goes again?



...yeah, I don't remember either.

Something like that.

How Funny

When I said, "Run, Bright Eyes"
I never thought I might have been talking
To myself.




"Bemis is the man."

Here We Go

Horrible Visions
Climb careful now, careful forever
Up my back and my up neckwear
Climb safely on little sister
Resist the urge to fall and muster
Your courage high and run around
There are beasts of men here that abound.

From my antlers high and safe
Observe my world and from it take
Many lessons, none the less
Being how to cry when times are best.

Stay like this until you can't
In teleprompt, from safety, scant
Remorse I feel when I observe
Your dark ring eyes and fonted words.

Ride on my back lest I should fall
Then drag me homeward, tail and all.

Clean It Up Boys.

Final hoo-ra from the doctor/surgeon. The band leader/ringmaster. The Incompetents follow behind of course, all the talent and none of the glory.

"Nice and easy boys, let's do this real careful like."

He smiles.

"Please stop..." from somewhere deep within.

Well Have You Seen My Baby Boys?

They're very lonely.

Gentlemen in hats, boys with rocks, kids with devilish grins betraying a truely premature understanding of their tiny world. How I feel for them. They cry out to a man who can hear them but is unable to assist. They pray for miracles and recieve tears. I am so sorry children. I didn't mean it. I thought you could take care of yourselves. I thought that I had it right. Now I have to watch, an anguished observer, as my baby boys cry over split knees and torn hearts.

Grow up as slowly as possible, expect as much as you want, take what you can when it seems right and please, please, never feel that you are alone. Sometimes the only way to teach a man is to let him teach himself. But I still watch, and cringe every time you stumble. Those stones won't break your legs but they still rend my cluched chest. They turn my stomach. Please be careful out there. I love you.

Do You Ever Get the Fear?

Oscar Lowe's Notes

Upon A Strange Dream

Two nights ago I had the strangest dream. I was exiting the forest outside of my house, but it was alive...with the sound of music! Not that blaring noise of popularity today, and not the orchestras of yester-year. But a mighty parade of sound that bounded across the boughs and slipped over the streams as smoothe as silk. I was leading it, a great figurehead ratta-tat-tating with chest out and shoulders back, chin up to the sky. The trees and were the brass and strange creatures of unknown origin were my marching companions.

I am unsure of them, these strangers. They seemed so familiar. They seemed to know me, why? Why would they follow me into this strange world in my head? Such honesty of emotion. How could we be so true? How could anyone?

I tried, last night, to resume this dream. It was like standing at the doorstep of a house you've only seen in a picture before. I was reaching for the bell but was suddenly twisted. Suddenly the woods were a cage to my men. The only thing in unison were our racing hearts as fear mused us along amongst the brambles. Why did my symphony betray me? This place that was a home was a prison. And these people that were around me were not my friends.

"Breathe Oscar, breathe. You can save us. You can end this," he says.

"Who are you?? What do you want from me?!"

Safe to say, I won't be revisiting that dream again...

God, what does it take to get a drink in this place?

-Oscar












(Bonus Round: What song did I just refrence?)

Let Her Sing To You

So, here's a story about a story.

I was inside of my old house, inside of my head. I was walking around and I sat down and pretended I was still walking. It was vacant, and although cold is usually the feeling, the Florida heat was making it ever so slightly above bearable temperatuess. I closed my eyes and felt a sweat droplet on the tip of my eye lashes. I tried to close them harder and make it fall off but it sat at it's perch happily and refused to vacate. I didn't open my eyes again for a long while.

I pretended I was still walking around the house, observing the rooms, dark and hollow. Everything was so much bigger, it's like the place ballooned out or warped unnaturally. The house seemed ill at ease.

I don't know if I got up or not, but I went into each room, and saw ghosts of my past inside of them. I watched a young me in the bathtub with toys, laying out at night by the heater, playing cards with her in the kitchen. I, even describing it now, can't help but feel that circular tingling sensation you get about your eyes when they want to start watering. I imagined every Christmas. Every god damn one. I watched us grow up at lightning speed. I watched us at our happiest, giving eachother trinkets of what we saw. In me they saw music or games. In her we saw cooking or literature. I imagined our various trees. It's laughable now, sitting in an empty house, pretending it wasn't empty.

