i don't like math, but find myself doing pointless calculations quite often. for instance, how much did the outfit i'm wearing today cost: let's see actually. from what i can tell it was free. yes, i do believe everything i'm wearing i either acquired free-of-charge somehow or someone gave it to me. or i'll eat something and see how big it is in proportion to my torso. i do this to other people too, like jason zeh, who is skinny, but somewhere finds the capacity to eat an entire twelve inch pizza in one sitting. for this i commend him. i'm sure lots of people do that, but he remains the same jason. pastor bison as the congregation has taken to calling him. or brother bison. alliterations are nice, i like them. i ate three cans of things today, tuna [because i've been trying to convince someone {anyone} to eat a tuna fish sandwich for weeks, and no one's been biting, so i did. and it was delicious. and nostalgic], tomato soup and diced tomatoes with green chilies in them, which i would like to add, made me perspire the slightest bit. i ate it quickly. and it has been a domestic day around the henry home. i watered/weeded the garden and played with sprinklers for about an hour. by play i mean that i was attempting to somehow understand their tricky sprinkler ways. it just so happens that sprinklers were constructed by someone [or thing] far superior in intellect than i. i could not decipher this strange lawn quenching apparatus. tonight, people will come to my house, and i will drink their beer, and then make them help me move large furniture. then i will retire to my new home, where i will sleep amongst the june bugs and the aphids. and they will bite me and crawl around in my clothes, occasionally rousing me, and making me sit awake in the dark, until i put on music for airports and think of how i love that brian eno. i love that brian eno. as you can see, judging by the colour of the word "love," red=passion. and the seduction of myself, by said brian eno, but not necessarily brian eno, so much as his discreet music, and if you know enough about him, you'll have seen the pun, which occurred seventeen words ago. if you know enough about me, you'll find that today, i am writing about absolutely nothing. and if you know me especially well, the inflections made throughout this entire post, have sounded like a southern baptist minister/david cross. and i have no idea why. if i knew, i would certainly make it stop, because it's really annoying inside my brain. stop please. which is exactly what i said to the redhead werewolf as it began to bite my arm off. the werewolf with the green/blue eyes. to him i said, "i am very nice. please don't bite my arm off anymore." so he stopped. and we took to lying in the grass next to eachother, having a newfound understanding of one another. it was very lovely. after mentioning the word love, i would also like to apply that word now to joel midden, who i love. and despite the fact that mr. wilson tries to tell me that if he were sixty years younger, i would be throwing rocks at joel, i will always tell him, "mr. wilson, i already throw rocks at him." which isn't true, but if i could throw a rock at joel right now, i wouldn't hesitate. only because i can't throw rocks. i can't throw then that far. but they probably wouldn't be rocks either. they would be cigarettes or telephones or lighters or pens. because that's what i imagine i threw most of the time. and this post is very very very weird to me, but i like it, and i am tired. i shall take a nap.

i feel ill. Gross and gross. and weird. lethargic. but i don't want to sleep. i feel so disgusting that i've found myself writing about it on this pointless thing. as though it will make me feel better. maybe it will. i have to write about my feelings now. i have to write about my feelings. my feelings. i feel i feel i feel. i feel like this. now i feel like that. now i feel this and that and those again. i'm nauseated. i haven't been drunk for over a month. i haven't been anything but sober for thirty plus days. if i had a choice i wouldn't be. by choice i mean money. if i had a money. or two in my pocket. but then i might feel worse. there are people at my house now. i should entertain them. or at least be present. they might get worried. . but i don't think so. i've been eating an apple a day. i've been trying to be healthy. maybe that's because i can't afford to be unhealthy really. oh well. i should go now.

i've spent a lot of time with the windmills, and their surroundings. in the short time i've known them, they have stayed consistent. the corn fields below however, have gradually grown up from dirt to a foot and change of green stalk. the grass at the roadside has been overwhelmed by the strange weeds that have manifested themselves, bearing strange peeling flowers. i have also changed in ways, but the windmills churn the air when i'm there, and in my absence. every second. and the sky remains the same, with the exception and variation of cloud cover. the moon and sun revolve like clockwork, and there is a very mechanical feel to the whole place. i sit and attempt to calculate the physics of why the tips of the fans move faster than the roots, also wondering whether there is a well for tears or if they are simply produced on demand. there is the consistent rattle of long, rapidly moving semi-trucks, their white panels reflecting sunlight. and in the distance, across the way, the local landfill is also doing its part. all of us never-failing, at least for now.

