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hello old friend... [27 Mar 2007|10:37pm]
After I had dropped Jennet off at her house the feeling of dissapointment, possibly even resentment began to arise inside of me. My stomach was rumbling and my contacts were begining to iritate me further. After making a snack of whole wheat crackers and humus i climb to my stairs yearning for my bed but detoured to the sink to take out my thin lenses, thinking perhaps thats all i needed to change in order to see her differently. I simply took them out, putting them in their container as i added the solution, thinking I could be quite content never changing them. I debated brushing my teeth and realized i should as i thought about another girl whose rotting teeth made my stomach turn.
Jennet was beautiful but was she intelligent? what was it that cause our conversation to strain so much as we sat over beverages, she drinking coffee with cream maybe sugar (i never bothered to ask(I could never be my normal pretentious self in front of her)) and i a decaffenated tea, no cream or sugar. I see her once maybe twice a year, perhaps i am lying to myself that this time was worse than ever. Hadn't i felt such fleeting moments of meloncholia mixed with love as i drove away in hopes of never seeing that wretched car again, only to slow down for one last look at her short black hair and smooth face.
No she wasn't different than that time, maybe it was me. I couldn't place my finger on it quite yet. We didn't care for each other perhaps we even bored each other but i had to get out as she flipped through her journal containing numerous notes and pictures that made me slightly envious but hardly jealous as i sat across from her at the oak table with the single black placematt in the center. I turned the corner of the place matt to the other side to find it was red and thought what would have unravelled if there was a little more passion in either of us or if mearly the red side was facing up. I grinned and nodded like a fool listening to everything she had to say about herself but really nothing was said. I didn't forget all times she complained aabout the pseudo intellectual conversations she was forced to put up with in boston and now all i could think about was how that would be better than this experience. I dropped her off this time and drove away knowing no one would be following me and i wouldn't be fullfilling her request of boston visitations anytime soon. A smile crossed my lips as i turned the music on and sped away from dissapointment.

[04 Jan 2007|01:44am]
The sheets were strewn about the room with portion of one wrapped around my ankle as if beckoning me to lay in bed another half hour. Opening my eyes i realized the sun was struggling to get in through the double thick dark curtains installed months ago but despite the thickness still allowed a ray here and there in. Grasping at my desk i searched for my glasses. I managed to knock over a cup of coffee i had prepared the night before along with no less than two books. I cursed but ignored the mess and let it wallow in the messy sheets and dirty clothes gathered on the floor as i continued my search. The bookshelf to my left was the last hope at finding them for now however it proved to be a useless task so instead i pulled out my laptop flipping the screen open and brought my eyes inches from the screen to discern the time, which read 12:39 pm. Closing my eyes i tried to recall the dream that encaptured my mind before i was rudely awakend and was quite surprised to find that it had produced quite the erection. Focusing on sleep and lusty thoughts i began to hope another doze would bring an end to my sexual frustrations ,but was only awakend 30 minutes later to find i was too damned picky even in my sleep and regretfully decided to start my day.

[29 Dec 2006|04:26am]
the stairs are laughing at me as i rise up to my room. the dizzy walls are twisting into an utter oblivian. when i look towards something full of lost i see my fucking room ad all i can think is that i held to much hope for it because sure i 'd be able to get to a computer but that doesnt mean i'd be able to write what i wanted to so i get to the computer and i just start typing about whaever coms to my head though to tell you the turth i odnt know where my head is and the room ets darkeer and fakrer.


[28 Dec 2006|10:35am]
i was robbing and stealing. first from my neighbors and then i moved on to people from other countries. and i would fly away into the sky affter i had gotten my loot. everyone wass sleeping and i sed this chance to cop a feel off of a few hot sleeping broads. i was fueled by coffee. once i got into the monastary in mexico i was joined by an old childhoof friend wayne. we rummanged through the small small small rooms looking for anything that looked insteresting. i found a teenagers place that may have been a tiny hostel. i took out a box and unravveled it and a minature crying baby was inside. i was upset at this. i needed mor coffee but i had been caught and i went to anothr room, flying through the halls. i told wayne to get me coffee. i saw this beautiful woman and i touched her. she shuddered and i begged for her to let me tough her slit and i did and it was juicy but then her husbannd came in and i ran outside and moved to the next house. flying through house after house that i had already robbed i made my way home until i was back near the american boarder (it must be noted that the boarder was only a mile from my house. probably where broadway is) wayne had caught up and we both knew we needed to high tail it out of therer. he jumped up and i jumped with all my might and took flight much higher. i told him how we certaiinly cant fly like we could when we were avid comic book readers. he laughed and agreed. we landed in front of my house and i asked for my coffee. Grande black. he took the venti. i was a little confused but didnt care. went into my house and woke up.

[27 Dec 2006|05:46am]
i wish i could put into sounds the brilliant words
resouding off the inner ear of my consience
that tells the tell tale sign of old ages approaching
and metaphorical phallaces coming to an all time low
thats when you find out about the phallaces
turns out they werent so metaphorical
then again they were pretty low in either sense

the family is stumbling along
drunk on the holy spirt|
and all the damned saints}||}

i sit arguing about freud
and how phil knows nothing

[22 Dec 2006|03:49am]
[ mood | amused ]

that fucking son of a bitch cock socker. damnit, i sound like anyone else who gets fired from a job. i dont care though he's mearly any son of a bitch who goes through the college system. oh sure they've claimed to have read all the russians but gogol, chekov, nabakov, tolstoy, but then again i suppose the only one there is to thank is dostoevsky, but for crying out loud he wrote more than the brother karamazov. HLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLFUCKING FAGGOT GO CHOKE YOURSELF ON ALL THE PAGES OF LITERATURE I'VE RECCORMENDED YOU, YOU'RE NO BETTER THAN ANY OTHER ASSHOLE I'VE BEEN ABLE TO RECOMEND FOR THE EDITING PROCESS OF ANYTHING I TYPE. OKAY SO I DONT HAVE A 24 HOUR TYPYST RIGHT NOW and it doesnt matter. yes i was wrting in capita letters. i suppose i cant wite in capitcal letters in the normal sense of things. it doesnt matter no one is better off than anything and i'll tell you why no one is better off than anything.... its because i just read a very little bit of celine and oh.... whats that .... its starting to freeze outside. yes yes yes.......thats righ (sorry celine) its almost christmas. ok ok ok so i dont have to apologize to any dead anti semetic authers....whos anti semetic i'lll kill them all aand make sure something like that never happends.

