Slimeball

I'll try again. Try something new, slimeball.

With Providence only 10 days away, a few words come to mind: excitement, anxiety, optimism, fear... I have my boxes packed and my head cleared, a-ok on the apartment and a U-haul, a probable job opportunity; what more is there? Still, it seems like something is missing, and I'm not quite sure what it could be.

I've been reflecting on my life for the past seven months, trying to piece together what exactly just happened. I know that there was a point where I had hit bottom, maybe a few. There were times when I was somebody else and when really living was too much to handle. There is a thin line between spiritually aware and mentally insane. I worry a lot about just losing it, of course gradually, and not being able to see truth again-- to see what is real. Whatever "real" means. Real is subjective. Reality, that is.

Family gatherings always give me a glimpse at generations of insanity, repeated. It all scares me half to death, when I think about it. Thinking that life really can get so unmanagable that we conjure these phantom needs (sex, money, food, drugs, social acceptance and lack thereof) in extreme ways. I don't know why I'm so afraid. I know that anyone could be diagnosed with some disorder or other, and that even though some facets of life are out of my control--life is mostly predictable and I decide what I am going to do and who I am going to become. I know all of these things but the thought of being homeless and strung out, forgetting who and where I am, why I am....why I would ever do that to myself.... it has to be a lack of security within.

Why do I analyze myself so much?


I hope that in Providence life continues. It will, but I'm saying... I hope that I don't hit the ground face first. Hope that I can keep it together. I've moved so much that it should seem like second nature, but it really is just the opposite. I'm so sick of moving, and at the same time, I can't see my life any other way. I already know that I'm a nomad and nothing is going to change that. I almost wish that it would just get exhausting and that I could actually see myself staying in Providence for the rest of my life. Or even a chunk of my life, which also seems unlikely. I know that I shouldn't think so far ahead.

Ugh.


This whole entry is littered with stress. I'm not stressed out about Providence; that is cake. I'm thinking: What can I do (in Providence or elsewhere) that will help me to be more secure as a person? What can I do so that I don't get so paranoid about becoming crazy or a drug addict or ending up cold and alone with no place to sleep? Wasn't that the point of college? It all cycles back around to my wondering if four years of debt is even worth the things that could come of it. Which comes back to wondering what I'm going to do in this world to earn a living and still manage to retain some creativity and to help people. And that in turn makes me impatient. Impatience takes away all of my self-respect (hasty decisions) and turns me into exactly what I don't want to be: a crazy, cold drug addict with no place to sleep.

I don't know why I don't want to be that, but I'd suppose that the Family gathering had something to do with it. They've all been there, done that. Try something new, slimeball.


Something will come around, I just know it. Providence seems like it is the right thing to do and really I just hope that it works out for Us.

disregard my previous post:



I am well, the things that are happening are beginning to make sense again and I'm sure they will continue to for my life as well as all of yours.

fuck you, Julia: the fish: dead: the chair: broken

it could be my period, or the fact that I got off of work from my longest slowest day half an hour ago.


it could be, that might be the reason that I feel so lonely and listening to alison talk about her boyfriend all day didn't help. it could be the reason that I can't complete a fucking sentence and I just feel like crying because , like everyone else I am: wanting someone to love them for who they are.


I get sick inside every time I think of all of these pretty girls who are really ugly inside and everyone wants them and everyone wants to be with them and yeah: that's life, right? well, I'm bitching about how life isn't fair again. I know. Nonetheless; the fish are dead and the chair is broken. I'm sick of these beauty queens and how the people I love are always in love with beauty queens and even if they love me it isn't going to make me pretty and perfect and skinny. It isn't going to make me them, and they'll always compare it because

fuck.



I'm not saying what I'm thinking about because it is too much deeply seeded shit that I should deal with but can't.

You know those things?


You just can't deal with it.

It's not that you don't know how, because you do. But you don't want to. You do want to but wanting to is not enough to actually deal with the thing.



And that's this.






I hate it that every time a man sings a song about loving a woman he talks about what she looks like.

(lonely) Automotive Repair Manuals ex-mass

I'm very tired right now but I was nervous and I was just typing about this to somebody. I had a dream last night that I met Bukowski on a beach and gave him a pork chop (the same one I ate for dinner last night) that was wrapped in gift wrap. I had a dream the night before about a house where I was searching for michael and there were all of these people sleeping in beds, people I knew, ex boyfriends mostly and I kept waking them up and it was the same four rooms over and over again and I kept looking for him but I knew that he wasn't there. At the beginning of the dream we were together then I think I watched him escape through the ceiling and that was how I knew. His body was strange like the idealistic body I have in my mind, only with fleshy pectorals. He is always this iridescent salmon-orange in my dreams.

Maybe I've been smoking too much pot lately.

People, in general, are ugly.

