"Truth is pain, that's why God banished Adam and Eve, they ate from the fruit of knowledge and you can't have critical thinking in a Utopia. Hence the term, ignorance is bliss. So now massive organized religions and spiritual groups, leaders, and cults have given us the opportunity to taking this burden from us once and forever by forgetting our critical thinking and accepting their beliefs without question. Heaven is just a metaphor for the lack of truth, so that makes Heaven a beautiful thing.
You want the truth, you can't handle the truth. Significant other cheating on you, you're dying soon, the emperor is not a god, physics makes us look small in the universe, biology (other than our brain means) proves we are no more superior than a pig." ......Tino's response.....
Ignorance is only bliss for some. Ignorance is a constant searching and restlessness for others. And there is no truth in the illusion of thought. Thought is like a veil. Truth is beyond thought, behind that veil.
And either you misunderstand with I mean by truth, or you disagree with it. Truth is what is not based on perception, it is what is not illusion, it is something you can find burried deep under the dogma shit of religion.
It is not what the president really did, because the president, his position, the things he did, are all illusion.
Truth is real reality, not perceived reality.
I am looking for reality.
I am looking for clarity.
And really think about that Adam and Eve thing. Think about how layered that story is. Think about all the different ways it could be interpreted. It can be an amazing myth, and there are many different ways it can be understood.
(I will give some ideas if you're actually interested, but it will be way too long to put here.)
And I disagree with you about heaven being a metaphor for lack of truth. In fact, I think it is opposite of that. Heaven is lack of illusion, total truth, being completely connected to what is real.
Truth.
Hell is lack of truth. Hell is ignorance. It is where most of us are. It is a place of ego, of ideas, of "knowledge".
Truth is truth. It is none of those things.
You wrote: "Significant other cheating on you, you're dying soon, the emperor is not a god, physics makes us look small in the universe, biology (other than our brain means) proves we are no more superior than a pig."
These things are not truth. These things are illusion.
Friday, December 31
Thursday, December 30
Everything I Need To Know, I Don't...
The older I get, the more I learn, the more I experience, the more I realize I know nothing.
There's this:
Light always travels at the same speed relative to some observer, no matter what the relative motion of the observer. So, light emitted from a moving airplane does not travel with the speed of light plus the speed of the airplane, it travels with the "speed of light", no matter what the speed of the airplane! In a vacuum, light always travels at a speed of 299,792,458 meters per second, no matter how its speed is measured.
So, if I'm travelling at 299, 792,458 meters per second, then light is travelling at 299,792,458 meters per second faster than me.
That's how it is with the things I need to know.
No matter how how much closer I feel, or how quickly I feel I'm accelerating, I am still the exact same distance from wisdom. From truth.
The prophet Mohammed said something, which I'm probably screwing up, like the closer he is to knowing God, the farther he realizes he is from knowing god, or the more he realizes he has to learn.
Something like that.
(In my opinion, Mohammed, being an enlightened man of sorts, when saying "God", means truth. To me truth, or all that is not illusion, is God.)
So the more I think I know, the less I realize I do.
I suppose that's the problem with thinking.
It is all illusion, so rarely can truth be found in the mess of it.
So I suppose even more that the only way I will ever make progress, will be when I stop thinking about things, stop seeking, and start being.
And then I'll understand something about truth.
And then I'll understand that I really know nothing, that nothing is not me, that there is nothing to know.
That there only is.
Does this make sense?
No, not to me either.
There's this:
Light always travels at the same speed relative to some observer, no matter what the relative motion of the observer. So, light emitted from a moving airplane does not travel with the speed of light plus the speed of the airplane, it travels with the "speed of light", no matter what the speed of the airplane! In a vacuum, light always travels at a speed of 299,792,458 meters per second, no matter how its speed is measured.
So, if I'm travelling at 299, 792,458 meters per second, then light is travelling at 299,792,458 meters per second faster than me.
That's how it is with the things I need to know.
No matter how how much closer I feel, or how quickly I feel I'm accelerating, I am still the exact same distance from wisdom. From truth.
The prophet Mohammed said something, which I'm probably screwing up, like the closer he is to knowing God, the farther he realizes he is from knowing god, or the more he realizes he has to learn.
Something like that.
(In my opinion, Mohammed, being an enlightened man of sorts, when saying "God", means truth. To me truth, or all that is not illusion, is God.)
So the more I think I know, the less I realize I do.
I suppose that's the problem with thinking.
It is all illusion, so rarely can truth be found in the mess of it.
So I suppose even more that the only way I will ever make progress, will be when I stop thinking about things, stop seeking, and start being.
And then I'll understand something about truth.
And then I'll understand that I really know nothing, that nothing is not me, that there is nothing to know.
That there only is.
Does this make sense?
No, not to me either.
Wednesday, December 29
Why?
