| but it's no use going back to yesterday, because i was a different person then. |
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| moving towards a better tomorrow |
[Jun. 30th, 2007|05:23 pm] |
| [ | Current Mood |
| |  jealous | ] |
felix, who was and is still living under a dreadful curse which forces him to get whatever it is he loves for just one day and never again, first learned of his horrible affliction at the age of 19. prior to that he had always assumed that the way in which the world operated for him was the way in which it behaved for every individual. it wasn't until then that he was able to appreciate the lasting, albeit less frequent, periods of happiness enjoyed by his friends (only the ones he had never loved, as the ones he had loved were obviously not around any longer, some having passed away prematurely and others merely refusing to speak with felix ever again) that he began to understand that there was something seriously wrong with him.
the worst of it was when he met the daughter of a family friend who couldn't have been a day older than 17. remembering the happiness that youth had brought to his proud, estranged ideological father, the columbian colonel who had fought and lost 32 civil wars in his country, felix was torn. he knew by this time that if he fell in love with her she would be inexorably drawn to him by the nebulous fingers of the universe until she loved him back, but all of his happiness would inevitably be destroyed by those same inscrutable fingers which had lowered the thing he most wanted in front of him, just close enough that he could almost grab it when he jumped, by the next dawn; however, he began to wonder if such beautiful youth could truly have a price too high, even if it would end in personal tragedy, perhaps, he briefly entertained the thought, this time it might be different? maybe, he hoped fervently, the curse has been lifted?
felix, unable to make a decision when presented with the competing visions of nearly guaranteed misery for him and her in the future and certain happiness for a day accompanied by the impossible hope of future happiness if the curse had indeed been lifted, simply chose to ignore her. it wasn't until he discovered that her daddy was rich, as was betrayed by the gold rolex which was exposed as her father's shirt sleeve pulled back when he extended his hand to him, that his decision was forced and he made up his mind to ensure his future misery at the price of present happiness.
the universe is not fair.
but perhaps felix really made no decision. after all, the position we find ourselves in at any point in time is entirely dependent upon our position in the past, and if we can shrug off radical empiricism for a moment, we can assume that the laws of nature are always constant, which means that in each and every apparent instance of choice, there is in fact only one physically possible outcome. c’est-a-dire, from the beginning of time, all of the events in the universe (including those taking place in the human mind) were already determined (that is, predetermined) because the universe follows a certain set of rules which do not and will not ever change and which are responsible for shuffling the contents of the universe into its present state. this, of course, means that the past is the sole dictator of the present and future and, since the universe began, has followed a single and inescapable path based on several emotionless, unchanging, and universal physical principles right up to the present second.
what could be more fair than following the rules?
what could be more
what could
what?
maybe it's just another excuse, i don't know.
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| every day is a good day |
[Feb. 20th, 2007|01:04 am] |
| [ | Current Mood |
| | jealous | ] |
| [ | Current Music |
| | excuse you - mc paul barman | ] |
A designer knows he has achieved perfection not when there is nothing left to add,
but when there is nothing left to take away.
i entered the anechoic chamber expecting to hear absolutely nothing, but when they closed the door, i heard two sounds, one high and one low. when i described it to the engineer in charge, he told me that the high one was my nervous system in operation and the low one was my blood in circulation. i now believe that nothing will ever be perfect, there is just too much going on for me to ever reach the bottom.
"the suffering that all astronauts endure is almost impossible for us on earth to understand..." the speakers at the back of the lecture hall that were producing the beautiful voice emitted a shrill screech followed by the thumping of two aged fingers on the microphone, which was being worn by the owner of both the beautiful voice and the two aged fingers who was standing at the front of the hall, "rarely, if ever, can someone who has seen the darkness express it in words that have meaning for anyone who has not experienced it. in this way it is much like conceptions of god, except instead of the infinitely occupied creative light that is associated with most gods, it is a complete emptiness that attempts to force its way in to areas filled with light and take from them anything they might have to tell us; this darkness isn't the same as the darkness in your home at night that can be made to retreat when you turn a light on. no, this darkness will not leave at the insistence of a lamp," the ancient man at the front of the room paused and the entire audience immediately missed his beautiful voice, which had seemed, to those who could only imagine the darkness, to be the only thing capable of restoring the light. when he continued, the relief of the audience was almost audible, "it is certainly a difficult thing to explain using only words which must stand for ideas that are nearly incomprehensible to us, so i will tell you all a story which will, i hope, make this clearer," he paused and again, as soon as the last reverberations of beautiful, peaceful, hopeful sound had faded, the audience became afraid.
as soon as the people of the town saw the blind boy stumbling down the street, they demanded to know what had happened to his blue eyes which they all agreed had been beautiful. it was eventually explained that the previous evening his brother had told him what beauty was to him. his brother had said that a beautiful thing must be timeless, that it could show no signs of temporality or it would reveal itself as just another one of the superficial trimmings of the world, not true beauty which must transcend all human systems and show itself to have been written into the very laws of the universe. he had disagreed, at first with only mild annoyance, but eventually, when his brother refused to compromise, with great anger. he shouted that nothing in this universe is permanent and we must be willing to accept the inherently fragile nature of beauty, because if we couldn't do that, then we would miss out on everything wonderful in the world. he gained even more volume and violence when he told his brother that it was not the idea of flowers blooming that he found beautiful (even though the timeless nature of such an earth-dependent event was highly dubious) but the individual flowers that had bloomed which were beautiful. how, he demanded, could any human ever be beautiful by his brother's definition, for all humans were doomed to die, and even before that many lose their beauty; some even gain beauty through cosmetics which will fade before the night is over, and is that not true loveliness? when he had finished, his brother responded by saying he believed that beauty exists apart from what human eyes can see. what is beautiful in a woman to one might not appeal to another, but that does not mean there is no standard in the universe, it is the fault of our eyes that we cannot see which one is right. no, he continued, it was not right to think of short lived things as beautiful, just their ideas, which were, he argued, timeless. his brother stopped then and looked at him, expecting a nod; however, no nod was given; instead, he had raised a knife to his beautiful blue eyes and was preparing to teach his brother a lesson about the fleeting nature of beauty.
