One Less Reason To Pick Up the Phone

Fri, 22 Aug 2008 07:03:15 GMT

The August 5, 2008 entry has been discarded due to a string of recent misunderstandings. I hope you understand.
-Edward.

Thu, 07 Aug 2008 03:56:41 GMT

Today a handsome boy made eye contact with me 3 times and smiled until I was smiling back and then I panicked and looked away which is when he told me that he liked my shirt. This is the third time I can remember getting into one of those strange moments that may very well have been one of those flirtatious advances I've heard so much about and just freak out before anything has a chance to happen. I do not act like a person in these moments, I am an unbalanced slab of boy. I go into panic mode like that game with the demented rapist and think how strange that I should be acting this way. It's just a thought and not a very good one, but I felt like writing something so this is what you get.
I also ate a champion meal today, watched batman for the third time in Imax (dont do it) and took notes on a clipboard which somehow helped me to feel important. I found out there might be complications with the apartment, go figure, and spent sometime laughing alone in my room to episodes of the Boondocks. All in all it was an okay day but tomorrow I will have to make up for it.

Mon, 30 Jun 2008 17:58:22 GMT

If you were to ask me how I'm doing I would tell you that I am doing great, a little restless at times, but can't really complain now that the pink eye/sore throat double feature is over. If I were to tell you that, and come to think of it I probably wouldn't, you probably shouldn't believe me as I am lying: both sicknesses are still here more than ever even though the pink eye appears to be bubbling down some. It's nice though. I don't think I really have a choice here other than to say once more that sickness makes me feel productive. I get to live each day (unbothered by mother and father) for the soul means of getting better and then it's back off to that purposeless void again. BUT, and a giant one at that, I am spinning something in the void this time; I've been doing a lot more reading and I've fallen into a writing funk that is just shy of daily. I am also hungry which is so fucking cool because it turns into this test of desire: is the food really worth the pain it takes to swallow? Well fucking hell yes it is, it seems I can't keep myself out of the kitchen. This journal entry is the only thing standing between me, two fine books, a not so fine book, and the pineapple upside down cake I intend on making. But what else...let's keep writing and see what comes out.
I think I need to mix it up more as far as what I do and who I do it with; there are hopefully larger groups involved. I'd really like to stick to something this year other than the damp end of the couch when I sit in direct sunlight. Or the questionable material that every now and again appears on the kitchen floor, I felt I should add that. You can probably see now that I have nothing to say and really don't feel like writing stories in this thing any longer so this is what you get: deal. The bite of hunger again, we might have to end here.
I get to hang out with dewy, holy fucking shit my eye better not get in the way of that cuz I was so excited. I'm going to nuke my eyes with this Polymyxin B Sulfate solution until they're as clear as a summer's sky: we had such a day planned. This also trips up the idea of ultimate frisbee I just found out about a minute ago but who knows, as Eva Cassidy once sung: Time is a healer, which is coincidentally one of my least favorite songs by her. Yea, no. I most definitely need food and cannot be doing this right now.

in jog epiphanie, the second one

Fri, 02 May 2008 20:52:56 GMT

I could spend my life running through these urban deserts, running from that which rushes forth; running from time. I wonder how we could ever be without motion. When we move it's so perfectly like the present; both running like a locomotive. No matter if you're sitting in a dark room with your books or pumping your body full of toxins; time remains in its downhill rush. No, much better to be in motion. Kevin are we the only ones out here? Oh wait, someone's up ahead; don't worry I wont. Gonna miss this. We are running, some of us better than others, but we are running. Running and not able to hold the moment. The water is gorgeous, how darkly it glitters; how cold it must feel to be pushed in there but we're too quick to view it. It's like running down some dark tunnel from which we do not emerge. Kevin asks me how I'm holding up and I tell him; did he know that I am sick? That I cannot breathe through my nose so I gasp through my mouth? Laughing, he did not know

We're stopping in a clearing next to an abandoned amphitheater, he asks if that's what it is and I tell him I think so; he says it must be the only one. He says he's going to miss certain people, that it's so sad so many people aren't coming back. I agree; there are certain friendships I'm going to miss that I don't think I'll b e able to keep up. Did I mention he was one of them? Let's go; no not by the river, through the streets this time. He'll show me Boston at night; down Newbury now that it's closed; now that it's 11:30 at night. I see it. I'm hurting; my chest is just bursting with hurt and my breaths are not able to keep up with my body. He's telling me to think of the warm donuts we'll have after; warm donuts and water, oddly tantalizing. I yell. I yell extra loud because there are so few to hear me; yell because I must find a way for my insides to keep up with my outsides. The locomotion of my legs, of time; did I realize school was ending in a week? No, I guess I didn't till we started running; till we spoke about how I ought to visit and we should continue to run together.

