It disgusts me to think, as I sit silently and ponder, that every step deeper I take in thought, is a step well worn by many others. Everything I could feel has been felt by so many fingers that it is probably considerably less perfect now than when it was first felt, in the first heart, in the first mind. It's almost as if living a life of simple impulse and basic want and need would be more humane, more organic, more right. But what a waste then of a mind that does so much more than that. Selfish, yes, but I think selfish needs are also basic ones, so perhaps it is a synthesis.
It irks me ever more as I find the more I realize, the more pretentious it makes every further thought. Not on purpose, just by association. Each step towards enlightenment brings you further from the common man, and into the realm of what those also seeking to be enlightened define as important. Where as those who are enlightened, they are not to be found. They are hiding in plain sight. They are so beyond your comprehension of what the truth of happiness is about, that you who seek the hardest for it, would be blind to them if they shook your hand.
That is why love is all there is. Love is the only contribution you could possibly have.
What is the point of splitting atoms if you cannot find clean water? What is the point of fixing a car if people could just as well walk? Every point has counter-point, and every action, even well-wished ones, could, and oftentimes will, lead to negative results, for someone. Happiness or sadness are things that make your core, like the core of the Earth, and the other emotions are in a constant motion across your awareness. Like the plates, constantly shifting. This lack of stability does not make each feeling worthless, but makes each one important. Does that make sense? Does rejoicing in every happy moment make it okay to say that bad moments are just a test of your patience until another happy moment arises? No. It does not justify. But yet, saying that sad moments are important is somehow impossible to accept. So let's not.
The only thing I could think that you could do is try to be a positive for another person. In a world defined by our imaginary rules, imaginary money, imaginary government, imaginary property, all that truly exists are humans. We are all the man behind the curtian, operating Oz.
That is why God must also be love, and mercy. If he is not, what is his point? Admittedly, life can have no purpose. You might feel no purpose. Only very few hear voices, and even less listen to them. But if you can focus on love, on being a positive for another, you can move on. You could get obsessive and begin to lose focus, but do not be every male in history. Do not try to remake the world "better." We all know where that leads. Simply accept that you must live, you must work, you might even want to contribute, but know that in the larger view of time and space and history as a linear thing, your only true accomplishment, will be those who you made to feel loved.
Like Justin told me, playing the songs on ...Is A Real Boy defeats the purpose of ...Is A Real Boy because they are about how terrible people are who get attention for trivial musical tastes of the moment...like those songs themself. So this thinking itself defeats itself.
So give up.
Be simple, and mean well.
All you can do is love, and try to assist someone else. If you fail, you can honestly say you tried and meant well.
Smoochie says, "You can't change the world, but you can make a dent in it."
Don't compromise.
Don't give up if you do compromise.
Don't believe that you are more or less than anything else.
Love.
Love as much as you can.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Monday, January 25, 2010
So I Turned It Off
There was once a boy who saw the world through very special eyes. He didn't see depth or fiction, illusion or grandeur. He saw no horizons or grayscales, or skyscrapers or dark corners. He saw lines. He saw a straight line leading from his feet to where he was going. Where that was, he was unsure, but that was irrelevant.
He made his way down, not noticing the people too far away from the line to be in his one dimensional universe. In real life, one might suppose it to be the equivalent of passing a stranger walking the other direction, on the opposite sidewalk across a one lane street. Not a great distance, no, not really. Maybe that stranger had something to offer. Maybe you had something to offer them. But the point is, to him, there was nobody, no stranger. No chance encounter of two minds so alike in fashion as to always want to meet and pair and eventually call it love.
None of those.
But he did come across a tree with an owl who spoke in rainbow tone. He met a man who sold balloons that smelled like strawberries. He also met a giant who didn't know he was a giant. The giant lived in trees, thinking nobody saw him. When the boy asked the giant to move, the giant was very astonished and asked how the boy could see him, hidden as he was in the thick foliage. The boy replied that the giant couldn't possibly be invisible as long as he knew where he was himself. The giant pondered this. Are you hidden if you know where you are? The boy gave him the strawberry balloon to ponder this, and went on his way.
He eventually reached a point where the line went straight up. Fancy it as he might, he couldn't bring himself to be walking on the vertical. It doesn't happen for boys like he or I. It just doesn't. But his mistake here was not noticing the real truth of the matter. You see in real life, he was up against a wall. He was in love with the idea of being whole almost as much as he loved to admit how flawed even his own schemes were. He was enamored with reaching out very, very slowly, and grabing the fabric of reality, and sanding it to a nice glossy finish. He then cuddled the reality and let it soothe him to sleep. He had met a girl, needless to say in such overt terms.