the wonderful voice was raised again and effortlessly made to say, "after the perceived death of his crew, the astronaut was further from another human being than anyone else in history. he wandered the halls alone, always trying to find his way back home with his little pocket of light, but he was always aware of the thick blackness waiting outside of the glass and metal of his ship. the blackness would gently probe his vessel for a path inside, it wanted to flow through an open window and drown out his cabin lights, surround the astronaut, and force its way inside his helmet," because this was being relayed through such a splendid medium, the audience was not immediately terrified after hearing such a horrible thing. it wasn't until the lecturer stopped and let his voice fade that the audience began to shift nervously in their seats, upon seeing this transformation, the man at the front continued, "i must add that this blackness isn't a malevolent force specifically targeting humans in spaceships, it is simply a natural entity that flows out to take up the greatest possible area, like water. but that area is the entire universe except for the area we protect here with the dome you can all see about your heads when you walk outside. continuing on, the astronaut was plagued by the relentless and unthinking assault of the darkness for his entire 6 month trip back to earth. he would be awakened every night by a gentle tapping at the window and the noise of voices that sounded almost human urging him to open the airlock to let them in. it took all of his strength to resist the temptation to open up and just let the darkness have its way." |
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| in the end, isn't it all about fucking the man and making the world better for hanging out in? |
[Dec. 4th, 2006|02:41 am] |
| [ | Current Music |
| | joanna newsom | ] |
i hadn't been in turkey long, certainly no more than a week, when i grew tired of my hotel room and decided i might relieve my ennui by taking a walk through the city. perhaps i would even see something interesting enough to tell at parties; there was certainly more chance of that on the street than in my room waiting for an audience with the general. despite the heat i wore a jacket. i didn't want to look like a tourist. i made for the market, i'm not sure why, and i was drawn to a crowd that had gathered around a deeply set back doorway towards the north side of the marketgrounds. i suppose such a thing must have been common, because very few people not already clustered around the doorway were stopping to see what was going on, but i was very new to ankara and always drawn to spectacles, so i pushed myself forward in the crowd until i could see what everyone else was looking at: in the center of the doorway there sat a frail old man who was cradling his knees with his horribly thin arms, white hair falling limply past his shoulders and down his back. the sight of him made me shiver, for i hate being reminded of my own mortality. the crowd, however, was not so put off by his miserable physical state as i, they, instead, were focusing on his words. despite my best efforts i cannot understand a word of spoken turkish, so i had to clumsily ask a thin french man with a deep tan standing near me to translate what the old man was saying. apparently he was describing, in some detail, the greatest achievement of his long life: the flawless peeling of an orange. when i heard this i stared in some disbelief; i had always had great difficulty with oranges, but to call the peeling of one (even without fault)the greatest achievement of a very long life seemed very ridiculous to me. i continued feeling this way until he finished his lecture and displayed the orange peel, slightly curled and dried after these many years, but still breathtakingly beautiful. i stared in incredible disbelief, for before me there was a dried orange peel that was ripped from the bottom navel in exactly 4 places of perfectly equal distance apart. the orange peel had become an immaculate symbol of addition, except nothing more could ever be added. the audience gasped in shock and amazement (although i will admit that behind me the crowds continued to mill about, unaware or uncaring of the perfection that hovered tantilisingly nearby). for many minutes we remained like this, the old man, looking weary, holding the orange peel in the palm of his hand, and the crowd staring at it in disbelief (some of the women even fainted)until one very ugly man from the back pushed his way forward, and without even really looking at the peel, snatched it from the old mans hand and gave him a frightful kick in the face that produced a disgustingly dry and hollow sound, like long dead leaves in the wind, and took off deeper into the market. some people tried to follow him, but none were as fast. the old man did not get up. i returned to my hotel room and that night i had a dream about the ugly man from the crowd taking credit for the peeling of the orange. i forgot all about this dream until now, as i lie in some wretched anatolian prison cell, because that morning i was granted my audience with the general and he ggave me permission to begin my expedition.
i suppose you could say that i am a lady's man.
or perhaps a ladies man, because there is not one woman that is enough for me.
the duke cut a very elegant figure, with his wide chest and slim waist. he was always dressed in his ceremonial dress uniform, a reminder of his military days to some and a sign of his failing mental health to other, less romantic, critics. the duke would certainly not have gotten on with that second kind of critic, for he was himself a most romantic man, this was especially evident on days when the grey fog hung low over the bay that his castle overlooked and he stood, with his arms behind his back, staring into the virga to make out the slim shape of the girl. she had arrived quite suddenly and without warning, and was highly suspected by those same unromantic members of the duke's court of being a spy, or at best, a very ambitious courtier. either way, she was made unwelcome by some, but not by the duke who, although he did not love her and probably never would (due to a defect that he had developed some while earlier and through no fault of the girl's), he saw that she loved him and felt horribly sad and helpless. he could sustain her in body for as long as he chose to, his jealous members of court had no bearing over whom he provided for, but one night he would have to tell her that he didn't love her and never would. as he stood at his window, looking down on the small girl on the beach, he hoped to that that night would be a long time in coming.
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| like a bed-ridden child staring at a UV lamp and dreaming of the sun. |
[Oct. 12th, 2006|02:51 am] |
| [ | Current Mood |
| | jealous | ] |
| [ | Current Music |
| | at the drive-in | ] |
i had something dreadfully important to write down, but i am very sorry to admit that i have just forgotten whatever it was that i had intended to say. how strange though, that i should hold it so near my heart for so long, and then when the time comes to finally release it, it should vanish from me entirely. how strange.
the mahdi's eldest son raised his slender hand slowly and held it infront of his eyes to shield them from the sun. "tell me," he began, "what do you see?" i looked out past him and, from our vantage point on the hills that make up the highest "mountain range" in burkina faso, i saw the pathetic hovels his people lived in, i saw the brown grass that sustained them, i saw the piles of garbage and filth that were steadily growing around their village, and then i wanted to see no more. the mahdi's son was a smart man, and he must have known what i was thinking, for he turned his beautiful blue eyes on me, beautiful blue eyes that were shared by all the people of his tribe, and he asked me what i thought time would do to them.
"time never gives, it only takes."
"does it seem fair to you?" i shook my head and looked back at the village; a drunken woman was stumbling home from one of the drinking dens that sold homemade alcohol, which was strictly banned by the muslim government. she slipped and fell several times before she made it back to her government built hovel. suddenly the mahdi's son turned to me with those eyes and said, "do you know, that once, not long ago, our ancestors wandered the plains freely and feared no man? now look, we have been caged. we do not deserve this. my people are beautiful, strong, intelligent, and kind. how can we be rewarded for that with this life?" i looked into his face and in his eyes i could see all the way back to a time before the government forced citizens to register and chained them to the land, effectively outlawing the nomadic lifestyle his people had thrived on, a beautiful time in the past. he continued, "and now i look at this undeserved torture and some days i see it getting better in the future, i see our children regaining what our grandfathers were unable to defend, but other days i see it staying the same. i think maybe staying the same is worse than things getting worse, but i am not certain."
i remember what it is i wanted to say. i am so pleased that it has returned to me. perhaps things aren't as bad as they so often seem.
when the wall came down, pèter asked me if i would not go to the state intelligence building in berlin to see what the stasi had put in my file. i told him that i did not care what the stasi had thought of me, the west had won and there really wasn't any reason to dig through the past. what was it to me if my neighbour had once informed on me? i am here and the german democratic republic is not. but then he told me his story-- his file said he was a long time and loyal member of the communist party who had always paid his dues, which was strange to him because he had no recollection of being a member of the communist party or of ever paying dues, and if it weren't for a series of happy coincidences, he might never have learned the truth behind this lie: the head of the east german writer's soviet had signed him up and paid the dues, whether from his own pocket or from the party's own funds we will never know, and equally unclear is his motive-- did he want to protect young writers by making them appear politically loyal? was he doing it for his own gain-to show that he was an effective recruiter? did he want to protect his writer's free speech by keeping enrollment numbers high? was he out of his mind? we will never know, because ivan drakulic has been dead since 1986. pèter told me that i should look at my own file, because it might also be full of lies and falsehoods, and if i should die without correcting the errors, those papers would be all that was left, and there would be no one to say, "no, you are wrong, he was not like that at all!" people would just accept what they read as the truth. i reluctantly agreed to visit the building, which turned out to be one in an entire neighbourhood of buildings devoted entirely to spying on the citizens of the former gdr, and after several days of constant requests, my file was finally located and i was given time in the reading room to review it.
i approached the file with great hesitation: we of the west had won, of that i was sure, but what could it contain that i did not already know? had my constant paranoia served to fuel there machine? had i played right into their hands by behaving as i did? i was soon to find out. on the desk lay a plain file folder, it was off-white and had my name written with a very old typewritter on it, and the s jumped the line, i remember that quite clearly. the folder was very thin, and when i opened it i found it to be empty. i asked the receptionist if there were some mistake, but he assured me that the entire contents of the stasi's interest in me was in that file as it was. and then, in that musty room, i felt more alone than i had ever felt in my entire life.
there are alligators living in the sewer, that is a widely believed fact, but the idea that they were once pets and then flushed down the toilet is ridiculous. they arrived by far more sinister means. |
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| vanity, not love, has been my folly |
[Oct. 2nd, 2006|01:26 am] |
| [ | Current Mood |
| | jealous | ] |
| [ | Current Music |
| | the past is a grotesque animal - of montreal | ] |
"i thought of you today."
