day one

i've arrived in costa rica in an after-haze of advil pm and not-so-delicious (cruising altitude) blueberry(?) pancakes.

the air is clean, i can actually smell the difference.


what you see here are the remnants of a short stop to the market (arizona iced tea!) and the unpackaging of a small gift my dad passed along for his mother. My grandmother, blurry and distractable in the background, sells herself short in this photo; curiously tired, achey and stubborn, she manages to laugh at almost everything and anything i say.

i forgot to mention... every single glass ive picked up so far (count three) has had at least one thin, pink/red crescent shaped stain on it. if it had not been for her nostalgically badly-drawn eyeliner, i would have not noticed the shade of her lips.

theres something comforting in the idea of lipstick on a glass.

new feeling.

ill be walking quietly now.

and keep my fingernails trimmed,
so that i can love you better.

also...

i dont care how "good of a place" it comes from. because when you let your frustrations and anxieties roam freely around me, it makes me feel like its my fault. so keep the 'Good Samaritan' fingers pointed at someone else. thank you.

no title

You know, sometimes I just don’t really understand why my ‘misunderstandings’ are so uncalled for. Because, as I can recall, I called to help you avoid a really fucking awkward situation… and I don’t appreciate being told that it means I don’t want to hang out. Also, I managed to forget the band-aid can behind the fucking table I was sitting at, so if you want it still you can go yourself and pick it up from there, because at this point I don’t really care about it anymore.

remember...

This is what it feels like to take the hands off a clock. This is familiarity changing faces. In the most vivid sense of words and schemes… when my brain stops thinking about you, my body reminds me.

oo revisited.

Shadows sewn together with a loom
Balanced heavy shade of blue
Fingers traced the forests womb
Let me lay here, love is on the move.


And the twilight sang me to sleep.

the "oo" sound.

only love is on the roof.
guided by a lazy spoon.
blew in feathers on a wound.
sky is mine, and she's the moon.

sitting here

and thinking of how your mouth feels.

now.

an unfolding of the pages
deep as a ravens wing
you dyed your hair black
to match your heartstrings


curiously... i keep hearing a downpour of rain hitting the rafts above the living room ceiling, but when i turn to look out the window, i see nothing but gray skies and dry asphalt.
what happens when you project too much?
anticipate.
does it actually come true, or do you become victim to your own fears...
locking yourself in a room with one door wide open.

33°47'20" North, 118°4'47" West

We. Lived in(side) a safe neighborhood.
Hidden in(side) a brick wall, the housing tract removed itself from the outside world. Walls.

Each individual brick that was laid there one by one when the wall was being built agreed…
we are selective. and strong.
People who did not live there and drove by there knew they did not belong there. The bricks told them so.

The brick-wall and tract was built by a man named Mr. Ross W. Cortese. The streets were 40 feet wide to be exact.
The wider the streets, the richer the neighborhood.
Oh Beverly.
Oh Ross.

In the beginning, the housing tract accommodated mostly affluent middle-class working families. These families owned children. A dog. Sometimes a cat. And during the winter, in the late afternoon, hidden in(side) and behind the fences, the dogs would grow anxious with one another as they watched the air make the poisonous grey fluid climb down the thermometers that belonged to the houses. The children would go inside, the dogs would stay outside.
Knowing that the night and cold was approaching, they would call out to one another to satisfy their desperation.
Incessant barking fogged the twilight.

This was the sound of the neighborhood clearing its throat before turning out the lights and going to bed.
Crashing vowels that would echo in the cold, orange air.


Do you remember this sound?

what it feels like.

whiskey and smoke.
hard liquor knock-out.
a fumbling of words... thought-process gone.
hands laid out, fingers full of rings
of kings.

woke up on the floor.

I am so stoned.

SO. stoned.

Sunyata

What is this frozen ground below me? There are remnants of little green things here and there, sprouting up between cracks in the ice. Remnants. Not buds. So I should be careful to not say ‘sprouting’ because that implies newness. There is no rebirth here. This is death. This is now.
Over there in the courtyard there is a fire burning, sitting alone inside a ring of wood. But from out here I cant feel the heat. There is no heat here. This is bitter. This is now.
I could walk for miles on this blanket of ice. It’s hard to distinguish the horizon because the clouds and the snow converge seamlessly. A white blindness. I could walk for miles and miles, unaware if I’m on the ground, or in the sky. I could walk on clouds in this blindness if I wanted to.
And if I died out here alone in the whiteness, in the ice… no one would know. I would freeze into nothingness. I wouldn’t be. There is nothing here. This is empty. This is now.

what has been rearranged

No words for today.
I don’t know if it’s a good or bad thing.
But tomorrow will be better.

this morning

Sometimes I wish you would slap me.
Scream at me.
Tell me I’m good for nothing.