She thought he was beautiful, even for everything he wasn't. Especially for everything he wasn't in fact. Because she only saw a large expanse of space. She saw the lack of lines and had the possibility to go anywhere but where she was going. She saw colors and heard sounds and sometimes she even heard colors and saw sounds. But she didn't see him, and he didn't see her, until they bumped into eachother wholly on accident. He was busy trying to breathe water while she was trying to grow trees simply by commanding turtles to become trees. For all their big mistakes, they thought eachother beautiful. Invisible, but reaching for a lover in the dark, when fingers replace eyes, is never really an issue.
So he bought a car.
Now they both drive left. Not two dimensional Super Mario Brothers you can understand it right and left. No that's what they were doing before. Now they turned, faced the camera, and came right at you. They used foreshortening, and got bigger and bigger and now they're over your head and gone. The beauty of thinking is the absense of need for horizon lines, I suppose. He think's she's beautiful, and she thinks she can see his chest beating heavily in colors that don't even exist. I think that's an appropriate situation. Don't you?
He made his way down, not noticing the people too far away from the line to be in his one dimensional universe. In real life, one might suppose it to be the equivalent of passing a stranger walking the other direction, on the opposite sidewalk across a one lane street. Not a great distance, no, not really. Maybe that stranger had something to offer. Maybe you had something to offer them. But the point is, to him, there was nobody, no stranger. No chance encounter of two minds so alike in fashion as to always want to meet and pair and eventually call it love.
None of those.
But he did come across a tree with an owl who spoke in rainbow tone. He met a man who sold balloons that smelled like strawberries. He also met a giant who didn't know he was a giant. The giant lived in trees, thinking nobody saw him. When the boy asked the giant to move, the giant was very astonished and asked how the boy could see him, hidden as he was in the thick foliage. The boy replied that the giant couldn't possibly be invisible as long as he knew where he was himself. The giant pondered this. Are you hidden if you know where you are? The boy gave him the strawberry balloon to ponder this, and went on his way.
He eventually reached a point where the line went straight up. Fancy it as he might, he couldn't bring himself to be walking on the vertical. It doesn't happen for boys like he or I. It just doesn't. But his mistake here was not noticing the real truth of the matter. You see in real life, he was up against a wall. He was in love with the idea of being whole almost as much as he loved to admit how flawed even his own schemes were. He was enamored with reaching out very, very slowly, and grabing the fabric of reality, and sanding it to a nice glossy finish. He then cuddled the reality and let it soothe him to sleep. He had met a girl, needless to say in such overt terms.
She thought he was beautiful, even for everything he wasn't. Especially for everything he wasn't in fact. Because she only saw a large expanse of space. She saw the lack of lines and had the possibility to go anywhere but where she was going. She saw colors and heard sounds and sometimes she even heard colors and saw sounds. But she didn't see him, and he didn't see her, until they bumped into eachother wholly on accident. He was busy trying to breathe water while she was trying to grow trees simply by commanding turtles to become trees. For all their big mistakes, they thought eachother beautiful. Invisible, but reaching for a lover in the dark, when fingers replace eyes, is never really an issue.
So he bought a car.
Now they both drive left. Not two dimensional Super Mario Brothers you can understand it right and left. No that's what they were doing before. Now they turned, faced the camera, and came right at you. They used foreshortening, and got bigger and bigger and now they're over your head and gone. The beauty of thinking is the absense of need for horizon lines, I suppose. He think's she's beautiful, and she thinks she can see his chest beating heavily in colors that don't even exist. I think that's an appropriate situation. Don't you?
Thursday, January 21, 2010
"Don't Let That Blow Go To Your Head"
There's nothing quite like the calming quiet of time passed asleep. I would suppose. I mean who actually knows what it's like to be asleep. If it's a dead sleep, you just fall down and wake up and time has passed and you might feel more energetic. If it was a dream, oh it could be SO many things if it was a dream.
In my dreams, the situations are crazy, but the people act just like they always do in the real world. The waking world, I suppose, being a better title.
So come, plague me you horrid scenes. Nothing hurts like watching others die. Nothing is worse than being helpless. In a wold I strive so hard to have absolute control over, I suppose the balance of imbalance has found it's place to dominate me. I have to watch every night as cars drive over bridges. Pile. Explode. I can't swim to them, I just wake up.
If I seek order, than imbalance must have it's time. And if I refuse it, it will find me. This revelation I have come to accept. But I do not condone it. So maybe I seek to control the one uninhibited part of my free-flowing conciousness. So what? Does that make me less human? No. It makes me most human of all, because I do it out of fear. Fear of being powerless. Fear of being useless. Fear that I am not worth that which I consume. This is the essence of "human." Who am I to contradict these laws?
