updatante

I have not updated in a while. i have been very unproductive and lazy. i work almost every single day. and i find my self growing increasingly tired. next week is the last week of my summer course (thank god). i have to wake up every morning at 8 and listen to the teacher talk for 2 hours. his voice is annoying. i am doing ok in the class. i am not worried about passing. since i have been home i havnt really done anything but work. i havnt even seen any of my friends except for my friend alex who i went to the movies with 2 months ago. oddly enough i find no urge to see them even though i havnt seeen most of them in like 6 months. i sort of stopped writing. and by saying "sort of stopped" i mean i stopped. not really sure if i am just too tired too with working so much and the school work on top of it or what but although i sometimes find the urge to write for a brief period of time, i dont. i think i should but im not sure if i will soon. i have been reading though. im stilling making my way through a book of disquiet. its brilliant. i enjoy reading it but find it to be very complex and rich with meaning and though so that i am reading it slowly. i have also read all 7 of the chronicles of narnia books which i read when i was younger. i still really enjoy these books greatly. i dont think i will ever get tired of them. i have also been dling a lot of movies. i seen some good ones. also i have been watching battlestar galactica and doctor who and torchwood. they are good shows.

Don't Even Sing About It

i am finally done with school. oh how glorious it is not having to constently feel stressed or anxious about completing some assignment. i got home 2 days ago. right now it feels wierd. i think it is because it hasnt really set it yet. i am sure it will soon. i start work in two days. it is a job at a organic grocery store. also i might be getting another job on top of that as well.

i finally have time for reading. and what a stack of books i have to read. yesterday i bought A Book of Disquiet by Fernando Pessoa. it is very interesting but very complex i think. but i am slowly making mroe sense of it. i have to reread passages often but that is ok. it give me more time to enjoy it i think. the book is written as if from the journal of a man named Bernardo Soares. he is one of many of Pessoa's "heterotypes" or other personalities that he wrote under. i find Pessoa to be very interesting. i want to learn more. 

oh and i am currently listening to The Books. i really like them.

i think that is all...

no one will read this

i am getting sick. today i layed out on the grass lawn that is on campus while listening to ulrich schnauss and laying my head on my comfortable red pillow. i got sunburnt and i think i have a little sun poisoning. tomorrow i take my last exam and then i will be officially done with school for a month until i start my one summer class. i am not worried about it. it is only a simple math class. i am ready to begin working and making money. i am almost out and it is causing anxiety. my room is empty except for my computer and a few articles of clothing. i am ready to leave.

it seems that nowadays that all i ever do when im not in the library studying or writing a paper i am in my room reading and writing. other than to go to class/library or go to eat i dont really leave my room (oh, or to get coffee). but the wierd thing is the lack of content or amount of writing i have done. i stay up late every night and find that i 
have done nothing productive. usually ill search around for hours online and gain nothing from it. i check my gmail and statcounter like every five minutes, expecting my inbox to say atleast 'Inbox (1)' or for there to be atleast one more visitor to my blog. niether of these situations occur very often.

in regards to what i write on; i journal everyday so i atleast get some writing in everyday. then everything else i write on normal 8.5" x 11" computer paper. i have a big stack of paper with poems, beginnings of stories, names of authors, books, movies, or music artists, ideas for poems or something to write about, potential poem titles. i need to get a notebook to write all this in. i think it would be more 'convenient' and easier to keep together. i try not to waste paper so i fit in as much as i can on a single sheet of paper so they are all over the place and sometimes i can't find things that i have written. i think i will get a molskine notebook for this purpose. i will probaly get a couple of the small bendable, pocket-sized ones to carry around with me so that i can write down ideas at all times. i think this is a good idea. another thing about my writing is that i have barely anything typed on my computer. that is why i have not posted very many things i have written. i'm not sure if it's because i am lazy or not, but i think it has a lot to do with the fact that i feel anxious about reading things i have written. when i write i usually have an idea that sparks in my head and goes only so far as a couple lines, then i kind of just let my mind take it where it wants to go from there. a lot of times it turns out bad. so i get nervous about reading it after i have written it and to type it up i feel that it
makes it 'concrete' or 'official.' there is no turning back after that point. i am doomed for eternity for writing something so bad. i realize that i am a bit paranoid and self-rightous, i think, for saying this, but it is just that way. 

i only have one more week of school until the summer. i am exciteed. maybe i'll get an extra hour or two of sleep.

this is something i wrote a couple of weeks ago. the title is from a list of potential poem titles in brandon scott gorrell's poetry book, during my nervous breakdown i want to have a biographer present. 
i really liked this book alot.


i want to take a bath in 13 gallons of warm coffee


i take a filter and hold it underneath the faucet.
it’s brown.
the bathtub is filling with a steaming hot liquid.
it excites me to look at it.
i stare at the quickly filling tub.
it will soon overflow

there are 13 gallons of coffee
lying stagnant, waiting for me to enter its warm, wet environment.
i strip down to nothing but my flesh
i slowly step into the inviting brown murkiness
it is delicious to the touch
it warms every inch of my body as i enter it completely.
i feel the caffeine seeping in to my pours
it still allows me to relax for a short moment.
it does not simulate my nerves too soon.

i lie there for an hour,
soaking in the runoff of the grinded, roasted seeds.
it is only barely, still warm.
i can now feel the caffeine flowing through my veins.
i can no longer lie still.

i stand to find that i look like a brown, leathery ogre.
all i need is my axe and a few bulbous warts.



this is something else i wrote that i sort of liked:


paper of inquisition


academia
strain on the mind
things learned
things lost
i touch the white keys with little grey letters on them
electricity is conducted through my skin
i loose my train of thought
i am exhausted
my fingers are frozen
they are numb
i no can no longer feel them


comments and criticisms are welcome.

exhaustion

exhaustion has reered it's ugly head inside my soul. i have the urge to post something but i sadly cannot concentrate enough to write anything right now so for the sake of posting im typing this for now. i think i will post something more later; maybe a poem or two.

