Interests:Violin. Music. Art. Fine dining. Literature. Psychology. Sociology. Laughing. Conversations. People. Voyeurism. You know, the usual! Expertise:"Drowning in the ocean of pleasures." -Olive Hui Occupation:Artist Industry:Entertainment
vonnegut wrote about billy pilgrim and i weave my life into the contexts of the books i read; i swear i was being beaten alongside frederick douglass two weeks ago. so a handful of nights ago i closed my eyes and then opened them a few months ago to when i cried in your arms and asked you "how do you know how do you know how do you know what will happen?" and you didn't know but you said you did so then i had a dream and in it someone gave me the answer and now i know. i woke up hugging my pillow and so dream, wherever you are, if i could speak to you, which i can because it is the planet tralfamadore, thank you.
and if this spellcheck doesn't shutup or at least halt itself in trying to make me feel linguistically inadequate, i will end its life. its little spell-check life.
i feel redundant; i am lying here blank and docile as a lamb and so is my mind. if i could rip it out of my head and jar it then it would flicker and shudder and make crepe paper sounds. i'm only as old as my bones.
listen: the problem is that you fit in my wooden long box and you can't be stirred--the problem is that you are dazed by a potion and i can't stop whatever it is in here--and i am pointing to both my head and heart--that is making me stir so. the point is i don't know if you have it right or if i do but it's difficult to be heard across the sea of what is and what is not.
i keep listening to my playlist from the beginning of college and marveling at what a complete statue i was. i was hideously lonely. i still am today. you can imagine here the prideful twinkle in my eye. once that was almost a year ago. again it is now. rrr hates redundancy.
you won't ever read this, which is good. you cannot. you cannot know that in the tall grass of my brain sleeps a much simpler green jell-o version of myself--one that sorts things into loves and does not live. silly!
"if you were strong, you did not know it your endurance as modest as a house fern i was born waiting and around me wrapped the folly of man and i tried to warn you but you could not listen there was glass and 3 years between us
on a table it sat idle and reticent like a moon or many of them and so i ask you for answers to questions you couldn't quite hear in a bottle they were and so was i sloshing in the questions sorry i said you couldn't hear that either and i was
in the glass and there was a green bug that told me the key to happiness is letting the heart come forth and proclaim i and you will strap the mind to a chair and gag it and make it watch in thirsty silence, will you not? deprive it of water put it out on the street and become pride- less mush will you not? will you not for the justice of love and they, the idealists?
this was serious, i thought and growing up was serious, i thought and so i waited and was serious and did you ever know that i watched you and i am sincere like a dog it's funny but not laughable just funny and that you are a lucky penny and each time i pick you up it's the first luck and the best luck and so i'm in a bottle lucky and sloshing with my green bug and the folly of man and that's how you are so strong for your patience and you. and you. and you. "
i don't even know how much of it i mean. i don't know how much of it is about you. i still don't know how to use what my dream told me. i want ben & jerry's.
i don't know where i am going to live still because atlanta hates me and decatur is being an inexpensive house whore. i like the city come on let me live there. whatev, though. an experience is an experience; i'm just really attached to all of my walking routines. rrrrrrrrrrrrrr.
so i am welcoming you to the giant stupid convention that my life is at the moment; come: set down your intellect on the bureau and let us TOAST.
i love reading the comments on youtube videos. some people are nice. others, tedious. others: retarded. humanity is like that, but i probably wouldn't know because i've been stuck inside disenjoying myself.
i am too tired to breathe. maybe now i can sleep. count sheep
this isn't really about birds but i am skeptical and rather concerned by the fact that anything i write is usually about nothing regardless of me naming it and giving it wings.
i've nearly gotten hit by a car several times this week and i'm really developing a concise and resounding death-glare that i serve up like a faux pas frisbee throw to the usually befuddled and miffed receiver (terrible atlanta drivers numbers 1-56). you should see it; the quality and sincerity is appalling. no, motherfuckers, i am not afraid of you hitting me and yes, motherfuckers, i will get your mon-mons. just you wait.
