Tired. This body has already had enough. I can't be stuck in between without thinking of what might happen had I made a couple different decisions. I can't help but think how certain conversations epically divide beings made for mutual affection. Surrender, if you don't you'll never think to know control.
Because, in the end, as the song goes, control is something out of my control. And that's the only thing I can identify with. That's what I'm singing at seven something in the morning, tired, useless, as I just checked my marks in school. Control is something out of my control. A cop-out?
I now type in paragraph form.
I hope not.
I hope my spaces affect the way you sleep at night.
Because that's the only reason I keep my thumb next to the space bar. So that in some world that I imagine, you'll notice them and count them on a separate page.
yet aware of what I'll eventually have to do.
This timing is off.
Something about the way my life is moving and the way I am physically moving. They're never in sync.
It's never tracked.
I try my hardest to remember, but I simply cannot write and recall those things when it's most necessary. I know what I need to do now. I need to scan some negatives into the computer. Too bad the scanner sucks.
So...I guess I'll just listen to Billie Holiday, Play a made up game with a soccer ball in our living room, and make midday brownies with my unemployed roommate.
I thought I had already written you, you sly little entry that slipped through the judgment of the button marked "publish."
We spoke of the sometimes unrecognized beauty in purposeful omission, and deliberately crafted syntax. There's beauty there, too, you know, even though I rarely exercise it as such. I want to try to write inconspicuously, directly; yet with poise and fluidity.
I hardly do anything alone, and today was no exception. I woke up and did something I almost never do. I played basketball. I'm not overly athletic, but I played games of 3 on 3 and 4 on 4 with people I didn't know. I then went swimming in a pool on the third story of a brand new building. I rode in a car to get groceries I desperately needed. Before I went in the store, I stopped and knelt to take pictures of legs and wheels of carts.
Before that, I asked "If you were me, what would you pick up at the grocery store?" I needed some inspiration. The only thing I got that I would not normally get is orange juice. You're right, your tastes are pretty simple.
I then proceeded to be unfocused on my homework, take a necessary nap, and listen to a few funky jams from "Antibilas Afrobeat Orchestra."
I work tonight until around 4 a.m. with one of my favorite people, Tony Padgett. We have lots of fun working together.
This was a study in diction, in calculation, and in dedication.
You sang to me that "you are free," the "music is boring you to death." But for me, you see, it's just the goddamn kids. Us boring, boring, boring, boring, spoiled-rotten kids. Take. Take, take, take. Don't give back shit. All spoils. All gains. Just dicks. No brains. More pills. Less pain. Just amber waves of grain. We stuff our mouths until we burst. This is consumerism at its very worst.
Our hands stuffed so deep into the cookie jar. And no, we will not share. We all have too much. We haven't one desire. Us boring, boring self-righteous kids. Throw us to the fire. New sneakers, smaller cell phones, faster cars with larger rims. We filthy, stinking, scholarship punks. We watch them struggle for what we're
just given. I have nothing to complain about, but I know I'll still complain. I'm so bored with us have-everything kids. Put a razor to our veins.
Dangers, man. Dangers. So witty, so refined.
Settling in real nice.
Very excited to show my photography.
Very excited for the coming weeks, and the rolls I'll inevitably shoot.
I have a concept.
I'm doing my homework.
I'm not in over my head.
There's all these people I love that I talk to all the time.
And for the I'm incredibly thankful.
Getting more bikes built.
I called and called and called.
I was so happy to hear something other than a record.
It turned into something unexpected. Welcomed, understandable, obviously neglected.
Maybe I fell too fast
Maybe I pushed you away
There's no hour I would not wake up at.
There's no amount I would not pay.
There's no ticket too expensive
No phone call too late
There's no alarm I would not set
No gas tank too empty.
No night too late.
You might be able to guess where I'm going with this.
Remember that I was not even an adult yet. Remember that I knew nothing. Remember that now I think I've learned. Remember, please remember, that it's the nothing that kills.
Intensity is something that can mean different things. It means everything right now.
When I watch myself play drums inside my head. It's to that song, and it's me drumming with intensity. I'm almost crying because I'm all of sad, all of joyful, and all of angry. For all different reasons.
How can I make this entry be about something other than the coming year, decade, lifetime?
There's no way. I'm always talking about the future.
I was watching a video of Anis Mojgani do a piece called "Here am I." I can't help but repeat the last three, powerful phrases in my mind. His voice shakes and stands up, his body moves and places itself with every emphasis.