You could kick me down.
Have me crying.
Tell me I’m just another waste of time.

To feel your hands on my face again
See your fears.
Tell me that I belong to you, and you, me.

lyrics for me.

Jealousy is the hand that holds your strings
Four limbs going up and down in motions
That you just cant shake.
Memory serves, you don’t pay the bill
And then forgetting once or twice
You never will.

Sometimes death is a fortune that we try to fake
You’re walking round and round in circles
Plowing your own grave.
To forfeit the debt, but then hesitate
Telling me there’s no good time
Just no escape.

I hear your voice, and you’re so curious
So goddamn curious, you try to fabricate
The makes, the breaks, the aches, misfortunes
Of what
we used to be.

Come on, skinny lover,
You could make good use of your time,
and your blind energy.
Like picking out the only dime
in a box of one hundred pennies.

Imagine the world, corrupt and paralyzed
Drunk as hell and throwing fists and curses
To a wall of lies.
This is not the sound of my heart break
I swallowed your last request
Oxygen came too late.

I hear your voice, and you’re so curious
So goddamn curious you try to fabricate
The makes, the breaks, the aches, and misfortunes
Of what
we want to be.

I hear your voice, and you’re so curious
So goddamn curious you try to fabricate
The makes, the breaks, the aches, and misfortunes
Of what
we want to be.
What we want to be.
What we used to be.

The Feebs.

Are taking over.
Picture this: im sitting in my Buddhism class lecture (this happens to be about a week ago), and our professor is lecturing the different Sutras and their geographical origin circa -800 b.c. and so on and so forth… he turns to the class and asks “Now, this is a side note, but does anyone know the title of the first written, bound, and titled manuscript discovered by archaeologists so far?” -- The class, as he likes to call it, is having a ‘low metabolic day’, considering about 80% of us in the room have just finished some kind of massively fucked midterm in the class before. No one answers. So our professor picks up on the energy and turns around to answer the question himself when ALL of the sudden… we hear this sickeningly quiet voice in the back say:

“The Bible?”

The ones fortunate enough to hear this, laugh that really short, cough-like sort of laugh you hear a lot on satire TV shows. Unsettlingly, our professor (who, I can tell by his stature) wants to eat this kid alive.
“What?”

“…Th--The Bible?”

And I’m looking at this kid. Skinny, black hair, (I wont mention ethnicity) kid and he’s got his right hand up to his chest, fingers wrapped around a gold necklace he’s wearing.

“The Bible is the first book ever written” - he says

Our professor looks around the class… im sure he's expecting Ashton and his camera-men to come exploding out from between the desks.

“Since when is the Bible considered the first written text?”
And hes laughing, a very pissed-off, semi nervous laugh.

He turns back, facing the chalkboard and says “Today is not a good day for me…” and continues to write about the different Sutras.
And now I’m looking at this kid again... He’s scared shitless, eyes glaringly wide, and his hands are going NUTS on that gold necklace of his.

So then about 30 minutes later (by this time I’m sure everyone has forgotten about the little intellectual mishap) some girl in the class drops her 5 pound pencil-case, and says “oh JESUS-”

And out of nowhere….
“-I KNEW HIM” -- yells out the black haired kid. And this time, hes LOUD.
And im looking at him again,
then I see it, a small dangling golden cross waiving back and forth across his chest, fingers incessantly rubbing the edges.
The Feebs. They’re taking over.

dust.

i can feel the dust settle.
its grey.

just for the record...

i care about you more than i think you know.
or maybe you do...
and maybe i need to also put my feet back on the ground.

but i want to tell you that i really appreciate you. ive admitted a lot of things to myself and have really begun to take steps towards being honest about whats going on. my buddhism teacher just recently had a lecture on how difficult it is to really, truly, completely come to terms with yourself and actually understand your personality (not that i needed buddhism to explain that to me, i just found it coincidence that his lecture actually applied to this). and i know as well as everyone else that sometimes we tend to ignore or forget things that dont mentally suit our own image. i dont know if ive gotten to the point of that kind of complete personal acceptance yet where im not forgetting or ignoring anything. in fact, im positive i havent because im even writing this blog to tell you that im working on it.

the best part about it... is that im not doing it for you.
im doing it for me. because i need me in order to have you.

i think the strongest kind of love, is the love that doesnt steal. the kind of love where i can fully appreciate your being and my being individually and equally exist.
i love you.



oh, and p.s. if youre reading this too... then thats also pretty wild

On a different plane:

I don’t know what kind of class this sort of exercise would be mandatory for. But there are a WHOLE bunch of people (couples, actually, and when I say couples I mean just groups in pairs of two) that are walking around campus - one blindfolded, the other giving directions.