In my dreams, the situations are crazy, but the people act just like they always do in the real world. The waking world, I suppose, being a better title.
So come, plague me you horrid scenes. Nothing hurts like watching others die. Nothing is worse than being helpless. In a wold I strive so hard to have absolute control over, I suppose the balance of imbalance has found it's place to dominate me. I have to watch every night as cars drive over bridges. Pile. Explode. I can't swim to them, I just wake up.
If I seek order, than imbalance must have it's time. And if I refuse it, it will find me. This revelation I have come to accept. But I do not condone it. So maybe I seek to control the one uninhibited part of my free-flowing conciousness. So what? Does that make me less human? No. It makes me most human of all, because I do it out of fear. Fear of being powerless. Fear of being useless. Fear that I am not worth that which I consume. This is the essence of "human." Who am I to contradict these laws?
Monday, January 18, 2010
You'll Never Ever Be My Girl.
A great songwriter said, "When we are loud, we are one." As I dashed through the forest, my naked toes snapping on the twisted purple roots of trees formed into shapes beyond comprehension, I heard such noise, that it did seem to become one sound. One mass. One thought. All I had was one thought. I can't explain it. I couldn't, of all the metaphors at my disposal, of every line of verse I've ever carelessly tossed into a hapless meaning, think of one example of it. All I had was what I knew to do, some instinct propelling me through the woods.
The moonlight was bright, and in the seconds between footfalls I would peer up. It was a night where the moon actually lit the earth, and one not so old as me might have been confused, because it didn't seem like night, but instead some inverse reality of the daytime. I traced yet again each branch, lifting and twisting and moving in seperate directions until they all joined somewhere near the heavens.
Still the sound called to me. Still I had to run.
The songwriter aforementioned added, "When we are one, we are more." This concept is lofty and idealistic of course, but understand that this was from the eyes of a man who spends his time in his own head, in his own reality, forced to come into the real world for the first time in ages. This was me, when I finally found all of them.
This was me in awe of them.
This was me now knowing who I was, and what I was here to do.
And this was me, most importantly, knowing YOU.
I know what you are here to do. All I have to do is wait for you to realize it.
All I have to do is wait for you to wake up.
The moonlight was bright, and in the seconds between footfalls I would peer up. It was a night where the moon actually lit the earth, and one not so old as me might have been confused, because it didn't seem like night, but instead some inverse reality of the daytime. I traced yet again each branch, lifting and twisting and moving in seperate directions until they all joined somewhere near the heavens.
Still the sound called to me. Still I had to run.
The songwriter aforementioned added, "When we are one, we are more." This concept is lofty and idealistic of course, but understand that this was from the eyes of a man who spends his time in his own head, in his own reality, forced to come into the real world for the first time in ages. This was me, when I finally found all of them.
This was me in awe of them.
This was me now knowing who I was, and what I was here to do.
And this was me, most importantly, knowing YOU.
I know what you are here to do. All I have to do is wait for you to realize it.
Friday, January 15, 2010
11:25 on a Friday night
Men mingle words as they shuffle on through
The doors open wide and the window's a view
Of bridges vast and wide and the coming to sea
Of bodies, shadow side facing outland debris.
We mingle and we mince with a question of years
Lending credence to the stories and the tales of spears
In the sides of the giants who were crafted from stone
Across the river, in a building lays a paper alone
It's the blueprint for the monsters that we build and construct
It's the silent waiting calm that we burn and we cut
It's abounding with the former fears of our fallen foes
It's the ending of the conversation as the last man goes home.
The doors open wide and the window's a view
Of bridges vast and wide and the coming to sea
Of bodies, shadow side facing outland debris.
We mingle and we mince with a question of years
Lending credence to the stories and the tales of spears
In the sides of the giants who were crafted from stone
Across the river, in a building lays a paper alone
It's the blueprint for the monsters that we build and construct
It's the silent waiting calm that we burn and we cut
It's abounding with the former fears of our fallen foes
It's the ending of the conversation as the last man goes home.
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
Grand Finale.
Contest: Name the author of this quote, without using the internets to figure it out. This is, and has always been, the most poetic album ending I have ever heard. Suits me well to end on this note.
She's got a sword in case
though this is not her lord in case
the one who can't afford to face her image
is restored to grace.
Disappeared. No trace.
Mustky tears. Suitcase.
The down turn brave little burncub
bearcareless turnip snare and rampages
pitch color pages....
down and out but not in Vegas.
Disembarks and disengages.
No loft.