Kevin, you don't get it but I could live like this. Running. Running with a good man at my side; running because we understand that all things should remain in motion. That's why you came in and woke me when you saw me lying in bed; that's why we bickered like children over my right to go to sleep on the last day of school. Why you told me that we should go running when I asked what you proposed; you knew. People are smoking outside bars and we're passing them; I can see the Citgo sign! We're almost there he's telling me but I understand I can only push myself so far. I remember the hill that was covered in snow; how good it felt when we reached the top. I understand death; when your insides finally crumble neath the weight of your outsides. I scream the loudest I've screamed in a while; I yell his name in a half whining half triumphant burst of energy; it was either a burst or a failing. What? I tell him the sign's pulling away from us the closer we get to it. He tells me almost there and soon we're collapsing on the steps; he tells me he's buying. What do I want? it's gotta be within the five dollar range he smiles. But nah I'm good, just happy to rest; happy to stand still. Still? When we walk back to the dorms I feel myself growing slightly sad; he says he'll see me two or three more times and I yell at him for suggesting so small a number. It's sinking in how little will be left of us. My body's tired but nearing our house I want to suggest we run again. I want to ask this but I don't. We shake hands but my grip is so weak; we'll see each other "sometime". I start to realize how not just Boston is slipping from me but so much of everything. I realize that moments like this are like water that you cup with your hands; that trickle through the small openings between your fingers and that spills over the sides until all you are left with is that damp feeling; memories. No matter how hard we try, the sight of the city doesn't seem to hold; not when when everything's still pushing forward.

Thu, 01 May 2008 02:56:30 GMT

Sitting here doing some preemptive final studying and decided to throw on some Alicia Keys; this just led me to want to say what a great woman she is. I know people will make the claim that she's just singing to sell but something about her touches past that. Her songs are just so moving and inspirational and not even to me in particular, but to those who need it. Superwoman reaches out to the lifestyle that I cannot even fathom, of a mother who is breaking her back to provide for her kids and who rarely makes it home to tuck them in. Even though Keys is an impersonal figure, meaning they don't know her, I feel like that must come as such a warm pat on the back to say "I recognize what you do is tough; you're great girl, keep it up". And Unbreakable provides role models for those with out, trying to remind the (I feel anyway) black community as well as those living in impoverished conditions to strive towards something. It provides that cliche hope of "if you apply yourself, you can do anything" and while we may under appreciate it up here, I think we take advantage of the fact that some kids just don't get that. Some kids grow up with lives that just seem like dead ends and I know I can only guess, I can't become the voice for a community I've never been apart of or experienced for myself but I can only imagine how tough that is. So in spirit of this I just felt I should say how thankful I am for her; she's one of the few pop stars who I think have actually done something with themselves. Not like Beyonce and a lot of the hits that now spend most their time glorifying their hoarded riches; we get it jay-z, you can buy rings that look freakishly like tumors but what have you done for anyone lately? Dunno, just rambling I guess.

Starting a whole long series of Journal entires you probably wont care about (no spell check either)

Mon, 28 Apr 2008 17:50:47 GMT

I was reading my old Blurty (youngfellow65) and decided I'd like to return to less stories and more reality when it comes to the journal. So for any of you out there, and there might still be 2 or 3 of you if that, who actually read my writings I'm carting the large majority of them to a scrap book, if not then private entries to be transfered to a scrap book. So if you want to check up on anything I've written, throw an IM or a text.

Reading the old Blurty is very warm. I'm not even through with it as in I've only read maybe 4, 5 entries but it just smells of my youth. A lot of it reminds me of Perks of Being a Wallflower for some reason, which I hate admitting as it's become one of the trendy punk, emo books of the 6-12th grade. But still I think it's because for a while it was such a big thing to me that I could only view my life through such a lens (Early One Tree Hill, Everwood as well). If you're ever bored you should check it out, I drop a few familiar names every now and again and I guess it contains a large part of me I've never really put into words.

