Just letting ya'll know that I've officially moved over to my new journal, and that you should friend it, since I will not be posting in here any more.
Stars burn out and become neutronic, the lessons pass by in hazy overtures, and a sheer act of will manifests as a subtle shrug and small noise made to indicate indifference. Really, this night could care less, as exhaustion precedes depression which precedes exhaustion and heartache and a distinct lack of sleep. Apneatic, insomniatic: just words that mean little nine hours later. Slowly waking to the fact that Yes, Virginia, you're going to die, and all your ducks and doillies better be in a row or there'll be hell to pay. All major credit cards accepted. Act now to receive a special gift.
Distant noises and vibrations distort the meaning, but it still seems clear. To me. To them. To whoever. Ignoring it doesn't make it not so, or even faded. Mouth shut, eyes open, and it's not or not ever. Hey, let's play Charades! Three syllables, first one, sounds like "total lack of motivation." The second syllable seems vague and untrustworthy, and the Third syllable startles the panel of judges into stunned silence and disbelief, but we'll be right back after these messages. "Are you tired? Nervous? Depressed? Irritable? Keep it up." And now . . .
It's! another teenaged lullaby brought to you by the letters "O" and "K" and not much else. This is getting old, it is. But somehow things recur and recommit themselves to a five year deal laden with incentives and a 1.8 million dollar signing bonus. Popular cultural touchstones aside, is this as good as it's going to get? Jumping from moment to moment and word to word like Q-Bert, forever attempting to prolong the onset of the inevitable decline and dispatchment? I would hope not. Divesting a portfolio or mortgaging a house seems much less interesting and worth writing about than divesting a personality and mortgaging a future. Alcohol improves dexterity, I've heard, and increases the chances of accidental enlightenment a hundred fold. Whether it's your own or others, well, I leave that in the hands of the audience at home.
Obtuseness breeds discontent, yes, but direct statements lead to dead-end jobs and simple mathematics. Sorry, sir, I'll correct that right away. "No love" reads the last note, and the final chord fades away, to be replaced by the next up and coming failure to capitalize. Good night, and good luck.
Demonstrative of my waning faculties, the posting here has slowed to a veritable chinese water torture of words. Not that I'm ever the loquacious of people (lately at least), but even at my most taciturn I've managed to churn something out for my reading public. (All 12 of you. Hi Mom!) There's been a downswing in the creative department, perhaps, more than likely due to the parceling of my brain activity to other areas, such as finals, arguments, and diabolical plans for world domination puppies. Whatever. I am here now, throwing caution to the wind in the vainglorious attempt to establish connection with all you charming people.
So tell me: do you find this satisfying? Is there anything I can do to make your visits to my random musings more comfortable and enjoyable? A mint, perhaps? Maybe a stiff drink? Should I write more/less/better/worse? This is the open forum for abuse and praise; throw it at me in equal or less measure, and I shall respond accordingly while logging your IP address and sending a wetworks team to dispatch you.
So, most recent movies have been crap. Other than The Fountain, I haven't seen anything good in two months. (I work in a Regal theater, for those who don't know, so I see a good chunk of every movie we get, if not the whole thing eventually.) Then I see something from 300 (based on the Frank Miller graphic novel), which is being released in March of next year. If you've heard anything about it or seen anything from it, you more than likely agree with me that this movie looks amazing.
music: Brand New - The Devil and God are Raging Inside Me
Sundays in the evening, the lights go on earlier than the rest of the week. 4:00 pm, versus 5:30/6:00 every other night. I regret this, as I love the look of the sky when the light has gone down, but there's no man-made light pollution to obscure it. The constellations become blurry and ill-defined, changing past and history and stretching our definitions of such out and conforming them to what we say they should be. The stars are in the past and present at the same time, and constantly defeat my theories and self-induced moments of clarity. I've been misplacing things for weeks. Keys, cups, books, all gone, and me without any clue to where I'd put them. And now I've moved onto misplacing people.
Jack disappeared a week ago. I don't know where he went, and I don't know when he's coming back. But now, I'm truly alone. My father left, Sarah left, and now Jack. "Empty space across the room" seems to be making a play for "defining characteristic of life" in my brain. The part that's not currently occupied with being destroyed by alcohol, anyway.
The sound of traffic drifts up, and it sounds like "Last call, this is last call." Where have I heard that before? It sounds familiar, sitting on the tip of my mind like an unspoken consonant. The car screeches and honks become a litany of curses and I wake up cold on the roof of my building, and somehow my bottle is empty and... just perfect. Now my clothes have abandoned me too.
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Follow with me on this: what if heaven and hell are real? As in actual places, dimensions that we can go to? And not just when we die. The universe is big and weird, quantum physics have brought that to my attention, and there are more things in heaven and earth then are dreamt of in your philosophies.