WLELL I SUPPOSE HER NOSE WOULDBE PRETY CLEAN... THAT IS UNTIL SOMETHING ELSE started to go down and that would involve other people besides my writer firend whos now passed out dreaming of men waiting for the right moment to come. ok ok ok so i may see him out in cali one day ,he'll probably be waiting for me but alll i'll knw how to do is to e able to ignore him. he complained saying how i didnt know enough about ihs brother who died and i starteed to choke him out until he started punding wildely on the bed and let us through with the means of her mean cunt. this cunt was dripping from the moment she parked he fucking toyota corlla. theres something about hose hwo havent owned or rented a car in over 2 months.


[21 Dec 2006|02:18am]
I hate to sound like a typical writer trying to find meaning in their banal life but I wont sit here and deny my life is anything but. The clock is ticking away and with every minute goes another missed chance for me to write the great work of fiction that will never be. Can it be i wasnt meant too write extrodinary tales of madness or anything outside of reality. I'm so pathetic I can't even write anything that appears to be exciting. Damnit, maybe all i'm cut out to be is a biographical author. NO no, i refuse to beleive that, i dont even know anyonoe famous or popular. Though... i did sleep with a model once. Oh but she was emaciated and wore at least 4lbs of make up. But if i can't write what i want where am i to go from here?

The cafe i sat in would have been smokey if it werent for the smoking ban passed 2 years ago. All the nic fits were outside. I thought about picking up a dirty habit again but i couldnt pick up a pen so how i could justify picking up a cigerrette. maybe thats what i was missing but i refused to believe such. The cafe was full of would be barettes and sweater wearing persons. It wasnt winter yet but no doubt they were on to something of which i wasnt. The woman next to me wore skin tight jeans and a loose fitting green cardigan that made would have made my dick hard if i werent wearing jeans that were 3 sizes too small for me. I was reminded of an early girlfriend who i could peice together all too easily. The type of girl who is direly interested because she thinks you will ammount to something and your silence is mistaken for mystery instead of idiocy. to this day i can't believe she thought all the times i was siting around i was thinking of something deep and meaninful, well she cracked that code when i awoke in the hospitcal and woke smelling of vodka 2 days later. The deep ones are easier to find when you acutally communicate and talk about such things such as analagies and CRV's. I wish i owned a sports utility vehicle, then i'd have a place to bring the girls after the bars. My damned mother still frowns upon me briging women into the room. Houses are too small these days when you are so dreadfully middle class and living with an equally dreadful single mother. Where had it all gone wrong, perhaps i'd find out but now the girl was in the midst of a new action. She was writing something, i don't know what, maybe about sex, maybe about violence, maybe about violent sex, but she was interupted by a cellphone. The damn song that rang drove me mad, that whore, probably tlaking to some guy who spends too many hours at the gym thinking about how small his flacid cock looks and how big his muscles are flexed. I dont know why she's elevating her voice but it soon diminishes as she exits the building and i'm left countless other tools and three books. These were no typical books, they were more of a type of bait to catch my future love interest. No no no no i dont believe in love but there is a lack of a better word and i dont believe in thesaurus for it creates too much confusion and fallcies, while destroying charecter and countless other things which i dont care to expound upon. One of them is eros and civilization, thoughi dont know a stitch about freud i do think it will impress the type of girl i'm looking for but i'm highly doubtful she exists. The next is an autobiography on proust, ihavent finishedOSJOAJLFS yet but i will one of these days and i'm sure i'll be able to write a two page critque on it, no problem. The next is a book on pratical grammar. I'm so pathetic. I got excluded from a creative writing class. The nerve i'm sure no one in the class even knows about the stream i drink from.