Today is a very quiet day I think. It's Monday and I'm gearing up for the last few days of classes. In spirit of that, I had my French skit today which wasn't terrible (I seemed to have gotten a few laughs although I did stutter/shake at times)and my in class writing examination (1 of 2) which I think I did pretty decent on. So when I got home, and it might have been the rain, everything just felt downy soft. The lighting in the room was perfect for calming my nerves; I threw on a talk show (The View) and called my mom cuz I felt really close to her in that moment. She couldn't talk too long but my dad called me not too long after and we spoke a while (at this point I had changed from talk shows to BET). But again, I felt very sobered and calm. I decided to leave my headphones at home when heading to the dining hall and I just felt the natural rhythm of everything.

People didn't annoy me today which is hard cuz I've grown very cynical. I just maintained my manners and realized how good it feels to be nice. I did some considerate things that were out of my way and had nobody thank me for them but it didn't bother me today as it normally would. And it was worth it for the few people whose attention it caught. One was a girl who had went to use the second water machine, realized it was broken, and I invited to jump in front of me, to which she responded no but laughed about how nice it was. The other, 40 minutes later, was this really generically pretty girl who I usually would have criticized, who was waiting behind me as I was filling up my bottle and I asked if she wanted to fill her cup up first. She smiled at first and filled up but afterwards turned to me and went "wow, that was really nice of you". It's funny that such small things like that shake the world. I guess it says a lot about our environment when the tiniest act of kindness has such a large effect. I want to try and be this person more often. That's about it.

Thu, 24 Apr 2008 14:26:51 GMT

Cannot seem to get myself to work! Can! NOT! Do it! Great ass week

Confessions again, rather forced this time

Tue, 25 Mar 2008 03:05:26 GMT

If there's one thing that's certain, it's that I don't feel like doing work. At the same time I fully realize this is no time (NO TIME AT ALL) to let this feeling progress so I figured I'd hammer out some confessions then get started. This way I have something else fun to look back on, so really it's constructive.

1) I love listening to the song "soak up the sun" when it's raining. I don't think it's just confined to that but to a whole heap of warm songs, for instance nearly nearly anything by Bob Marley will do, "Is this love" in particular. I feel it's the perfect paradox and then I usually wind up smiling. It's cold and it's warm. It's gloomy and it's colorful. It's, you know, life.

-I'm just now realizing I can't really think of any good confessions; you all know whenever I brush my teeth I wind up dancing and lip syncing right? If you don't then we're probably not very close. I'm almost certain I would have told you.

2)My skin gets really dry sometimes you know? It just feels really tight around me like brown saran wrap maybe. My skin's funny like that; it thinks it's okay to be tremendously sensitive. However. I have some of the softest skin out there be that good or bad. All's I know is that anytime someone grazes my arm/hand they wind up telling me how soft I am and a) stroking me or b)retracting fearfully with surprise.

3)I guess to follow through on another bodily norm, my bodily central heating is off or something. I think it's that I take on the temperature of my surroundings more fluidly than others; for instance when people touch me in winter they flip a shit and tell me how cold I am. Come summer it's an "oh my god, you're so warm..why are you so warm?" which comes in handy when the night is chilly. AND! When I jump in the pool and get cold sometimes I can't get my heat back for days.

4)I wanted to die and have a tree planted over my corpse which a lot of you know but I'm really milking it here. And when I say I wanted to die I don't mean that I want to die but that when I die I would like to have a tree planted over me as a sort of symbol of the continuation of life. That I'm drawn up into her roots, bloom in spring, faint in fall. Giving my body back to the earth and all that.

5) But lastly, while on the topic of death, I've been arrogant towards the notion of it since youth. I used to think I could fight death and that when the time came to close my eyes I would just force them to remain open. Which is why it was very important during my life to fight bodily urges (bathroom and fatigue in particular) because I need my body to know who's in control and that when he's ready to go I may not be ready yet. Then I found out from horror movies you can die with your eyes open and a lot of my theory was shot down. The tiniest irrational bit of me still thinks I can resist death however. The other side of me is so seduced by the death-realm that I'm just curious enough to give in.

Sun, 23 Mar 2008 18:21:20 GMT

"Like a little old fashioned music box
With just one tune to play
My heart keeps singin' I love you
Twenty four hours a day

Like a little old fashioned music box
That skips a note or two
My heart keeps missin' a heart beat
Singin' its song about you
And although the song we know is old
It's still the sweetest story ever told"

Wed, 05 Mar 2008 02:07:59 GMT

It's just like that picture you might have drawn when you were younger, except the girl has a face now. It may or may not be a little whiter than you expected; and sure she may be a little bit thin around the waist, but beneath it all it's still her. Peeping out from under her mother's umbrella; she looks up at you with handsome, brown eyes and smiles. She's missing a tooth but is not at all troubled by this. In fact, she often likes to press her small tongue up inside the gap and wriggle it around, you know, just to be sure that it hasn't grown back or anything.