Sweet pink canary cages
plummet pop dewskin fortitude
for the sniffling black noses that snort and allude
to the dangling thrinkets
that mimic the dirt cough go drink its.
It's for you.
Blue battered naval town
slip kisses delivered by duck muscles
and bottlenosed grifters
arrive in time to catch the late show.
It's a beehive barrel race.
A shehive stare and chase
wasted feature who tried and failed to reach her.
Embossed beneath a box in the closet that's lost.
The kind of thing you find when
you mind your own mysteries.
Shiv sister to the quickness
before it blisters into the newmorning milk blanket.
Your ilk is funny to the turnstyle touch bunny
whose bouquet set a course for bloom without decay.
Get your broom and sweep
the echoes of yesternights fallen freckles
....away..
She's got a sword in case
though this is not her lord in case
the one who can't afford to face her image
is restored to grace.
Disappeared. No trace.
Mustky tears. Suitcase.
The down turn brave little burncub
bearcareless turnip snare and rampages
pitch color pages....
down and out but not in Vegas.
Disembarks and disengages.
No loft.
Sweet pink canary cages
plummet pop dewskin fortitude
for the sniffling black noses that snort and allude
to the dangling thrinkets
that mimic the dirt cough go drink its.
It's for you.
Blue battered naval town
slip kisses delivered by duck muscles
and bottlenosed grifters
arrive in time to catch the late show.
It's a beehive barrel race.
A shehive stare and chase
wasted feature who tried and failed to reach her.
Embossed beneath a box in the closet that's lost.
The kind of thing you find when
you mind your own mysteries.
Shiv sister to the quickness
before it blisters into the newmorning milk blanket.
Your ilk is funny to the turnstyle touch bunny
whose bouquet set a course for bloom without decay.
Get your broom and sweep
the echoes of yesternights fallen freckles
....away..
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Good Evening Cherished Readership.
Good news everyone! (Farnsworth refrence)
I'm going to stop blogging! Whooo!
I know, it seems like bad news, because I know my nightly short stories/poems/monologues/rants/drawings/songs mean a lot to you. But something good and fresh and new is right around the corner!
Here's the shakedown.
(Oh God you've got to shake it out, shake it outttt)
(Manchester Orchestra refrence)
I know I've been slacking on my "nightly" posting duties. I'm sure you don't mind as much as I do, I assume if there were no comments, nobody read it, and that's a lot of my posts lol. I know half of you are just my friends I yelled at enough to convince to join (Brook.) Anyhow, it does bother me, so I decided to do something that I could space out longer, and only produce one post a week. But I can write things in like five minutes, so it had to be something I could really work on for a week each time.
So, last three days or so, I realized that I am caught up nightly with every fmylife and mylifeisaverage post and have started reading everything on The Oatmeal. This has left me little left to do online, since nobody ever Facebook messages me. And nobody even CONSIDERS using Myspace anymore. (every cool website ever refrence)
So I started reading Dr. McNinja again. It's in COLOR now!! It's badass. Go to drmcninja.com and please understand everything I have ever cared about from 10th grade until now.
Just like how I wrote my own verion of a musical after hearing Razia's Shadow (and somehow combining it with Right Away Great Captain) I'm yet again going to copy that which I am currently interested in, in an effort to both occupy and entertain myself. In fact it was going to be about a super hero. But I got wise to this, and realizing my pool of knowledge is pretty much limited to random facts about Max Bemis, I reached out to my best friend, who has WHOLLY different taste in things, for some ideas. And by ideas I mean, I talked to her (basically to myself while pacing in her room) for about half an hour, and arrived at a story about zombies.
How unlike me.
ANYHOW. I will begin writing the storyline post hase, and will begin coming out with at least one page of finished comic-ey goodness every Thursday. That includes this Thursday. No time to learn how to draw comics like the present!
My Mom and I were talking, and she said I could be a great graphic designer once I finished my degree, and I informed her that unless I was going to be an art teacher, a graphic design degree wouldn't help me in the least. I have a better chance of being a rock star. But this is a genuinely good idea. And it's more useful to helping me practice the art form I'm currently involved with (drawinggg) than that which I hope I will use one day to make millions of dollars (wearing tight pants and emoting).
Tommorow will be my last "every day" post on this website. I will update it when I can and/or if I feel like it. It will be a contest. I have set the contest date to tomorrow because I've yet to think of a prize. But I will. The contest will be a trivia question, so make sure and read every post I've ever posted carefully before then. Goodnight everyone. Thank you for helping me keep this going as long as I have.
I'm going to stop blogging! Whooo!
I know, it seems like bad news, because I know my nightly short stories/poems/monologues/rants/drawings/songs mean a lot to you. But something good and fresh and new is right around the corner!