[12 Dec 2006|11:56pm]
I was late arriving to my apartment. Normally I would have taken the stairs, but for whatever reason today they were out of order and i was left with option to reach my humble 40th floor apartment; the elevator. The stairs had always allowed me to get a little bit of exercise and allowed me to make less awkward aquaintances than the elevator would surely provide. No, I am not anti-social, just anti-circumstance. In The elevator I was a victim to my surroundings, there would be no escape from the people who surrounded me. It's impossible to know the history of anyone, now imagine being mere inches from people who reek not of no only BO, but murder, sexual deviancies, and sheer adequacy. What if the elevator were to have difficulties and stop for a good chunk of time? Be stuck with all those rif raf? I think not. I dont want to get carried away, but elevators fall, though not often, they do. Sure millions and millions people will ride them daily, but circumstance, circumestance, circumstance. Who would be the one to tell the heavy set man it'd be better to wait for the next? Surely not I. The stairs allowed some room for choice. Did i want to take a nice leisurley climb? Or did i want to skip one, two, or even three at a time? If I was feeling ambitious I could make a mad dash to the stop, hopefully not tackling anyone coming down. Yet it was rare I saw a soul in the building aside from the Lobby, which was filled with people rushing to somewhere that'd I'd never see. The fact that something existed in which I'd never be apart of made me slightly upset. Like seeing happy couples on the street or even a friend settle down with a new romance. It wasn't so much you didn't agree with what was happening, but rather it was doused with a slight bit of spite, though I'd never know if they were happier, or worse off than me, I felt it was better to spite for the sake of it. Art for the sake of art, writing for the sake of writing, and spite for the sake of spite, why not?!
I often tell myself, Lensky, be reasonable, you know nothing about them and it works for an hour than drifting off into my warped reality i find myself disecting and slapping stickers on everyone about me, each with their own little story.
There was a group of 6 standing waiting for the elevator to go up. Of these six I knew none and felt a little safer knowing that small talk was completely out of the question. How often had I struggled to get out of talk about dull jobs or someone dear grandmama knitting a wool scarf for them in south carolina, and how after my replies the silence attacked my ears. The only gesture or communication I could find was shrugging my shoulders in a futile attempt to get them to be on their way or let me be on mine. I'm sorry, but what do people expect or what aren't they seeing that I so blatantly do? Well what I saw and everyone else waiting around were the elevator doors opening. Somehow I managed my way to the corner so i wouldn't have to deal with buttons while be surrounded by fewer people than the unluck person in the middle. All those eyes peering at them, judging them, failing them. Awful to think that I'm no different than anyone else in some aspects.
We were all settled and the rush for floors began, 5, 9, 19, 27, 35, 39. I decided not to push a button so i could me wait until everyone was off so i wouldnt have to disclose my information there was simply no telling who my companions were.
The person who pressed 5 was a middle aged man dressed in a black suit accomponied by a blue tie. The brief case he held was black leather. Briefcases are enigmatic. There's no telling what can be inside. Perhaps it held the latest John Grisham novel, such men needed an easy source of entertainment, they work so hard! Perhaps it contained the grains of sand and seashells, or what I would carry around if I had a suitcase, nothing! Just to make people like myself guess as to what they contain. Yes it's easy to assume there are papers, pens, memorandum, hell even a bomb, but nothing! Suitcase for suitcase sake! Why not.
The fifth floor was reached. The man got off and took with him the secrets he held both in and out of his suitcase. No one got on. I couldn't think of a reason why anyone would.
6 of us were left. Not a word had been uttered yet. I looked around and saw everyone making holes in the walls with their eyes. Number 9 was an older lady, maybe mid 60's, hair begining to grey but still thick. She wore a plain blue dress which appeared to be made of cotton. She had a red purse made of a faux leather, in the other hand she held a black plastic bag. The contents were well hidden. 19 was standing with his hands in his pocket with one foot against the wall, real cool. Listening to some music which he was considerate enough to let us all vaguely hear. He wore a backwords cap and had a stud in his ear which was suppose to appear to be a diamond, but there's no way he would be living in a place like this with a diamond that big. That's not to say the place was a dump however, if you could afford a rock that big you could afford a place much larger. I stopped analyzing him and looked at my shoes which were worn and begining to fall apart. I needed a job, but I simply hadn't the time to...
The elevator stopped rather abrubtly, nonetheless we had arrived at our next stop and 9 got off, but the most pecular thing happend and 39 got off just as the doors were about to close. I never got a good look at the rather tall man, about 6,2 if I'm any good at guessing. Perhaps it was something urgent he forgot in the lobby, perhaps he wanted to check on the stairs (maybe he didn't know they were out of order) or perhaps he was off to rob the older lady! People aren't so frightening on the outside. Once you clear through all the bullshit, you can truly be terrified.
I wondered what the others were thinking about the old lady and the other man's improptu departure. Had they even noticed? None of them had budged and inch but 19's song had changed. Which one of them was analyzing me and what did they find wrong? Were my pants too raggity? Was my hair too long? Too messy? Or perhaps I was one of those kids who tried too hard to be non-chalant. What were they thinking of each other? I'm sure 19 didn't rank to high with 27 or 35. They were both past their prime and like their counterpart 5 were dressed in suites. 35's was tan and 27's was teal. Surpisingly they weren't speaking jargon I had always asociated with men of their type.