"did you?"
"as i was deleting your number from my phone." she smiled, fully believing she had done me some grievous injury.
"it would be weird if you were thinking of someone else while you were doing that." i honestly don't care.
and then she said, "i took it out because we never did anything and i wasn't planning on ever seeing you." as if that news was supposed to hurt me.
"that’s understandable."
"how can you be so cold?"
"have you ever read death of a salesman?"
"no."
"never mind then," i paused for a second and looked at her before i continued, "none of my secrets are physical now."
i don't understand pozzo. the second is every bit as sweet as the first, as the third, as the fifth. i'd do anything once so long as i could do it a second time if i wanted. there is something so tragic about knowing that you're doing something for the last time. so tragic, infact, that i would rather hold all of my cards until i can no longer hold them than show them when i am first able to, because after you've shown them you're finished and nobody cares anymore. besides, i have great difficulty living for today, it is always for the future. i guess the truth is, even if i were to throw away all of my copies of nintendo power, i'd still have a lot of issues.
"look, it's been a long day, thank you again for coming out. i'll call you when they're all developed." i don't use digital, i never have. i'm not sure why, i just don't feel like i have the same control over the finished product as i do with a regular film camera, and feeling like you have control over something is probably more important than actually having control; maybe that is why my sets are always so bizzare. i am not as careful when developing as i should be, concidering how much time i spend thinking about what i will photograph, but we all cut corners somewhere; however, i don't think that has anything to do with what has been happening. at first i didn't notice, they all looked perfectly usual to me: the light and colour i had captured seemed to appear perfectly on the paper, but after i spoke with her, they started to change. at first i thought it was her fault, she was doing something to me that was making me look at my own pictures wrong, but i later realised that i had been seeing them wrong the entire time. it started with one face, the most recent, but soon every model in every picture i had ever taken was undeniably a perfect likeness of myself. i've been too embarassed to speak to any else about this. i was going to keep the pictures locked away where nobody else could see them, but no one i have shown has noticed. maybe it is just me.
"do you ever think that maybe the heights are just as scared of you as you are of them?" i asked c. c continued staring up at the lead coloured sky above as that threatened to fall at any moment.
"why do you ask?"
"because i once knew a girl who was exactly like something i read in a book. she was my hermine. she was the way the underground man saw himself. everything was perfect about her, but i have no idea what she thought about me," it began to rain,"because i would like to think she was a person who had feelings like me, but how can i be sure? everything about her made me think she was all knowing and mature, like she had experienced the world in such a way that there could be no surprises left. it sounds dreary and frightening, i know, but it was quite comforting, i assure you. i fear that i am not expressing myself at all like how i mean too..." i stopped talking for a minute and realised that my audience had already left and was wandering towards the ground underneath a patch of blue in the tumultuous sky. after some time i got up and followed, still speaking to myself. "i think it is like when i first learned to dance: i was so nervous and my hands were sweating and all i could think about was my partner's opinion of me. only now do i wonder if my partner was really formulating an opinion of me while i danced. was she spending all of her time judging me? or was shenervous too? i don't suppose that i'll ever know."
i love hearing gossip about myself, but i always feel so stupid when i try to explain why. |
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| i like my misfortunes to be taken seriously. |
[Sep. 4th, 2006|03:41 am] |
| [ | Current Mood |
| | jealous | ] |
| [ | Current Music |
| | the crane wife 1 & 2 | ] |
'before i begin, i'd like to take a moment to honour a fallen hero. a man who showed the world that courage and bravery can take many forms and can come from the most unexpected places. steve irwin died doing what he loved. may we all be so fortunate.'
'well, i must endure the presence of two or three caterpillars if i wish to become acquainted with the butterflies. it seems that they are very beautiful. and if not the butterflies--and the caterpillars--who will call upon me? you will be far away . . . as for the large animals--i am not at all afraid of any of them. i have my claws.'
and, naïvely, she showed her four thorns.
i woke up slowly, dimly aware that the sun had risen some time ago, but also dimly aware that no matter how much difficulty i had keeping my eyes open, i would be up long before anyone else in the filthy flat we all infested together. i looked around and vainly tried to wake the skinny girl who had been sleeping nearest to me, she didn't even shrug or groan, she just lay there, barely breathing. there were no drugs left, that should have been obvious, but i looked anyways. it didn't really matter that there were none left, my credit was still good. my mother always told me that drugs were just an easy way out, a way to avoid growing and maturing as a person, because when you have drugs you don't have to deal with difficulties in life. i'm sure that she was right, but it seems to me that i could get the exact same outcome from being in an unhealthy co-depandant relationship that began in highschool and wasn't likely to ever end without any of the relief of drugs and for much more money. i tip-toed past all of the sleeping bodies in the hall and made it to the refrigerator. empty. fucked.
before i continue, i'd like you to know that i am actually a really nice guy. i always do my best to be one, it is really the corner-stone of my reputation. anyways, it was a stiflingly hot day and i had been trecking through the desert with no water for days, having lost my herd almost a week ago trying to ford the colorado, which was much wider and stronger back then than it is now. although i was wandering in the direction of the chicken wire fence that marked the begining of my property, i wasn't sure why i was returning home, as there was no longer anything for me there. it was on the 4th day that i began to hallucinate. i knew right then that i had to drink. well, that isn't true, what i knew was that i had to either find water or die. you always have a choice.
i'd see these huge black birds that would wheel in from the sky and swoop at me. even though i knew they weren't real i'd still fall to the ground every time i saw one come at me, and each time it was a little harder to get back up. i was certain i was going to die when i saw, in the distance, a cloud of dust--a wagon filled with water was coming my way with only one guard.
when the guard and his wagon got close enough i shouted at them for help and he replied, 'in some ways i'd like to help you, but in others i do not. do you understand? i can see that you don't. perhaps this will help: have you heard the description of free will as a person wanting to want to want something? that is, i want to help you, but i don't want to want to help you, but i also don't want to not want to help you because i, like you, want to consider myself a good person. actually no, that isn't what i mean at all, it is just the best way i can explain my reluctance to let you drink from my water caravan.' i stared at him incredulously as he continued to ramble about destroying friendships and making awkward situations in the future. i'd like to pause here to remind the reader that i have always considered myself a good person, so when i relate what transpired i ask that you not judge me too harshly.
seeing that my only chance of salvation stood behind a single guard who was too busy making excuses and considering awkward social outcomes to notice what i was doing, i raised my battered shotgun and fired once into his body. he fell to his back with a hollow thud, wheezed once, and then was silent. i nimbly stepped over his corpse and drank my fill from the water drums he had been hauling. and that is all there was to it.
'i'm glad that you're such a nice guy. you could never be a murderer.' after praising me she looked into my eyes, started to open her mouth to say something more, but checked herself when she saw my face nervously twitch, a sign she took for embarassment. 'i just do my best.' i told her, and then was silent for the rest of the night. after she left, i noticed that the shell casing had been lying on the ground very near to where she had been standing the entire time.
'in conclusion: every man has things he will only tell to his friends and keep a secret from the unfriendly world, and every man has things he would only dare tell to himself, things his friends can never know, and there are some other things that every man has which he will not admit to even himself. do not think these the trademark of an evil doer, for every man has these things, infact, the better the man the more of these things he will have.' the man in all white finished his sermon. in the half light of dusk he actually did have the appearance of a preacher, but that was absurd, because there hadn't been a preacher anywhere near here in almost 20 years.