Be that as it may, what the FUCK are you talking about?
Ok, imagine that our universe is this. And heaven is here, and hell is here. Where we are, earth, this universe, this dimension, however you want to name it, is smack dab in the middle between them. And what I'm saying is that when we die, our souls/consciousness/whatever, "cross the border," so to speak. Ok?
Yeah, I'm following you so far.
Now, this is the big logic leap. Ready?
Yes, just fucking say it, Jack.
I crossed over without dying.
..... I was right, you ARE insane.
Am I? Then where did I go?
Jack, you took a header off a building! You're lucky you're not dead! If you hadn't landed in that pile of trash, you'd have broken every bone in your body!
But I didn't jump off a building! I just didn't re-enter our world the right way. I'm still getting used to it. I've been gone for months, Matt.
You've been gone for WEEKS, Jack, and you've been in the hospital for 2 weeks since we found you.
Whatever, time must flow differently there. Actually, that makes sense. Different universe, slightly different physical laws and time flow. Shit, I need to document this stuff.
I can't deal with this right now. I'm glad you're back, but this is too much.
Matt, accept this. The world is a lot bigger than you think, and the sooner you realize that, the easier it'll be to let go of what you can't control.
Well, right now, I can't control a whole hell of a lot, but I can control whether I'm hearing this. I'll see you later.
Seriously, what the fuck is going on? Did everything just decide to go to shit at the same time? My birthday is in 2 days, I should be in a somewhat better mood.
I'm not sure if waking up for the next few days is a good idea now . . .
And the world moves slower, things becoming more vague and diffused. The ghosts of summer line the roadside as skeletons, and the sky looms closer and closer. Claustrophobia is the new Black. As the wind becomes harsher and the air more thin, my health takes a general downturn. My blood is aging faster as the days grow ever shorter and it begins to pour out from me like a torrent, flowing from my face like the words I think of and never record. Are these words from the future, or an echo from 2 years ago? Autumn is becoming unglued, and somehow this is disinteresting.
Indifference reigns, as my throat slowly closes and the light never came on today. Water water everywhere, and I'm too fucked up to drink, head swimming through the haze and eyes unfocused on First and Fifteen with the ball on the Forty and 3:27 left in the first half. Can you dig it? Can you blame me? Fucked or fucking, its all the same, in the end. Lie down in the arms of sleep and wait for the inevitable downturn, this season is killing us. Excerpted and exacerbated, masturbatory and unwilling to compromise, we all reveal ourselves in our own ways. We hide in the songs and simulations of history we present as fact and falsifications. Stop, edit, rewrite. This sentence is purposefully unvague. Or is irony out of fashion this year?
Simply put, the precipipatory perfusion permeating the atmosphere attacked the aeration of oxygen and nitrogen to my respiratory region. Decode this, if you'd like, but I have mastered the cryptography of creativity and all your words will fail, if you so choose. I choose not. Whatever that means. Edit, rewrite, are these words from the future? This is last call. Other repetitive phrases and Palahniuk plagiarisms. I am not making sense on purpose, or am I? That's not irony, it's contradiction and coincidence, and no matter many times I say these things, they make no impact. In one ear and a slap on my right cheek. One year later, "Charlie" is dead, Ralph is gone, and John Henry is made of metal, but we won't know that for sure for 25 sets of 7, will we? Or is that reference too obscure for anyone else? Stop, edit, rewind. Autumn is becoming unglued, and somehow I am indifferent.
Dead at 21, alive at 26, singing to all the people who could honestly care less. Will, in the long run, this make any difference? Propogating failed stereotypes and perpetuating the myths of Sisyphus? I've been pushing uphill long enough, the inevitable must occur sooner or later. Meltdown at 27, news at 7. Tune in after the Simpsons.
For my Literature and Film class, our final paper had to be a research piece comparing either A) 2 different adaptations of a work, or B) a book to film adaptation. Seeing as I'm an iconoclast and possibly the coolest person ever (end hyperbole and self-gratifying b.s. now!), I choose to do V for Vendetta.
Anyways, I just posted the paper in its entirety on my blog, and wanted to know what you guys thought of it. I didn't go as in-depth as I could have due to space and time constraints, but I think it's a good'n. Let me know whether ya'll agree, or whether I'm full of crap.
Intrigued or unamazed? Things were so much different back in those days. And now this smile has a bitter curve, and these eyes are unenchanted, and all they see is a faded image of what we used to be. How can we relate when we don't know a thing about each other anymore?
On an unrelated note, see The Fountain. end communication.