Her mother doesn't pay all that much attention to her. She wanders off; shatters tiny gray puddles with her rain boots, then comes fluttering back. Part of you wants to smile; she's like some pink-feathered bird. When she laughs you hear your childhood caught in her throat and wonder what it's doing there. The sound takes you back to that time you lay coloring beside the window, flat on your belly with your legs in the air. If she is a pink bird then you must have been a fish; floundering around on the deep, red carpet; breathing heavily through your mouth. This is the picture she reminds you of: the one you had started drawing then prematurely crumpled up. But you don't know why she reminds you of this because you were not drawing a little girl but a whale shark. So when then nanny walked by and told you she liked your buffalo you had to excuse her for clearly not knowing her animals.

Looking at her now, you can partly see the resemblance between her and the shark. With her hands tucked up inside her sleeves, they may just as well be fins. And she certainly likes water enough, the way she catches each silvery drop in her mouth. Imagine that. You wonder when you last loved the rain as she does now: arms spread out all about her like some stupid pixie, twirling and splashing and knocking into strangers. Not since... But there is no subject to complete the thought as you don't seem to remember and probably never will. And this is why you only half smile. It's not that you don't appreciate her but that maybe you envy her just a bit more than you'd of liked. There's such an energy to her. She barely comes up past her mother's knees but dares to lift her head twice as high. Seems to stare the gloom right in the face and offer her gypsy smile.

Doll up the holiday season

Fri, 07 Dec 2007 22:54:00 GMT

I love Christmas on the foodnetwork. It this perfect image of a Christmas that can all but exist in reality. They frost their windows and powder their faces. They usually make some sort of festive dish that epitomizes that Christmas warmth:hot apple cider. Christmas cookies. The beloved holiday smoked ham. They'll sell this whole world to you as if it were true.

The barefoot contessa will try to convince you that she is rushing to beat the clock because she's having family over tonight. Sandra Lee of Semi Home made will line her table with an assortment of unnecessary treats: candy canes and ribbons. Santa hats and reindeer hooves. In fact, she'll put just about anything out as a table setting so long as she has five or more of them in her house

Then they'll tell you their Christmas stories, like that time Paula Dean once tried to deep-throat an entire stick of margarine (who saw that one coming). They'll do a little run through of whose birthday's coming up and what makes Christmas special to them. Rachel Ray will probably lather herself in E.V.O.O. that recite back to you what it stands for word for word (even though you've run through this AT LEAST once per episode.). In fact, if you stick with them the whole thirty they'll even dish out a bit of seasons warmth "from our kitchen to yours". They'll sample their dish, wink at you, and pretend they've never tasted something so good. Faces are contorted with glee, tongues caught mid-orgasm. Yea, you thought your vibrator was good, but Rachel will have you seeing Christ with one bite of her thighs. [disclaimer: I meant chicken thighs, but there is no doubt in my mind the whore spins tricks after the show]

I don't know when this became such a holiday tradition for me, but I've moved far away from the Christmas's seen on the foodnetwork. I know that's not the only way to watch these perfect perversions of Christmas, that I could easily flash to any good old holiday claymation talk show and see the holiday at its finest but there's something about watching these people operate in their kitchens. They try to convey the ideal American family, something that they believe we can all relate to. So they tell stories to humanize themselves. They have the hottest kitchens with the latest gear but they still look to capture the motions of our own lives. I don't think they succeed, and I think for the most part I get entirely jealous when I watch them move up on the screen. Holidays are some what of a hell to most people these days. They fling together in their minds the idea of all that shopping they have to do, the cooking, the wrapping, that incessant radio caroling and end up forgetting that warmth. When sticking the turkey in the oven, the last thing they're doing is smiling. They're rushing, eyes glued to the clock, panting and sighing. They're knocking over shit left and right, stains all over their brand new sweaters like they just came back from war. This is no way similar to the the dimwitted Rachel Ray who will not only grin at you while stirring the rice, but will actually full out devour you with her smile. (Do not watch her show. 30 minute long meals - 30 hour long attempts at trying to get her muppet sounding voice out of your head)