'but how can you know this for certain?' asked a filthy farmboy, one of many who had gathered on the outskirts of town to hear the stranger speak.
'i read it in a russian novel.' the man replied, looking more preacher-like every minute.
'is that all the proof you have?'
'it is all the proof i need.'
her skin was like pepper and oranges and i wanted more. |
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| but you guys do think that my girlfriend is good looking, right? |
[Jul. 20th, 2006|01:42 am] |
| [ | Current Music |
| | also rain - french kicks | ] |
on the bus from downtown to the beach there was a lady in pink. she must have been eighty, at least. she had bright pink hair with flowers in it, a matching pink dress, pink lips, pink nails, pink handbag, pink earings, and, in her shopping basket, there were boxes of pink kleenex.
in the wedges of her clear plastic heels a pair of goldfish were lazily floating in formaldehyde.
i was too intent on the goldfish to notice the midget in hornrimmed glasses who was standing on the seat beside me. 'permit me to ask you, sir' he asked in a squeaky voice, 'which of the human qualities do you value the most?'
'i haven't thought,' i said.
'i used to believe empathy,' he said, 'but i have recently moved over to compassion.'
'i'm glad to hear it.'
'permit me to ask you, sir? at which of the professions are you presently engaged?'
'i'm studying to be an archaeologist.'
'you amaze me, sir. i'm in that line of country myself.'
he was a sewer-rat. his friends would lower him, with a metal-detector, into the main sewer beneath the hotels of miami beach. there he would prospect for jewellery flushed, accidently, down the toilets.
'it is not, i can assure you, sir,' he said, 'an unrewarding occupation.'
i suppose we were the same, except he found his treasure every day he went out for it by dirtying himself, while i, by staying clean, condemned myself to a life of waiting for treasure.
in chilliwack a young, obviously misguided boy got on the bus and asked to share my seat. he didn't read, he didn't listen to music, he just sat and stared at the seat infront of him for the 7 hours to westbank.
being homeless has its benefits. if you walk down the street singing quietly to yourself, no one will think anything of it. it really upsets me that my enemies aren't destroying themselves as quickly as i would like.
'no, i don't think you understand,' replied the young artist, 'the bread is the boy's soul, and here it is being served to his family,' he pointed at the loaf of bread in the centre of his picture,'and you see, each one of the people in his life is taking a slice. they are eating his soul! don't you understand?'
'that's horrible.'
my first real experience with other people's feelings occured when i was about 9. i was having my birthday party at crash crawley's (i was allowed such excess because i am an only child) and after the cardboard-like pizza, it was time for presents. my best friend presented me with the guess who game i use to impress girls with to this day, but i was so rushed that i barely had time to think. this put him into a deep sadness, he was always an emotional person. i learned of his unhappiness through my parents, so when he came over to my house a few days later, i suggested we play his game. 'but i thought you didn't like it?' and that was it. i wish it was always that easy.
to the arabian bedouin, hell is a sunlit sky and the sun is a strong, bony femail - mean, old and jealous of life - who shrivels the pastures and the skin of humans.
the moon, by contrast, is a lithe and energetic young man, who guards the nomad while he sleeps, guides him on night journeys, brings rains and distils the dew on plants. he has the misfortune to be married to the sun. he grows thin and wasted after a single night with her. it takes him a month to recover.
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| the genie in the lamp |
[May. 11th, 2006|10:48 pm] |
| [ | Current Mood |
| | jealous | ] |
| [ | Current Music |
| | song of our so-called friend - okkervil river | ] |
"He who binds himself to a joy / Doth the winged life destroy /
But he who kisses the joy as it flies / Lives in eternity's sunrise."
i was flattered and perplexed when i learned that you were still calling me a friend, but the poverty of language prevented me from explaining it to you properly; i just find it remarkable that people are so impossibly different and so impossibly similar at the same time.
to me, the great problem with restraint is how unrewarding it is: the gains one makes from abstaining are entirely esoteric, while the gains you can make from indulgence are clearly apparent to everyone. of course, the only way out of the heart of darkness is restraint, but would anyone who was comfortable want to leave? my nature won't stain my face nor the face of my likeness like dorian gray, with whom i feel i have something in common, so why should i worry about what my soul looks like? it is quite true that the only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it, and i have to wonder if a man who goes his entire life suffering temptation's slow pull on his mind is any stronger or better than a man to whom temptation is nothing to be afraid of? obviously there is a difference between pleasure and happiness, but there is no scale where they can be weighed against each other to determine the worthiest goal.
devant une façade rose,
Sur le marbre d'un escalier.
and that was all of venice?
when his father died, alistair became the sole supporter of his mother, six sisters, and five brothers. he worked 16 hours a day, every day of the week besides attending school, which is compulsory for a boy of his age.
one day, as alistair was walking along a deserted beach during some rare time off, his toe hit an old-looking lantern half buried in the sand. he picked it up and, on impulse, rubbed it softly.
suddenly, billowing smoke streamed from the spout, and a giant genie followed it. he towered over the astonished boy, laughing deep in his throat. then, the genie became serious. he picked up alistair between his huge thumb and forefinger
"you summoned me from the lamp," he roared, "now, are you going to grant me three wishes...or am i going to have to crush you to death?"
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| (no subject) |
[Mar. 26th, 2006|01:00 am] |
tomorow (monday) is my birthday. failure to wish me a happy one will result in a broken heart for me.
also
happy birthday simon and happy belated birthday anton |
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| my razor is closer to me than my friends |
[Mar. 9th, 2006|02:16 pm] |
To: sunopinion@png.canwest.com
Subject: TransLink Solution
Did you know that the public transportation system for the entire Greater Vancouver Regional District is run by men no smarter than you or I? In 1999, when TransLink was founded by naïve student Marxists and fat union bosses who had promised to do 'the best they could', it was never imagined that the board of directors, made up of publicly elected 'officials,' who are supposed to represent all the municipalities of Vancouver, would have control over the vast sums of money they are currently 'responsible' for; but like a slum town encircling our beautiful city, they have slowly grown, becoming simultaneously more powerful and less able to do their duty.
I, for one am glad that Kevin Falcon, Minister of Transportation, has the courage to speak out against these democratic institutions that threaten to strangle our economy and turn our once-proud country into an economic backwater; these archaic forms of leadership and decision making have no place in the highly competitive, high-tech, information-driven global market. It is time that we, as citizens of both Vancouver and Canada, demand that our social institutions open their eyes to the changing economic realities of a globalising world and hand the reigns of power over to more capable hands.
We have all seen TransLink fail before: they blindly approved the RAV line too slowly, they complain about inadequate funding every other week, and one time I accidentally paid for a two zone fair after 6pm and they wouldn't give me my money back. Why do we allow people with such an abysmal track record to continue to be responsible for our transportation needs? Is it because they were elected by popular vote? Please remind me, what qualifications does that actually give someone? We can't base our transit choices on the results of some popularity contest; they need to be based on cold, hard, impartial economic facts.
Kevin Falcon's assertion that the current democratic selection process for the TransLink board of directors allows for "no ability to develop the skill-set or the understanding of major multi-billion projects," and that this "is what undercuts the public confidence in these decisions being made" must be self evident to anyone with even a rudimentary understanding of the way in which a democracy works. How can we expect our leaders to get anything right if we only give them a few years? We can't. The only feasible solution to the problem is the privatisation of leadership—how else can we assure accountability but by turning it into a real, permanent job?