Why did we have to play chess?
I am very competitive.
I suck real bad at chess.
I played against James.
I lost.
Now I'm in a bad mood.
I am a very poor sport. In fact, I think I shouldn't be allowed to play games at all. My brother, Stephen, is also a very bad loser. He throws controllers. I just get super pissed so I can't talk to anyone because anything I say will only be mean.
I don't understand it all.
I'm getting bored with keeping a blog.
I'm getting tired of whatever I write about.
It's not that interesting.
I don't even want to read it.
I don't even want to write it.
I'm going to go have some Reisling.
I am very competitive.
I suck real bad at chess.
I played against James.
I lost.
Now I'm in a bad mood.
I am a very poor sport. In fact, I think I shouldn't be allowed to play games at all. My brother, Stephen, is also a very bad loser. He throws controllers. I just get super pissed so I can't talk to anyone because anything I say will only be mean.
I don't understand it all.
I'm getting bored with keeping a blog.
I'm getting tired of whatever I write about.
It's not that interesting.
I don't even want to read it.
I don't even want to write it.
I'm going to go have some Reisling.
Monday, December 27
Superlog
James will be here in about 30 minutes.
Sometimes I'm thinking about it and I get nervous.
Sometimes I think about it and don't get anything at all.
Maybe it hasn't really registered.
Or maybe I'm just trying to avoid the nervous feeling in my tummy.
Don't want to write on here.
Just trying to distract myself while time passes.
Sometimes I'm thinking about it and I get nervous.
Sometimes I think about it and don't get anything at all.
Maybe it hasn't really registered.
Or maybe I'm just trying to avoid the nervous feeling in my tummy.
Don't want to write on here.
Just trying to distract myself while time passes.
Sunday, December 26
Clever title
Christmas is over, I have no more work to do at Honey Baked, "slinging pork butts" as my mom likes to say. James is coming tomorrow, I exfoliated and shaved everything, and lotioned and oiled, and put whitening strips on my goddamn teeth. But, despite all this, I've managed to gain about 3 or 4 pounds over the past couple months. I've been eating meat. I know this isn't that much weight to gain, esp. at 5'9", but it's just enough to make me a little squishier than I like.
I watched the Texans kick the Panthers ass. I pissed my step dad and my step aunt off by not supporting our troops appropriately. I put filled a photo album I got for Christmas. I watched to Gunther video with my brother. I don't know why I'm listing off things I did today.
I realize that the content of this entry is substandard when compared with my usual jewels, but I am not giving a fuck.
Funny thing is, I actually have a few interesting things I could write about. But to be honest, I just don't really feel like doing it. I could, but don't want to. I'm not even writing in my normal journal lately.
I enjoyed the very hard work and interacting with people I did at Honey Baked so much that I think that's what I want to do. Have a normal job, and work very hard and interact with people, clothed. I want that. Not to be writing right now. Not to be indulging in my artistic fancies. Not living in that little private and secluded world of my creativity. I guess I just liked the feeling of a normal people reality.
I don't know what I'm talking about.
It just felt good.
I want to do that, and not this.
So i'm stopping for today.
I watched the Texans kick the Panthers ass. I pissed my step dad and my step aunt off by not supporting our troops appropriately. I put filled a photo album I got for Christmas. I watched to Gunther video with my brother. I don't know why I'm listing off things I did today.
I realize that the content of this entry is substandard when compared with my usual jewels, but I am not giving a fuck.
Funny thing is, I actually have a few interesting things I could write about. But to be honest, I just don't really feel like doing it. I could, but don't want to. I'm not even writing in my normal journal lately.
I enjoyed the very hard work and interacting with people I did at Honey Baked so much that I think that's what I want to do. Have a normal job, and work very hard and interact with people, clothed. I want that. Not to be writing right now. Not to be indulging in my artistic fancies. Not living in that little private and secluded world of my creativity. I guess I just liked the feeling of a normal people reality.
I don't know what I'm talking about.
It just felt good.
I want to do that, and not this.
So i'm stopping for today.
Wednesday, December 22
Yeah
There will be two days of not writing for me.
My mom decided to hire me on for tomorrow and Christmas eve to work, selling ham.
Yes, I'll be a ham peddler, but only for two days.
We leave at 4:30 in the morning, and if tomorrow is anything like today, it will be 8:30 in the evening and we still won't be home.
For two days.
Not alot of time for writing.
I ate alot of barbeque tonight. Alot for me any way. And it was soooo good, but now I don't feel so good. Too much meat.
But barbeque is soooo good.
I don't really feel like I'm utilizing my last opportunity to write.
Fuck it.
My mom decided to hire me on for tomorrow and Christmas eve to work, selling ham.
Yes, I'll be a ham peddler, but only for two days.