Already am, Always was, And I still have time to be.
I'm not going to waste this time.
I'm not going to waste
I'm not going to waste this
I didn't write a good enough paper.
I don't have anything to show for the past couple weeks of photography.
I need to process (the chemical kind)
Playing guitar in my room was one of the best ways to pass time today. I'm sure it'll be the same tomorrow. I can't wait to write as a group/record/back and forth, etc. I want better and more pictures of us. (whole)
Please, let me get what I want.
If I could only figure out what that is.
(The words below are not mine)
No, it's not like any other love
This one is different - because it's us
We can go wherever we please
And everything depends upon
How near you stand to me
I love reading, but I never can commit to a book. I'm very picky, worried I won't be interested, and in general, a slow reader. It's difficult to admit things you perceive as faults about yourself. I've been reading the same book for almost a year now. Isn't that frustrating? granted, it's nearly 600 pages, but that still shouldn't deter me from attempting to finish or at least make significant progress in reading a book I genuinely enjoy.
I picked up, from our bookshelf, James Joyce's "Dubliners," in hopes that the short stories will be easier to tackle.
I tried to explain how I'm feeling right now to someone. I couldn't verbalize it.
I think I'm worried I'll never get what I want. Is that even rational?
Picking out thoughts from a clouded bowl of cereal,
wondering which piece will be more everlasting and satisfying,
not stab me in the back when I don't take out the trash,
But I'm still even wondering if the curves, like a Saturday simply spent at home, will stay the same all day. If they'll retain their shape. If the light will look any different in ten years.
I'm wondering if my prints will yellow.
If after time, I'll finally find the thing that's wrong,
and pick it out carefully like that little bone in Operation.
Don't touch the sides, damn it. The buzzer will ring and ring and ring and then you'll only be thinking about one little thing thing thing. DID I EVEN PICK THE RIGHT ONE?
I'm carefully dismantling all my most precious thoughts.
Growing up on a farm where the vegetables grow rotten.
I eat them, injected with a powerful thing. Their brightly-colored, juicy goodness being tasted by not just me but everyone around me, accepting this as real.
I'll be in California in less than a week. I don't know what I'll do there. Is that unusual to say? I hope I get this bike figured out. I don't know what I'll do there.
Watched Planet Earth to ambient, psychadelic and Post-Rock.
Ate a grilled cheese sandwich.
I want to be passionate about something again.
I guess what I'm getting at is that I'm just sick of it.
I'm sick of the mental masturbation, the thoughts that don't do much for me in the end. They get no where, like no one, because they lack the legs to walk. It's a crust-covered earth they have to
I've been listening to a lot of instrumental post and prog rock lately. Lots of mathy guitars and ambient delays and tremolos. That's the story.
Tonight made me realize how much I miss tour.
I haven't gotten a real good night's sleep since I've been back In Portland. It's not the town or my brothers or the bed that's unsettling, it might be being in one place.
I don't want to sound all "tour cliche" and say that I'm a rogue badass that never stays in one spot for more than 3 nights, but I think you can see where I'm going with this. I never sleep poorly. No matter the situation, it seems as though I'm able to adapt, and by that, I'm able to sleep soundly and wake up conscious of my whereabouts, happy to be alive.
I miss voices. Certain voices that I've abused in the past. Certain voices that I feel I still abuse today. These voices are sometimes full of pain, and sometimes my voice is full of pain, but I don't think the other voices ears can hear it.
What really makes me scared is that things won't grow.
It also scares me when these little breaks in the storm become fewer and farther between.
I take off my coat for just a second, but it's still lots colder outside.
Dirty though I am, I know you'll take me if I can just get you to answer the phone.
If I could just get you to answer the phone.
I feel like I'm backing up all of these memories never to look back on them again.
And that is a terrible feeling.
It is a terrible feeling just like the feeling that I can't find those pictures up on the rocks.
We had just finished our full Mexican meal, and the beach turned out to be a residence...
...according to the satellites.
And we sat and we sat.
Me thinking that I cannot waste much more time, the headlights from behind lit your body warm with what I hoped was a good day.
I wore your jacket and kept my finger on the shutter, and my arm around your side. We still shivered, but the shakes were only physical.
The words I know I'll love forever:
"Promise me it'll stay like this."
I hope it has.
I can't find those pictures.
Fuck it, I have my mind for as long as that lasts.