It is really absurd how everyone in Hollywood gets the funding to put out these miraculously stupid books but a writer that actually has something to say can't even get his work out there. It isn't really absurd, it's life; I'm just saying, I just skimmed through this book by Macaulay Culkin who I always loved. From Home Alone to my first vibrator. This stupid fuck got published though? It makes no sense and I have half a mind to burn the book or lift it so no one can read it.

But I won't do that.



I'm turning into Bukowski.

I have 46 minutes to write this, and that is quickly turning to 45.

I'm tired and I hate this transition weather. I'm thirsty for something new, someone new, someplace new. All of the people around me and my daily routine are draining the life out of me, I can feel it. It isn't just Indiana, it isn't just being this close to Chicago (Hell), and I can't blame it all on stress either.... it's like I have a magnetic pull to empty shells of human beings; boring tedious people that have nothing better to do than make everyone around them feel guilty and stressed out. I'm not talking about one person here. Everyone I have met so far in South Bend has had this effect on me. It might be me, but I really doubt it. I remember being at the Peak of....I don't know, I felt like I was learning a lot and like I was satisfied. Peak of Spirituality? I remember being there, and I didn't have friends, didn't need any. I started meeting people, and now I just want to leave all of this behind.

I will, soon enough.




Reading:

The Secret History by Donna Tartt

The Last Night of the Earth Poems by Charles Bukowski

Ariel and other Poems by Sylvia Plath


Thinking about Reading:

The Hobbit

Maybe it is.

It might be okay.
It might be. Okay.
It might be. Okay?
Itch mite bee. Ok?
It. Might be. Ok.
Okay, it might be.
Might it be okay?
Be okay, it might.

4, 18, Halloween, Thanks Giving, and a happy new Year

I'm not completely sure why I'm writing. I worked at the Cafe until 7:30 or so for Halloween and I was on my way walking home when the Beautiful Eliana offered me a ride, and being the Romantic that I am, I accepted. What a mistake. I was fully aware of all of the energy in the air and I wanted to enjoy my Cinnamon Stick coffee with a feeling that it might be okay. Already after only 10 minutes of being outside, I received a gift from above and had to ruin it with sitting in Eliana's 2 door shiny sportscar. I'm somewhat infatuated with her. Her eyes are black and she has something.... something below all of the superficiality that living in the h-o-h most of her life bred her. She is amazing, and she doesn't even realize how so. We had a probable date set to watch Sleepy Hollow and smoke, but I knew I'd end up falling asleep early. I knew that riding in that car would ruin my night. I knew, also, when I got home that I shouldn't call Michael, because he would say something to depress me. I knew that I shouldn't get online and chat with people. I knew that I should have gone to Indianapolis with Jeff to complete the circle, but I didn't. I should have. But didn't.

It might be okay.


All of my admissions garb is in to the College and now I'm waiting for them to send me my packet of stuff to fill out. Everyday is one day closer to my being gone. Every year, on my birthday, around Halloween, sometime before Thanksgiving and Christmas Hell is born, I come to conclusions about the year that just passed. I realize who my real friends are this year. It's funny how it is usually the same people every year, but this year, there is a new name. I wonder if he is my real friend, and I wonder how much he really cares. I'll see. This is not a test. He says that I am his best friend, and if so.... he'll call me on my birthday. To wish me good luck for my 19th year on earth. I already know that I'll call him to wish him luck on his 29th year of existence. Good luck. Not the kind that four-leaf clovers bring, but the kind that having 3 people on your list brings. That's all you really need. 4 corners, 4 elements, 4 people. 25%. 25. 3-22. ?.
I might just be very Borderline for saying this, but maybe it is permanent.
We are truly friends.
TS CS
We have our ups and downs.
I probably experience less of them, being in the middle, but it doesn't change.... anything at all.

So hypocritical. I never come through on 3-22 or 5-29.
Never.

I'd come through on 9-9 and 11-18 and 1-10 and 6-20 and probably even 7-10.... but.... not....

I'm sorry.

I really am.

I try so hard to be the kind of friend that I'd want to have. I try to treat other people the way I want to be treated. To cushion the truth when it will be harsh. Don't stab me in the back, stab me in the heart. I'd do that for you.
But.
I didn't this year.
I was more selfish at 18 that I had been at any time before. Hopefully, 19 will be better. I couldn't have asked for more adventure or emotion or Spiritual Growth. I couldn't have asked myself to use my time more wisely or to waste more of it.
Waste what?
Time?
No.

What I'm trying to say is.....

I know who my real friends are.
I have 3.
Maybe a few more.

But I have the 3.