The TransLink problem might be a local phenomenon, but I assure you that it is only a small scale, local example of the incompetence and inefficiency of our public institutions. Take, for example, the federal government: home to some of the most notorious wastrels and least efficient leaders in world history. Why, again, do we trust our elected leaders? What qualifications do they have to lead us? It is quite obvious that they were selected not by a board of experts because of their managerial experience in the business world, but instead, were chosen, nearly at random, by an uninformed and equally incompetent public; is that reason enough to allow someone or someones to control an entire nation? What rational being could accept the premise that these people are fit to lead the nation because people as unqualified as themselves said that they were? For the reasons stated above, I propose that after we have opened up the leadership positions of TransLink to bidding on the open market, we do the same for all other elected positions in Canada, from municipal to provincial to federal. Sound economic principles of privatisation dictate that if Canada wants to remain competitive, we cannot allow this sheltering of certain occupations from market forces. Private corporations must be able to bid on the position of Prime Minister.
Transit and Government are far too important to be left in the hands of the common people, as they will never be able to understand the complex economic forces at work in the global market economy.
much love,
Craig Ferguson |
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| i was at that party and it fucking sucked |
[Feb. 26th, 2006|01:45 am] |
| [ | Current Mood |
| | jealous | ] |
| [ | Current Music |
| | the ideal weight - gogogo airheart | ] |
To such meanness, pettiness, baseness, could this man descend, to such an extent could he change! Does this resemble the truth, the reader may ask? Well, it is very likely the truth: it may very well happen with a man. The fiery youth of to-day would start back in horror if he were shown the portrait of himself in his old age. So take with you on your road, as you leave behind you the soft years of youth and emerge into manhood, which renders one hard and surly—take with you all your human impulses, don’t leave them on the way: you can never find them again later on if they are once relinquished. Stern and terrible old age, as it advances, will return you nothing, give you nothing back!
"oh wait, i know you, you're just like my friend, *****," she paused and looked me up and down, "yes, that is who you are; justlikemysomeguyiknow, and you shall be treated as such."
"er...are you sure?"
"o yes, most certainly. you act the same, tell the same jokes, your voices sound the same, you're both blonde. it would be a waste of time to try to find out anything else about you that might differentiate you from him, so i'll just remember that you're the exact same to save me the trouble of thinking." boy, getting to know me sure was easy.
strike. pull back. release. repeat. i stopped to wipe the sweat from my brow and rested on my pick for a minute, looking up to the top of my pit and shielding my eyes from the cold rays of the winter sun. the ground was hard with frost and it was likely to remain that way into the foreseeable future. to my right and left there were people performing similar tasks, but no two went about it the same; one raised his pick high enough to catch the rays of the warmthless sun and sparkle for a second before it was swung at the earth, another exerted himself as little as possible, a third has already collapsed and was staring at the others, looking for help. "hullo down there!" shouted a voice from above. i turned around quickly to catch a glimpse of the speaker, he was a young man, similar to us, but where we wore rags that the frost clung to, he wore a warm jacket. "how are things?" why should he ask? what could he hope to gain? denisovic was right, a warm man can never hope to understand a freezing man, just as i can't hope to understand why the man to my left raises his pick high and the man to my right barely lifts his. empty question- how are things. "not too talkative today? well, i'm sure that'll change soon if we keep getting this beautiful sunshine. take care, my friends!" and with that the warm, cheerful figure returned to his own pit and set about working in his own way.
"do you remember that day at the beach, craig?" she said while looking right into my eyes. i hoped she couldn't see deep enough to understand that i didn't.
"of course i do, how could i forget?" i lied. she moved to take my hand and i pretended that it was busy searching for something in my pocket.
"it is probably the best memory i have," thank goodness, she hadn't noticed, "everytime i think of heaven, all i can think of is that day and you." she smiled at me even more intensely. think craig, think. how could you not remember? it sounds important, but i don't think that i even have a memory i'd consider my best, it all just turns to sludge as time passes. she was waiting for me to say something so i had to remember fast. why is this so important to her? i looked at the paintings of ancient politicians and civil servants on e.m. forster's wall, all were probably mediocre or worse, only made venerable by their antiquity. perhaps that was it? perhaps age had elevated that memory to her, but not to me? but surely it happened at the same time for both of us? and even if time doesn't affect us the same, shouldn't i have similar memories that only matter to me? maybe i do?
"yeah, the best part was how good i looked." i said in a desperate attempt to say something that might be true. how could something i don't even remember have been so important to her?
well, i don't think that anyone can help me so you shouldn't feel so bad. after all, what can a desirous man be but jealous? i begrudge you the things that i have sworn abstinance from or am simply unable to attain, just like any other man would, and i'm not ashamed in the least. it was very kind of you to come all this way to talk to me, but i've already made up my mind.
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| this year, surprise your valentine by finally showing her whats under the floor boards. |
[Feb. 14th, 2006|01:22 am] |
| [ | Current Mood |
| | jealous | ] |
| [ | Current Music |
| | samuari fight song - arab on radar | ] |
for valentines day i am going to eat chocolate, masturbate, and cry. in that order. i am such a cheap date.
there is a taint of death, a flavour of mortality in lies - which is exactly what i hate and detest in the world - what i want to forget.
"four out of the five people i want to meet in heaven are professional wrestlers and i'm not going to tell you who the fifth is." i waited for a response to my bold statement, but the jurassic park poster (the one where the t-rex has his mouth open and is roaring at the jeep) on my wall remained silent. it was 1994 and i was 16 and wanted to be an emo kid but i just didn't know where to begin. i knew grunge was totally lame and emo would be around forever, jawbreaker was the music of my dreams; instead of songs about parents not understanding you, its about girls not liking you. the musical revolution is here!
"look, i didn't want to say anything before because it was a long walk and i didn't think you'd want to come all this way with me if you had known," i began, "but there isn't really a party- i just brought you here to rape you. i'll understand if you're a little upset with me." and like that she was gone, out of my life forever. not that she had been in my life for very long, i'd only met her that evening at the mall bus loop, but i was willing to throw myself down with anyone who would have me and pretend that they loved me. like a soldier crawling through the desert and being willing to believe that the mirage infront of him is real and not care too much if the water tastes suspiciously like sand.
i wonder if the band knows that they, and every other band on their label, make indie4kidz. one would think that they would notice the 16 year old boys wearing blazers, t-shirts and converse shoes, as if to say, "hey, look at me, i am reprefuckingsentative of irony!" but perhaps not, it seems like there is a contest to be the person dressed most like a member of the band. shows like that are so disorienting; i can never be certain what year it is because no two people in the room could agree on one. the bizarre mixture of dozens of antiquated scenes in the same room reminded me of that part in bill and ted's most excellent adventure where they have all the historical figures arrayed on their school auditorium each attired from a different era. socrates with a bandana around his neck, billy the kid with a green mohawk, and sigmund freud wearing girl's pants.
"so do you like her or what?"
"i dont know, she seems ok, i guess..."
"what the fuck do you mean, 'i guess?'what are you? some kind of faggot?" he stared right into my eyes until i had to look away. "C, please make him stop."
"no, i'm quite enjoying this. why dont you just tell him why you don't like her?"