+

he was telling me of the dreams he recently had, and how i was fondly placed in them. he was a straight-laced man, an all work and no play man. i was honored that he would even consider muttering such bizarre dreams to me, exposing his silently strange world. it was dark out. we were in the orchard. and i swung from a rope as the group of people i was only slightly familiar with moved around in the woods, looking for something to do. they gradually made their way further in, torches in hand, while i stayed on the outskirts watching. i heard a horse scream from a great distance away. and then again. something must be wrong, so i decided to stop swinging and head towards the house. as i walked, i felt my nerves begin to agitate. i was a bit worried. he was in front of me slightly, moreso at my right side. i was about to reach the house when an immense softness grazed my left hand. i looked up, and racing past were two enormous black dogs. they charged the man in front of me and began to eat him up. they were no ordinary dogs.
they were at big as tigers and as black as they could possibly be. their coats were beautiful and shiny. very clean and well-groomed. i ran into the house and slammed the glass door, locking it.
i tried to let everyone inside, but by now there were dozens of these giant wolves attacking everyone in sight. a younge boy ran to the door for me to let him in, but i couldn't. i watched the wolves tear him apart and carry him away. my grandmother came up behind me, along with a strange child. i instinctively told her to close the windows and lock them. i looked outside again to see an older gentleman screaming and thrashing about, staring at his hands as they took new shape. as i stood there watching, a smaller wolf pushed the door open, and attempted to make an entrance. i frantically pinched it in the doorway as hard as i could, and watched myself slowly crush it. it went limp. i turned around to see another small wolf in the house. i ran to the kitchen for the largest knife i could find and stabbed it into the creatures ribs. i waited to watch it die, but first it walked to the couch and lay down. i realized my mistake. i sat down next to the animal, and it began to tell me why all of this was happening. why he was the way he was.
before this he had been a sailor, a young, blonde boy. on a certain voyage they sailed with a strange man from england, who preferred a great deal of sugar in his tea. the boy had fetched sugar for this foreign man at one point, and they had befriended each other. but..

"A lot of the houses out here are bright red, straight out of the paint tube.
The fences around their gardens aren't right. But over there, to the east, everything is realistic and local and as it should be, except on fire."

[i must have missed this one last time around. i laughed a lot. i'm sick of writing about my feelings. writing hasn't been very satisfying lately either. i've written a lot of letters that won't be sent anywhere. i don't think i've written anything new in my journal in a week. i've been transcribing old things into it, but apart from that i've been talking to myself via collages and pictures. so now i'm going to write a story.]

the fan doesn't work in the bathroom. which actually turned out to be a pleasant loss, despite the accumulating steam and cigarette smoke. for unknown reasons it was preferable. the bathtub had been freshly evacuated of soap scum and general filth. everything was white and clear. like those television commercial for any assortment of cleaning chemicals. people always think that the smell of cleanliness lies in the plastic bottles carrying harmful chemicals. then there is soap. i looked up at the tiny rack, bursting with different aromas to smear on your body. this shampoo is for normal hair, this conditioner is for limp hair. and so on. there have been many occasions where i've stood in the aisle set aside for the simple enhancements of your imperfect self. gazing at the thousands of bottles of products, i search for the simplest bottle. that's all i've ever wanted. so it's either mango or coconut lime. oh, but that's the body conditioner, which is what. i'm curious and appalled, discovering there is an oily substance you lather your skin with after cleansing it. so you're soft and fruit flavoured. and unclean again, so instantly, like hair gel. what about the pink bottle. this one's called "sweet pea." i don't understand, so i put it back on the shelf. finally one looks safe to use, it's raspberry scented, but smells nothing like raspberries. the scent stabs into my brain making me think of some murderous berry plant with lots of sharp teeth. then there's a bottle with words that appear to be in a different language. i chose this one. it seems plain enough.

