Sunday, July 31, 2011
Scared and Intimidated
I keep having dreams about her again. The same gut-wrenching dreams that haunted me for months on. They're always the same. Different story, different scenario. She throws my way the kindest smile and forgives me... every single time. But as quickly as we mend the broken in my dreams, I wake up to my cold and loud and green reality. That's when it sinks in all over again. The guilt. The weight that drops onto my stomach. It's amazing how awfully it still makes me feel. No matter how much effort I put in bettering myself and making amends for my mistakes, this one single thing can easily drag me back down to the ground. And nothing else will make me feel as sorry as I do now.
One day... I always tell myself. One day...
One day... I always tell myself. One day...
Saturday, July 30, 2011
Friday, July 29, 2011
"Untitled"
hopelessly drift in the eyes of the ghost again
down on my knees and my hands in the air again
pushing my face in the memory of you again
but i never know if it's real never know how i
wanted to feel never quite said what i wanted
to say to you never quite managed the words to
explain to you never quite knew how to make
them beleivable and now the time has gone
another time undone hopelessly fighting the
devil futility feeling the moster climb deeper
inside of me feeling him gnawing my heart away
hungrily i'll never lose this pain never dream of
you again
down on my knees and my hands in the air again
pushing my face in the memory of you again
but i never know if it's real never know how i
wanted to feel never quite said what i wanted
to say to you never quite managed the words to
explain to you never quite knew how to make
them beleivable and now the time has gone
another time undone hopelessly fighting the
devil futility feeling the moster climb deeper
inside of me feeling him gnawing my heart away
hungrily i'll never lose this pain never dream of
you again
The Cure.
Maybe one day you'll understand.
From the short story Le Joueur Généreux by Charles Baudelaire
"My dear brothers, never forget, when you hear the progress of enlightenment vaunted, that the devil's best trick is to persuade you that he doesn't exist."
Texts messages from Raemon Farin because I guess he just knows how much I love French poets.
The Age Demanded by Ernest Hemingway
The age demanded that we sing
And cut away our tongue.
The age demanded that we flow
And hammered in the bung.
The age demanded that we dance
And jammed us into iron pants.
And in the end the age was handed
The sort of shit that it demanded.
And cut away our tongue.
The age demanded that we flow
And hammered in the bung.
The age demanded that we dance
And jammed us into iron pants.
And in the end the age was handed
The sort of shit that it demanded.
Thursday, July 28, 2011
STORM. Lato? Zima.
8:47am
I said I wouldn't sleep. Rae woke me up at 4am. And after an endless goodbye and shutting the door behind him, I never bothered to go back to sleep. In the past 5 hours, I have drawn a picture of a naked girl in stripes, two entries in my gayass notebook, read dozens of Bukowski's poems and a chapter or two from his books, listened to Bach, Tsjaikovski, Debussy, and my favorite as of lately, Vivaldi.
If I were to play an instrument and play well, I mean excellent, (aside from the obvious choice of the bass or guitar in general) then I would choose the violin. Vivaldi reminded me of those days when I used to look at Tyler's violin in awe and desperate aspiration. I wanted to place it under my chin and close my eyes and set it on fire. Or set the room on fire. Or set a building on fire. Or my friends. Or everyone around me. I just wanted to play as if nothing else ever mattered to me. Some great violinists have had their hands around my throat, wrung me silly, and gripped at me like I was supposed to be constricted that way. Then other times violinists just kick me around and I take it like a dog because what else can I do when I hear that much in music? Sometimes violinists run beside me around the neighborhood. Sometimes violinists summons all the hair in my body to rise and make me shudder. I feel it down my spine sometimes, trickling. For what it has done to me, all I wanted was to reciprocate the same effect on someone else. I wanted to have that much power over someone else, too. It is insane how envious I have been of violinists. And the most insane part was ignoring my own insanity and while bathing in my own pool of envy. For years till on, I just listen, admire, and nothing more. It's just like me to be this way. To ignore all the fires inside me. This is why I never bothered picking up the bass either. Or why I never bothered making something of myself as a writer. Or why I never said the things I wanted to say. Why I never did the things I wanted to do. I'm just a slack. Just a spectator slack. I'm sad and pathetic and stuff.