[11 Dec 2006|10:48pm]
"Goddamn it" I muttered as I burnt myself on my large café americano in a rather corporate café of a rather in particular city.
I suppose the burn wasn't so much and upon further investigation I found that it was true and perhaps what was truly angering me was the fact that once again I found myself completely alone for the 8th consecutive weekend. Though it shouldn’t be assumed that I loathed such situations for I couldn't have become the person I so desired if weren’t for these long stretches of loneliness, my only companions being books, pens, and paper; it'd be a dream to share with someone.
I watched an old man about the age of 70 passing by carrying a copy of Dante's "Paridisio.” I had to chuckle for it wasn’t complete, as he was missing two other possible outcomes, but without saying a word I wished him the best of luck and hoped he found his happiness.
I began to fantasize about people in the café. Usually this involved them pulling up a chair and starting an enthralling conversation, but this seems to have become a taboo action for it has yet to happen. Alas if it were and it went the way I had wanted we would talk of Harlem, Jazz, the contemporary garbage called art which bastardized anyone trying to make a damned statement. We talked of the hopelessness and the hope of kids our age and what was to be done about the rest of the world sick with a madness known only to us.
I took a sip of my coffee which now was much more accompanying than before and looked at my empty pad of paper. I began to write some drivel when my focus was snapped by a beauty words can only fail to represent. She walked in and the light seemed to know how to grace her every inch. She wore a hound’s tooth peacoat, black scarf, black hat, and heavily faded indigo jeans. Brown hair poked out from under the hat and her eyes glistened like the eyes seeing a van Gogh for the first time. Over her shoulder she carried a dark, dull, green messenger bag, which surely the answers to all the worlds problems were.
My mine raced and my temperature rose. I possibly even started to sweat as I struggled with ways I could approach her or what I’d even say if I was audacious enough to do so. where there any odd stains on me? I gazed at her. Our eyes met and she flashed a smile which could have made any man believe in God. Quickly becoming flustered I looked away and buried my head in my notepad and began to continue work on failed successes of reality.
That’s when I noticed her approaching. I couldn't help but scribble the rest of my thoughts and drop my pen. I quickly took an ambitious sip of coffee, which nearly caused me to choke.
"Is this seat taken?" she asked with an ethereal tone in her voice.
Failing to speak, I simply shook my head no and mad a gesture which seamed to say, "by all means"
We began to talk and after the usual trivial formalities such as name, occupation, school, location, the conversation began to flow. Talk of the growing state of kids our age succumbing to the utter mindlessness of the television consumed our dialogue. We moved onto the raising prices and the lowering wages, sounding like an old couple talking about how cheap it was "back in the day.” The conversation made its way to Coney Island and how we use to walk there from our grandparents houses, which were both located in Brooklyn and how when we were young it was gigantic, wondrous only to have our parents explain how much larger and alive it had been when they were our age and they could even sleep on the beach. We had both read in the paper the plan to turn much of what was left into some gamblers paradise, making another wonder of the world, more elusive than it already was. This made us furious and we could only be overjoyed that we could still get mad about something, feeling emotion's we are told to subdue. We began to yell how we longed to sleep on the beaches in safety and we were tired of being told our dreams this day in age were outdated.
That's when we started rattling off poetry, alternating line by line to each other of Ginsberg's America. We were now on top on the tables shouting at the top of our lungs with our hands embracing. We screamed line by line, attracting attention of the nervous customers, who expected anything but this and workers, who had to get a chuckle at seeing such a display of antics. Arm in arm we reached the best sellers shelf and poured our coffee onto the books paying particular attention to Dan Brown and Bill O' Reilly. Employees began to approach, no doubt wondering how their day could get any worse, and no doubt we began to run. However we didn’t run out the door, but we continued on our sick with joy rampage, toppling over bookshelves, grabbing books, tearing out the pages of "Cats on Sinks" and "How to be Successful" and watched the pages sink dejectedly to the ground. Climbing on top of a bookshelf, but we had forgotten the rest of the poem so began to shout "SHEEP" "SHEEP,” pointing at people who all seemed to fit the bill.
We looked into one anothers eyes and embraced each other in no other way that can be described as cliched passion, until we noticed a man shouting to come down, who was dressed in a rather different manner than the bookstores employees, most notably the gun at his side.
"GIVE US CONEY ISLAND BACK OR WE'LL NEVER STOP!!!" we shouted back laughing maniacly. Like all good dreams this too came to an end and we were tackled, cuffed, and brought out to the store which was now the center of much publicity. We looked into each others eyes and knew everything was worth it.

My phone began to ring. I realized my coffee was empty, my pen had run out of ink, and the beautiful girl was apparently long gone. The old man sat tackling "Paridisio" with a drunk smile on his face. I closed my pad and dressed for the cold harsh reality I was about to embrace. Upon reaching my car I could only think to myself the dreadful heartbreaking phrase, what if.

[11 Dec 2006|09:11am]
A&P is a first person narrative story told in a slightly sarcastic and quite apathetic point of view. The thoughts of a young man are displayed quite truthfully, and do an excellent job of showing the thoughts of many young men around the same age. Though it is somewhere near the beach, the fact, the story takes place in a corporate supermarket make it quite possible to be anywhere in the united states.
It’s clear to see Sammy is a dreamer. Right off the bat he scans an item more than once, his attention is diverted to three girls who walk in wearing only bathing suits. He continues to divert his focus to these three girls for the remainder of the story, quickly analyzing the pros and cons of each girl. Despite some of his commentary it cannot be assumed he is a misogynist, his thoughts are always kept to him. If he were to go around speaking quite openly to the faces of these and other women, it may be another story, but it’s quite safe to say that if every young male said what they were thinking out loud, they’d all be considered misogynists.
He is very opinionated and thinks very little of the other shoppers because of their repetitions movement throughout the hallway. He thinks his coworker is too ambitious with his job and sets his hopes too high. This shows Sammy’s lack of a work ethic. He holds expectations of everyone from Stokesie to the voices of the girls, nothing ever lives up to these expectations and it seems he holds very little faith in himself for his lack of effort to make any type of conversation with the girls and choosing to make his almost chivalric movement to quit his job in honor of the girls. It seems with Sammy everything is too little too late.
The ending leaves the reader to assume he isn’t going to change. If he thinks the world was going to be hard after these actions, it shows he doesn’t feel it’s important for himself to change, but it’s the
world that should change. Perhaps its hinting at a small inner growth that he’s realized the world wont bend to his thought and only when his thoughts are acted upon does, he gets any response. If he holds his idea of “must follow through with decisions” things will continue to be tough for him and he will never be able to conquer his ego. He has yet to realize his own fallibility.