Here's the shakedown.
(Oh God you've got to shake it out, shake it outttt)
(Manchester Orchestra refrence)
I know I've been slacking on my "nightly" posting duties. I'm sure you don't mind as much as I do, I assume if there were no comments, nobody read it, and that's a lot of my posts lol. I know half of you are just my friends I yelled at enough to convince to join (Brook.) Anyhow, it does bother me, so I decided to do something that I could space out longer, and only produce one post a week. But I can write things in like five minutes, so it had to be something I could really work on for a week each time.
So, last three days or so, I realized that I am caught up nightly with every fmylife and mylifeisaverage post and have started reading everything on The Oatmeal. This has left me little left to do online, since nobody ever Facebook messages me. And nobody even CONSIDERS using Myspace anymore. (every cool website ever refrence)
So I started reading Dr. McNinja again. It's in COLOR now!! It's badass. Go to drmcninja.com and please understand everything I have ever cared about from 10th grade until now.
Just like how I wrote my own verion of a musical after hearing Razia's Shadow (and somehow combining it with Right Away Great Captain) I'm yet again going to copy that which I am currently interested in, in an effort to both occupy and entertain myself. In fact it was going to be about a super hero. But I got wise to this, and realizing my pool of knowledge is pretty much limited to random facts about Max Bemis, I reached out to my best friend, who has WHOLLY different taste in things, for some ideas. And by ideas I mean, I talked to her (basically to myself while pacing in her room) for about half an hour, and arrived at a story about zombies.
How unlike me.
ANYHOW. I will begin writing the storyline post hase, and will begin coming out with at least one page of finished comic-ey goodness every Thursday. That includes this Thursday. No time to learn how to draw comics like the present!
My Mom and I were talking, and she said I could be a great graphic designer once I finished my degree, and I informed her that unless I was going to be an art teacher, a graphic design degree wouldn't help me in the least. I have a better chance of being a rock star. But this is a genuinely good idea. And it's more useful to helping me practice the art form I'm currently involved with (drawinggg) than that which I hope I will use one day to make millions of dollars (wearing tight pants and emoting).
Sunday, January 10, 2010
Happy Vaguely One Year!
Christopher Morley said,
"If we all discovered that we had only five minutes left to say all that we wanted to say, every telephone booth would be occupied by people calling other people to tell them that they loved them."
I don't own a cell phone, so I suppose you'll just have to listen extra hard all the time, just in case I need to shout it to the heavens.
I don't own a cell phone, so I suppose you'll just have to listen extra hard all the time, just in case I need to shout it to the heavens.
Saturday, January 9, 2010
I Told You To Get Out
The author of the quote "life's not fair" needs to retrace their steps. Every moment building in potential energy leads to the conclusions we are faced with. And if they do not, if some alternative force acts upon us, changing our direction, we should have prepared for that before our feet even left the ground.
"It started quite young." A cliche' quote in iteself, yet the truest I know. It did start in my youth, as simple games of amusement for a child not alone, not lonely, but simply playing by himself. I counted steps of toy soldiers and slowly rehearsed the same tired stories I would, in my adult life, write on paper and sell to the masses.
As I grew, so too did my fears of the dark. So too grew my yearning to have two more legs, so I could walk evenly in steps on the pavement, with a constant, even, ever-changing pattern. Now I just want those legs I do possess cut off. It's dismal and self-centered to focus on such things, but I do.
What's worse? In my time of speaking to others, so short a time that it is for a lifetime is but an instant and a great majority of it is spent sleeping or in the washroom; in my time with others, I feign trying to hide my pains, but I don't, I bathe in them. I bask in the glory of a self-appointed title, martyr.
It started quite young, my urge to not let my foods touch as they rest upon my plate. Now, as I've aged, I don't serve myself more than one item at a time. Soon I just won't eat. I'd rather die than have my food feeling sorry for itself.
You told me you felt sorry for myself. I told you to get out.
"It started quite young." A cliche' quote in iteself, yet the truest I know. It did start in my youth, as simple games of amusement for a child not alone, not lonely, but simply playing by himself. I counted steps of toy soldiers and slowly rehearsed the same tired stories I would, in my adult life, write on paper and sell to the masses.
As I grew, so too did my fears of the dark. So too grew my yearning to have two more legs, so I could walk evenly in steps on the pavement, with a constant, even, ever-changing pattern. Now I just want those legs I do possess cut off. It's dismal and self-centered to focus on such things, but I do.
What's worse? In my time of speaking to others, so short a time that it is for a lifetime is but an instant and a great majority of it is spent sleeping or in the washroom; in my time with others, I feign trying to hide my pains, but I don't, I bathe in them. I bask in the glory of a self-appointed title, martyr.