We leave at 4:30 in the morning, and if tomorrow is anything like today, it will be 8:30 in the evening and we still won't be home.
For two days.
Not alot of time for writing.
I ate alot of barbeque tonight. Alot for me any way. And it was soooo good, but now I don't feel so good. Too much meat.
But barbeque is soooo good.
I don't really feel like I'm utilizing my last opportunity to write.
Fuck it.
Tuesday, December 21
War! Oppression! War! Violence!
War!
War!
War!
My stepdad is watching Band of Brothers again. Maybe the above song should say "American Propaganda!" too. Maybe.
I had a dream last night that my dad was in the same house with the uncle who molested my little sister. My dad wanted to fight him, so they went outside and started doing this ridiculous kung fu, sound effects and all. My uncle was in very good humor about it all, like it was a joke.
The next thing I know they're in the bathroom, some sort of out door bathroom. My dad has my uncle grab the shower curtain rod, and sews his fingers to his hands. I ask my uncle a question I can't remember now, but my dad has sewn his lips together. Dad rips the thread out so he can answer me, and none of this even seems to hurt my uncle.
The thread is left dangling from the corner of my uncle's mouth, the knotted end on the outside, and he moves it around with his tongue, saying that it bothers him.
Of all the things going on to be bothered by!
That's all I remember of that one.
But it reminds me...
Once, when I was about 8, I had been playing with my next door neighbor, Jessica, who was about 4, at our church. I had picked her up and accidentally dropped her, and she hit her head. She cried alot, but that was all the damage done.
So the next day my sister and I were out front of our house, playing, and Jessica's dad came up to us, and started yelling. He said I better never hurt his daughter again, and asked us how we'd like it if he tied us to the back of his car and dragged us down the street.
We said we wouldn't like that, and when he finished threatening us, (we didn't know we should have left), we went inside crying.
We told my dad what had happened, and he was furious. He went next door, started yelling at the guy, cursing, and said he was going to kick his ass. They ended up out in the street, my dad yanking his shirt off, very pissed, more yelling, ready to fight.
The guy ended up apologizing, and they never fought, but I was so suprised that my dad was going to fight for us. It made me kind of happy.
Now, much later obviously, I understand that we only got a dollop of this neighbor's anger.
He was a wife beater.
Once, when a bunch of us kids were playing around outside, we walked by their window, and he was hitting her in the head, and on the back and shoulders, with a rolled up newspaper. Like a dog.
And the universe comes full circle in my head.
But what does it mean?
What does it mean ?
War!
War!
My stepdad is watching Band of Brothers again. Maybe the above song should say "American Propaganda!" too. Maybe.
I had a dream last night that my dad was in the same house with the uncle who molested my little sister. My dad wanted to fight him, so they went outside and started doing this ridiculous kung fu, sound effects and all. My uncle was in very good humor about it all, like it was a joke.
The next thing I know they're in the bathroom, some sort of out door bathroom. My dad has my uncle grab the shower curtain rod, and sews his fingers to his hands. I ask my uncle a question I can't remember now, but my dad has sewn his lips together. Dad rips the thread out so he can answer me, and none of this even seems to hurt my uncle.
The thread is left dangling from the corner of my uncle's mouth, the knotted end on the outside, and he moves it around with his tongue, saying that it bothers him.
Of all the things going on to be bothered by!
That's all I remember of that one.
But it reminds me...
Once, when I was about 8, I had been playing with my next door neighbor, Jessica, who was about 4, at our church. I had picked her up and accidentally dropped her, and she hit her head. She cried alot, but that was all the damage done.
So the next day my sister and I were out front of our house, playing, and Jessica's dad came up to us, and started yelling. He said I better never hurt his daughter again, and asked us how we'd like it if he tied us to the back of his car and dragged us down the street.
We said we wouldn't like that, and when he finished threatening us, (we didn't know we should have left), we went inside crying.
We told my dad what had happened, and he was furious. He went next door, started yelling at the guy, cursing, and said he was going to kick his ass. They ended up out in the street, my dad yanking his shirt off, very pissed, more yelling, ready to fight.
The guy ended up apologizing, and they never fought, but I was so suprised that my dad was going to fight for us. It made me kind of happy.
Now, much later obviously, I understand that we only got a dollop of this neighbor's anger.
He was a wife beater.
Once, when a bunch of us kids were playing around outside, we walked by their window, and he was hitting her in the head, and on the back and shoulders, with a rolled up newspaper. Like a dog.
And the universe comes full circle in my head.
But what does it mean?
What does it mean ?
Monday, December 20
The Trip to Hobby Lobby and Other Stories of Suburban Houston Time Wasting
Today I took a trip to Hobby Lobby with my brother, Stephen.
Three people called him on the 15 minute drive there, (he's very popular).
His girlfriend, Hoda, who I talked to on the phone for around 2 minutes, told me that she was making homemade pizza with her cousins, when I first realized I was hungry.