If I were to play an instrument and play well, I mean excellent, (aside from the obvious choice of the bass or guitar in general) then I would choose the violin. Vivaldi reminded me of those days when I used to look at Tyler's violin in awe and desperate aspiration. I wanted to place it under my chin and close my eyes and set it on fire. Or set the room on fire. Or set a building on fire. Or my friends. Or everyone around me. I just wanted to play as if nothing else ever mattered to me. Some great violinists have had their hands around my throat, wrung me silly, and gripped at me like I was supposed to be constricted that way. Then other times violinists just kick me around and I take it like a dog because what else can I do when I hear that much in music? Sometimes violinists run beside me around the neighborhood. Sometimes violinists summons all the hair in my body to rise and make me shudder. I feel it down my spine sometimes, trickling. For what it has done to me, all I wanted was to reciprocate the same effect on someone else. I wanted to have that much power over someone else, too. It is insane how envious I have been of violinists. And the most insane part was ignoring my own insanity and while bathing in my own pool of envy. For years till on, I just listen, admire, and nothing more. It's just like me to be this way. To ignore all the fires inside me. This is why I never bothered picking up the bass either. Or why I never bothered making something of myself as a writer. Or why I never said the things I wanted to say. Why I never did the things I wanted to do. I'm just a slack. Just a spectator slack. I'm sad and pathetic and stuff.
I lost my pencil
So I can't write in my dumbass rap book. It's new. Bug bites. I just want to go to le beach like a bum. It's 5:25am, I'm going to try staying up because I am so tired of sleeping at 5 to wake up to 2. Sometimes I hear termites when I try to sleep. It keeps me awake. If one more Asian person walks in my room during my slumber, I'll rip my own clothes off in front of them. I just wanted to thrift today. I just wanted to take some cool pictures. I should change Nietzsche's name. I should keep reading Bukowski. Then go back to the Half Priced Bookstore and spend all my money there again. I should try keeping up with all my friends again. I'm starting to feel bad. But I also kind of don't...give a fuck...a lot. Recluse, lately. Not really, just in my head. Who are these damn kids? I don't even listen to music anymore. Just Cat Power. I'm just boring. I don't even dance anymore. A buddy pointed it out. I felt sad. I should dance more. I should listen to music again. I should read more again. I should wake up at mornings. I should sleep at night. I should eat 3 proper meals a day. I should do a lot of things that I just don't seem to anymore. I need a Basilisk fang. Lousy, godawful writing. My hands are dry and rough, but I'm still just as lazy and restless. Listless, witless, and lifeless. "What comes is better than what came before." The Velvet Underground. This day means time doesn't exist, and I woke up to a bright room and an itch behind my knees. I don't ever want to go back and I can never go back, but I don't think I'm here anymore.
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
Some unfinished journal entry from early summer
Last night, we unwound in my room and stretched out on my bed as we do every night after a long day. Limbs wrapped around here and there, tangled this way and that. We were dozing. But as he dozed and as I almost dozed, my mind began to race like a roadrunner on speed. I looked at his face next to mine and felt sad. As exceedingly happy as I have been and as he makes me, there is this gaping hole in my seemingly happy and satisfied life. That gaping hole was created by my unwillingness to …exist. And I felt sad. Sad but angrier. How can I be happy but find myself not wanting to exist? And it was the thought of money that really constricted me. Every single time that money would cross my mind, I would feel this rising submission to nothingness. To inexistence. To such heavy lethargy that my mind cannot and will not even fathom. I felt the death of my blissful ignorance decay from my destruction of a brain and fall off of any belief it ever clung on to. If I could, I would live my life without any dependence on money at all. Knowing this is impossible, I sometimes...or oftentimes...choose inexistence. How awful is that? That I refuse to live my life because I refuse to be enslaved by all the things that revolve around money. I refuse to live just so I can work just so I can live. We work until we retire in which then we can have "a life". By the time we retire, we've shriveled up into our wrinkled regrets and the life that passed us and stamped us with creases and dreams we never had a chance of ever having.
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A song that I cannot seem to stop listening to
I first heard this from the movie Saving Face years ago (some lesbian movie because I'm just that gay). I recalled hearing the song during a very passionate and intimate sex scene. And I remember being distracted by the song. It was so pretty and true, but I never bothered to find out the song title or artist even. A few days ago, I finally finished watching V for Vendetta after months of neglecting it. To my surprise, this song came on and I felt my face light up and the strings of my fluttery little heart tug at me. I turned to Raemon and exclaimed (or maybe screamed) that I knew this song and confessed elaborately how much I adored it. Thanking the subtitles for giving me the title and artist, this song and I have been attached for days now. I am so very fond of it that I had to devote an entire entry for it. Hatmeh.
Monday, July 25, 2011
Sunday, July 24, 2011
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
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