It started quite young, my urge to not let my foods touch as they rest upon my plate. Now, as I've aged, I don't serve myself more than one item at a time. Soon I just won't eat. I'd rather die than have my food feeling sorry for itself.
You told me you felt sorry for myself. I told you to get out.
Friday, January 8, 2010
I.A.L.G.
I was formed beneath the footsteps of the retreating
I spent nearly twenty evenings below the Sun, below the Moon
When the Moon connects the dots to all that it has lost
Only lovers now flock to it
Only shaking hands give it praise
When the Sun forgets itself
When the morning passes over
Every eyelid stops to lower in praise
Every voice shall rise to meet
I watched a man leaving everything
Not just house and home but the soil it was built on
He knew anything could be like a plastic ring
He caught the refrences. And he fell.
But I caught his ankles still
Now we sit at the dinner table, passing plates
Clockwise, quiet, lowered eyes and heightened gazes
Only Alice knows the way to me and I
Would stop the rain from falling for her
If the Moon would pay me any mind.
I spent nearly twenty evenings below the Sun, below the Moon
When the Moon connects the dots to all that it has lost
Only lovers now flock to it
Only shaking hands give it praise
When the Sun forgets itself
When the morning passes over
Every eyelid stops to lower in praise
Every voice shall rise to meet
I watched a man leaving everything
Not just house and home but the soil it was built on
He knew anything could be like a plastic ring
He caught the refrences. And he fell.
But I caught his ankles still
Now we sit at the dinner table, passing plates
Clockwise, quiet, lowered eyes and heightened gazes
Only Alice knows the way to me and I
Would stop the rain from falling for her
If the Moon would pay me any mind.
Thursday, January 7, 2010
A Fun Song
Twice beneath my narrow neck
Behind the curtain that is breathing
You sent feeling that defeated me
My wits, my charm and I
I fell in such a way
That would embarass my own father
He forgets that I choose to bother
With affairs of whim but I
I feel like you know you always had me
And the time appart was just a day away
When I took your hand right back
You smiled and said
"Where are we going?
You're late."
And I laughed the night away.
I forged through hurried steps
A path inside your garden
I broke grass blades with abandon
I left footprints on your floor
Now the time has come to leave
But I can always find my way
Just like every other day
I walk an hour to your door.
I feel like you had me the whole time
When I let you go but I couldn't feel a thing
Beneath these beating wings fluttering
My lungs just sat there stuttering
Until I spat the words out suddenly
"You're mine."
I know that these days...these days
It's rather easy to get lonely
And you'd rather not love somebody
But I guess...
I guess I'm just your type.
Behind the curtain that is breathing
You sent feeling that defeated me
My wits, my charm and I
I fell in such a way
That would embarass my own father
He forgets that I choose to bother
With affairs of whim but I
I feel like you know you always had me
And the time appart was just a day away
When I took your hand right back
You smiled and said
You're late."
And I laughed the night away.
I forged through hurried steps
A path inside your garden
I broke grass blades with abandon
I left footprints on your floor
Now the time has come to leave
But I can always find my way
Just like every other day
I walk an hour to your door.
I feel like you had me the whole time
When I let you go but I couldn't feel a thing
Beneath these beating wings fluttering
My lungs just sat there stuttering
"You're mine."
I know that these days...these days
It's rather easy to get lonely
And you'd rather not love somebody
But I guess...
I guess I'm just your type.
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
Make Amends
12:03 on an old side road.
It's hot enough to unbutton the top button of a hawaiian print shit.
I've got a tee so I just suffer through it.
Grass on both sides, to the right sparse trees, and to the left pasture.
I could go, I'm almost gone.
I didn't pull all the way up to the stop sign.
I'm about 10 feet away, close enough to taste it, but cars wouldn't wait on me.
Who am I waiting on, you ask?
The love of my life of course.
The only sound is that of birds, uttering fast phrases to eachother.
Who comes back when all you've done is set fire to the dry grass of your hometown?
Who lovingly looks over the places you used to be so carefree?
I do, and I pass the time, left arm out the window.
She'll know I came back.
If she's as bitter as I expect her to be, she could stop the world from turning.
Just this one girl's two hands, firmly grasp, and stop existance.
And here she is, just as I expected.
She hasn't aged a day and neither have I.
She walks right over to me, across the field and over the fence.
She jumps through the open drivers window.
She smothers me in endless passion, and I return.
Only such a bitter girl could drop that hate as soon as I got back.
It's hot enough to unbutton the top button of a hawaiian print shit.