You don't want to let me go too long hungry.
Hobby Lobby didn't have quite the selection of those unmentionable things that I needed to make James' gift that I was hoping for.
I walked around forever, retracing my steps several times, before settling on anything.
Apparently Stephen was also not having a very easy time finding the unmentionable things he needed to make Hoda's necklace.
(Okay, I guess they aren't unmentionable.)
And I have experience with bead necklace making.
I'm actually pretty good at it. I've quite an eye for color, if I do say so myself.
Anyway...
So, I helped him out with the blueprints for the necklace, some how, inadvertantly making him feel stupid for picking out not very well matching beads.
I only said that they looked like cheap little kid beads, so I just don't see how he......
Oh.
So I apologized.
By then I'm starving, we're walking towards the cash register, and he picks up a pack of Mentos.
I tell him it's been a long time since I've had a Mento.
I ask for a pink one.
He says that he can't open the package until he's paid for it.
I tell him he can, as long as he doesn't rip the barcode.
So he decides to pop the package open with his thumb, as he'd seen the beastly overall wearing construction worker summoning woman do in the commercial.
He flips a lemon Mento on to the floor.
It breaks in half.
One piece lands near him, one, near neither of us.
I grab the farther half, blow on it, say, "Five second rule!" and eat it.
I don't even like lemon Mentos. I only like the pink ones.
This isn't one of my most shining moments.
This is why I shouldn't be allowed to get too hungry.
I get desperate.
Imagine where I could go from there...
So, I have $10.50 in quarters, and $1.00 in one dollar bills.
I don't want my brother to know this, because it is all the money I have, and I am slightly embarrassed, so I try and get him to go to a different register than me.
He won't go, so I do, and that part all worked out great, blah blah, it's not very interesting
Then we came home and I ate one piece of bread with alot of mustard and cheese.
I was still hungry, so I ate another slice of bread with alot of mustard and cheese.
And then I felt kind of silly for not just making a regular sandwich with two pieces of bread, alot of mustard, and cheese to begin with.
And now I'm here, writing this entry.
It feels just like that part in Spaceballs when Dark Helmet and his peeps decide to watch their copy of Spaceballs to see what Lone Star and his peeps are going to do later in the movie, and they fast forward it right to the spot where they're watching the movie, and they're just watching themselves doing what they're doing at that exact moment, on the screen.
Yep.
Just like that.
I am taking a sip of homemade raspberry beer.
Yum.
I am eavesdropping on my dad and aunt.
I am looking around the room trying to figure out what the next thing I'll say I'm doing will be.
Another sip of beer.
Looking at the ceiling fan.
Itching the inside of my nose...I swear it was just an itch.
Deciding to end this post.
Three people called him on the 15 minute drive there, (he's very popular).
His girlfriend, Hoda, who I talked to on the phone for around 2 minutes, told me that she was making homemade pizza with her cousins, when I first realized I was hungry.
You don't want to let me go too long hungry.
Hobby Lobby didn't have quite the selection of those unmentionable things that I needed to make James' gift that I was hoping for.
I walked around forever, retracing my steps several times, before settling on anything.
Apparently Stephen was also not having a very easy time finding the unmentionable things he needed to make Hoda's necklace.
(Okay, I guess they aren't unmentionable.)
And I have experience with bead necklace making.
I'm actually pretty good at it. I've quite an eye for color, if I do say so myself.
Anyway...
So, I helped him out with the blueprints for the necklace, some how, inadvertantly making him feel stupid for picking out not very well matching beads.
I only said that they looked like cheap little kid beads, so I just don't see how he......
Oh.
So I apologized.
By then I'm starving, we're walking towards the cash register, and he picks up a pack of Mentos.
I tell him it's been a long time since I've had a Mento.
I ask for a pink one.
He says that he can't open the package until he's paid for it.
I tell him he can, as long as he doesn't rip the barcode.
So he decides to pop the package open with his thumb, as he'd seen the beastly overall wearing construction worker summoning woman do in the commercial.
He flips a lemon Mento on to the floor.
It breaks in half.
One piece lands near him, one, near neither of us.
I grab the farther half, blow on it, say, "Five second rule!" and eat it.
I don't even like lemon Mentos. I only like the pink ones.
This isn't one of my most shining moments.
This is why I shouldn't be allowed to get too hungry.
I get desperate.
Imagine where I could go from there...
So, I have $10.50 in quarters, and $1.00 in one dollar bills.
I don't want my brother to know this, because it is all the money I have, and I am slightly embarrassed, so I try and get him to go to a different register than me.
He won't go, so I do, and that part all worked out great, blah blah, it's not very interesting
Then we came home and I ate one piece of bread with alot of mustard and cheese.