But when I look back on Christmas, I don't view it that way. I pervert it in my head, back to the way I longed for it as a child. I think of the music and forget how overplayed it can get. I think of the dinners, the clanging of the silverware, and expect that the food was prepared as joyfully as it was consumed. Foodnetwork lives out the perversions of my past in the present, like the way they might have viewed that Christmas had they looked back on it. I dunno, just a thought. I really do love that channel

5 Random Confessions - They're long so I'll hold out on 10

Fri, 30 Nov 2007 02:40:33 GMT

It's about time, let's see what I can think of

1)I'm often easily pumped up. A good romantic comedy will stir me enough to find a good song on my mp3 player and walk the streets looking for love, confident that now after having seen it, love will come to me. Same goes for my easily submissive nature to pride (gay, black, Jamaican, whatever). The feeling usually dies out after a while and I'm none the better, worse, or changed for it.

2)I get very vivid flashbacks that make my life seem worth it. I'll smell pine one moment and next thing you know I'll be running rampantly through a whole list of adjoining memories: my backyard in freeport, the dirtied white fence that kept it and how I used to pick the water bugs off the logs. That's just an example, but when I feel that way no philosopher or religion can tell me I am without meaning. Nobody can criticize me in those moments because I have my own intricate history, and so much of it is so small that it could never be duplicated or explained in full. It's like some sort of deep bond I share with myself, with my body.

3)I hate socks and sandals when worn simultaneously. As much as I try to "okay" this trend of fashion, since I think the mere concept of fashion is tediously lame, I cannot. Get back to me in a few more years of de-societizing my mind.

4) I think I don't agree with most aspects of Christianity. In fact, I think the only reason I placed "I think" there is because of the heavy notion of hell that pastors tried so furiously to stick into my head. But certain people love this God in a way that makes me want to love him, Eva Cassidy in particular, then a few other sects of soul. I'm saying this because I think that's how religion should be. When speaking of god, I hope you convey them in the way you'd like your god to be seen. Catholicism in particular has seemed to seed their believers with a particular sort of hate I can't agree with, a license to discriminate. But when Eva Cassidy sings of God, she wrings him of all his love and promise. She gets the same distilled peace and hope that I find through poetry through God. That's how I feel faith should be conducted.

5)Sometimes I get very anxious for the future, in particular to find a relationship worth having. It never seems to turn up and then I get frustrated because I'm always saying it will happen sometime in the future, but the further I push out into this "future" the less opportunities remain if you know what I'm saying. Like oh, well you said maybe in college, but if you haven't noticed just yet, you're in college. I dunno, I feel like whoever knows me all ready knew this one, so it's not so great a confession. I'll get em next time.

Mon, 26 Nov 2007 16:38:49 GMT

And still so much of it unchanged. The red and yellow of autumn's past. The red and yellow that pours like feathers from the trees. It is the currency of my childhood that is weighed and then reweighed. It is a funny little collection of mine that I can sift through with my fingers. And all this done without greed for however much there is, there is always enough. And however much there is lacking, is a quantity I will never have to know. So I can love it through my nose. The scent of frost and pine. And I can worship it with my eyes and remember the red of your sweater. The Loose strings that hung from your sleeves like the gentle orange tangles of your hair.

We stood out on the street and tossed stones that had clinked like pennies in a fountain. You wore a yellow scarf around your neck. And I remember this faint spray of freckles on your cheeks. Imagine how it could be that simple for me when as an adult, I might have loved you. I might have had you up against a tree somewhere, hand on thigh like a vampire, who must press from the meat every last drop in order to feel. It is that or he feels nothing. He couldn't appreciate you in that same childlike way. He would view you as an adult would. Filthy with lust and greed. For whom the leaves are never enough.

But even still, so much of it must stay the same. The leaves still burn brightly in my eyes without dimming, like a phoenix that has sprung up from the gutters. Still the same sun overhead, and I bet all the roads still push out to the same horizon. But you've gone from me now. You've hitched a ride on the first breeze to god knows where. And I doubt even he knows. So now when I'm out here by myself I like to take a moment to think of you. Maybe stoop to pick up a leaf or two and go through through the motions of my first fall crush. Except this time I'll whine to autumn that it's not fair. Why should she be the perfect paradox? Why should she alone change without changing? Like that majestic bird still perched up in the trees. How can I breathe the same frost, sniff the same pine, and still remain separate from the autumn's of my youth?