"now you're just being ridiculous. this is a little like the neverending story except instead of not ending, it never gets any less sad."
and then there was silence. i had tried talking to him about how an america desperate to fill it's ipods was listening to shittier music than ever before, i had even tried making that stupid joke about how hardcore songs were limited to two minutes by law, but i could tell he was losing interest in me fast. i was desperate. "so, i came up with a justification for being shallow," he perked up at this, "yeah, well, it seems to me that no person can ever be all good or all bad, everyone is a mix of the two, see?" i think he saw, "so if you go out with an attractive person or an ugly person there are going to be things that you like and things that you dont like, no matter what. and, anybody can hide their personality and expose a completely new side when you think you have some idea of who they are, but their looks cannot be hidden, the face is the only guaranteed truth you can get from a person." i could see he thought i was just hitting on him, so i shut up and we rode the rest of the way in silence.
"hey, aren't you that guy from that band that had that guy from quicksand and that guy that drummed in that emo band named after that misfits song?" he panted and blinked, sweat burning his eyes.
"no, i'm not him...anymore." i shoved my hands deep into my pockets and kept walking, leaving him standing there staring at me. he'd come so close.
i'm actually going to spend valentine's day making a time machine so i can go back in time and write something better. |
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| take that, science! |
[Jan. 3rd, 2006|11:32 pm] |
| [ | Current Mood |
| | jealous | ] |
| [ | Current Music |
| | quarantined - at the drive in | ] |
"what are you going to change about yourself in the next year?" asked C.
"next year? but...but i only just finished this one! when may i finally rest?” was my reply. C made it quite clear that if i intended to make anything of myself this year (i had recieved a similar warning last year) i would have to change something about myself. "look at yourself, you're a mess. little better than an emo kid, your week is just a series of dramatic tragedies that you expect your friends to care about."
"but...i'm quite happy with myself the way i am, and no one else has complained yet..." before i could put the final dot at the end of my sentence, C was used by a baseball bat to hit me squarely in the face. ah, the dangers of surrealism.
obviously the worst way of finding something is to look for it. all you get for your trouble is more trouble. except this trouble is worse. finding trouble without fail is very similar to how every time i look for a new wallpaper i come across a few of those 3D mirror spheres hovering over checkerboard planes. unnavoidable.
the mechanical man strained his eyes staring into the setting sun, surrounded by a throng of admirers who had come from far and wide to witness his acts of superhuman ability. he was beautiful to behold, crafted by some aesthete of unparalled skill, his generosity had never been equalled, and the world had never seen a personality so gentlemanly before. the crowd, all of whom were just seeing him for the first time, all remarked what an impossible gift upon the world he was and how fortunate they were to have known him, even in the limited capacity that they did.
his most recent victory now forgotten, the mechanical man turned to his audience and shyly smiled. they urged him closer, "come, we must meet you!" cried the crowd. the mechanical man stood up to his full, impressive, height and began to move towards them, the ghost of a smile still haunting his face, but rapidly fading into something much more serious and befitting the mechanical saviour of man. his graceful movement drew admiring murmurs from the people, "my goodness how he moves..." swooned the crowd.
while he was on his graceful stroll, he and the crowd had failed to notice the clouds gathering overhead. with a silent burst they released all they had upon him, mercifully sparing the audience who had come dressed in their best clothing to honour the mechanical man. the crowd hardly noticed, having seen him shoulder far worse burdens without trouble, without even trepidation of his fantastic metal body.
when the rain finished, the metal man's skin rusted and fell from his body in chunks. one here, another there, and a final one revealing his face. "my god, he's just a...man." voiced each member of the crowd to the member of the crowd nearest them simultaneously. the formerly mechanical man stood still, his serious face replaced with an unsure smile.
he held his smile until the last of the crowd had turned away in disgust and returned to their cars, prepared to forget him on the long drive home.
for anyone going to university next year or ever, i highly recommend staying away from the girls or the guys who live in residence. universities, it has become apparent, are just pools of kids who were way too lame to attend parties and have girlfriends in highschool, so they have come to university expecting to catch up on all of these things and then some. if you dont live in the dorm with the person you are trying to woo, you dont have a chance; there is no way you can compete with some guy who just has to go down a flight of stairs to be at her door and has his own place. donald rumsfeld said, "arguments of convenience lack integrity and inevitably trip you up. " but most of the kids i've met at university are convinced that bush = hitler, so that line of reasoning is a poor one to take and i haven't been able to come up with another in between rounds of call of duty 2.
o, and 2005 really sucked. not just for the obvious reasons. it seems to have spelled the end of 2pacsploitation. in a shocking lapse in his once-remarkable posthumous work ethic, tupac shakur somehow failed to put out an album this year. it looks like 1995 is finally starting to catch up with him. |
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| it's not irony and it's not rock and roll |
[Dec. 13th, 2005|03:01 am] |
| [ | Current Mood |
| | jealous (schadenfreude) | ] |
| [ | Current Music |
| | the falls - the french kicks | ] |
Defenceless under the night
Our world in stupor lies;
Yet, dotted everywhere
Ironic points of light
Flash out wherever the just
Exchange their messages:
May I, composed like them of Eros and Dust,
Beleaguered by the same
Negations and despair
Show an affirming flame.
--- W. H Auden, September, 1939
i've always loved the cremation of sam mcgee. i can't think of a more awesome way to fake a cultural heritage than with beautiful water colour paintings. there probably isn't a better way to lie about something than to put it down on paper. it saves you from having to repeat it over and over again; you can just point to something that has already been written down and use its permanence as authority.
if i write your name down on my list, does that mean that we're friends forever? or atleast, until i take you off the list? we can talk about the mad trapper and the lost patrol all we want, we can write stories and paint paintings about them, but that doesn't make our claim that we have a history in the north true.
there are some people who keep me in constant fear. i'm afraid that one day i will find that our nexopia friend status is no longer mutual. but maybe, just maybe, if i keep them all on my list, they wont notice that i'm there and that means that they'll have to stay my friend. sort of like when a girl is screening her calls to avoid me and i keep calling her, knowing this full well, just hoping that if i call using a different phone she'll pick up and we can talk. forgetting that she isn't being forced to avoid me or that her screening her calls like a drug dealer isn't an accident. maybe if i call her one more time and i get through i'll finally get an answer and know whether or not i should take her off my list.
i like long bus rides, i always have. there is just something about travelling somewhere by yourself as part of something as unstoppable as a scheduled bus that is so appealing. i read on the bus now, except when it is too cold to take my gloves off, then i just listen to music. before i met C there was a time when i did neither, i could make the trip to B without having to occupy my mind with anything because i wasn't afraid to be alone with my thoughts for an extended period of time.
on top of that, i like suburban busses much better than city busses. there is so much more order in the public transit of the suburbs: the front is for grownups who compete in different games, and the back is for kids who have no other games to compete in but these. i always think these thoughts when i get on to the bus that goes by my house. i step on, flash the driver my upass with no small measure of pride, then i survey the back seat for kids who might be cooler than me. if i saw that i was the coolest kid on the bus, i sat in the back, if not, i pretended that i was far too mature for such stupid games and sat near the front. this order and structure is a far cry from the savagery of city busses. every man for himself, sit where you please. there isn't even any back seat of note. you just get on, pray you can find a seat, then pray that the mumbling meth head beside you doesn't want company.
i haven't been eating or sleeping much lately. all i can think of is harry haller and the fight of man against wolf. i'd say that man is winning, much to my detriment. some days i wish the wolf would gain the upper hand, finish the job, and let me live like all of the people i envy. other days i hate myself for thinking that. sweet things help the man.