I thought about Mr. Brightside, and how it's true, that someone will drive her down the same streets that I did. Someone will live in this place again. And I hope that I'm still around. I made a pact to break in. To tear all their furniture down and throw it out because it's not how I remember it. I will show my son where I grew up and describe it so that the ghosts I feel flickering in and out of my reality, will become real to him to. I want him to know what a place it was. Because let me tell you, it was.

I felt ignorant and selfish, but I tried to put it into a song, it's all I could do in a house by myself. And I showed that song to another girl. She said I didn't have to but I wanted to. I was so impressed that I could trap that emotion, bottle that sadness and reopen it at will. I almost didn't make it through the song for my voice breaking. We both stared at the ground for a long time afterwords and she said simply, "I'm sorry."

I've played that song so many times now I don't even begin to tear up. It's scary. It's like the only time you could ever understand what I was trying to say was the one time I couldn't even say it.

Maybe that's the point.

Anyhow, if you ever hear me play a song, you'll know what it's about now. If I seem tired or weary it's because I'm searching for that weakness again. I revel in the hollow walls. I live in that moment, alone in that house. I live in that place, watching endless scenes of myself and my loved ones at Christmas time.

And for me, that will last forever.

Just Shh

You know it's really funny, me talking to you like this. I never imagined sitting down at a table somewhere nice where you have to roll your cuffs up with you, of all people. I mean, as much as we knew eachother, we never knew eachother. You heard about me and you made opinions and I saw your stares and I wondered what you were wondering about. I watched them grow with a passion of dispassionate, cool disgust. I am the embodiment of everything you detest aren't I? I find that amusing. I think it's crazy someone could be afraid of me or my potential, but maybe it's because I know myself personally and don't hold great stock in either of those things.

I just....

I hate you

So

God

damn

much.
I don't even know if you know how I feel, felt, ever might. You passed judgement on me before I entered the room. I tried impressing you. I tried ignoring you. I just think honestly, my life wouldn't be better without you or anything, just, I think it would be better if you were dead. That's all.

Like I said, crazy we're talking this all out now. I don't even care anymore. I cared too late. I let it get to me after I lost the fight. Your tiny jabs. My waning ego. Your smug smile. Now it hurts. And now I don't even exist to you.

Don't You Ever Get Lonely? (Happy Tales)

Sometimes I forget why I signed up for the armed forces. It's like, damn, this isn't my front porch, this is another country. These trees don't grow back home. This aint my song they're playing, this radio don't play songs. This gun don't shoot dasies or pinecones. This grime won't be washed off for days at a time.

It's funny how I don't confuse birds for airplanes anymore. Or stars for satellites. It's a strange strange world we live in, but it's oddly the same from the one in the history books. Six strings of comfort hold my hands steady, and I play a tune in my head while I caress the trigger.

"...and no matter what I do, this chariot will bring me back to you...."

Back On My Grind

Happy news everyone! I found my inspiration again! I felt compelled to write more music, and I wanted something faster and more agressive. Oddly enough I wrote (in my opinion) one of the prettiest slow pieces to date. But the words flowing through my brain were some of the most overtly wrathful I've composed. Who knew that hate would be my new muse? How exciting!

New songs very soon.

Until then, here's a drawing I did a few weeks ago, and photoshopped today. He was my inspiration for the recent extended Oscar Lowe post.

I'm So Starving

I'm completely at a loss right now...this is the second night in a row! I know this probably doesn't matter to my readership, but this is seriously bothering me! I'm going to go draw, but those usually take an hour so today will be over by then. I've been working on this song a lot and I guess I'll just post it even though I did it about a month ago. I even mentioned it in a blog here once. This is where I am right now. It's also named after a seperate blog. Everything connects with me. One day I'll lay the whole story out and everything will make sense. Sorry for the lamesauce everyone.

Endsville's Midland Press
There's a young boy walking down an old street at 4 am
He just wants to get some sleep and I just want to be him
There's a bridal dress, there's a heap of regrets
And other disconnected things that will all surely pass.

And he said "I'll find a way out"
But I never heard him say how
Or why you would hate this goddamned place
Oh you're so beautiful

so ill lead you to the trespass
i'll find you hiding behind the shot glass
you know this night could never not last
you know we're going home

So I'll love like no tomorrow
With an hour I can borrow
I danced my blues away but sorrow
Is knocking at my door

And she said she could forgive me
For the sake of fidelity
A plastic ring could mean eternity
To your little girl

so ill lead you to the trespass
i'll find you hiding behind the shot glass
you know this night could never not last
you know we're going home

so i find you wrapped around my shoulders
this mountain air couldn't get much colder
don't let it slip until we're older
you know we're going home

A Word From Our Sponsors

Hello! My name is Tyler. I am the author of Sometimes I Think I See Things Other People Do not. It's a blog involving short stories or drawings. Sometimes I plan them or relate them to a project I've been working on. Most of the time I make them up at 11:30 at night as an exercise to keep my...which side of the brain is the non math side......