Its annoying.

And I’m wondering how well these students know each other… im going to be realistic and say that they don’t really at all. Its curious to me what sort of “lesson” the professor is hoping to teach. Trust? Now, as a onlooker of this exercise, I cant even begin to count the numerous looks I have seen on the non-blindfolded. There’s a pole about 10 feet to my left, and about 40% of the time when the couples walk by, I’ll see them snicker and look at each other like “Dare me to let this bitch walk into the pole?”

In general, I think its fair to say that people ‘care’ about one another. In general also, I think this is a pretty stupid exercise.

No Title

Sometimes I cant read you. The same way pen seeps when paper gets wet. Its fuzzy and illegible and the words turn into shades and shapes and gradients. Everything starts looking like something else.
(I am afraid of this)

Sometimes paper falls apart when it gets wet.
(I am afraid of this, too)

ramblings (or something close to it)

Post breakdown. Pre meditations. I got bunches of lights flickering on and off in my head. You turn me on. You turn me off. Stay for awhile… I love your mouth. There’s your skin underneath my fingertips. Lots of buzzing and humming (low pitched humming) that feels like electricity barreling into my fingers, into my palms. You make it hard to breathe. Sometimes when I kiss you, I can feel my eyes get lost, looking into the deep deep spaces in the furthest corners of my head. It feels like I could die. Sometimes I want to. You sit somewhere on my tongue… I crave you the way thirst feels.
Come. Come. Come.



You are my water.
You are my wine.

jibberjabber

Today I establish a note. A tune. My fingers rest on words of yesterday and cover the holes that keep my sound alive. Its like whistling with your body. A crack slips beneath my thumb and I lose the pitch. The rhythm. Its crashing vowels and hits and jabs, and the movements stutter between giant howls that keep everything from drowning underneath this misshapen escape of sound…

the catch

and ive now just realized there is no toilet paper.

right now

the honest-to-god truth:

i am sitting on the toilet, writing a blog
for the past hour or so, me and lauryl have been watching lesbian pirate porn
im cold
i cant really see that well considering my glasses are on the coffee table and not on my face
i am most definitely buzzed
im tired
i have class in the morning
wooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Underground.

In the beginning… there was light. There was “life.” There were all these goddamned green fields and rolling valleys of dreams and hidden landscapes that would fade away into the humming past tenses of things and people we used to know. And then there was blood. A raging war of condescending ideas (billowy and fragile) that would hang like clothes on a wire, clipped with those wooden grass-hopper looking things.