His temple

Fri, 09 Nov 2007 05:19:19 GMT

But I love you most when the blinds are pulled. With your belly beneath me like some dark continent that is both shrinking and expanding. Each and every whiskey sigh draws me deeper and deeper into you as we rock to the melody of a beat somewhere. Perhaps coming from somewhere not too far up the road, perhaps somewhere way out past the horizon, where morning is hoping to bloom. But ah if we could stay as we are now. Yes, two separate beings but my,how in this dark we come together like lips. Then maybe this could be what I love most about us: the fluidity of my body becoming yours, becoming mine again.
I was so certain once, so real to the touch. So many epiphanies all at once! But now I see that I am belonging to no particular shape, that the dark has given me new body. I stretch to the heavens and back. I mold my skin to fit your bones, my old form crinkles away. I am suddenly infinite. In this wide expanse of dark, there seems no end to us in sight and if so, then maybe we should remain in this state forever. Infinitely hot. Infinitely dense. Darling, I can hear the planets turn beneath us! I can hear so much of it when I press my ear to your chest. There it is, the throb of the universe kicking in your chest like a child in its womb. Darling, it is you that I love most. When I am at peace with you, I am at peace with everything.

Mon, 20 Aug 2007 19:48:30 GMT

Mostly I feel fine.

I've been dreaming again. Not of people but of myself, of the limits of self. I'm tired of expanding the material scape and am not only ready to dive deeper into the change but have all ready begun. So many people I know are under the impression the number and quality of their possessions is directly affiliated with their status in life. For instance, I'm just now learning the speed of your hard drive topples not only the speed and capability of your mind, but also the worth of your soul. Maybe I'm exaggerating, but then you'll have to understand that for such a strong exaggeration to take place there has to be some sort of strong stimulus. It's judgmental but I need to condemn this habit in others to excuse myself of such things, to expel them from my person.

I'm reading more again and I prefer it this way. And I want to travel due to a cocktail of Sydney, Self, and good literary advice. I realize what keeps me back is the desire to invest the money in material before experience. I want a nicely decorated house and a firm, stationary lifestyle but I'm beginning to realize that might not be living for me. Though I can spin most ordinary, mundane events into stories I haven't learned from any experiences of my own. So I need to go out searching.

College is looking over my shoulder. I know, I know, we grew so quickly. I want to give it my all. Not for the sake of the school, fuck you boston university, you are intentionally uncapitalized and nowhere near as great as you think. Regardless I want to learn to better not only my writing but my views on things, and I want to make that learning as human as possible. If I switch out after this year, so be it. Sometimes this life seems to perfectly laid out for me.

I don't know what else to say, I want to spill it all though because I don't write this casually that often.

I've been sinking back into meditation again, after having fell out for a month. I see differently when I concentrate. My mind can sway to the music and breathe in the rain outside. My body can forget itself, finally stop being so selfish and allow me some growth. In fact, my soul usually feel like it's going to break from my body at least one point during the session, like it's going to borrow out from my head or dribble out from my feet. It feels supercharged. I hope keep at it this time.

I bought yellow paper from the 99 cent store. It helps me write, I wrote 2 things over the past 2 weeks which is a lot for me lately, and am scribbling down another one. I don't want to let go of that either because it helps me rid myself of certain emotions, embrace others. I'm nearly halfway into a book in which author's ink their writing experiences/motivations/quirks and I'm picking up a lot of pointers and similarities. It makes me feel like I might one day have a story to tell.

I think I've pretty much covered my insides. I guess above all, my end note, I mostly feel fine. Not that I've spent the past year or anything close to it in bodily disgust, but I finally feel comfortable in my skin. I'm beginning to overlook break outs and all these little imperfections and in fact I'm beginning to appreciate certain imperfections as things that are undoubtedly mine. I can't think of any examples, perhaps the slight traces of stretch marks on my hips from when I lost weight, I think the pattern must have grown on me. Hah, I guess the 2 patches of shoulder hair, they have become my signature. Mentally I've always been stable with who I am for the most part, it has that smell of home. Of old books and places, old crushes and tiny fangs of jealousy. Some bits are unpleasant, but they're all means through which I experience this world.

The background music is very somber and the air is very much gray, that must be what's got me so pensive. Certain ones I aside, I think many people forget who I am because I play a character of myself all day. So I just want to finish with a few things

1) I think that racism is still very much alive in a lot of the world, in a lot of people I know. We can go into a whole mall of of white people and not say a thing, but you go into a food store and see a cluster of maybe 6,7 black people and all of a sudden "there's a lot of black people", people get uncomfortable. I think that's fucked up. I joke about whites sometimes, just as I joke about blacks. I don't think that makes it right because it's "equal opportunity". I think it makes me disappointed in myself, even though the jokes aren't sincere, they shouldn't be made in the first place.