I was still hungry, so I ate another slice of bread with alot of mustard and cheese.
And then I felt kind of silly for not just making a regular sandwich with two pieces of bread, alot of mustard, and cheese to begin with.
And now I'm here, writing this entry.
It feels just like that part in Spaceballs when Dark Helmet and his peeps decide to watch their copy of Spaceballs to see what Lone Star and his peeps are going to do later in the movie, and they fast forward it right to the spot where they're watching the movie, and they're just watching themselves doing what they're doing at that exact moment, on the screen.
Yep.
Just like that.
I am taking a sip of homemade raspberry beer.
Yum.
I am eavesdropping on my dad and aunt.
I am looking around the room trying to figure out what the next thing I'll say I'm doing will be.
Another sip of beer.
Looking at the ceiling fan.
Itching the inside of my nose...I swear it was just an itch.
Deciding to end this post.
Humiliation
Last night, I was laying in bed, with this horrible nervous feeling in my chest.This horrible guilt about some things I had done in the past.
Then I realized that, despite my attitude of not caring what people think of me, I actually always have, and the things I did in the past that I was feeling guilty about, I had done because I was seeking the approval, or esteem, or friendship of someone else.And these aren't things that I would think would win the approval, esteem or friendship of most people.Maybe I was just trying to fit in.
So that's good.Now instead of having consuming feelings of guilt, I get to work on the root of the problem.
This is kind of embarassing for me to admit, as I think it would be for anyone.No one wants to admit to doing anything, much less things to be ashamed of, to get acceptance from others.It's a little humiliating.But in my new humbleness on the matter, I can face the truth about myself, and actually get it worked out.
So, why am I posting this online for anyone to read?
I guess because putting it out there, where I know at least one person will read it, makes it real outside of my head, and in some one elses.It makes it something I can't just forget about, because some one else knows.The first step to recovery is admitting you have a problem, so I'm admitting it, and publicly.There's no going back on it now.
Then I realized that, despite my attitude of not caring what people think of me, I actually always have, and the things I did in the past that I was feeling guilty about, I had done because I was seeking the approval, or esteem, or friendship of someone else.And these aren't things that I would think would win the approval, esteem or friendship of most people.Maybe I was just trying to fit in.
So that's good.Now instead of having consuming feelings of guilt, I get to work on the root of the problem.
This is kind of embarassing for me to admit, as I think it would be for anyone.No one wants to admit to doing anything, much less things to be ashamed of, to get acceptance from others.It's a little humiliating.But in my new humbleness on the matter, I can face the truth about myself, and actually get it worked out.
So, why am I posting this online for anyone to read?
I guess because putting it out there, where I know at least one person will read it, makes it real outside of my head, and in some one elses.It makes it something I can't just forget about, because some one else knows.The first step to recovery is admitting you have a problem, so I'm admitting it, and publicly.There's no going back on it now.
Sunday, December 19
Schnozzberry
The wallpaper in my mother's kitchen is striped vertically, in alternating columns of white and various fruit.
From my vantage point on the couch where I usually sit while posting, I look around for some topic to write on, and my eyes are always, invariably drawn to that wallpaper.
I want to lick it.
Like on Willy Wonka.
It doesn't taste like anything...
From my vantage point on the couch where I usually sit while posting, I look around for some topic to write on, and my eyes are always, invariably drawn to that wallpaper.
I want to lick it.
Like on Willy Wonka.
It doesn't taste like anything...
I'm in need of some better things to write about
I took an 8 mile bike ride this evening, over to Barnes and Noble.
Looked for a while at pictures of the deserts of the world.
Feeding my current preoccupation.
On the way back, I got a mocha with real caramel on top. Yummy.
Yep, feeling pretty good today.
I don't have a lock for my bike, so I hid it behind a dumpster, and left a note on it, pleading with any possible thieves not to take it, because it is my only mode of transportation.
I guess it worked.
Either that or people aren't hanging out behind dumpsters like they did in the old days.
And it turns out I will be giving a gift for Christmas.
I figured out something I can make for James, so I worked for a couple hours on that.
I have to go to Hobby Lobby tomorrow for supplies.
I can't really mention what it is in case he reads this.
So, I basically just wrote all that for nothing.
But in reality, any thing I write, or any of you write is really for naught.
(I really wanted to use naught).
Don't be mad...
I'm just looking at the big picture.
I just took a pee, and I missed Kathy for a second.
I missed listening to the Stills, digging crescent shaped slices into the arm rests of her car, Kathy weaving through traffic.
How many times have I almost died with her?
And now she makes her own dangerous little contribution to LA's nastiest problem.
And she makes her contribution to the search results when you type in Dildo, Pussy, Cunt.
Are these the dreams you left Austin to persue?
It makes me feel very tired and very helpless, watching, sans cigarette, lives swirrl clockwise down the commode.