We now live in a hazy backdrop of buildings, smog and populace. Ten meters, five hundred. Its as indistinct as the mountains in the distance that only appear every other month early in the morning when half of you are still asleep. The rocks that you’re standing upon start to roll away, uncovering dirt dirt dirt that is riddled with miles and miles of mazes and twists and turns that dig deep into the earth’s upper crust… a safehaven for earthworms and bugs and diseases and all of these crazy, pointless and disgusting dreams that people are too afraid to wake up from. Miles hidden underneath your feet. What would it be like, just for a second, if you could just suddenly vanish within all of it. Just close your eyes and plug your nose and step into that terrestrial nightmare of disturbing shit and mess and mistakes that we walk over on a day to day basis. Sink into it all. Vomit. You see your neighbor fucking that sixteen-year-old girl who walks her dog early Saturday mornings. You see your mother coming home late at night with less makeup on than when she left - an bitter latex smell lingers from where she walks and nobody notices. You see yourself fingering what looks like a mirror image of yourself five years from now. Watch as you come. Its all a giant swamp of these conservative life-sucking morals and mishaps and not-beens and has-beens and never-will-bes and God and Che and Dali are all smoking a huge blunt together, their leftover roaches falling left and right and you’re telling yourself to stop this fucking madness but it wont stop because its so real that you cant tell what’s life, what’s dream or what you’re not really seeing. But, its all the same thing. Its thick enough to eat with a spoon. It smells like burning wire off the telephone poles that are barely standing behind your house. You know what’s even worse though? You got these characters, these people, who are sitting up above your head, and they’re shooting things like methamphetamines and god into their veins and their eyes are rolling back into their heads as the ecstasy begins to pump through their blood like a machine once void of gas. And they’re breathing in all of this fucking air that we figure is clean. Its not. And they’re breathing out all this smoke and poison and but no one really gives a fuck. And they’re popping pills to stay awake, popping pills to go to sleep. Pills for anger. Pills for sadness. Pills to fix your life into what exactly? And there’s subways and train stations and bus stops and freeways and all these intricate systems of transportation that get you from one place to other, and they’re shooting us through these veins to get their blood pumping and their eyes rolling into the back of their head because meth and god just aint cutting it for them anymore. But you’re safe here below ground. You’re safe here with the psychos and pedophiles and cock-suckers because its insanity to think you’re sane in a world that breeds contempt and dissatisfaction in an attempt to achieve perfection surrounding a dream that is too thin to even catch. So you’re stuck here. Stuck in a fucking underground sewage waste system of disease and shit and dreams that people are too afraid to wake up from. Stick your head back into the dirt.

meditations

To say simply that “life is just” or “life is fair” or anything of that sort of neutralizing atmosphere… would be partially shameless and about three-fourths irrelevant to our (meaning my) realities here and now.
My question to God (to Buddha, to Thoreau, to Bush, to Ginsburg, to the heavens and cosmos and universes beyond conception, to this fucking speck of dust on my desk) is “what the fuck?”

Carl Sagan… pass me a fucking light!

I don’t really understand exactly what the hell happens between justice and injustice… I’m not exactly sure where you would like to draw the line, or mark the point at which such development becomes too advanced to suddenly abort…
I don’t know. But I fucking wish I did.
It’s a cancerous feeling, something like this, where you’re almost positive that you should know. That you should have at least some sort of grasp on this type of judgment, but you come to find that you really have no idea whatsoever. No opinion. No say.
No goddamn clue.
And excuse my extraneous cussing and deferment from all that is holy and pure. I don’t live my life that way.

I want some fucking validity. And I want it now.

another poem

this one i wrote my senior year of high school....

As in our evils, wherefore we stand unguided
to be to the other, a cause of misery.
And with that tremulous desire, our lust reminded
from that from which we fear for most
Let us make short then, this refute
But all corrupt - both mind and will shall
endlessly dispute

But faith comes not at call, not bound
nor with the echo from which soon learned
But simply to answer, and resound
amidst the proud fraud of a lover's words.
Mangled now, a founded belief, unmoved
where to not believe would simply be
vanity removed.

a poem

I had a coffee break with the devil.
A plan to meet his four girls.
I walked up to his apartment,
Sixth street, third floor.
I knocked twice, a mawkish grin on my face
He opened the door modestly,
Was it difficult finding my place?
He asked.
And before I forget,
My daughters, Cruelty, Jealousy, and Secrecy
They each nodded with recognition.
Oh yes, and Terror. She’s in the kitchen making coffee.

my dream last night

You’re a freestylin’ machine. A good, honest-to-god flower-picker and frivolous thinker when your shit is down and out. You take pride in the intricacies of being simple… you know when you’ve done your fair share of good.