2)I fucking hate people who litter. It's a disgusting habit, clean up your fucking act. Since when was the "civilized world" a world that tears up its own origin, replaces forest with factory, and consumes resources like no other creatures imaginable. I want to die having weighed almost nothing at all, leaving behind no trace because this is a great planet, the least you can do is throw your shit in the trash, stop being so materialistic and wasteful. I need reminders of that every now and again.

3)Mind over body. Love before lust. Those are my priorities.

4)You are the culture you come from. When you act savagely the whole of your race bears that shame more often than none. In my opinion that goes for race, orientation, sex, whatever. I try not to be detrimental to the cultures I've been lucky enough to represent, I wish others would do the same.

Ancestry of skin and bone

Sat, 30 Jun 2007 15:29:25 GMT

The soft creak of a distant somewhere. I am this. I am tied to this. This moment of fluidity where the soul slips from body to sky in one swift passing, where all infinity is laid before me like a canvas. I am made to gaze upon the ancients of wood and sea, longside a heresy of iron. Their brown feet beating upon the soil gives pulse to the earth. Their tough skins rap over stones and fern, beating wildly against the clay, over the lord's good breast. Raps through rain and shine, though the air be thin, ain't no finish, child. Lord, we ain't through yet. And I know now this is what death feels like. This is the rhythm we're made to adopt when we push our bodies from us. My gift to you, she says. To join in something larger than yourself, to continue on long after you're through. To pass through stream and root 'till you turn whole again. And so we stomp. So we rap our bleeding heels across the soil, like the knocking of a great door. And tuning in we can hear her stir from within, hear the age old creak of her bones, rising to meet us.

To this alone I pledge allegiance

Thu, 03 May 2007 01:03:56 GMT

Swinging one brown leg over the edge, she feels the warmth of the tiles beneath her toes. She wiggles them around a bit and brings her arms out into a stretch. The room smells of pine. Smiling, she draws the brown vapors into her lungs and there is no better.

Though world is all about her, beneath her skin a Paradise is hoping to bloom. Tiny pools of light collect on the window sill and swim there a while. It stays just long enough to be appreciated then dribbles off with all the softness of a steam. The harmony of this moment seems to squeeze tight the rift between mother and child and for a few precious breaths all of life feels a symphony. Somewhere outside a bird is still pouring from its breast the very song of the earth. It belts out its decree, beats its wooden wings and is off again to spread the word. "Whenever you're ready to peel away all those slabs of wood, I'll be the first to sing your return." She smiles complacently at these words and lays back down into bed where the morning is soft on her pillow. And in her heart that blessed chirp, beating like a drum.

Tue, 01 May 2007 21:42:34 GMT

A picture of my mom from ages back sitting on the bed. Slim, with long torrents of hair shooting out from her head, sinking back into the sun's gentle repose.

"When'd you stop being this woman?"
"When I married your father."

Laughing wildly now. Together.

In losing my fear of age

Sun, 15 Apr 2007 20:16:40 GMT

He was very still when sitting in his chair that it took a very clever pair of eyes to find any symptoms of life. He'd spend his days looking out from that porch with a cane sitting lazily across his lap and his grandchild at his knees. They looked a perfect pair. One greedy and wild, the other proud and gray, casting shadows together on the bright yellow house at their backs. And when the neighborhood boys ran by, with their stories and their kites, he would grin and pat softly at her head and know that one day he would lose her to them. But not today. And when she'd pull at his pant legs with her pink little hands, he would come down from whatever thought he was in the middle of and lower his head to her like a giraffe to his supper. Let us take the time once more to say what a lovely pair. With all his wisdom and all her dreams, they have somehow managed take the time out of their busy schedules to exchange this life lesson with one another.

In which the tooth-fairy incident is concluded

Mon, 12 Mar 2007 11:21:28 GMT

Jason's tooth did in fact fall out and the "tooth fairy" did pay him a very sparing visit. He greets me at the stairs the next morning with this grin on his face, carrying a rather small parcel.

"Brandon! Look what the tooth fairy gave me!"