sucking at the violin still isn't working out for me but i have to keep it around at least for a little while longer because i'm pretty sure it's been a fixture of my identity for far too long to just give up. besides, i come from a clan of non-quitters who'd all be ashamed and annoyed by the amount of time/money i/they've put out in my endeavors to be, dare i say, a musician.
the new andrew bird album is great. love you, andy.
as of late, i'm not interested in the immaturity and tactlessness of certain bespectacled woodwind assclowns and so they should probably never speak again--this will aid them in the evasion of finding out that they are truly only mentally, physically, and socially comparable to this gum i stepped in last week or the blister i had between my toes in october or the scaffold a court jester was lynched upon in the middle ages. because the lord knows finding that out would crush their significant egos and we canNOT have that on our consciouses, can we, america?
i love french but french does not love me, sniffle sniffle. but i don't want to just take a few years of it and be done with it like i was spanish and latin. you know what i remember from latin? indicative mood and how to say slave dealer and slave girl and once upon a time. isn't that sad?
it's 9:00 p.m. and i have a music theory quiz tomorrow morn that i have and will not study for. you know why? actually, let's not play--i'll probably wake up thirty minutes early on accident just out of some subconscious urge and frantically leaf through my notes only to find that i utilized my pencil as the medium of transfer of a pretty wicked school of cartoon fish from my head to the margins of some staff paper. then i'll be pissed, i'll fail the quiz, fail out of school, and work in the lobby of the music building and press the handicapped automatic door open button for people who are carrying lots of things or who are too lazy to dig somewhere and find their i.d. or are just handicapped, i guess. whatever it is, i'll do a damn good job of it! i am the future liaison between the music world and the out-of-doors. i will control a portal linking two realms of vast disparity. it's like i'm miss cleo.
this weekend i will be writing that fight club paper, and david fincher will somehow acquire the proud twinkle in his left eye upon my printing of it. it will be warm, crisp, and fresh when i give it to my english teacher. i will get a 100 on this paper and it will be published in philosophical journals across the globe and i'll be famous. people will say, "hey, weren't you just a hispanic house-servant who worked his way to the top from practically nothing except the clothes on his back and a ..macbook?" and i'll say, "yes" and pull it off because i'll be a lot tanner when they ask me that question for some reason even though we both know i'm not hispanic nor will i work any way from any sort of anything to something better. what am i even talking about? insert an answer here. i feel like i'm being permanently analyzed by lacan and freud because THAT'S ALL I READ NOW and it's so frightening. i will not let the mirror me overcome the me-me. asdfghjkl
no matter how weird animal collective is, i'll still always love them. emily is practicing and she sounds like godiva chocolate (silky and rich) and my laundry is beckoning me. my theory book is alienated because i haven't touched it in a century, i miss not having a cough and not blowing swamps out of my nose and general wellness. i miss going to the park a lot and cotton-ball clouds and the general inclination to picnic at least bi-daily. i can't believe poulenc composed such rubbish for us to play to back up SINGERS and i can't believe we haven't revolted yet. dernier means last or past in context, i am pas de english class tomorrow and i ne have pas the time to do all of the things i've been mandated to do by the man but i enjoy it somehow anyway. are we going to china? yessss.
my lexicon has dwindled and i'm sure i'm dyslexic by now just from reading all the graffiti but you know what? it's all just words anyways.
This actually has nothing to do with the title. Isn't that clever?
"The lyrics are all about communicating want. Does anyone know how. Will you get in touch if you do."
Right now I really should be watching Fight Club for my English class. I really, really should. I don't think I'll have enough time to do it tomorrow. I really should watch that shit.
I'll actually return to this topic in a little while--I'd like to take the time to quote Charles Simic because he wrote something about the human condition and analogized it to birds so naturally I couldn't resist.
"Mother's needle made quick crosses. They were black Like the inside of my head just then
The pages I turned sounded like wings. "The soul is a bird," he once said."