Boys and Girls by Alice Munro discuss the topic of a woman’s place in society and despite the willingness to change that roll, it's rather difficult and the narrator finds herself already changed. The narrator, a young girl at the beginning of the story, tells the story of her father as a fox farmer and how her mother frowned upon the industry but she herself found comfort in the process of skinning, killing, and disposal. While she was able to help with some chores, there are already some early signs of the growing separation between the men and the women of the family. It's clearly distinguished that the fox pen’s door's are for "men" to enter showing this is already viewed by the young girl as a man's job. While watering it’s also shown that she is too weak to carry the watering can full, clearly representing women as the weaker of both sexes.
Her father cannot discuss things that are on his mind unless it is an order to give her dealing with work. This shows the fathers lack of comfort when around his daughter. However, she states her mother has no problem showing her emotions, thoughts, or memories. Here is another stereotype shown that men cannot show emotion or feeling and its especially a taboo to do it around someone of the opposite sex. The opposite can be said for women, we are shown they have no problem expressing themselves freely. Despite the young girls lack of awareness, she is already bending to the outside worlds views of how women should grow to be. This can be even better seen in how she views her mother’s roll in the house, it’s dreadfully, dreary, boring and unimportant, while she’s coming to view her father’s roll as important.
Her mother makes it very clear that her daughter isn’t real help. She is upset that her daughter is always out of the house giving help to the father. As she becomes older, she becomes more aware of “girl” not holding the same meaning as it had when she was younger and now it has even come to hold an inferior connotation. Girls are different from boys and therefore they each have their own place in society and what they can and cannot do, which her grandmother begins to point out. This is when the biggest change in the narrators attitude. She is growing older and has begun to change.
This is best seen when she is helping as she normally does around the farm when a horse breaks out and instead of closing the gate she opens it to allow its escape. This can viewed as her escape from the masculine world and making the shift into a purely feminine world. Her stories no longer remain her as the hero, but as the one who must be rescued by some man she dreams about. She has always remained seemingly stoic throughout the story, but at the end when her brother lets the family know she could have stopped the horse she break out in tears, this completes the transformation and she isn’t met with anger and is simply pardoned because after all she’s just a girl and despite her want’s to be apart of the masculine roll in the family she has grown to accept and long for the roll rejected by her throughout the story.

At long last I arrived at Lascaux. The inhabitants were long gone but from what I could deduce they had left something behind and stumbling across a cave I found my deduction was quite right. The cave was covered with numerous depictions of creatures that must have roamed around the area but now were long gone, as was much of what once inhabited the area. It’s hard to say what they were trying to get across. Language is a barrier and even more so when supposedly nothing written existed at such times. Perhaps there was plenty of food that season and relishing in their boredom they created these pictures to look at and enjoy, or perhaps nothing of the sort. Either way the cave began to grow dreadfully boring and my pontificating was arriving me no where, and with my guide I decided to go elsewhere to see if I could not better understand what became of such people and this thing they called art.
Years and years passed in a blink of an eye and tribes roamed, animals died, men and women alike died, rocks eroded, people flocked together, tools developed, and wait, wait.. Stop, we’ve arrived. How things have changed. People are no longer living in caves and new forms of shelter have emerged. Perhaps this will give me more of an answer. Then someone came up with the bright idea of marks and wedges carved into a stone to represent thoughts and ideas. This is most likely when mankind became almost indefinitely doomed. Man continued along his path creating monuments which would be known as statues which represented god’s or rulers who thought they were god’s and people died because of these god’s (they didn’t realize they’d die either way). Their pottery was trite and stylized and could be seen in museums and art galleries across nations that would rise and fall (America, France, Britain, etc...).
Then the worlds first great civilizations came to be and their art flourished, perhaps this can be considered as the worlds first attempt at art for art’s sake and not so much functional, but we will always have those who want to apply meaning to anything and everything, so let’s find something worth educating the kids about. Oh those damned Greeks had quite a sense of humor, which is most readily seen in a terra cotta drinking container, which picture the stages of intoxication, ultimately ending in regurgitation of everything consumed in the past few hours. Yes alcohol no doubt helped inspire many artists, but would also come to inspire many great tragedies. While Greece was “flourishing” so were the Egyptians, building tombs still standing in hopes of a pleasant afterlife, being filled with absurd amounts of gold, jewelry, and furniture. These huge monuments brought the senseless deaths of many who were considered to be expendable, they did not get such tombs, but simply tossed in the sand. These pyramids remained a popular attraction up in till the end of man.
Things went on around the rest of the world of course, but according to many of the records found, they were of no importance. The main reason for this mentality was developing around this time, at the birth of a man named Jesus Christ, whom much art would be made for, continuing for close to 1500 years. This man was believed to be the son of God. Many deaths would come for the glory of his name and they were also under the notion that God on earth was an original conception, however they didn’t have history classes at this time and like it, they were doomed to repeat it. However it is necessary to sate that at this time art was flourishing in Rome and sculptures began to take on more lifelike appearances and carved from beautiful stone known as marble, which would be a material used well into the future to show strength and wealth.
Rome falls and the world appears to be lost, (we are assuming Europe is the world). Religion becomes the focal point of many peoples lives and is the ultimate anisthetic to the real world. Rather than focusing on the problems at hand people hope their God will fix everything for them while they wallow in their self pity. If a civilization believe in the “wrong” god their ideas and art were destroyed and new pictures were painted representing their old gods in new light, this light they called salvation and could only be found through Jesus. It can be assumed that most European art at this time revolved around Jesus and if it didn’t it would be conquered and then it would. This is also around the same time people began spending massive amounts of money on large elaborate objects which would be known as cathedrals. These were places of worship for God and his son Jesus. These took many years to build and had intricate carvings, sculptures, paintings, mosaics, statues, and just about any other type of art. Of course nothing could be secular and if it was, it was destroyed.