Yeah, it sucks not smoking sometimes.
Looked for a while at pictures of the deserts of the world.
Feeding my current preoccupation.
On the way back, I got a mocha with real caramel on top. Yummy.
Yep, feeling pretty good today.
I don't have a lock for my bike, so I hid it behind a dumpster, and left a note on it, pleading with any possible thieves not to take it, because it is my only mode of transportation.
I guess it worked.
Either that or people aren't hanging out behind dumpsters like they did in the old days.
And it turns out I will be giving a gift for Christmas.
I figured out something I can make for James, so I worked for a couple hours on that.
I have to go to Hobby Lobby tomorrow for supplies.
I can't really mention what it is in case he reads this.
So, I basically just wrote all that for nothing.
But in reality, any thing I write, or any of you write is really for naught.
(I really wanted to use naught).
Don't be mad...
I'm just looking at the big picture.
I just took a pee, and I missed Kathy for a second.
I missed listening to the Stills, digging crescent shaped slices into the arm rests of her car, Kathy weaving through traffic.
How many times have I almost died with her?
And now she makes her own dangerous little contribution to LA's nastiest problem.
And she makes her contribution to the search results when you type in Dildo, Pussy, Cunt.
Are these the dreams you left Austin to persue?
It makes me feel very tired and very helpless, watching, sans cigarette, lives swirrl clockwise down the commode.
Yeah, it sucks not smoking sometimes.
Saturday, December 18
the hermit
I had to write something new, because looking at the one I wrote when I was drunk takes me magically back to last night, and that ain't fun.
I realized today, with a certain amount of horror, that in 8 days, I have left my mom's neighborhood one time, to go to the grocery store, about a mile away.
The scary thing is, I hadn't even realized.
And today is no different.
I was invited to go Christmas shopping at around 11:30, but declined the offer because I have no money, I'm not getting anyone any gifts, and I hate the mall.
So, it's 5:30 now, and they still aren't back.
Talk about a good call.
Just as in Adam all die, in Jesus all are brought to life.
hmmmmm...
I realized today, with a certain amount of horror, that in 8 days, I have left my mom's neighborhood one time, to go to the grocery store, about a mile away.
The scary thing is, I hadn't even realized.
And today is no different.
I was invited to go Christmas shopping at around 11:30, but declined the offer because I have no money, I'm not getting anyone any gifts, and I hate the mall.
So, it's 5:30 now, and they still aren't back.
Talk about a good call.
Just as in Adam all die, in Jesus all are brought to life.
hmmmmm...
drunk
i am too drunk now, and too drunk to fall asleep. when i close my eyes the room spins. i haven't been drunk in a while. i've forgotten it. i don't like it very much. no not at all...i made myself throaw up. the room is spinning. i wish i was not drunk. i wic\sh james was here instead. he is good and i fwelt good from talking to him...
shit
shit
Friday, December 17
A memory
When I was around ten years old, I lived in Round Rock, Texas with my dad, my step mom, and my stepsister, Melody.
We lived in Brushy Creek Village, an apartment complex. Our apartment was in a building of four units, of which we lived in the lower right hand corner.
Melody and I played outside everyday.
Everyday we would come inside smelling of grass and sweat. Smelling of outside.
One overcast day, Melody and I were outside playing with our next-door neighbor, Sean, and two other friends who lived in the complex, Meghan and Roger, when it started to sprinkle. This was the kind of sprinkle that only leads to more sprinkle, and inevitably to rain. So we started home.
Not wanting to go inside until we absolutely had to, we spread out in the parking lot in front of the building I lived in, and began kicking my soccer ball, which apparently we had been playing with earlier, back and forth.
As we kicked the ball, it began to rain harder, until it was pouring and water ran from the tips of our hair, down our faces.
We were all so excited by the rain, by being soaking wet, by playing like we weren’t supposed to be, catching our deaths.
Sean had no shoes on, and the rest of ours were filling with water.
He said that it was easier, and no it didn’t hurt to kick the ball barefoot.
We all took our shoes off, and kicked the ball at our turns, and we were laughing so much, and jumping, our feet cold, our shirts stuck to our bodies.
And I remember thinking, “It really doesn’t hurt.”
And I remember saying, “It really doesn’t hurt,” and everyone agreeing, ecstatic to kick a soccer ball in the rain.
And that was delight.
Then my dad walked out of our front door, yelling angrily, “What are you doing? Get inside!”
Melody and I grabbed our shoes, I grabbed my ball, the group scattered. Everyone went home.
It rained the rest of the day, and we all sat inside, drying.
We lived in Brushy Creek Village, an apartment complex. Our apartment was in a building of four units, of which we lived in the lower right hand corner.
Melody and I played outside everyday.
Everyday we would come inside smelling of grass and sweat. Smelling of outside.