[it's funny to me how, after reading something, i find myself writing in the style i just read from. i'm sure that happens a lot, but it just struck me, just now, very much. i'm too tired to edit that. i'll do it later.]

i don't know what i'm supposed to do after 1pm. i am anticipating this sense that my entire world will crumble when i am finished with job work and realize that i have nothing particular to get done. at one pm. that's in thirty-five minutes. thirty-five minutes until the end of the world as i know it. i'm picturing myself. i'll probably be sitting in front of grounds. until a herd of people are somehow instantly there. and i have no idea what anyone is saying. and when i start talking it seems that no one can hear me. so i begin to babble nonsense and backwards jibberish in an attempt to communicate something. anything. maybe they will hear me when nothing makes sense. no one is the least bit fazed. they just stare off and talk about subjects i will have forgotten about in the next five minutes. everything is slipping. am i dying? i think i may be dying. suddenly i am exhausted. and i have to leave. but i don't know where to go anymore. i was having such a nice time cutting and pasting and writing. maybe i'll move over there. around the corner i go, and breathe a sigh of relief. fifteen minutes passes. someone comes to join me. which is fine. but then it's another and another and all i wanted to do was write and think and paste and now all of you people are hear and i had this great thought i was in the middle of writing this thing and your talking about ridiculous nonsense that i don't care to hear about why do you have to sit here why don’t yougoawayand let me sit by myself. and then, before i've recognized it, there is this pressure in my throat and my stomache is feeling very strange and light. and i'm grinding my teeth. thinking, "nothing has happened, why am i like this. everything is fine." and everything is fine really. there's not much to say about anything. we're all just doing what we do and life is great and i thought that i was at ease about how fucked up everything is, but i'm beginning to think that this might not be the case.

+

coping mechanisms at maximum
thinking softer, the maintenance of hope
in every anticipated departure
mulling over each delicately dreamt gesture
never exactly how it was imagined
now all there is to do
is play out the possibilities, future instances
the reconciliation.
rebuilding dramatic dreams
keep blood flowing, contain self.
in such a strange place i feel
i've never been
except in fabricated mentalities and mindsets
nobody's lost. neither one.
but precious segments of existence,
the parts that keep me going best,
most efficiently, a sounder machine,
have been disconnected
doing the same with myself.
a very lucid life
everything is only half real

+

flashing storefront lights. on and off again.
not sure whether they are done for the day.
the potential customers crossing
are only kids in baggy black jeans
and homeless old bag ladies.
walking slower than ever imaginable.
searching through trash for cans.
we don't have any cans.
just sausages and sauerkraut.
you speak a foreign language,
hotdogs and coleslaw.
can you spare a dollar.
we're trying to catch a train.
shitty techno blasting from the oversized SUVs below.
everything is either really shiny or dilapidated here.
there's not much inbetween. except you and me.
i'm going to wash my feet and bed for now.
tomorrow we will play in airports.
then travel hundreds of miles
in opposite directions
make more sense of solitary minds.
you saw things i never would have seen.
i'm recalling past instances.
getting distracted.
there's too much i've overlooked.
i've had to take it in.
all at once.

+

everything in its right place.
how much can i do to hold on
where do i stop
so i don't lose myself.
how often should i step outside
of me and consider that it's really not so bad.
everything is fine, even when it isn't.
will my perspective change
when i'm older, supposedly wise
contemplating past stupidities
each pointless spat of melancholy
will they still standing in the shadows at the end of my bed.
the thoughts i chose to forget
but never really did.
and when my children bring up the world's in justices
will i say,
i thought that first
please bring me back around.