La Cienega Boulevard

When you’re driving up the 405 (headed towards LA), there’s a small but fitfully irate section of the freeway that spits you into a congested procession lasting about 30 minutes (if you’re driving at a luckily clear hour). The area that I’m talking about sits just past LAX as the highway begins to curve and you hit La Tijera Rd. I’m not too sure why this part of the freeway creates such confusion for people, it might be the sudden curves in the road that hug the tiny hills and cause ill-view, or it just might be caused by those regretful drivers who try and look into their rearview mirror to get one last glimpse of the giant planes passing over the eight unlucky lanes on the 405. For those of you who have driven LA’s hardhearted highways one-too-many times, and for those of you who know friends who have driven LA’s hardhearted highways one-too-many times… you know better than to sit in the clusterfucked throes of the 405. You know to take La Cienega Blvd. This, my friend, is the grotesquely large vein on the back-hand of all the traffic charlatans out there… yep, you know who you are.
The amazingly wonderful thing about La Cienega Blvd, is its atmosphere. Not even a mile east of the freeway, and you’re suddenly transported into an urban/desert milieu, with telephone wires littering the sky’s backdrop and rusty god-knows-what occurrences of metal structures (one thinks of abandoned factories) rolling away into the dust-brown hills. And everything seems SMALL. The hills seem too small, the houses that sit up near your left shoulder seem to small, the traffic lights and street signs and factory pipes and dead shrubs. All too small. So you feel HUGE. Like you’re driving away (no, escaping) into this miniaturized Hollywood set that frees you from your real life congestion. Leaving behind the ocean of coupled, red lights that do one thing only - they’re telling you to stop.
And then you hit the ‘highway’ section of La Cienega. An undersized freeway that slips underneath your car’s wheels at maximum speed of 70 mph. Two lanes (not including yours) on your right, and three more on the other side of the road dividers. You’re sharing the road with the traffic charlatans, and damn it feels good.
You then drive until you hit Culver city (a small sign on your left in the shape of a movie clapboard) announcing “Welcome! To Culver City!” But, just as you’re getting used to the depressurized feel on your car’s brakes, the highway descends into the LA basin, and everything is shit again. The ocean of red lights resurfaces and you roll down your windows in the 5-10 mph wind your car now creates. There’s another ten minute drive until you hit the 10 freeway, and fuck knows why there’s a street named Rodeo Rd (named after, and instead of, Rodeo Dr). Bootleg. You sigh and begin your daily dose of introspection while crawling through the streets. The 10 freeway slowly makes its way towards you, and then suddenly… you realize that for the past 15 minutes, you’ve been living in a stage set. The miniature hills, the fake highway, the movie clapboard, Rodeo Rd… all part of this grand charlatan scene. And JUST as you’re about to reach the climax, the orgasm, the peak of this SUPER important introspection, the lights turn green...

...and you’ve forgotten everything.



I don’t know why I felt like writing this other than the fact that I took La Cienega this past weekend on the way to get my hair done.

Ann Richards

the here and now is all we have and, if we play it right, it's all we'll need.

treadmill dreams

Today I went looking for something I lost a while ago. I don’t know why I did, there really is nothing left to find anymore. The satisfaction of searching though, the satisfaction of looking inside the spaces in my head for some sort of consent, some confirmation of this lost thing was what made my pursuit malfunction from the get-go… because, of course, I can not ever find what I was looking for.
While I was in Israel, after getting piss ass drunk and watching my friends smoke an enormous amount of Israeli hash, we all stumbled onto a field in this small town just north of Tel Aviv (the name of which right now I cant remember). The field was hidden behind a hill, shying itself away from the town lights and traffic sounds… a completely obscure treasure in the middle of the desert. We rolled and staggered down this hill, only to find ourselves stunned by the sudden change in atmosphere - the wind had been blocked, the light had suddenly vanished, the cold had set in, and we were all looking up at what looked like a goddamn photograph of the kind of shit you see on the NASA Channel. I sat down, my head spinning, and exhaled a thick cloud of air. I don’t know if being stuck in the hotel room with all my smoking friends had somehow affected my perception (the theory of hot boxing keeps raising flags), but I could’ve sworn to you, that sitting there under the sky and looking at the universe was beyond transcendence, it was a fucking liberation, a death, a birth and an enslavement all at once. I realized that all the shit we live in everyday: the fucking myspace, the cliques, the networking and high heels and fucking bullshit we find comfort in is such a waste of our time… just another sorry way to delay the inevitable truth that we cant control shit. Not to be overly dramatic or anything, but here’s my point:
We all find ourselves in a situation like this at one point or another… whether we’re looking for something lost, or something we haven’t found yet, there’s always that search, that ache of somehow being able to distinguish and understand our past, present, and future. Our existence. We manifest ourselves through what we perceive is truth - religion, government, nature, society (you see/hear/believe everything you choose to), so you create a cultural demographic of good vs. evil, and pick your side. The bottom line is that there really is no past, there really is no future, no good or evil or heaven or hell. There is no definitive answer. This line of time that you’re living in is constantly leaving and coming, constantly fluctuating - you’re running on that treadmill, and if you don’t keep the pace, you’re going to start falling off sooner or later. Live in the present. The present is yesterday’s future and tomorrow’s past. Live. Don’t remember or prospect. Live. Now. Now. Now.