Whatever.

I don't really have anything special tonight. I still kind of feel like the patient from my last post, like a hollow container filled with bouncing and rebounding ideas. Some of which I should really keep to myself. Now I know how the electron cloud feels. Wait what? That's an intangible object composed simply of the defined boundaries of the electron's travel distance. That didn't make sense.

So about me.

I'm just a ordinary cat, I'm into art and fuzzy rabbits, kinda smart with a big heart, and you can have it! Just kidding. That's from a song. Imagine you can float. You can float a little bit above the ground, not far but still float. Would you sacrafice never touching the ground again for that little bit of floating? Imagine you get reincarnated as a bug, and can only move on if you inform human you, that it is in fact you. Do you consider the lives of the small and squishable before you cut them short? It could be your own. I usually tell bugs to do something un-bug-like. They usually don't.

One time an ant ran in circles for like 3 minutes. I let him go outside.

What if you've been video taped since you were born? What if the camera is in your eyes, and one day, everything you have seen will be shown to a studio audience of your peers for judgement? Are you proud of what you do in the bathroom? What if the mirrors in your house are all one way mirrors and you just didn't know? Maybe you're unstable and the people you're around are assigned to keep an eye on you. They just don't have the heart to tell you.

What if you froze in time just then? Or passed out? Or fainted? Or switched personalities? Or broke into song? Unless there's a clock around or someone to look at you funny, you'd never know. Funny how conciousness defines who we are despite spending a large portion of our lives in a sleep. What does that mean for dreams?

I only had a few recurring dreams, but it was more like a progressing story. I've had some repeat locations. I've had repeat themes. My dreams are crazy. My aspirations are lofty. What's worse is I believe they will all be achieved.

I suppose this boils down to me being a very, very, normal teenage boy. College kid feeling confident in his stance on things and exploring the vast world of new ideas that has been presented to him. How very novel. How very noble when I arrogantly assume that I am above such things and shun those who are not. I'm not crazy or obsessive compulsive *adjusts glasses*. I'm not depressed and I don't have an anxiety disorder. I'm absolutely normal, and that kills me every time.

Welcome to my stories.

Hello Doctor

Your floor is cold...My shoes? Well I took them off when you left the room, they're in the corner...What? Because I couldn't feel your floor...Oh yes, my problems. Could you turn the lights down? They're too bright...No I don't think I have eaten anything today...No that's not all too uncommon. Is that uncommon, doctor?

Sometimes I sit, that's a lie, I'm always sitting. And I have these things inside of me, things that are both abstract and as tangible as this here chair. I freeze, and I feel less like a person and more like a ceramic cage, a vase, or luggage...What? No I've never thought about killing myself, why would you even say that doctor?? I'm not depressed, just let me explain please. Yes, yes I know you are a medical doctor and not a therapist. God, what, you think I'm nuts or something? I came here with a medical inquiry. You just have to listen.

Sometimes I have these dreams, thoughts, ideas, ideals, i don't knows. They're like little paper airplanes in my cage of a vase head. They soar up from my inside, and out through my ears. They explore the world and are free to be viewed and view others. I can feel them flow, like on air. This is a metaphor of course doctor, don't mistake me for a loon. Please.

But my feelings, my interworking cogs of moral or ethical confusion and solace, are sometimes not free flying paper planes. Sometimes they are dark things, little monsters who grope at my neck from where they are lodged in the pit of my stomach. I tense up, almost vomit, and try to hold them in with my insides. But they claw until I cannot speak them. So they go into my head where I cannot help but think them. And once they see an opportune time through my eyes, and hear a whisper hush from my ears, they crawl out my mouth like grotesque spiders.

It's involuntary, like a gag doctor. I have these things in my head and I cannot keep from spewing it at your feet. This is my problem.

If I must choose from letting loose all my inner-workings or none at all, I would surely be plugged like a fine wine and sealed back to where I couldn't do any more harm. Please, don't look at me like that...What? No I am not on any medication and no I don't want any. Don't you even want to check me first? My throat or my ears? What is the medicine for if you don't know them problem? Well yes I just explained it, but you obviously don't understand or you wouldn't be looking at me like that.