=

[that last poem isn't exactly finished. i wrote it anyway. i liked the idea. i'm not this melodramatic in real life, just in brain life. what is the brain life of that brain?] [?][?][?][?][?][?][?][?][?][?][?][?][?][?][?]tires that grip in the wet.

hello.
i'd like to make a transatlantic call please.
yes.
i'll hold.

if i were a vampire, would you let me suck your blood? i’d be a werewolf for you. if you’d like. or. you could be the werewolf, and i’ll be the vampire.
just another night terrorizing the world.
as i was saying, most everything i have ever written on this page has been for you to read primarily. i wrote it for myself, but for you to read. you were the only one i ever cared about. your interpretations. right now i’m listening to selected ambient works [two]. it’s still on track one, which is seconded to track three [rhubarb?] which i, for whatever reason, didn’t realize was on this album until about six days ago. i was working at the school, sweeping the floors, mulling over many things, including the fact that now is apparently centipede season. in the process of dealing with that, watching one of the eighteen hundred legged creatures follow me down the hallway, track two ended, revealing sounds of soothing melancholy. the centipede hovered slightly closer, then stopped. it occurred to me that the now seemingly friendly creature was gradually beginning to distort, as if everything holding it in shape, and separating it from the linoleum tiles gave way. both forms of matter gradually puddle and blended. my face began to tighten. i decided to stare at the florescent lights for a time, after placing the song on repeat. i’d like to tell you, for both our sakes, how long i stood there. it couldn’t have been too long. i guess it doesn’t even really matter whether it was five days to five minutes. the point is and was that i hadn’t really cried yet, and had never cried exactly in such a manner ever. i often times cry simply because i feel i need to, at certain points it’s even forced. but this instance was completely accidental and relevant. despite anything, however, i in no way lacked perspective in that instance. everything was fine. but i thought of my discomforts and my newfound taste of the word distance. and how people impact the days of others with delight. whether they try to or not. it’s all the same.
after hearing that track i couldn’t seem to stop listening to it. in fact, it was the only thing i listen to for about five days, as i drove around in the country at night or watched the sun rise behind the windmills and wrote about thing that never seemed as good as i’d have liked them to be. sometimes i feel what i write lacks so much insight. i feel like the kid writing words, and the old woman reading them, judging my own lack of experience.
the sun is up now. it is 6:17am where i am. sitting on my bed at my parent’s house. post watching salem’s lot, and feeling very frightened. i found myself looking over both shoulders on several occasions.
i am sorry that i asked you to not forget about me. it was a very silly question or request, i don’t recall. but having the same dream twice makes you begin to secretly fear the worst, no matter how hard you try not to. i don’t fear it too much or very often. it was a silly question. come to think of it, i really don’t think about it very heavily. to be honest, i’m beginning to recognize it as a simple manifestation of my utterly human side. needing reassurance that i’m okay. people like me. why do we require such things as reassurance. tell me i’m okay. tell me i’m pretty.
i haven’t been able to sleep, maybe because it’s been incredibly hot here. but i find myself watching late night paid adverts for face revitalizing whateverthefuck cream or powder or magic buffer scrubbing machines that all you have to do is just plug it in and allow the abrasive stone to slowly exfoliate the age away. it’s kind of sick how much i enjoy programs such as those. everyone looks so excited and they laugh a lot and make quirky little comments. “ just blend and blend and blend. blending is the secret.” that’s from edward scissorhands. i don’t know. i just think they are so weird and surreal. sometimes i begin to think. maybe my face is overly porous. maybe i need the twelve piece rejuvenation kit. instantly realizing the error of my thoughts. then i get very confused about why people care so much about aging well and having the clearest skin and the softest hair and the whitest teeth. what do we think we are, and why are the images we project so pertinent. i suppose there are a thousand answers to that question. but i don’t understand how or why the world works the way it does. and i often times feel that this will forever be my deep seeded “problem.” the questions that will forever haunt me, and make my life supposedly, or maybe even actually, harder. everything normal i can’t get over. which is sort of why i wrote what i did this morning. that and i was really tired. i get really depressed about having to be to work at seven-am. and the first thing i did do was spell the work “misery” on my mattress. my dad told me that for many years he worked hard instead of working smart, and it make all the difference when he realized this. and i need to do that. all i could think about was how much he disliked his last job, his “smart” job. i don’t understand. and i wonder if maybe i’m just being a kid about all this. maybe i’m just stupid and naïve and haven’t “figured it out yet.” the world will teach me. the world will show me what’s up. i just don’t think so.
my heart hurts. it’s lonely. that’s what ended up being lonely. my brain is fine. but my heart is what is hurting. that’s all i can really say. and if before you left i made it seem like everything would be shit and bad, that wasn’t what i meant to project. i can’t think of how to explain myself. i was upset when you left. i was sad, but i can’t imagine how else i could have acted, you being one of the most delightful aspects of my existence presently. it isn’t fun for me to watch people go. it’s different to be the one leaving. where i am is where i’ve always been. i don’t see a real future here. where you are worlds have opened up. it’s different in my eyes. i’m not saying my situation is more painful, but certainly different. it is definitely a task to create new things in such an old place. i’ve been trying. succeeding fairly well. i have to keep myself busy. i have to keep myself going. i have people to share with, but not in such a way as you. i miss you. and i love you. time is a weird thing. and i’m sure it will be gone before i have recognized all the good that has passed through my speck of existence. i’m trying. be careful. chin up. it’s another wednesday.