"how could you not know the difference between synecdoche and metonymy? you really are a fucking idiot." and with that my boss threw the manuscript back in my face, shook his head, and walked away. as he passed the rows and rows of desks on the way back to his office, the other faceless typists who had been listening in to my admonishment resumed their mindless typing, sending a wave of noise in my boss's wake. the noise of the typewriters is so loud, i cant think of any reason we still use those old pieces of shit except for dramatic effect. i hate my job so much. some days i fear that i may lose it to a machine, but then i remember that no machine could do this job as resentfully as i can. it isn't the fault of society that i'm here, i had no shortage of choices when i was growing up, but none of them were ever good enough for me. i had in my mind pictured the perfect woman. i still picture her. if you ask me, i'll tell you in such vivid detail that you'll disgrace your body to thoughts of her yourself. but all that time, deep down inside i knew that i was saving myself for some life sucking bitch who would make me want to leave for work an hour early so i could spend as little time with her as possible.
"Elvira, you is a bitch." |
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| i just saved a bunch of money on my car insurance by fleeing the scene of the accident |
[Dec. 2nd, 2005|02:08 am] |
| [ | Current Mood |
| | jealous | ] |
| [ | Current Music |
| | paul simon - the russian futurists | ] |
i know far too many people who have defined themselves by laying down some ridiculously rigid statment and attempting to draw the rest of themselves in relation to it. how quickly it can become that a girl who avoids drugs of all sorts can come to believe that should she ever choose to experience such things, she would no longer be the same girl as before. or, slightly less mormon, when someone has decided that they are going to be "wierd" or at least, make sure to let people know that they are, indeed, "wierd" whenever possible. the type of girl, because it is usually a girl, who does this is always the least wierd, most judgemental person in school. if i were cynical i would say that the bitch just watched donny darko once and decided that it was ttly hawt to be wierd and has tried to incorporate it into their personality, usually forcefully and with little success.
as i tanned my milky skin infront of the blue-white glow of late night television, my mind suddenly lost traction and began to spin, unable to get a firm hold on the insultingly vapid plot and dialogue of whatever godawful crap i was watching. when i finally did find a firm path for my mind to travel upon, i found myself wondering about horror movies. specifically, do movie studios expect me to believe that the intellectually deficient morons who populate those movies have never watched other, similar, movies filled with characters who are very similar in nature and disposition to said morons? when i'm watching the attractive girl wander into the haunted house in which a murderer was tortured to death 100 years ago this day, there is a nagging voice in the back of my head that tells me that i should not be the only person who thinks that that is an unwise decision. honestly, how could they not stop and say, "hey, i saw a movie in which similar events happened to similar people. perhaps we should evaluate their performance and learn from their mistakes?"
seriously, i could make a much better movie than any of that crap designed for semi literate retards.
FADE IN:
EXT. IRAQI DESERT - DAY
WIDE ANGLE POV of wide open desert, flat grey sky.
THE CAMERA is running forward, toward a big sand berm in the
distance. There are O.S. sounds: SOLDIER'S EQUIPMENT
CLANKING, BOOTS RUNNING ON SAND. Hear a MAN's BREATHING.
The back of his helmeted head and his uniformed shoulders
APPEAR in the BOTTOM of the FRAME, running. This is TROY
BARLOW, Sargeant, U.S. Army, 25 years old. On his helmet is
a photo-button with a photo of a newborn baby.
Suddenly, on the sand berm 100 meters ahead, an IRAQI SOLDIER
stands. Troy stops in his tracks, out of breath, and stares
at the figure on the berm. The Iraqi flutters a white flag
over his head, then puts it down and picks up a gun. Troy
turns around, we see his face for the first time.
actually, that might just be the begining of three kings and not an original horror movie at all. o well, that was a way better movie than i know what you did last summer or any of that other trash.
"he has betrayed us! we offered him friendship and he attempted to abandon us and steal our friends!" screamed the first pirate. all the others present nodded assent. i felt compelled to stand up and speak, although my voice was soft and often lost in crowds, "but he has made himself miserable without us and is living in a sort of self imposed exile. surely that must count for something?" when i took my seat i was greeted with cold stares all around. "he is a monster, just because he is sorry now doesn't negate his awful crimes. i lost a fine wench to his meddlesome ways." and before i could stand in opposition the crowd present at the meeting became a shouting mob and no words could sway them. their decision was final; the smiling traitor of my dreams would die tonight and the mob would be back in time to watch the thrilling conclusion of saved by the bell: the college years in which zack finally marries kelly. sorry for the spoiler.
if i could go back and remake the world, i would do it one of two ways. i would either make every girl on earth want me to love them all night, or i would make it so absolutely no girls wanted such a thing. sort of like a soldier going to war, it wouldn't be so bad if he knew there was an after life or just a void, because then he could stop worrying about it and get on with his life.
the gravel crunched against itself like the grinding of hungry teeth as i manouvered my travel stained carriage down the bumpy lane. it was an unlikely town to even think of visiting, C would have called me a damned fool, but C was somewhere else when i decided that this place seemed nice. i quickly settled in and made this mysterious village my home. C had still not returned. while it had not been my intention to fall in love with this place, as that was my mistake last time, it could not be helped, and i soon found myself in the unfortunate situation of having grown so accustomed to this place that the thought of leaving was unbearable. i believed that, if i left i would have no hope of ever finding a place with such beautiful sunsets, such fresh water, or the availability of such an easy life. even as the town fell to pieces around me, cockroaches and criminals freely walking the streets, i found that i could no more see them than right the damage that had been done. it was at this moment that C returned to my thoughts. it was as a result of that meddling C that i decided to leave. all the while i feared that i would never see such sunsets or taste such water, or live so easily, but i went all the same. i readied my carriage and prepared for my departure, all the while believing that i was leaving a paradise for some unknown hell with no more villages to stop at. as my carriage was carried further away from town, such thoughts gradually faded from my mind to join the passive anxiety i feel when i lie silently waiting for sleep. some days later i was surprised and at the same time relieved to learn that C had left once again and i was in a new village with deep shadows filling all of its corners. this will be my home, i thought, as i began to fall in love.
i would certainly like to think happy thoughts, like a child righting a flipped turtle or a boyscout opening the door for a baby duck, but at the moment all i can think of is how little i want to reach the next town.
i wish i were more urban. if i were, i would begin most sentences with something like, "it's like the Diceman used you say..." and then follow that up with the secret to drawing a squirrel, the simple way. my life would be carefree and never dull, like running through a tornado made of barbed wire. or maybe my life would be better if i were more suburban. i honestly have no idea, but it's like the Diceman used to say...
i love it when i open a myspace page and i already know what all of the person's friends are going to look like. i met tiffaney again, except this time she has a different name and doesn't think i'm gay. one more reason to choose urban over suburban.
sure, you may all be laughing at me now, but pretty soon you'll have to stop in order to catch your breath. |
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| better hurry, the trolley is leaving for the land of make believe |
[Nov. 16th, 2005|12:58 am] |
| [ | Current Mood |
| | jealous | ] |
| [ | Current Music |
| | sufjan stevens - the seer's tower | ] |
sitting here, infront of my computer, it suddenly strikes me that instead of doing something meaningful with my evening, i have squandered it by making fun of morons in the enternexusopia sex forums and thinking of her. how miserable.
not all of my realizations are unpleasant and depressing. i recently realized that xena and gabrielle are obviously lesbians. the truth was right infront of my eyes the entire time.
"write me a funny story." pressed C.
"but i cannot write a funny story, i am far too scared." was my reply
"fear is like comedy, except upside down. you should write a story set in space because there is no up or down there." C followed this with a sagely nod of the head
"dont you care why i'm scared?"
"not in the least, i just want to hear a funny story set in space."
"alas, i do not care for space. if you are trying to cheer me up it has failed miserably."