That night in Israel put my life into perspective. Today I put things back into perspective after failing horribly in trying to revive my past. I don’t even want to. No one can anyway. So I’m feeling pretty good as I start to release my past and just let things happen as they come. Nothing else.

headache.

i have one.

Communications Studies

Im sitting in my Comm class, a medium-sized auditorium dedicated to psychology and communications lectures - a giant poster of the periodic table tacked onto the north facing wall. The room slopes upwards toward the back of the classroom... we sit in mustard-yellow chairs (the kind that have the pull-out desk on their sides) and theres hardly, if any, elbow space between these seats. Im not sure if its a student or a teacher... who is seated in my row, on the opposite side of the room, and being overly-exciting with the professor. Laughing a little too hard. Giggling too much. She's blonde and very OC. She seems to take quite an interest in gender studies ... the type that happens under the sheets after a first, emotionally constricted date night out. She's trying way too hard to make an impression on this guy. Why is this teacher so goddamn good-looking??
Im waiting to have the classroom fill up - the volume of conversations picks up every minute. The more people come in, the louder it gets. I can hear the typical "Oh my god!" scream from the girls who partied too hard last night. The usual "when is the test?" Class starts in 6 minutes, and i cant wait until im walking out of here.

I need a change of pace. Life is way too typical.

archaic and tired

I’m sitting here with way too many thoughts running through my head - typical of a slow night, just out of the shower and my hands are terrifically dry from the soap I’m using. There’s a Citronella candle burning in the opposite corner of my room (isn’t Citronella only supposed to burn outside to kill mosquitoes?), and the yellow reflections from the candle’s surrounding glass jar impatiently wrinkle the surface on my walls. I can hear Mayer in the background… Gravity… such a fucking good song. But, of course, most of his voice is drowned out by the droning uproar going on inside under all this goddamned hair.
I’m actually pretty sure Citronella is only supposed to be used outside. Something about the way the candle burns… too thick to be dispelled modestly inside the home. At this point, I figure that my shit cant possible get any more clouded. Fuck mosquitoes. Fuck cobwebs and dust and this excess amount of shit clogging my air (figuratively speaking. I already blew out the real candle anyway)… There is a division of thought inside my head that keeps preventing me from being overly careless or carefree for that matter, especially under circumstances like this. I (try to) keep that solace of autonomy locked up in a cobweb-y corner of past recollections, behind boxes of nostalgic compensation and futility, titled “Shit”. There are rows of rows of these ideological manifestations - old love(r)s, great restaurants, high school rumors, too-tight jeans, parking tickets, etc, that remind me exactly what to enjoy, what to avoid, and most importantly, what to let go of. The problem with titling each of these thematic tribulations is that I begin to develop a sense of subjectivity: this is a really classy way of saying that I become too fucking sensitive and wary of everything.
Another over-sophistication of my behavior: I like the word Indolence. It makes my laziness sound tres tres chic.

Jesus it feels good to write like this once in a while.
There really is no point in running away from any one thing. Fuck its cold right now. Hoping this racket wont keep me up tonight. I wish I could just empty everything out. Just like the avant-garde old days. Slap a leech on your temple… suck all these fucking thoughts out of my head. Please!

officially tuesday

The problem with writing just for the sake of writing something… is that you usually end up talking about nothing, diddly-squat, nada, zip, zero: shit. So in thematic proportion to that oh-so-lovely introductory sentence, let me bore your intellectually-emaciated mind (oh shit) with absolutely everything that has to do with absolutely nothing.
My elbow is hurting from writing on my laptop at an awkward angle.
Im not sure why my stomach is making such loud noises.
I love my dog.
My arms are cold.
Where is the wire for my jars, I need that for tomorrow.
Fuck school.
Fuck walking to class.
I just had some pretty great sex about an hour ago.
Cinnamon.
I need a new bra.
Im tired.
Sex,
Sex,
Sex.

I’ll ramble until daybreak
To be successful (by which I mean either emotionally, physically, mentally, or whichever other dimension of living you wish to approach) there is a certain skill that must be mastered - frugality. And I mean this in each and every dimension possible.
I am tired of dealing with misconceptions.
Will somebody please change the motherfucking channel?