every post i write on this screen is for you. nobody else. you and i, and that's how it's always been. nothing's new under the sun. your eyes were the only eyes i ever cared about, as to whether or not you read what i had to say. and it hasn't ever mattered whether or not you do if fact read it. it's still been written, so, it matters to me regardless. i don't know if that makes any sense. it does to me, and despite the fact that me consistently writing in this to you was quasi-inadvertent, that doesn't make it any less true.
i can't stop pulling out my hair. i don't smell like puppies. i'm really pissed that you said that about me. as in "i'm really pissed that you said that about me." unless i do smell like puppies. but i'm pretty sure that i smell like salt and sweat and human. the girl sitting next to me in the "tech lab" at the library just opened this webpage that was really loud. she freaked out, and probably felt very awkward. i keep thinking about how badly i want beer to drink right now. but i can't have any beer, because it costs money, with i do not have, especially with my up and coming living situation. i am excited, and i don't believe it will be "the spot." not if i or jason or leo have anything to say about it. i don't know about opie, but i know that the three of us are not about having people come over at random. i'm going to live in a church, and there are two places to be baptized, and a cellar door and it's gonna be great.
this post really sucks to me. i'm gonna post it anyway, just because there are quite a few words. i will post again when i get home. the library is a weird place, in which i am kind of freaked out. and there are far too many things to look at right now. people are weird.

feeling discouraged. i don't, and have never liked some of the ways things have to work in this world. maybe mostly because they don't necessarily have to be this way, but getting out seems difficult and random. or something. i spelled out the word "miserable" with my right hand on the mattress this morning. i think having to live this way makes me much more dramatic too. gets in the way. fucking fuck..

when i was younger, circa mid high school, i had this t.shirt. it was grey. on the front was blue plastic print displaying the word “ROCK”. above the word, in the same plastic was a cluster of white baby chickens. i recall purchasing it at some going out of business sale somewhere. either way, when i bought it i thought it was probably one of the strangest shirts i had ever seen. it said rock, and there were baby animals. and i like the word rock by itself, referring to the earthly material. years later, upon seeing the shirt in an old photograph, i realized that the baby birds were a pictorial representation of the word “chicks” which is also a terminology for girls. so in fact, the shirt said “chicks rock.” i had no idea. and was very dumbfounded at this newfound insight. i thought at least they could have had a picture of a rock, or just the word chick. why did they have to mix it up like that. all those years, i was wearing a t.shirt i thought was funny because it was so strange. when i reality, i was displaying, on my tits mind you, a stupid little, very explanatory slogan about how my gender “rocks.” whatever that means. the worst part being, i don’t know if i should be embarrassed or proud of myself for being so daft. recognizing the abnormalities of my brain; i feel this way often.

