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(no subject) [Dec. 25th, 2009|03:12 am]
So it's three ten in the morning on chirstmas day and I find myself much the same as I've found myself for the past several weeks, completely unable to even attempt sleep. And the past couple of days I've been afraid to leave my house before noon, even when awake long before then. And my writing has been happening in such unbelievably odd spurts that I don't know how to deal with it. And I find myself thinking a lot about a blond-haired girl that recently moved and attributing things to her that I have no right doing whatsoever. I think I may need to go on a walk in a little bit.

Why am I writing here? I don't know if I thought this was going to help.
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(no subject) [Apr. 1st, 2009|04:09 am]
I think I'm having some kind of dumb existential crisis. Boo.

I dunno, sometimes I just don't want to exist. Whatever.

Sleep is harder to come by than usual.

Maybe I need to start writing more again.

Or maybe I should try to get into a relationship with a girl again.

It's been a while.

Not like it would help.

This is dumb.
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(no subject) [Feb. 23rd, 2009|06:10 am]
I was walking up a sand drive way, and it turned into mattresses, and the mattresses were falling and I was with Nate, then we stacked the falling mattresses.
This is it.
This is my dumb head.
These dreams terrify me.
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(no subject) [Feb. 6th, 2009|04:57 am]
It is four fifty seven in the morning, I am listening to music, and writing a paper. Brennan, I found out why I don't believe in objectivism, it's because I have yet to come to the belief that humans all want the same thing. Or rather, if they do want the same thing, it's manifested in ways so completely incompatible it seems illfitting to call them the same, though they may indeed be inseparable.
It is -20c outside, it is dark, I have at least twenty-four books on my desk, a deck of pinochle cards, and a harmonica.
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(no subject) [Jan. 25th, 2009|01:31 am]
She dances to 80s music.
She wears spandex.
She doesn't seem to care what others think.
She thinks I'm cool?
She is weird.
She is fun.
She would like an adventure.
And I like her.
She has a boyfriend.
I am lame.
I don't like this.
-Random note found on the side of Broad Street.
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(no subject) [Jan. 24th, 2009|10:28 am]
I am sitting in a briefing room of a resort with Brennan. There is a friendly woman explaining the use of a couple of instruments to us. She is telling us how to operate a couple of flying machines, a couple of machines we'll attach to our backs. She is gorgeous, she is the Madonna, she is the fine arches of cheeks and quiet eyes. She finishes telling us how the machines are used, and Brennan and I leave the small resort in the mountains to find myself with a man in army fatigues near a water filled crater with all the colors between brown and black. There is the remains of a large ship at one end of the crater, and the man in fatigues is telling me how it happened, but I can't quite here him. I'm flying, it feels fantastic, and that is mostly what I focus on. We land near the ship and he sighs. I look into the water and a monstrous growth rises from it. It doesn't do anything, and the man I and leave. I am back in the resort, alone with the woman, and I want to touch her, and she wants to touch me, but we don't. We sit there in soft light talking and making passes at each other that seem to be shot down by other people. There is a knock at the door and I open it to find Adam standing there, telling me it's time to go to work. We walk outside of resort to find ourselves, Adam, Ryan, and I, at my parents soon to be old shop. We walk towards a trailer and I see a streak of blood across one of their sides. I disregard it for whatever reason. When we open the trailer, it is dark, so I take out a flashlight. We walk down it a little to find half a human body, but it is alive. It seems to be getting some sort of sexual gratification by rubbing its bloody stump of a body on the metal grating. He get's angry, he yells at us that he would like a little privacy. I'm shocked, I leave the trailer only a beat after Ryan and Adam. We, still Ryan, Adam, and I, but also with Aaron, Callie, a girl I met last night named Bridget, and someone else I can't place are in Ryan's house, in his dining room. The walls are filled with writing, and we are all scarred of the new craze in which killing yourself slowly and painfully results in tremendous sexual pleasure. There are people surrounding the house, grinding down their bodies, and we are inside and scared. Ryan goes upstairs and goes to sleep. I go upstairs to where his room should be only to find a police officer shooting someone who's already been grinding themselves down to nothing. He then turns the gun on himself. I hear a yell from the other direction and someone is complaining about what Ryan's done. I walk to where they are to find him doing nothing and that the person was just afraid that Ryan was going to do something, we all laugh. The gorgeous woman from the resort shows up and tells me she wants to get married. I wake up.

What the hell dreams?
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(no subject) [Jan. 24th, 2009|02:20 am]
She, slanking slowly south
will take my palm
rub off the rougher edges
take off the broken skin
in the softness of
the space between
her neck and chin.
And she, will glow
will grow
will sow
will low
will go
will tow
will know.
Yes- -that is it.
She, will know.
And I will know it is love
because I will feel it
in the space
underneath my arm.
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(no subject) [Jan. 20th, 2009|10:39 am]
Nothing left to do but pack this up. Nothing left to do but pack this up.

Thank you winter break, you reminded me and I had forgotten for a while, but I remember again. Adam said something this break that I must remember. "I'm not myself anymore, I am us. I have your stories and Ryan's and Brian's and you all have mine, and we own each other." Who ever wanted to be just one person?