You hit a fork in the road,
And try to walk between, in the middle
God knows you aint a camper.
But baby please, look,
After one day
Two.
Those paths diverge
You’re gonna lose sight of both roads
End up so goddamn alone
And all you’ll have
Are those stains on your shirt
From those dirty dirty hands.
And God knows you aint a camper babe.

another boring day

woke up, went to an estate sale (amazingly, a rather decent one) bought a cool typewriter, an old dress, two candles, an old super 8 film camera and went back home to do nothing. i then proceeded to attempt cleaning my room while trying to not think too much about the events that have happened within the past 24 hours. got a ridiculous call on my cell phone around 5pm. didnt answer. starting watching top gun until lauryl came over. we are now going out to party in los angeles, dressed in red, both ridiculously overdone in makeup, hopefully planning on getting laid. no im just kidding. we're renting a movie from blockbuster and watching it at my house.

my room is a mess. i need to clean my fish's water. k bye.

what?

i seriously need some goddamn space.
a good kick in the head.
and then maybe a good week or two to chill the fuck out.

Sick.

Had a massively shitty day yesterday. Didn’t get a lot accomplished. Not much to report except for the fact that my classes are boring (as always) and I cant wait to get my ish rolling -- meaning change of major, new job, new hobbies (working out, eating better, and more painting!). Interestingly enough, the class im currently in has a … cute? Clean-looking teacher. Hes maybe about 26.. 27? Haha. Oh lord. He has good style. Whatever, im not in the mood right now.
CSULB is semi-famous for their semi-infamous weekly newspaper (The Union). I opened it up today to find this quote: “Transcendence in the power to be born anew, to make a fresh start, to turn over a new leaf, to begin with a clean slate, to enter into a state of grace, to have a second chance.” - Robert Fritz. What makes me laugh a little about this one, is that Fritz himself is semi-famous for his semi-infamous books on the ‘paths of least resistance’. A little bit of an oxymoron. Least resistance and transcendence don’t really go hand in hand Robert.
But back to the quote… a very welcoming thing to read this morning. Hallelujah. Walking to my first class at 830 am this morning, blue powerade and laptop in hand… I could feel some good coming on.

(continued from earlier…)
Soooo, not a lot of good came coming around that’s for sure. Im sick sick sick. Chills, fever, sweat, hot, cold. Ill probably do a lot of blogging throughout the next few days since ill just be sitting around. Im way too tired to write much though, so ill just say bye and try and go to bed
Blah.

Today

To start, this whole blog thing is new to me. Ive kept journals and such, but writing with a pencil vs. clickety clacking away on my HP dv6000 has a different feel (the backspace button feels good under my finger most of the time) so my thoughts have a different direction too - it’s the realization of knowing that I can go back and fix/change/alter anything/everything I’ve said in the past, or will eventually say in the future.
Comforting.
But also very partial.

I’m not really very sure who exactly I’m writing to. Writing for? Myself. To? Anyone/everyone/no one. Like painting, there’s a difference between painting solely for an audience, vs. painting for yourself. Id like to think that (right here) I’m somewhere in between the two.
So without being too impartial to the events of this past month or so, I’d just like to remind myself that in change there really is power, and in movement there really is life. Quoted by Alan Cohen (most of you might be familiar with Chicken Soup for the Soul - yes - don’t visit his website though… the waterfall and angelic graphics might just cause you to vomit) here’s the full quote:

“It takes a lot of courage to release the familiar and seemingly secure, to embrace the new. But there is no real security in what is no longer meaningful. There is more security in the adventurous and exciting, for in movement there is life, and in change there is power.”

Asides from the “no longer meaningful” (by which I must remind myself too, that there are plenty of meaningful things in our past that shouldn’t be shrugged off in order to live comfortably in the present) that quote sums up my life right now. I am needing to make quite a bit of changes in my day to day routine. I need to start focusing on myself more and being more responsible towards the decisions I make for my future. The embarrassing part about all of this though… is that I’ve known this the whole time. What happened is that I let myself slip into a stage of redundant habit… and I ended up falling flat on my face. In real life there is no backspace button (oh I love how many times I’ve used it in this blog already) so the only thing I can do from here on out is move forward forward forward.
And in relation to my day (mind you its 11:37 am) everything has been SHIT. Didn’t sleep at all last night (didn’t the night before that either) had the worst time online trying to arrange my class schedule, got to school around 9:30, found out that two of the main parking lots had been torn down, clusterfucks of people EVERYWHERE trying to find a spot, no luck, drove around for the next 45 minutes vulture-izing (the act of hunting down parking spot victims) around every lot on campus, and then gave up and just went home.
Missed 3 classes today.
Fuck
Fuck
Fuck.


Take it with a grain of salt?