Dream/Submittal/Blah

i was talking to the lovely kendra today. she has got me to thinking. i never considered submitting anything to any online or print mags before but now there is a possibility i might. 
still thinking about it but what's the harm right? i guess. not sure where to start. 
she suggested pineapplewar and no posit for starters. don't know much about either of these places but if anyone has any suggestions that would be great...

i have found stephen daniel lewis' blog today and read some of it. i am attempting to edit 
his crap story he calls continents. just kidding. i like it. thats why i am messing with it. i am also working on various other things. among my school work and editing sdl's story i am in the process of semi-writing two stories that i have no idea the direction, tone, length or any sort of crap that they will involve. one i have like 20 lines for. the other is like 2 pages single spaced, maybe. i don't know, i havn't typed it yet. i think i have become more optimistic about my ability to write

i am listening to casiotone for the painfully alone's toby take a bow. i like this song.

ok so this is one of the dreams that i had a couple days ago, saturday i think. i might post the other one later. not sure yet. it isnt written particularly well written,  i don't think but i like it well enough and it is pretty accurate from what i remember, maybe.



In Clutched Hands

they stood there hunched against the wall
they didn’t move
they only mumbled words of power
i couldn’t understand what they were saying
but it sure didn’t sound like anything i had ever heard before

i never really thought much of them before
they seemed to be a part of the environment
as if they were intertwined with the substance and presence of their surroundings
there were three of them
all looked the same
they looked like, at full stature, they would stand at about seven-foot tall
their bodies were entirely black
a black so dark it seemed to absorb all light around it
although they were lanky and nothing but skin and bone
they exuded power in a different sense than physical
a power that we shouldn’t have messed with

their foreheads and cheeks were sunken in
their eye-sockets seemed to be void of what they were formed to hold
the darkness of their bodies were contrasted
by the small, pale, beige loincloth that loosely hung around each of their waists

in their clutched hands
each of the three held a small golden idol
one was angel-like
one, bed-like
and the third, book-like
they looked as if they were made of sand
and they would crumble at any moment
but still, they held them so tight

before i had never really noticed them
but now i increasingly grown weary and cautious of their presence
they began to speak louder than before
it made me nervous

i spoke to Anya and Luke about them
who’s room the other two occupied
we all agreed that something should be done
we decided to try crushing the fragile figures
that were clutched in their bony fingers
we each chose one
Luke would crush the bed
Anya would crush the book
and i would crush the angel

we stood next to them and held our hands out to crush them

1

2

3

we each pinched the figure between our index finger and thumb
they crumbled to dust
instantly the creature i stood next to stopped mumbling
it jerked its head violently and stared deep into my eyes
it felt like it was stealing a part of me
the next moment everything dissolved into emptiness
and i found myself laying on a walkway of cement next to the road
i was disoriented but managed to stand
next to me was Anya
i fervently searched the surrounding area but saw no sign of Luke
i had no idea what happened or where he was
i didn’t even know where i was

i realized Anya and i were standing on the sidewalk of quaint suburban neighborhood
it looked oddly familiar

it was where i had lived through half of elementary school
through the beginning of high school

i grabbed Anya’s hand
we had to move
i could feel them coming.

On my Toilet

i wrote this tonight while sitting on the toilet seat. it is from my journal.


Sunday April 13, 2008


i am sitting here on the toilet, writing.

poop

i think that being in a different enviornment than normal while writing is good.

my enviornment influences and sometimes sets the tone for my writing.

i feel that if i write in the same spot [my desk] all the time,

that i will produce the same shit over and over again.

i will be like a robot

citing statistics and random facts, that nobody cares about.

and people will get mad and say "that robot is really annoying.

it's just saying the same shit over and over again. let's kill it."

but they don't know how to kill him so they just leave.

they will post a sign that says 'stay away. 

this robot just cites statistics and random facts that nobody cares about.' 

it will be in large, bold, red letters

and will say 'CAUTION'  at the top.

the sign will turn people away

the robot will be left all by himself.

more people will grow agitated and iritated.

but the robot can't stop speaking.

he no longer has control over his actions.

he reluctantly goes on speaking. 

he can only speak statistics and random facts that nobody cares about,

he writes down on a piece of paper. 

it says 'i'm sorry. i can't stop.' 

there is no one there to read it 

because no one will go near him. 

they have now erected a steel chain-link fence 

around him in a 100yd radius.


*I want this book > Book of Disquiet by Fernando Pessoa
i was looking through some past posts of Tao Lin's and in one of them he mentions this book. i want to read it badly.