"I'm taking those speed pills of yours, and I'm wearing the vibrating heat beads, and by "Riding your Snake", not only have I lost 65 pounds in four days, but guess what? I found out I'm the Devil! And I will wash over the Earth, and the seas will run red with all the blood of all its sinners! I am reborn! And I've got YOU to thank, Jimmy Tango!"
The empty seat says so much without speaking. Space defining consciousness leading to detrimental apologies and self-fulfilling prophesies and somehow this will all make sense in the end. The 4 hour drive flies by like a hummingbird on pure rock crystal meth (RIDE THE SNAKE!) and the highway becomes mainlined into veins full of pure seething spite and apathetic excuses for late night conversations. Driveways and bus stops, dance clubs and dive bars, half-step tuned instruments and two step beats: these are the definitions of another nervous break-up. Down. Out. Finetuned speeches that become side-tracked and somewhere someone is listening to Frank Black caterwaul and thinking, "I could do this." 4 chords and a missing tooth, like U2 with a bad heroin habit, and all the pretty people throw themselves prostrate. All of this so someone can come along soon with better ambitions and a better sense of style and a better definition of "self-actualization." And then a Sudden Realization: intention matters, but not as much as perception.
Distracted by the shining lights and fogged up windows of 1:18 AM, the car drives off the road and settles in the shoulder blade of a giant. Rough sex and bad sects and expired meds and addled heads and somehow this means even less than it did before. Goodnight, sweet prince, may a flight of angels sing thee to thy rest, but first we'll need your signature here and here and initial here and replicate your happiest moment . . . wait for it . . . NOW. Not good enough for government work, but close enough for horseshoes and handgrenades and nuclear war. Synthesized moments claim prescedence, so sorry so sorry so long so long. This is last call, broken headlights establish dominance, and we swerve into a mestastasized fever dream of narcolepsy, seductions, and fake narcotic addictions. This is unfinished, much like a symphony. Conduct it through the end and let the last note hang.
Sing a song of simple solitude and stubborn lies, something short and sweet and bordering on pure compromise. A kind of replication that you'll never find disguised in the failure of your own despicable advice. I think I'm not alone in wanting more than I can have, or is this feeling of despair a symptom of my regret at letting life go by without a passing glance or sigh at all the people that have left me or that I've left behind?
A sudden striking lack of anything to say again has gripped me tight and swung me round back to where we begin, writing this down in pages better used for means and ends. You can't imagine what it feels like to be back here again inside a compromised integrity to my own rules of self-analysis, regret, and constant self-abuse. We can try again and try again to stay amused, but we'll only lose. We can only lose.
Barefoot and on the ground and waiting, I'll make the same mistake again. Sing a song of six-pence, baby. I think I know where to begin: back to where we both got started, back to when you still called me "friend." The weather's burned out and departed, and, yeah, we both know where this ends.
Stubborn still and slowly waking, this night could last for half a year. Your naked back is smooth and shaking, but we both knew we'd end up here. Destroyed again like our possessions, possessed and poised to never hear the words from out of lips last parted and never heard again for fear it's all we know, to let things go.
The piano bends like ancient leather and sinks below just like our bones, broken and destroyed by weather centuries after we're gone. I am stolen and submerged by all the fractured fields and sun, and still you linger, small and smiply, until the time we're all alone.
So learn the lessons from the older, sing the praise to those still here, and kill the memories of summers long forgotten through the years. I'll remain a shadow whispered in the halls of time you fear; a word, a gesture, never written, but we both know and we still hear. And it's all we know: we all let go.
I've been floundering, because I had two disparate stories and no connecting factor, and it just hit me on how to make the two work. I am so happy/relieved/giddy/ready to finish what's been percolating in my head for 2 months.
I've written more than that, but this is all I feel comfortable posting thus far. It's coming along, but I'm "behind schedule," so to speak, and the connections between the two parts of the story I have in my head haven't been made apparent to me yet. I'm hoping it happens soon, or else I'll have two halves of a novel and no idea on how to complete either.
From way up here, you all seem so small, like tickertapes and snowflakes as they fall. And it's colder than the coldest stone flying through the air. Houston, can you hear me? Are you even there?
The seasons pass like cellophane and parades. In simple terms, I'm seeing what they mean by "slow decay." This glass that separates the spheres seems thinner by the hour. The instruments glow blue to red to blue to red to gone beyond my power to recover and discover why I'm floating through this. Calls go out in distress, "Get me out of this mess, I want to go back home." But the lines are busy. The view is dizzying. The reply is missing, "I'm still missing you."
The capsule knows the course to go, so I sit still. From way up here, you all look so unreal. And the windows turn from black to red, I know I shouldn't look ahead, but I do. And the fire that's outside my craft can only help but bring me back to you. To you. To you. . .
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