One overcast day, Melody and I were outside playing with our next-door neighbor, Sean, and two other friends who lived in the complex, Meghan and Roger, when it started to sprinkle. This was the kind of sprinkle that only leads to more sprinkle, and inevitably to rain. So we started home.
Not wanting to go inside until we absolutely had to, we spread out in the parking lot in front of the building I lived in, and began kicking my soccer ball, which apparently we had been playing with earlier, back and forth.
As we kicked the ball, it began to rain harder, until it was pouring and water ran from the tips of our hair, down our faces.
We were all so excited by the rain, by being soaking wet, by playing like we weren’t supposed to be, catching our deaths.
Sean had no shoes on, and the rest of ours were filling with water.
He said that it was easier, and no it didn’t hurt to kick the ball barefoot.
We all took our shoes off, and kicked the ball at our turns, and we were laughing so much, and jumping, our feet cold, our shirts stuck to our bodies.
And I remember thinking, “It really doesn’t hurt.”
And I remember saying, “It really doesn’t hurt,” and everyone agreeing, ecstatic to kick a soccer ball in the rain.
And that was delight.
Then my dad walked out of our front door, yelling angrily, “What are you doing? Get inside!”
Melody and I grabbed our shoes, I grabbed my ball, the group scattered. Everyone went home.
It rained the rest of the day, and we all sat inside, drying.
Some river/swimming hole
Tapping my fingers, looking around.
What do I write about today?
I made enough coffee for my brother, but he isn't here.
He had a late night, discovering his girlfriend is bulemic.
She has a very mean father.
I've decided to keep a journal of my dreams.
I will not apologize for this.
I don't want to go through 2/3 of my life not knowing anything about the other 1/3.
So I got up this morning and went into the bathroom, looking very much forward to being done with brushing my teeth so I could go downstairs and have the coffee maker make me some coffee to drink.
And I turned on the faucet, grabbed my toothbrush, and then remembered.
And it was a very long dream it turns out.
It took the entire front and back of a piece of college ruled notebook paper, to get it out.
And that was just key points.
So, I had to wait 20 minutes extra for my coffee.
But I did realize that I have a recurring location in my dreams.
Some river/swimming hole.
Anyway, how bad can it be to write for 20 minutes in the morning, before even brushing your teeth.
Uh, besides the taste in your mouth.
While I'm thinking about it...
Toni, it's not a bad thing to always be talking about the same things.
As long as there is progress on the topics, which there is, it's all good.
What do I write about today?
I made enough coffee for my brother, but he isn't here.
He had a late night, discovering his girlfriend is bulemic.
She has a very mean father.
I've decided to keep a journal of my dreams.
I will not apologize for this.
I don't want to go through 2/3 of my life not knowing anything about the other 1/3.
So I got up this morning and went into the bathroom, looking very much forward to being done with brushing my teeth so I could go downstairs and have the coffee maker make me some coffee to drink.
And I turned on the faucet, grabbed my toothbrush, and then remembered.
And it was a very long dream it turns out.
It took the entire front and back of a piece of college ruled notebook paper, to get it out.
And that was just key points.
So, I had to wait 20 minutes extra for my coffee.
But I did realize that I have a recurring location in my dreams.
Some river/swimming hole.
Anyway, how bad can it be to write for 20 minutes in the morning, before even brushing your teeth.
Uh, besides the taste in your mouth.
While I'm thinking about it...
Toni, it's not a bad thing to always be talking about the same things.
As long as there is progress on the topics, which there is, it's all good.
Thursday, December 16
The Desert
Late at night and I am staring at the fireplace.
It is unlit and there are 5 christmas stockings hung with care.
Or is it hanged with care?
A basketball game just finished on the TV to my right.
Commercials.
The Army has gotten so clever with their advertisement.
They show the desert, and I am tempted to join.
Do you really get to go rock climbing in the Army?
I don't think so.
Those deceivers.
And with out some one around to talk to about the things I like to talk about, my mind is a freezing pond, the last few ripples smoothing out.
I need stimulation.
I need conversation.
I don't really know what in particular I like to talk about.
I guess these things just happen when you meet someone on the level with you.
Damn Toni.
I grew accustomed to her obsessive style personality, always talking about the same things.
Those things I also became accustomed to talking about.
I need more movement.
This is the time for that.
I feel like a little "ADD" kid, trapped in a math lesson.
I need to move.
I need to run.
I need to be free.
So I'm sitting here, fidgeting, waiting for that goddamn bell.
Why the desert?
Why the allure of the orange rock, the very blue sky, the sometimes clouds?
Why the yearning for the soft whislte of no sound but staccato breeze?
Those sounds of big emptinesses, a long harmonica note, bending.
I know that it's hot and dry there.
I know that my nose bleeds after a day of driving through it.
I'll adjust.