Nothing left to do but pack this up.
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(no subject) [Jan. 1st, 2009|12:08 pm]
List of things to do in the New Year that are not necessarily resolutions but could seem as such to those who wish to categorize them as such:
Write a book.
Write a book of poetry.
Write a book of short stories.
Bike a lot.
Bike more.
Yell more.
Climb trees.
Fall out of trees.
Climb trees again.
Read books.
Watch movies.
Make a movie.
Take pictures.
Learn photo history.
Learn guitar.
Play guitar.
Play a show.
Yell more.
Carve something out of wood.
Fall in love.
Fall out of love.
Remember everything.
Talk with old friends.
Talk with new friends.
Talk with people I don't know.
Be open.
Yell more.
Believe in nothing.
Believe in anything.
Don't argue with Brennan at all.
Laugh a lot.
Tell jokes.
Wake up like a gunshot in the midst of chaos and remember that I am alive god damn it and dying is awesome because it makes things worth something and mortality is the best thing in the world because it is and I never wanted to live forever anyway.
Yell more.

Guys, nothing has changed. This is what I have decided.
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(no subject) [Dec. 31st, 2008|01:33 pm]
I hate that stupid ball. It's fucking stupid. It's big and it's shiny and it descends a pole. We'd be better off with a stripper up there.

The year is gone. This was the year I was twenty and twenty one. Life is getting strange. The string of events my life takes seems ever expanding, mirrors parallel and I wonder, if it's to wonder, when do those light beams actually end. Never, I suppose. Sometimes I wonder if a light source were to be introduced into a room of all mirrors if it would ever get dark in there. As if the light could bounce forever, it would sustain itself as a moving force, the only moving force. This is, of course, nonsense.

2008 was a year. Things happened. I was happy. I was sad. I was confused. I was learned. I was impressed. I was angered. I was abandoned. I was. I think I'll take that and run with it. I hate to press the issue, but you're going to die one day. It's okay. In fact, it's wonderful. It's god damn beautiful and you know it and you can't wait to find out what happens, you just hope it doesn't hurt and it doesn't happen until you're good and old and can't jump off of rocks or drink till you see three images for every one in your field of view without waking up with a headache and throwing up blood.

Sometimes I think there's nothing I can forget. Not one thing. Every night is a story to be told or remembered. These anecdotes are why I breath. I've never wanted anything other than a moment of your time and to tell you a story. The stories are different, and I don't want you to expect anything much of them. I think that would be folly. They are just stories. Sometimes I think that I have to know what I mean, but then if I knew what I mean and always said what I meant then I don't think I would ever be able to say anything new.

Two days ago Aaron and I decided to follow the street signs for the Connecticut Wine Tour. We wound up at a Winery in Brookfield or Newtown. I don't forget, I just never knew. An older lady worked there, came out of a small building to the side of the one filled with wine bottles. She was knowledgeable, but seemed to be a bit reserved. Me in my blue and black flannel and Aaron in his big boarding jacket hardly seemed the type to her, you could hear it in her voice, see it in the calmness of her folded hands. We didn't stay long. Neither of us would like to spend fifteen dollars on a bottle of wine.

I took a left out of the parking lot. I knew what was to the right and that bored me. We wound up in a Culdesac with a small path running up over a ridge. There were two signs posted, one informing people that use of motorized vehicles was not allowed and the other saying that it was a place for bow hunting only.

The sun was setting and it wasn't too windy. The sky was blue. No, the sky wasn't just blue. It was also red. It was orange. It was yellow. It was clear and strong and it silhouetted those old style windmills, the small ones built on shaky frames of wood that seem to have offered a use at some time, but that time is gone and you'd have to read a book written by someone older than you to figure it out. That place, there was a bench and a tree and tall grass and deer pellets everywhere. You could see over houses, you could feel the slight damp of the mud under your shoes, and you could run if you wanted to. I wanted to. I didn't. The sun sank slowly, it has that tendency in the winter. I would have stayed there till the light left the sky, but Adam wanted us to pick him up.

Ryan Greg and I went Duck Pin Bowling a couple of weeks ago. It was fantastic. I want to do that every day of my life. I could enjoy that. I could get into it. I could be happy with that.

I hung out with Marie Peak for the first time in a very long time the other day. I told her a lot of things I don't talk to anybody about. About the fact that I think about all my lovers, no matter what the length or expectations of the relationship, every day. I miss people, I'm nostalgic about everything, I never want to forget anything. Andrew said that it's thought that we forget as a process of continuity. If we remembered everything we'd be bogged down. Damn it, bog me down. I want to be the log soaked so thoroughly with water that in the winter it expands and busts open.

Somewhere in this was supposed to be something about the year passing. Something, perhaps, about transformation. But to everything there is a season, to every season there are phases, and to each phase a transition. So the finger the hand the arm the torso the body you? When does something start being more than just a part of you. Are we more or less then our sums? All I have are questions. My answers are questions, my questions are questions, and my solution is none different.
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