[06 Dec 2006|12:26am]
Revenge, what a wonderful concept; do onto others as they have done onto you and it's even better when what you do back is paid back tenfold. I myself was in the process of doing something, which would give me the greatest release of rage, which would quickly turn into joy once the process was done.
The roof I was on was of an abandoned factory, which was no more than 40 feet in the sky; if one were to fall it certainly wouldn’t be a pretty sight. Shall I describe the sky? No. Shall I describe the weather? Fair at best and look at all the damned clouds in the sky that look like anything you want. Happy? Good. Back to the roof, which was of aluminum and well rusted in many areas but the spot in which I was standing seemed sturdy enough. It would have to be for the work I was about to undergo and I wasn’t the least bit nervous about my, hmmmmm how shall I put this? Prey? Yes that will work. Well needless to say they weren’t going anywhere. How did I get them up here? Well a magician never reveals his secrets, and who doesn't have an infinite of them that are all so important and pertinent to everyone around us! HA! How true that what is hidden is often of no consequence, like the cookies on top of the refrigerator, behind the stacks of cookbooks and you thought they were safe, well they're gone now!
A bird flew where I could not and I was jealous and would have liked to shoot it in my fit of rage, but I was just another example of why everyone shouldn’t own a gun. I cursed flight and threw a rock off the roof, which simply dropped as expected making a noise barely audible from my position but a rock dropped and thus it made a sound. Somewhere a tree was falling and a person wasn’t around, but I’m sure something was, but I didn’t care or hear it, so damn the sound. Yes yes yes back to my prey before I bore you to tears with silly babble.
I wanted to mark up my subjects before I did anything else to them. Taking out my black sharpie (normal size) and began to draw curves and lines. My prey stayed put, where would they go? They couldn't fly like the bird, but surely they'd fall like the tree, and very rightly so they'd make a much louder noise than the rock. One after the other I marked each one up until I was satisfied.
I looked at my handy work and smiled a perverse smile. What did I draw? Oh a face of this person, a face of that person, my name on one of them. Well no they didn’t move while I was doing this, I don't know why they would, no I don't think they were dead yet. As far as I know they hadn't started to rot. Let me finish before you interrupt!
This was the fun part. Taking out my switchblade I began to carve out the shapes and their liquids got all over me! Their aromas crept up my nose and began to cause nausea, and to think all this was to end such nausea! The things we do for a release! The dissections must have taken me 2 hours but the time of day was unimportant, all that you must know is it was light out and I could see what I was doing without any aid. As I made the last incision I took a step back and admired my handy work. Perhaps if someone spotted me they'd think I was mad and phone the authorities but no such things were to come of this, there were no witnesses but I.
The first one to go over had a fat man carved into its surface, such a pretty little picture I had made, truly giving to much credit to the identity I was trying to represent Up and over the edge it went and as soon as it hit a loud thud could be heard and bits and pieces scattered here and there. Two was next which had an image of a person strikingly similar to my mother-in-law on it. That went up and over the edge of the roof, making a similar thud and splat upon impact.
All but one went over with their own individual markings carved to the side in a crude manner and soon there was a pile where most parts had accumulated with various insides and juices scattering the surrounding area. The last one had my name carved in its side in all capital letters and was truly the most ugly and largest. I struggled to raise it over my head and watch it befall a similar fate. With one giant toss that took all my energy it began to take flight but quickly reached its apex and befell the same fate as the others, making a truly glorious site that left me in awe.
I was quite relieved after cleaning up my supplies and started to make my way down to examine the mess from a closer point of view. It was impressive but not worth pontificating upon. The fun was over. All that was left to do was leave. I headed toward my car when about 100 feet away I slipped an landed back down in the most vile and repulsive surroundings I’ve yet to experience in life. Oh sweet revenge how you pain me, but I suppose that’s what I get for tossing all those pumpkins off the roof!

[04 Dec 2006|10:10pm]

Clickity clack, clickity clack went the train dashing further and further ahead at speeds unknown to human feet. I gazed out the window at the ever expansive landscape which included near barren trees, foolishly holding onto brown dry leaves, on rolling hills which were a body of water, known as the Hudson river, which included pcb infested fish which would make you as sick as I the narrator, but sick in a much different sense (and no I will not divulge!) The electric wires were stuck doing a monotonous limbo, up and down up and down, looking like a snake of endless proportions. Needless to say the scenery was repetitive, but my eyes needed a break from the infinitely phrenic poetry of William Carlos Williams. My mind and palette were being assaulted with images of juicy succulent plums begging to be consumed by my greedy gullet. Needless to say, the plums were quite elusive.
The window made me feel utterly disconnected with my surroundings and I began to think of the most beautiful legs I’d ever seen and now I longed to be sitting in English hoping the girl in the short skirt would appear to smoke her awful cigarette and cross those smooth gorgeous legs, expanding ever upward, resembling pink ivory, no doubt in part from the frigid weather. They were so vivid in my mind, on display for I and I alone. I'm ashamed to quote Bukowski but she had the most beautiful legs in town. They were endless! But, as she’d reach the filter she'd toss the butt, uncross those enticing legs and walk off to somewhere that couldn’t have existed, for it was not near my eyes.
The train starting to jerk, squeak and moan and then it stopped. The enchanting landscape along with my thoughts of perversion came to halt and my eyes met with what seemed like hundreds of people waiting to get onto the train. I took my rather cumbersome jacket and laid it across the seat closest to me in hopes of deferring anyone audacious enough to sit next to me, though I suppose it took less audacity than I thought because a man around the age of 70 asked in broken English;
"Is taken?"
I panicked and was about to say no when the conductor blurted out anyone traveling alone would have to double up. I sadly shook my head and moved my coat. He appeared intelligent (as if looks could tell) and I hoped for stimulating conversation about anything, except politics or some absurd notion, such as T.S. Eliot being the greatest and only true poet there ever was. It's happened before and damned if happens again! He looked over at me and said hi and returned the civility, but soon realized his English was as limited as my notions on math or physics, that is to say, practically non-existent. I read a poem to myself, but couldn't concentrate. My thoughts were stuck on how the ride could get any worse and I thought of many ways: derailment, gunmen, coffee poisoning, unknowingly being dead, but this wasn't getting me anywhere, that was the trains job!
The old man seemed just as disappointed as me and would look over and sigh, knowing language was barrier. I was ashamed for not knowing what he spoke, and his eyes told me something similar. Tapping him on the shoulder I pointed out the window and scribbled a heart on the pad, and pointed back out the window. He smiled and nodded. We placed are hands under our chins and fixed our gazes out into the repetition and for the rest of the train ride, understood more about each other than words could ever get across. The hills held onto the trees and the trees held the leaves futilely, the river remained polluted, as did the fish, and the wire kept up its sing-song path. Though I don’t know what the old man was thinking, I know if he had seen those legs, our thoughts wouldn’t have been far apart.