"Life in our city becomes intolerable and we have to get out. It is very difficult. We escape to the countryside on the slopes outside the town. But none of the people who live in the country want to help us. We are bringing the plague. I look down at our city. Everything looks strange and perspective doesn't work any more. We climb the hills into the woods and we really don't know what is going to happen to us."

that pretty much sums up how i'm feeling. and the more stanley donwood i read, the more i love him. i am tired. didn't sleep well. very torn as to whether or not i like dreaming anymore. i suppose i still do, and always will, and should appreciate the fact that i can remember my dreams every morning/afternoon/night i wake up. there they are, right in the forefront of my brain. i fell asleep thinking of earlier dreams. i don't find any true relevance in them. i don't think they have much deeper of a meaning than Reestablishing the items you heard, saw or thought throughout the day prior. they are very interesting to me however, and i often do wonder where some of the shit in them comes from. for instance, the "settings" of dreams, where they take place, the scenery. and in my brain, the settings are always completely counterfeit and surreal, and i wonder where my head came up with these places. i'm usually in an incredibly dilapidated place, where everything is pathetically falling to pieces. lots of rubbish and rubble and decay.
i'm still in lima. i'd like to go home now, or get a cigarette. maybe i can steal one from the old man. i walked several blocks to get some today, and by the time i was almost there i thought interiorly, self, where did you put that five dollars you found in your back pocket this morning? i stood pondering for a second and decided to sit down. i began veering towards a cement step, to finger through my belongings for the crisp bill and rest my bleeding feet. they were bleeding because i had worn fancey shoes the night before. just as i was prepairing to sit, a very tall, very strange (in my eyes) looking man walked by, inching towards me ever so slightly. he said huhllo. in one very fluid movement of the mouth that made it look like he was dry-heaving in slow motion. i said hi. and decided to continue walking. i was afraid that if i sat he might talk to me or simply sit stand there staring at me, drooling. i felt bad, because it so strongly appeared that i went out of my way a great deal to walk around him, not past him. i'm not always sure why i feel bad about avoiding people. i've found myself beginning to care less. i don't know if this little story makes sense. and i don't know why i wrote this. but i'm still in lima, and i had two dreams last night. one involved being intentionally forgotten by the person i hold most dear. and the second involved holding them when they had blood all over their face. bipolar dreams. they both made me wake up crying. in the first my favorite scene involved me sitting under a huge tree in the dark, crying to myself. i felt my eyes fill with water and my face trembling with vast amounts of hurt. my favorite scene in the second one involved him saying to me, you're suppose to stay with me for a while. which may simply be because those are the only words i remember. except for the end of the dream, when some kid came into my grandma's house and asked i my cousins were there. i told him no.

well. tired enough as is. i was hoping to get a lot done tonight. but i’m afraid i’m too exhausted. i have a lot of ideas now however. i have for some time, but now they’re really taking shape in my brain. last night i had a tremendous dream, although frightening, and i anticipate turning that into a short film. tonight i served drinks to people with too much money. old money. and despite the fact that it was really weird and snobby, i turned out to be one hell of a bartender. i can open a bottle of wine is less than ten seconds. which i thought was pretty good. i got to say, “would you like the pinot noir or the pinot grisio.” and, if i do say so myself, i looked very sexy. in a lacey red and black, strapless dress. mighty attractive. i looked in the mirror and said, “you’re so beautiful.. today’s your big day.” not really, but i thought of that scene in salad fingers as i was getting ready. i had to shave my armpits, which made me very sad, but i did if for my dad’s snooty art function, and it didn’t seem like something to argue over. i’ve done that so many times, and it will grow back. i felt like margot tennenbaum, but a little more risqué. had dark eye makeup on, and the dress was very figure forming. nails red and fancy, pouring like the best. i felt like i was really lovely. but i guess it doesn’t really matter. i felt pretty, and the only people who saw me were old ogling men.