So, second semester. It exists and I'm in it. Mostly I'd just like to inquire to some sort of higher body that I will concoct for the sole purpose of answering rhetorical questions as to why I have to be so awkward. Why does my awkwardness pile up like a precarious jenga™ tower of faux pas and why is every waking moment of my existence like haphazardly yanking THE MOST structurally important jenga™ block from the bottom row? No idea, but I sure hope whomever is living the converse of my situation is making the most of it. Reap the benefits of poise, you bastard. REAP THEM.
But life goes on, and I attend college. I think the more I learn, the less I understand about how everything works. And I am sometimes miffed by the existentialist light that's shed upon it all, but things are impossible to separate completely from each other; it's all sort of just homogenous and I remember reading about the butterfly effect and wondering how no one had thought of it sooner. When you plug in an infinite number of inputs, they have an infinite number of possible outcomes and the graph resembles a butterfly's wings because it's like, several infinity signs over and over.
And over. The cirque du soleil tent is across the highway and yet I can hear the deep bass notes of the music wafting through the stupidly (albeit appropriately) frigid air. STILL. The highway system around here isn't a small one, mind you! What does their noise think it's doing over here?
", said the shotgun to the head."
I admit, I love you, Saul Williams. Yous got soul.
I like that. I like punctuation, and I like it especially in the quote because a comma is not an end, it's a pause. It's just a pause.
"Last night I woke from a dream. It was vivid and you were asleep, too. There was a jar of fireflies on my desk either here or there, and you twitched. I spoke then and you didn't hear me, but mostly what matters is that those words were let out; they breathed something heavy, like a sigh in a room with lots of open books or the air when it rains in the city. The words themselves were heavy, too, and it was ironic how they floated. They staggered against the glow of the lightning bugs and travelled down the contour of your nose and your jaw, and the sheets fashioned a 300 thread count escalator for them and they crawled to the threshold, used the restroom across the hall, and left. You woke up sometime later, and the sun was there for a while. You were gone after then, and if you weren't gone, you must've been hiding which is considered the same thing because I can't see with anything else but my eyes. I don't remember if I ever found you or if I was dreaming, or even what those words were or where they went. It's not as much of a mystery as it is a story or a tree in a park that you envision when you almost die but you don't because you wake up--it's just something happening. Whatever it was--it changed something here and something very far away. Very far away the words crept, and we were here once, and you asked me something silly like 'what does a factory do but make facts?' Then I laughed at the absurdity of the question and we fell asleep."
ANYWAYZ
So, the preface of Fight Club has gotten me thinking about life--or death in life, or something, idk.
I suppose I wonder if I'm really living sometimes or if any of the businessmen at Starbucks in the morning are living either, or what it even means to be alive if breathing and exercising the ability to function don't count. And I don't want to let the things I control control me, I really don't, that seems scary. I actually just wonder if I'm going about life in any sort of way that is commendable or recognizable as existing with some impact on anything else or if that's even important to me. Happiness is super elusive, maybe.
Potentially I just want to breeze through all of these terrifyingly demeaning exercises my violin professor makes me endure and somehow acquire flawless technique or maybe I wish I could just do grammatical crunches and somehow get published somewhere just so I could teach and tell people my age now what it's like to be ..anything and it be respectable.
Also, I want to be able to run as much as I want when I want and devise various escape routes just incase anything doesn't look promising or conversely looks so promising that I'd screw it up somehow because I would.
But instead of doing anything about anything, I will succumb to my slumbersome state, continue contemplating the ostensibility of it all, and eat a pudding cup.
No one can deny themselves the treasure of some delicious pud. -ding.
I wonder if I'll ever not have acne because it's seriously like a stigmata. I am pbs. (Plagued By Stigmata).
Dialog in the dark was super interesting, even if our guide was a wonky panhandler. I realized that I don't utilize any of my other senses to their potential. So I wandered really aimlessly throughout the whole entire course running into this girl named Virginia/a wall.
Also, the 'check engine' light in my car sometimes comes on but then leaves after a day--it's done it twice. Should I check that bitch?
WHAT may or may not come from all of this is the fact that yes, sentience has left me with a shrug I have never shrugged before. Thanks.