I know that the water evaporation rate ridiculously exceeds the rate in which the water is received.
And the swimming holes are dry in the summer.
I know.
But I want that silence, that stillness.
I want to see more sky than earth.
I want to see for miles and miles.
I want to walk for miles and miles. And see no one.
I want to find those strange desert flowers that are growing, some how.
The desert after a rain.
And crumbling rock, orange and red.
Orange and blue are opposites on the color wheel, and so, perfectly complimentary.
I was at Denny's a few weeks ago, staring at the photo of a glass of orange juice in front of a blue back ground, sky blue, on the paper place mat sitting in front of me.
Just staring.
The spell of the desert.
I think you only have to spend a week there for it to infect you.
And it could be months before you show any symptoms.
But the seed is planted, and then...
Then there is this longing, and it grows, pervading your soul, your body, you can feel it in your arms, in your chest, on your thighs.
This ghost posessing you.
It grows to be very strong, and then, you have to go.
There is something about the desert.
You just ask someone who lives there.
They know.
It is unlit and there are 5 christmas stockings hung with care.
Or is it hanged with care?
A basketball game just finished on the TV to my right.
Commercials.
The Army has gotten so clever with their advertisement.
They show the desert, and I am tempted to join.
Do you really get to go rock climbing in the Army?
I don't think so.
Those deceivers.
And with out some one around to talk to about the things I like to talk about, my mind is a freezing pond, the last few ripples smoothing out.
I need stimulation.
I need conversation.
I don't really know what in particular I like to talk about.
I guess these things just happen when you meet someone on the level with you.
Damn Toni.
I grew accustomed to her obsessive style personality, always talking about the same things.
Those things I also became accustomed to talking about.
I need more movement.
This is the time for that.
I feel like a little "ADD" kid, trapped in a math lesson.
I need to move.
I need to run.
I need to be free.
So I'm sitting here, fidgeting, waiting for that goddamn bell.
Why the desert?
Why the allure of the orange rock, the very blue sky, the sometimes clouds?
Why the yearning for the soft whislte of no sound but staccato breeze?
Those sounds of big emptinesses, a long harmonica note, bending.
I know that it's hot and dry there.
I know that my nose bleeds after a day of driving through it.
I'll adjust.
I know that the water evaporation rate ridiculously exceeds the rate in which the water is received.
And the swimming holes are dry in the summer.
I know.
But I want that silence, that stillness.
I want to see more sky than earth.
I want to see for miles and miles.
I want to walk for miles and miles. And see no one.
I want to find those strange desert flowers that are growing, some how.
The desert after a rain.
And crumbling rock, orange and red.
Orange and blue are opposites on the color wheel, and so, perfectly complimentary.
I was at Denny's a few weeks ago, staring at the photo of a glass of orange juice in front of a blue back ground, sky blue, on the paper place mat sitting in front of me.
Just staring.
The spell of the desert.
I think you only have to spend a week there for it to infect you.
And it could be months before you show any symptoms.
But the seed is planted, and then...
Then there is this longing, and it grows, pervading your soul, your body, you can feel it in your arms, in your chest, on your thighs.
This ghost posessing you.
It grows to be very strong, and then, you have to go.
There is something about the desert.
You just ask someone who lives there.
They know.
Frozen Lasagne
yes, i will.
i will lick his neck, which tastes like salt, and i will breathe his neck, which smells like pepper.
and he will be wearing a white under shirt, as his only shirt, as usual.
and it will smell like him, and i will take it off, and press our naked stomachs together.
but the first thing i will do is grab his hairy hand and smell his fingers, because they always, always, always smell the same.
once i smelled my own finger and it smelled ever so faintly of his, and i went into a trance, breathing, until i had breathed all of the smell away.
and i will look in his color changing eyes, and i will envy his very black eyelashes.
i will make him feel the way he needs to so he will show me the dent in his cheek.
and every fantasy i had of him on the way to seattle from pennsylvania, every erotic imagining that took it's turn dominating my thoughts, will finally be.
oh, and they will.
Damn
I am listening to Scarlet's Walk.
I have a thing for Scarlet Johannsen.
Weird.
Everything is done.
Everything that I could possibly do.
This goddamn house is spotless, I ran two miles, I've bathed, I already wrote on my Deviantart journal.
I guess I could do guitar practice.
I guess I could figure out what I'm making for dinner.
Damn.
And I thought I had an excuse to just sit here, completely self satisfied, and ramble.
I have a thing for Scarlet Johannsen.
Weird.
Everything is done.
Everything that I could possibly do.
This goddamn house is spotless, I ran two miles, I've bathed, I already wrote on my Deviantart journal.
I guess I could do guitar practice.
I guess I could figure out what I'm making for dinner.
Damn.
And I thought I had an excuse to just sit here, completely self satisfied, and ramble.
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