so i have two films in my mind at the moment. i don’t think i would call them “music videos,” but there’s no dialogue, and they are both backed by specific music. one has what i would call, a “floating quality” to it. i’m excited about both. i suppose it’s best that i would do them practically alone. in fact, i can’t really think of any other way in which to do them. but i am yearning very much as of late, for the sharing aspects of life. i like to share, and i can’t really do that right now, or for a time. which is really what makes me miss. not the week i’ve spent primarily alone, but the days upon days i have ahead of me to spend alone. not sharing like i’d wish to. that’s what’s eating me up. i won’t say it’s a bad thing. i think it’s good in the long run, but that doesn’t make now any more comfortable, and it doesn’t make me long any less. i never thought it would be so hard to not be capable of calling or seeing someone whenever i wanted, to tell them some silly little nonsense, a weird thought, or a strange thing that happened. and i want to very badly. i’m getting teary. i have however, been doing a splendid job of not letting upsets overwhelm me. there are approximately fifteen second spans in which i begin to cry, and then i pull myself together, gain perspective, realizing that thinking in such ways is fruitless. and even if i am making correct speculations, there isn’t anything i can do about future outcomes involving decision i don’t have the right to make. you can’t force someone love you. that is you can try all you like, but love is forever changing, and i can’t blame it for that. i wouldn’t have it any other way. it’s what makes life greater. i can handle that. i can accept it for what it is. this doesn’t ease my desire to share however. one of my most favorite things.
but these films will be great, to me at least. i am excited about them, their challenges, their lessons. i feel that if i didn’t want to share so much, i’d spend more time on myself, and my ideas and creations. i suppose there is a balance, which i have not acquired as of yet. that should be a goal, creating the balance of my love for art and other person. as much as i like to think that if i tried hard enough, i could simply be absorbed by my creative desires, i don’t think i really want that. not now at least. i love loving far too much. both are so rewarding to me. both fulfill me, but there needs to be equilibrium.
oh. did i mention i’m in a hotel in lima. i am. never felt so at home. hotels are great places for contemplation. they are very suitable for me. i enjoy them immensely. i’m sitting here, typing, topless. i believe i’ll move to Europe. it also seems suitable for me.
tonight i feel like my body is great. i feel beautiful, even without the dress and the makeup. i’m naked like i said. i only wish i had said person to share it with.

white wooden crosses at the highway side
hearing poor man's other bands
over the radiowaves in rusted cars
we sang along anyway
making cigarette burns in the backseats
i felt a little more rough around the edges
the shortest songs remain sweetest
the drive being very long
pages fly past in violent gusts
miles go by, a hundred feet a second

+

morning doves in mid june
children sit in backyards
absorbing soft cool green grass
forever watching airplane smoke trails
alone and being nine years old

+

after eighteen hundred garage sale signs
and thirty six cigarettes all over this city
fields forever move through flat land
all the centipedes and transparent arachnids
one more cigarette. swamp land filled
with cynicism, shaved legs and let downs
having found true reasoning
and relevance behind hospitals
the sun seems brightest. but still lacking.
having hope, but no immediate future
no new year's resolution. it's june.
next month is july. and onto august.
i've received a gift, which i am ungrateful for.
locked lips
with pleasant memories. tastes fading in my mouth.
smelling smoke. the residues of reconciliation
the air is never crisp or fresh.
never revitalizing, and my throat hurts.
i've planned my own death so many times
with no real intentions,
those were always given at random.
very earnest. truth never to a fault,
only fears of misinterpretation
ever bothered us. ever stopped me.
there's no use now. only honesty remains
a constant in my life. all i have to give.
my only real hope.
wishing this were fine. that solitude is fine.
the capacity to live alone. thoughts to self.
it's not. it is. there's nothing i can do.

+

heaven help us
hands never seemed so empty
stomaches never seemed so full
of ice
heads filled with heavy thoughts
filled up to the feet
back again, and everything is fine
in larger pictures
of cascading colours and numbers
i gave up time and talk
the days are overflowing with bad ideas
and beer bottles
nights no different
unfolding
waiting for the weeks to pass
when calendars are useless
i can only slightly think in present terms
my thoughts are somewhere else


=

raisin bran gets very soggy once you stop paying mind to it.
let's let this one slide. just this once. and never speak of it again.