I've got a tee so I just suffer through it.
Grass on both sides, to the right sparse trees, and to the left pasture.
I could go, I'm almost gone.
I didn't pull all the way up to the stop sign.
I'm about 10 feet away, close enough to taste it, but cars wouldn't wait on me.
Who am I waiting on, you ask?
The love of my life of course.
The only sound is that of birds, uttering fast phrases to eachother.
Who comes back when all you've done is set fire to the dry grass of your hometown?
Who lovingly looks over the places you used to be so carefree?
I do, and I pass the time, left arm out the window.
She'll know I came back.
If she's as bitter as I expect her to be, she could stop the world from turning.
Just this one girl's two hands, firmly grasp, and stop existance.
And here she is, just as I expected.
She hasn't aged a day and neither have I.
She walks right over to me, across the field and over the fence.
She jumps through the open drivers window.
She smothers me in endless passion, and I return.
Only such a bitter girl could drop that hate as soon as I got back.
Monday, January 4, 2010
Bored Barbers
You've done it again, poured unto a canvas print a speckled, dusty version of the vision you had from a living dream. Such uncanny faces the figures have in my works. I've never seen such faces except for videos of riots and some various punk-rockers. I think art is our way of expressing emotions we were meant to have, live lives we were destined to lead, but for some reason, failed to.
Claire is back in my pickup, I'm freezing my ass off, rubbing two fingerless gloves together, watching my breath, looking up. What that fuck man.
I've got the world ahead of me but I feel so old. She's no better. She will idly agree or disagree with conversations, concepts, things we talk abou that have no fucking meaning. No relevance. I decree that nothing has relevance above that which the creator gives it. Even then, that relevance is fleeting and empty. It's true test is how long it lasts in the common concept. But then it's just popular, not meaningful. So no, nothing has any relevance.
Why bust my brain over what's right? People will accept less. People have accepted less. The most popular music is the kind created by "bands" consisting of a pretty teenage girl's filtered voice and a techno beat. The greatest art has already been made, and the best outlook we have is the slow intermixing of computers and paint brushes. Every thought I'm having has been had before.
Everything I've ever felt has been felt before.
What am I doing? Claire is just sitting there, watching some dumbass kid freezing in the snow, talking to the moon. She doesn't even like me that much. What did I hope to learn from this? It's a cycle that only the intellectuals care to think about, but only the mad can survive. The only way to avoid killing myself over it is to forget it. This assignment. This work. This was a terrible idea. This is not worth a paycheck. How can I make a painting that sums up "everything that the 20th century wasn't"
I give up. She's cold and I'm colder. Goodnight moon. You, of all people, have seen what we can do at our best and worst. My strength here, is at your feet. I trust in no higher power than that which I can mold with my own fingertips...
"What? Oh sorry, yeah I'm almost done. I'm sorry Claire, we didn't have to stop here, I was just being stupid. Let's take you home huh?"
Claire is back in my pickup, I'm freezing my ass off, rubbing two fingerless gloves together, watching my breath, looking up. What that fuck man.
I've got the world ahead of me but I feel so old. She's no better. She will idly agree or disagree with conversations, concepts, things we talk abou that have no fucking meaning. No relevance. I decree that nothing has relevance above that which the creator gives it. Even then, that relevance is fleeting and empty. It's true test is how long it lasts in the common concept. But then it's just popular, not meaningful. So no, nothing has any relevance.
Why bust my brain over what's right? People will accept less. People have accepted less. The most popular music is the kind created by "bands" consisting of a pretty teenage girl's filtered voice and a techno beat. The greatest art has already been made, and the best outlook we have is the slow intermixing of computers and paint brushes. Every thought I'm having has been had before.
What am I doing? Claire is just sitting there, watching some dumbass kid freezing in the snow, talking to the moon. She doesn't even like me that much. What did I hope to learn from this? It's a cycle that only the intellectuals care to think about, but only the mad can survive. The only way to avoid killing myself over it is to forget it. This assignment. This work. This was a terrible idea. This is not worth a paycheck. How can I make a painting that sums up "everything that the 20th century wasn't"
I give up. She's cold and I'm colder. Goodnight moon. You, of all people, have seen what we can do at our best and worst. My strength here, is at your feet. I trust in no higher power than that which I can mold with my own fingertips...
"What? Oh sorry, yeah I'm almost done. I'm sorry Claire, we didn't have to stop here, I was just being stupid. Let's take you home huh?"
Sunday, January 3, 2010
hm..
okay, neither are a finished product, but just for what they are, i would like to know which of these is better.
I know my photoshop skills aren't that good yet
But it's a start.
The origional drawing is best of all lol, but the picture came out bad.