Sir I am going to get another opinion.

No I did not forget my shoes.

I hope you don't make a practice out of ignoring those whose lives you could save, doctor.

I certainly hope you don't.

Status

I've begun new work on the This Is Why We Don't Go Into The Woods At Night story, in my head that is. Oscar Lowe, everyone's favorite neurotic author type, being the Night Man if you remember correctly. None of what you've read already from him is going to be IN the story of course, but don't be disappointed, it's just bonus material for you, my cherished readers. This is the cover, finished before school was out, is just a rough draft...unless it ends up working out. Colors are apt to be changed, this is just what photoshop decided looked cool. Cheers to new artwork soon.

An Oscar Lowe

The Juggler
So I've noticed through trial and error
That juggling just leads me to failure
My hands are not equipped to cycle and grip
And the objects of my desire just go sail, sir.

He can juggle, that man, I have seen him
In the forest of the forsaken
His mouth and his eyes are wizened by time
But his mechanic gaze is painstaken.

So I conclude from studies and findings
That issues of the heart and mind seem
To bury us all under bruises and scars
Unless we watch from afar like in a dream.

Standing alone, juggling it all in harmony
Is not worth the annon-imity.
Sealing yourself away for days, in a perfect, cold haze.
Is untying the strings of our findings.

Either we're buried or shoveling
Never ending and bubbling
With hopes and dreams, to be crushed it seems
But I'm blossoming, and these hands are juggling.

II: Growing Up

Journal Entries of Francis Du'Mort:

II: Growing Up
I've found myself a little time to write now, it's been a few days by my account. We have yet to arrive anywhere different, and yet this whole world feels so new. I've been observing my counterparts and I have to say, I am impressed. We have come to a common means of speaking, a tongue we forged from what all of us could understand of eachother.

I am eager to learn, but I still feel slightly lacking physically. My bones creak with the strain of being in constant motion, I can feel them growing wildly to compensate for my newfound surroundings. It is both elating and frustrating, as I cannot seem to gain my composure.

I feel so giddy though. Every small spectacle is an astonishment, natural occurances, thousands of years of repetition, are so breath taking to me. I can feel my naive eyes drinking in my environment more and more hungrily. I want to know everything. I want to feel everything. Life is beautiful and simple and so complex.

I feel I must go now and explore some more. I still feel as though this expanse, this place, has no boundaries. Life is a book I am reading voraciously. I cannot be stopped.

This is paradise.

-Francis

Every Now and Again

It's just a lot easier to not look at you.
We're not talking and looking at you is strange.
I feel things inside of me and I'm tired.
I have emotions but I didn't when I couldn't look at you.
You want to speak but you want me to.
I'm not going to, give up.
I'm just too over it.
I'm 1/3 done and I'm already burnt out.
I've only known one person in my life.
I've only played songs for my room.
My family likes to dance but I like to observe.
We're alone again and it's hard not to look at you.
But it's even harder to face up to what I know.

We know.

We knew.

I know.
Every now and again I'll look to you, silent.
I'll want to feel the urges again.
But only when it's harmless and unseen.
It's a lot easier to not look at you.
And just put my head on your shoulder.
And breathe, in step, like soldiers.
Observing the battlefields of the night sky.

You understand.

I know you do.

Tonight, For Me

The moon is a fulcrum
I am but an anchor, a pendulum.
I move about, in crazed patterns
But only within a three block radius.

Gravity is a figment
An excuse to keep doing what we do
I have a lot of love to give
But only within a three block radius.

My eyes are on the pivot point
My hands are on the reins
You are forcing me over uncharted waters
Unfamiliar, and far from my three block radius.

I am so very eager.

A Sad Song

This opposes everything I have written up to this point.
I'm terribly excited.

A Sad Song
my enemies are old friends
and my ghosts take second place
and i'm in the lead
oh woes to me.

did you think i thought about the words
before i scripted and rehearsed
i fell backwards into her
i fell down in pursuit

her eyes
were lenses
and her tongue
was splendid
and her fingers tapped on photographs
and she danced on to a sappy song

but me
a possibility
of some hope
for sailors out at sea
but my inks all spilled and sunk our men
our hopes afloat on their children

so we'll sing
a sad song
and we'll sing
a sad song today.