*****

the 1,066th wednesday [approximately]. i don't do math. i don't even know if that sounds right. but on this day, kelly and i watched the windmills for a while. i hadn't realized how great they are until today. very surreal, like so much of my life right now. i feel very ugly today. just disgusting. i also feel ill. and tired. but not depressed. i will say however, that i am in a state of sadness, which is conveniently making itself very "manageable" for me. let me think of how to put this; i am not happy, but i am not unhappy, and not depressed, but i am sad. it's a strange way of being for me right now. i don't know what to do. well i do, sort of, and have actually been out and about consistently, but my sense of time is utterly off, and my means of living (namely my thought processes. very weird.) is extremely unusual at the present time. i've been meaning to write, or at least really write for days now, but i haven't been able to muster it. too many thoughts, i guess. i don't know what i've done for the past few days. it's all a wreck inside my head. let's retrace it, shall we. i got home from new york at five in the morning on monday. after driving for nearly twelve hours straight. i had unfortunately, and unwisely, taken too many "no Doz" and red bulls and espresso drinks. the last two hours of the trip were tremendously painful. i cried a lot. which i suppose was good, because being in that emotional state made it easier to forget just how exhausted i was. i would have pulled over to sleep, actually i did in fact do that, but was so hopped up on caffeine, i couldn't sleep. that's when the crying started. at one point, when i could really tell i was beginning to lose it, i started to wonder whether or not i was really dead. for instance, maybe i had fallen asleep at the wheel, crashing and dying so instantly, that my conscious self had not recognized my own death. and i would forever be driving, hopped up on no Doz, completely and utterly exhausted, but i couldn't ever sleep. like some horrible purgatory. i ended up smelling old t.shirts belonging to other people in order to make myself cry, so i could make it home. i got home to my parent's house and took a bath. motor skills and manuverability failing, i collapsed in bed, and lie there for about twenty minutes, very worried that i might not be capable of sleep. but i fell asleep and proceeded to have the most fucked up dreams i have ever had. they involved oral sex with people lacking genitalia, lots and lots of water, mountains and some dams, as in water blocking dams. i woke up after about an hour of that, my heart racing. i called my mom. i called the emergency room. then i called the poison hotline. some very computerized sounding lady answered the phone, and i said something along the lines of, "took too much no Doz and energy drinks, my heart is rapid, i feel like i'm dying." she asked me an assortment of questions and then put me on hold. the music that played while i waited was incredibly weird and made me feel even crazier. she clicked back on the line and told me i should be fine, especially if i were a "pretty healthy" younge person. we hung up. i took a bath, and then went downstairs to make some tea. very nauseas, and seeing no other solution, i decided to make myself vomit. it wasn't hard. but the unwanted matter did a fine job of burning the back of my throat, giving me one more thing to be miserable about for the next few days. while washing my mouth and face, and simultaneously freaking out because the back of my throat was slowly being eaten away by acid, i noticed that there was barf on his shirt, so i had to clean it, and make sure nothing stained. it didn't, but it was certainly one more thing to deal with and be upset about. i took another bath, and went to sleep. once again, dreaming very strangely. woke up. moved stuff out of my apartment in town. came home to eat with my parents, who decided then would the an excellent time to discuss my failures as a human being. that wasn't really what we were talking about, but practically. they wanted to inform me that i don't appear to have any plan, and i had better get one. we talked about my pipedreams, well, i talked about my dreams and ideas, they called them wishes. finally i couldn't take it anymore, so i went upstairs in tears, and slept for a few hours. i woke up again, went to grounds for a while, no one was there. i sat alone. hung out with mark peterson for a time, went home and read my letter from eoin, which made my day so much better.

that's where it gets all blurry. i'm sure i could remember, but i don't really care to right now. i haven't done much. but that first day was a real trip. i need to get a new job. i'd like to get a place. but who knows. i don't. everything beyond needing a job seems very up in the air. and everything beyond this exact minute in my life seems up in the air, as well. i don't know what's happening really. i need a job first. i have tons of other things to do, i'm just confused and bewildered. nothing is laid out. i should probably do that, too, lay things out. maybe not. and now my foot's asleep. apparently spell check doesn't work. i'm sure i got my points across, good spelling or not. chin up.