He is holding a small box of pepperidge farm cookies. I know this box. It is no stranger to this house, it has been kept up in the cabinet for a little over two months now. I try and act surprised, throw in a few wows and hold the box up to the light to appear as though I've never seen it before. In his other hand he is holding bent pokemon cards with the edges beginning to brown with age. He then toddles down the stairs.

Downstairs mom is making pancakes.
"Did you see what the tooth fairy got for Mister Jason?" she asks.
"You're so bad!"
"What?"
"You're so bad!"
"I am not bad! Those are good cookies, look, he's happy. And where was your gift!? Justin left him Pokemon cards, I left him cookies but I didn't see anything from you."

Apparently the tradition of the dollar has left the family. Now it's like some sort of garage sale under the boy's pillow where we just stick our old crap underneath and feign surprise in the morning.

what a team

Tue, 27 Feb 2007 23:18:51 GMT

"You got all that, Jay?"
"Yea"
"All right go!"

I hear his feet beating wildy against the stairs, slapping across the tiles into the kitchen.

"Mom."
"Yes, darling?"
"God just spoke to me"
"Really, that's wonderful! What'd He say!?"
"I'd like to place an order for delivery."
"Noooooo that's not what He said, who told you to say that to me? Brandon?"

Quick Jay! Up and out! Up and out!

1893 China Vase

Sat, 17 Feb 2007 18:41:54 GMT

Man, you were so wasted last night.

No. I was perfectly sober. It was you who have wasted yourself. You are not free, you are a puppet to the keg. When I knocked over your mom's vase, and I am sorry about that by the way, I had a perfect understanding of what I was doing. I went from being a klutz to developing a fear of touching, being scared I might harm my surroundings with this bad luck of mine. Tough shit. I broke your mom's vase and as it broke I heard the proof of my own existance. I did that, and best of all, it was me doing it, not some sick drug or moment of carelessness but a moment of awareness. No, don't worry, I'll cover the damage entirely, just name the price but I don't know if I have enough to cover the cost of your girlfriend last night. I had sex with her, and yes that was her you heard upstairs, being more discreet than I'd of liked. I hope it won't be that much of a problem, it's not like I did anything her drink didn't consent to. Except when she told me not to tell you, because that is why I am here. To tell you. I broke your mom's vase on my way upstairs to have sex with your girlfriend and when she told me online that she was too drunk to remember anything I told her I was perfectly sober and could fill her in. Not that I hadn't walked her through the course of her actions last night, where to put what and what to do once it was there. And yes I can see you're looking pretty angry right now by the flare in your nostrils and I completely understand, it was afteralll a very expensive vase but you have to understand that I have a right to express myself. Fuck, to live a life without expression should be a crime on its own. What you live, the very same thing I'm looking to avoid, is a life of influence. From that perspective, why the vase might not have produced so much of a sound as it would an echo. Where am I to draw the confidence in that? No, I survived your girlfriend with a sober tongue and alligned my senses entirely. They tell me I'm alive, that I am the sound that comes before the echo. I'm going to go. I'm sure you need time to digest all this.

Sun, 21 Jan 2007 23:43:58 GMT

What was thought before language?

Thu, 18 Jan 2007 01:48:31 GMT

Jason: Brandon! My tooth is wigglin real good!

Me: Did you know when it falls out you get money?

Jason: WHAT!!?

Me: Yea, the tooth fairy leaves you money.

Mom: There's no such thing as the tooth fairy.

Me: You're so cheap!

Mom: I am not cheap.

Me: You can't spare a dollar!?

Mom: Jason, Brandon believes in the tooth fairy, go leave your tooth under his pillow and go back and you'll find a dollar.

Me: NO!

Mom:Ya hear, Jason? Since Brandon know's the tooth fairy so well go leave your tooth under his pillow. He's real good friends with the tooth fairy.

Me: You're so cheap!

Fri, 12 Jan 2007 03:16:17 GMT

Life is not to be comprehended, so I guess the intellects have it wrong. It exists in a quiet plane somewhere between memory and prophecy, where you might have expected it to be. Doesn't really do much thinking, just sits there quietly to itself, swollen with the pride of it's own omnipotence. No meaning whatsoever, it will even admit it to others every half a century. It is a poem that humbly accepts its interpretation, and layers them on one on top the next like some dusty, rubberband ball. Thinks life's more personal this way. A critic draws up new skins to match his old and layers 'em on thick. That way, when you squint your eyes and turn your head a bit, life for everyone's a summary of his own.

So beautiful is the man open to interpretation,
That he is pronounced to both sinner and saint.