Send me feedback, please and thank you :]
I know my photoshop skills aren't that good yet
But it's a start.
The origional drawing is best of all lol, but the picture came out bad.
Send me feedback, please and thank you :]
Saturday, January 2, 2010
Mexican Nights
Dreamily we may drift, toes cascade like quick bullets off rubber padding, harmless, shameless, devoted and devout.
Idly we shimmy across what was not a floor, no, it was a rooftop, a balcony, a lofty dream for two lovestruck kids. I call it time well spent.
However many days we might stay here, where every meal is a dance, and the only illumination besides the setting sun is a loose string of christmas lights, we will be laughing and smiling.
I have to face premature sorrow, because I know we will one day leave. Until then, we've been invited to something of a new world here. You are the object of the collective eye of the universe right now. How lucky I am to captivate you. How revrent I am of my purpose, how steady are my steps, perfect is my time. We move in rhythm to music being played a block down the street. We love it.
It feels so fast, like time spent inspired. A quick pace only makes for a good time I guess. Here we go again, just another Mexican Night.
Idly we shimmy across what was not a floor, no, it was a rooftop, a balcony, a lofty dream for two lovestruck kids. I call it time well spent.
However many days we might stay here, where every meal is a dance, and the only illumination besides the setting sun is a loose string of christmas lights, we will be laughing and smiling.
I have to face premature sorrow, because I know we will one day leave. Until then, we've been invited to something of a new world here. You are the object of the collective eye of the universe right now. How lucky I am to captivate you. How revrent I am of my purpose, how steady are my steps, perfect is my time. We move in rhythm to music being played a block down the street. We love it.
It feels so fast, like time spent inspired. A quick pace only makes for a good time I guess. Here we go again, just another Mexican Night.
Friday, January 1, 2010
A Quiet Sailor
I am not...I suppose....a man of great many words.
I know I don't truly impress you with...astounding thoughts.
The things that are important to me, facts, figures, practical things that you can feel in your hands...those don't mean much to a teacher type or an artist like yourself.
But, even for not knowing what to call what I look at when I see you paint, you know, what kinda brushes or special oils or...styles. Even if that's just talk to me I know what I see when I see you work, when you really work and it's like you leave earth. I know what that's like.
As for me, my life suits me fine, I suppose. I've never cared where I lived as long as my body didn't give up on me, I resolved not to give up on it. But I know it pains you so to move. I know, I know, I thought this last trip was the last one. And I'm not telling you that you have to come with me. I have never told you that.
Just...so you know....this will be the last one. I feel my body starting to not try as hard as...well as my bain is telling it too or something. I know this is the end of my time at sea. You, you can paint for your whole life, I swear every day you're getting better. Maybe when this is all over, and we really settle down, really....maybe I could spend some time and you could teach me what it is that I'm looking at, so it sounds like I know a damn thing when I try to talk about it.
Maybe you'd like that? I just hope you're around....please forgive me. This is all I've left to prove to myself. To prove that I can stop, and settle. To prove that I can be as calm as you are all the damn time about doing nothing...I don't mean...not nothing....I just....I need this for me.
I'm not asking you to come with me. I'm not asking you to wait. But that face you're making seems to tell me I've got nothing to worry about. I love you, dear.
I know I don't truly impress you with...astounding thoughts.
The things that are important to me, facts, figures, practical things that you can feel in your hands...those don't mean much to a teacher type or an artist like yourself.
But, even for not knowing what to call what I look at when I see you paint, you know, what kinda brushes or special oils or...styles. Even if that's just talk to me I know what I see when I see you work, when you really work and it's like you leave earth. I know what that's like.
As for me, my life suits me fine, I suppose. I've never cared where I lived as long as my body didn't give up on me, I resolved not to give up on it. But I know it pains you so to move. I know, I know, I thought this last trip was the last one. And I'm not telling you that you have to come with me. I have never told you that.
Just...so you know....this will be the last one. I feel my body starting to not try as hard as...well as my bain is telling it too or something. I know this is the end of my time at sea. You, you can paint for your whole life, I swear every day you're getting better. Maybe when this is all over, and we really settle down, really....maybe I could spend some time and you could teach me what it is that I'm looking at, so it sounds like I know a damn thing when I try to talk about it.
Maybe you'd like that? I just hope you're around....please forgive me. This is all I've left to prove to myself. To prove that I can stop, and settle. To prove that I can be as calm as you are all the damn time about doing nothing...I don't mean...not nothing....I just....I need this for me.
I'm not asking you to come with me. I'm not asking you to wait. But that face you're making seems to tell me I've got nothing to worry about. I love you, dear.
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