[02 Dec 2006|12:28am]
My bedroom was quite agreeable and my down comforter was pulled up to my neck as I gazed out my window into the newly renewed night sky. The stars were curtained by the retreating storm clouds. The street was surprisingly dry for the downpours that had occurred only an hour ago. Chopin was comforting like a mother telling her child there are no monsters under his bed or anywhere in the house, but it was time to embrace the opportunity which so many have forgotten and neglect; it was time to take a walk. With a slight pang of regret I bid Chopin, my comforter and room adieu and found succor in the hard black roads, which reflected the dancing streetlights that appeared to be under the influence of as much coffee as I. Like an astronaut taking great pride in being the first man on the moon, I took my first steps onto the street and breathed in all the life had to offer, I prayed it wouldn't offer a car which would introduce me to the pavement in an unwanted circumstance. Like a wave, a clichéd wave, memories and thoughts began to pour in and out of my head of heads and the night truly began.
The first thing I noticed was the weather wasn’t nearly as warm as it had been 1 hour ago and wind was dancing a violent tango with the trees and anything else that deigned to dance. That was always something I enjoyed to watch and got a chuckle at how indiscriminate some things still were anywhere. The cold and wind never bothered me, I only wished I could have could danced the complicated steps with the wind, but I was never quick enough and always wanted to be the lead.
The time passed as fast as the houses, slowly or perhaps not so depending on perspectives. My mind raced with thoughts of soccer and why I had never enjoyed watching it though loved to play it, there was no definite answer aside from the fact that most things are enjoyed while participating, unless it is unnecessary lobotamization or related topics.
I tripped and stumbled on the crooked sidewalk. However it's amazing how much more null and void of life the night is than the day, however, it was to no surprise that both had little to offer, in this pretty how town (Cummings you ass, get out of my head, you were just a fad!) That’s how the topic of poetry got into my head and it wasn't too exciting. Pitter pat pitter pat pitter pat went the feet communicating with god knows who and why and my mind rambled worse than my hands, the people I knew and the people I didn't and if there was a goddamned soul out there who was worth more than the shit on the ground I almost stepped in several times this past week.
It was beginning to seem dismal and I couldn't wipe the grin from my face or the narcissism from my eyes and I thought of breakfast and how insatiable it would be and I thought of masturbation and how insatiable that would be and I that's when I realized that even Dostoevsky left the mind yearning for more. Too many Fyodor's not enough Aloyosha's, but forget such trifles as I did for now I noticed a different problem as the knot in my stomach grew and grew; nausea of the worst degree was beginning the take a hold of my attention. I would have vomited if it weren’t for the lack of anything inside me.
That's when I found myself staring into a car under a street light at a couple who may have been caught up in something as well, but they had now stopped and I hadn't the slightest idea what stopped me or how long I had been standing in this spot. Had I been caught gazing absent-mindedly at them? Perhaps one of them had a nasty case of bad breath or indigestion? This way or that, under my present realization I knew this spot had been fortified for too long and I continued under the watchful eyes of the cars' occupants, I must have been looking quite nice for they kept looking and I looked right back over my shoulder.
Walking and walking and walking, sometimes letting out a word such as denizen or piquant because I’ve always wanted to use them in everyday conversation but this would have to do, for the most of the talking done during the day was to myself. I couldn't solve the world’s problems tonight, but what about my own? I saw none, but who's to say. Certainly not I.
Well one thing led to another (let's assume these things are footsteps!) and I caught myself studying a window on in an attic, which appeared to be turned into a bedroom. The light was on but no one was to be found. No I’m no voyeur, in search of cheap smut and vulgarity, though I am a voyeur of hopes and impossibilities, but not of humanity for that is far to ugly of a picture for any master could paint. I waited with my eyes affixed in hopes for my prayers to be answered that are to find anyone sane enough to come out and join me, but such things such things! Only in dreams and when you wake up! Your wallet, bed, and self are just as empty as they were the day before! Yes yes walks are never as happy, or funny when they are taken in best company, myself...such is life?
Dejected as ever, I turned away from the window and walked up the hill, which would be perfectly flat if it weren’t for physics or was it gravity but they are married so let's call that off. I was feet from my house when my nose was accosted by the all too familiar smell of waste, as the sewer overfloweth, what a lovely place with made, and with my last breath before entering my house, I choked on the thick vile air and I thought how appropriate.