"fuck off." and with that, i was alone again. who needs people? or space. man, i really hate space, which is ironic because i want to be an astronaut more than anything.
i have wasted my time in every possible way on nearly every impossible thing and i have become numb to it. i only realize how foolish and wasteful i am after something particularly awful happens; unfortunately, it doesnt take long for me to forget and keep on doing what ever it was i was doing before. sort of like the nexus forums: you try so hard to make people laugh and like you, but by the time they've caught their breath they've already forgotten who you are.
the floor creaked and the ceiling let loose a cloud of dust as i paced the length of my small office with a limp. my name is alistair and i'm a private detective. or rather, i am one when there is any business. most of the time i'm a professional drinker and waiter (not the kind that waits on people, but the kind that waits for people and for things). right now i've got three slugs in me, one of 'em is lead and the other two are burbon. all three of them are burning right now, but they burn even worse when i remember why they're in me. after an hour and a half of pacing i threw myself back in my broken chair and waited for you. after some time my eyelids grew heavy. i was begining to give up hope of you coming today, after all, you didnt come yesterday so why should you come today? it was then that i saw you enter my dusty office without touching the door. this time i was sure it was real. last time when you didnt show up i had drawn my revolver with a steady hand, intent on making sure that you wouldn't be able to do that to me again, but for some reason i couldnt do it.
after broken social scene some guy offered to sell me "his" bike. when i asked him how much he said, "whatever you got." i began counting the money in my wallet, only having to start over once after mistaking a rather prime ministerial picture of my friend's cat for a 5 dollar bill. "I have no mo.." but he was already gone. before you call me a fool who missed the chance of a lifetime, you should know that the bike probably didn't even have shocks.
my waiting had finally been rewarded, she had come back to me, like she said she would. i stood up and limped over to her as quickly as i could. my heart was made light with the knowledge that i had not been waiting in vain. i reached her and a smile filled her face. a smile so serene and beautiful that it was almost impossible to tell apart from a real smile. without thinking i threw myself into her arms and crashed into the filthy ground once again. she laughed before disappearing. next time will be different, i told myself.
in highschool i knew a boy whos mom we all called "mapquest" because she had multicoloured veins all over her body. looked like downtown los angeles.
i spend a lot of time dreaming about los angeles. just once before i die, i would like to cruise with axl rose down some dusty california street and holler at women and crack dealers.
how come nobody talks about tae bo anymore? if billy bankrolls had kept at it i might have eventually loosened my purse strings to discover what all of the fuss was about. perhaps it is for the best he just faded from the public eye, like mcauley culkin.
my choices appear to be either: go out, take a stand, and do something about the mess that my life is, or just put on an american eagle polo, find a girlfriend and do my best to push the past from my mind. but i guess my inability to find a third option is what has put me in this mess in the first place.
i apologize for how lousy this entry was. my real one was eaten by a dog (not mine) so this one was banged out in 10 minutes. |
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| dont bother |
[Nov. 5th, 2005|12:44 am] |
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trying to buy broken social scene tickets from zulu. i bought the last two. lololololo. end. |
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| another log on the fire |
[Oct. 27th, 2005|02:38 am] |
| [ | Current Music |
| | led zeppelin - achille's last stand | ] |
so i know this girl and she is totally awesome and she told me that she loved me. ok, that is a lie, but it is a beautiful one. and truth is beauty, which means that beauty is truth. reality is at fault. not me. never me. ever.
i've always wanted to be in a gang. i dont know why, there isn't anything about my personality that requires the support of a group, but it would just be nice to belong. especially if the gang had an awesome name. like...Life Of Leisure. LOL.
"CRAIG! we totally have to start a gang!" shouted a breathless d-mac. i dont know what it is about me, but when ever i run out of conversational material i always tell the other person that i'd like to start a gang. when will the lying end?
"i dont know..sounds kind of dangerous.." was my equally breathless response.
"why are you being such a dick? i heard you tell delicious d and crazy ray you were totally down.." his face drooped like a [fill this in later]. my drunken promises had cost me yet another friendship. they often say that the best things in life are free, but i've never demanded quality.
looking back, i notice that i say 'looking back' an awful lot, but i am also filled with regret and embarassment for the promises i've made and never intended to keep. this goes far beyond the ridiculous gangs i lead. but i dont think i'll ever stop. YOU CAN'T STOP ME! NO MEDICATION CAN STOP ME!
today was a pretty lousy day and i feel like concentrated awful. i was sitting on the toilet at home and was about to turn to talk to the two astronauts that i let crash at my place when i knocked my vintage mad magazine off of the counter. it nearly fell into the toilet. but it didnt. will to live regained.
it isn't that my lies have been as numerous as the leaves in the forest, after all, it is always autumn in my heart, but every once in a while i'll see something or talk to someone that reminds me of something awful i've done. it makes me feel worse than usual; like rocket boy. rocket boy, come home. on a completely unrelated note, i have been talking to someone on msn for the past 20 minutes and i have no idea who she is but she seems to know me. i am just thankful that no one has said, "i am be wanting for very much to become a citizen of her majesty the land of canada. can you be assisting me in this?" yet.
seperating her from me there was only the flimsy door that didnt quite fit into it's frame. i knew i couldn't stand staring at the dents in the door forever, the crowd behind me was screaming for blood, and if i didn't give them what they wanted they'd surely tear me to pieces. she knew that too, but i dont think she would have ever admitted it to herself. all the same, she knew i'd be coming. i had no other choice. i tried to hide my shaking left hand in my pocket, but that only reminded me that it was there. my fingers played over it, never the same twice, it's surface always changing. i had come across it by luck. i was doing a junk run with al-gomi, hitting a few shops in chinatown, looking for anything we could resell or put to some use. i didn't know what it was at the time, but i studied it for a while until i figured it out. i felt like a punk that had gone out to buy a switchblade but had returned with a nuclear warhead. screwed again, i thought. what good is a nuclear warhead in a street fight?
"but you must come out to my beach house!" followed by a smile. just stare at your feet and she'll go away. "it has been so long since i've seen you," maybe something heavy will fall on her? like the roof on an underground parking lot? "i really miss you." damn no explosions. that would have been really cool to see.
"see? you need to be here more often so i dont do such fucking stupid things." i said to c while we play fought high atop the howard stern tower.
i remember your hand in mine on the beach. you were scared, even then, had you already decided what you were going to do? we walked back to my apartment the long way, i kept telling myself that everything would go perfectly, we could finally leave this dome and get a nice place in the sprawl. they say you can travel from new york to detroit and never see the sky. in my dream it went right and we never had to work again. of course it didn't go right. i thought it was me until i read your letter. you wrote it on that stationary with the tacky hologram rose. i dont know how much they paid you, but i hope it was enough. you were right to leave, even if we had gotten away with it, they would have found us and killed us both for sure. i dont blame you. i tore your letter up as soon as i read it. but the strange thing about holograms is that the image is burned right into them so every individual piece projects the same image as the whole. i wish you'd come back, im waiting for you here, of course, i'm still waiting for them to come and finish me. i remembered that it isn't the same rose everytime, each fragment reveals the rose from a different angle. i passed out before i could ask myself what that might mean
to myself, to someone else, it doesn't really matter. i want a shirt that says, "i am society's fault" or maybe one that says, "steely dan is one person" i guess it depends if they charge per letter at bang on.
what really bothers me about my room is that anyone could live in it. it is just a basic space filled with basic consumer goods in a basic arrangement. i'm not about to fill it up with cats or house plants or anything like that, its just disturbing that anyone could fill this spot and no one else would notice.
the eyes i see are always hers, but never the faces. i dont think she told me why she left. i still see her from time to time, at the edge of all this sprawl of night and city. she waves goodbye and i mouth a silent apology. i wish i could get a piggy back ride home. |
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