[01 Dec 2006|12:32am]
"Consider the following:
It's dreadful no? Tossing and turning in bed trying to catch a wink of sleep, but a flood of ideas simply can't be quelled. After years and years of saying; "Damnit i'll write it down in the morning" only to awaken with hopes of a ground breaking thought but you are left with nothing resembling lucidity. Finally sitting up against the brass headboard of a queensized bed it might be best to finally write some of them down. Opening eyes are accosted by the offensive grim reminder that time is running out and like a slap in the face the realization kicks in that it's friday already. Fridays use to hold a different connotation; those days were gone, but it was all for the better, or was it? The thought clicks finally that everything written is making no sense whatsoever and the intention of writing has been ambushed by careless mind, but the enemy remains in the dark because the lightbuld burned out years ago. Thoughts of words changing and making people happy come and go and leave again because its been decided that other events aside from song, dance, words, whatever are what's changing the world and not a goddamned individual can change that. Gathering around the fire place an old friend of everyone began to tell stories and her name was apathia, it'd be easier to repeat again, but one way or another it doesn't matter and it doesn't pay to care.
Things begin to look grim and what's that? A sound of a high pursuit chase or someone in the clutches of death races through the street. And everyone is that person chasing, being chased, dying, saving..."

The kid put down the piece of paper he found under his windshield wiper of his car. Threw his arms up in the air and exclaimed,
"This is absolutely trash1"
Of course no one was around to see or hear him do this, but he had barely said 50 words that day and dared to make it 54.
"If only the person who wrote such awful crap had, had the audacity to put his name or contact info on it...I'd show him what real penmenship was!" He made it 82, but this time a pretty blonde walking past him had overheard and burst out laughing. She continued laughing while walking to her car and drove away. Obviously the kid was confused at this laughter and figured she must have thought of something humorous; like the way Canadians say certain words for instance. Either way he didn't care. An idea came to his head, but he was late for home and food awaited, it can surely be assumed he forgot en route to his abode. He looked at the failed attempt at a story again, but didn't care to finish it.
Somewhere a Japanese man got hit in the nuts for a gameshow, this was funny.
Somewhere an explosion happend and it didn't matter to most of the world but someone had to die, it can be assumed it wasn't the Japanese man who got hit in the nuts and no he didnt win the gameshow, but it was still funny.
Somehere couples are fucking their brains out. Some of the women are satisfied, but it can be assumed that most are insatiable and never raise a complaint. Most males are satisfied and once climax is reached they think of sleep and damnit they will. The Japanese man who got hit in the nuts ice's them and tries not to think of anything that would arose him. The people in the explosion don't think because they are dead.
A Canadian asks a question to an american and the american can't help but let out a chuckle.
Somewhere someone is standing reading a short story and is either plesantly surprised or incredibly upset they wasted their time with such drivle or perhaps simply confused. No, there are no fortune tellers anyone, only educated guesses.
[insert sensible happy ending here]

[29 Nov 2006|10:05pm]
Anywhere i go i will be represtenting america and the epoch in which i grew. If someone asks me while i am abroad i will incommodiously say i am and automatically assumptions will be drawn, alas i am stupid, dumb, and ignorant. However i have yet to be abroad so i have yet to encount such tavesties, yet foreigners will always be welcome;or rather once were always welcome in our country, but stay here? Well now, that all depends.
America is under the worlds microscope manufactured in beijingg or taiwann or maybe mexico and they look and are in utter disbelief at our downfall, though we haven't a clue unless we consider the television with its dreams and hopes and selling us our main commodity, apathy.

[28 Nov 2006|12:17am]
sweet summer's sentiments
settling soundly
though not forgot

A dreamers delusion drowning
A distracted denizen
though not lost

bottom's become basis
brought back
for you and i.

[27 Nov 2006|01:17am]
i'm sick.
i'm tired.
i'm wondering.
i'm hated.
i'm not editing.

[27 Nov 2006|01:15am]
theres a restless time
hours of trying to sleep
all gone to waste
mind racing from
this to that
and in between a cringe
this is what i think
before i try to bed.

[26 Nov 2006|12:38pm]
i lightly touch my face
ever slightly
brushing and skimming
hair long forgotten
sends chills like lightning
almost forgetting
i am human.

[23 Nov 2006|10:17pm]
"If you ignore this you will have relationship problems for the next ten years"
I have yet to have a successful relationship and judging by 98.7% of the population 10 years was a serious understatemate. Even those who are married have found that their are better people out there than the one they wake up to day after day after day. Fortionately the only person i have to worry about waking up to that often is myself and i'm not sure i'd want it to be anybody else. Relationships are like a rollercoaster missing 20 feet of track towards the middle, unbenoiced to you. Sure its fun, thrilling, dangerous (hearts arent made of steel...plastic for some but not steel) but theres a certain point when you leave that track and go hurdling through the air crashing into a pile of useless limbs and bones. Of course a person reaches an apex of self destructive behavior in an unsavory relationship, they'll all abusive, many are lacking eyes though.
It brings to mind a girl i once knew who asked why i didnt like sheep. Lamb is delcious mind you but i'm not talking about the wool bearing mammal that is as harmful as a vacant typwriter that's gone on forgotten by nearly everyone but the dust and air that dries up the ribbon rendering it useless, though no one would notice, obviously. The people, the ones that flock worse than birds. Preaching about anti-conformity and shaking their finger at everyone but themselves, screaming about being different and important and beautiful. Yet their words are like daggers in my ears and their actions are non-existant. She was one of the sheep, flocking and screaming and being so goddamned different from everyone who did'nt have a tattoo or a penis or so fourth and so on.
Debauchery was running rapent on the screen of my computer and it had to be stopped. Like a person who repeats over and over again, to himself or others, that one day he's going to leave this city, write a novel, or shoot up anywhere, and then oneday ALMOST out of nowhere they do, i tore my computer from the wall and threw it out the window, damned shame i hadnt a backup of the numbers ous bullshit i've accumulated over the years, let's not even mention the mess someone would have to clean, not me. Scarves and sweaters are vital for the cool weather and i bundled up in more than my fair share. Looking like i weighed 100 pounds more than i actually did, i opened the door and met the whipping winid and biting cold looking quite ridiculous. However, nothing beats a walk despite the weather.

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