This year, I'm thankful that I have friends at all, after the year of hell I've put them all through. I'm grateful that I have a mother and a father and 2 brothers that haven't disowned me. I really am. And then, there is the obvious, I'm also thankful that I can still push a pencil across paper, that my eyes haven't turned brown, and that I can still empathize for and love people.
I'm glad I'm alive.
Today.
I am.
That I didn't allow myself to drown in alcohol or dxm and that I didn't pull the fucking cord at 18, when I knew for sure that I would.
It's kind of funny how you know for a FACT that something will happen.
That you'll do something.
Then, because of the smallest thing, you don't.

my dream began in a victorian house of some sort and I remember being kind of rich and I was going off to travel and a man that was somehow my mom's friend, with a motorcycle, handed me something-- some kind of business card or wallet-- and said that if I ever needed anything at all that he would make sure I had it.

I woke up and thought about astral projecting but went back to sleep and continued my dream.

I remember being in a house with these 2 hippies a boxy little crap house with green or blue paint chipping off of the walls. I met them, I don't know how, but it was in Nantucket, which in the dream and maybe in life, is a city in Rhode Island near Providence.

The female hippie gave me a pap smear.

I remember thinking about asking them if I could just live there, thinking about how close to m it was.

I went to the library and I was standing on the second or third floor looking down onto the ground level and I saw a very abstract, far-away michael standing by some sort of fountain while a bunch of other people, scattered, were trying to make their way to see something in the sky.
I tried to go very quickly to see michael but I came to this hole in the floor that was covered over with a very flimsy curtain and there was another kid just standing on the thing. I remember when I walked out onto it, I got really afraid that I was going to fall, and there was a security guard standing there and I asked him if he could lead me to another way out...
he led me to this ramp made out of a rock like material.

I can't remember any more right now, but if I do later I'll post more.

the animals scream

Everything is a blur. It all seems so unreal, but not frightening. What is the word? I stayed up until 6 am, after Jeff gave me an amazing massage that felt like waves in the ocean rinsing away all of the bad energy and tension. It was a full-body massage, and as he moved onto each new section of my body it felt like it was being cleaned. All of the quirks and inconsistencies in my muscles flattened out and I really feel like... I don't know. Just so much closer to... I don't know, I just really don't exist and it's somewhat strange. It's like I just don't fucking care. Indifferent. I know I do, but the volume has been turned down, all except for the droning of this computer and the cricket right outside my window. I rearranged my room so that the energy flows throughout it more evenly. I closed the portal. It was bringing such bad energy into this room, but I'll probably just end up opening it again when I project. My eye sockets are searing.
We sat in some parking lot the other night, and I touched on a new layer of spirituality. I saw his life source. His moon. And it was pallid periwinkle fading into bleach white. Jagged around the edges. I could see the inconsistencies in it, just as he could feel in the massage. There were a lot of tiny ones that needed smoothed out, but 2 major ones that I could tell would take a lot of work to heal. Two holes in his soul. I'm not kidding. 3 others that were noticably different from the texture of his moon, and the tiny spaces. Those 3 didn't really worry me though. There was a line going straight through the middle not quite to the end. A line parallel to it for only a second in the center of the moon.

I've had 2 dreams in the past few days that seem to stick out in memory. In one, I could see someone's soul, and it was someone I know in life. It was an old man, and we combined-- spiritually, that is. In the other dream, I has a bunch of animals: a snake, a tiny yet fullgrown cat and dog, 2 weirdo fish, and a bird. All of the animals were dying, I remember that. They were all really sick, ecspecially the fish, so I called up my friend Dannie Davis to ask if he wanted them because I knew he liked snakes. The next scene, I was in a car and there was a crowd of people that were angry about my proposition to Dannie, for some reason.


In my next astral projection there will be a chair. I just looked over and there is a chair in my room, in the corner and that corner looks like it might be penetrable through projection. I drew pictures with white charcoal on black watercolor paper of projection, and in one there just happens to be a green stickly chair. The figure is bent over seeming to be focusing or crying and there is another figure ascending out of her. Spins. The alligator spins illustrated, I think, are necessary to my cause.

caffiene withdrawal

I went back to Fort Wayne for a few days, and it didn't feel like home, and now South Bend doesn't feel like home, but that doesn't mean that I wanted to stay there, because it didn't feel like home either. Home is where the heart is, right? Where is my heart? Well, I could say that it's with the people I love, but they're scattered all over the country. I could say that it's inside me, but I'd just be fucking fooling myself really, because I know that my heart is scattered all over the country just like everyone else that I love, just like I am mentally and emotionally and spiritually. Spiritually, I'm already gone. That's to say, I'm not here. But I'm not in Providence yet either, I'm kind of just on my way there. Like in the way that, physically, matt is on his way to Arizona (prison). I'm not sure what attracts me to that city. Is it Michael? Do I miss starving, maybe? Maybe I just feel like I didn't get to experience it completely, for what it was worth. Maybe it is the ghosts of HP Lovecraft and Poe lurking about that really attract me to the place. Maybe it is the fact that Jack Kerouac was born not too far away, that I could ride the T to new york city and boston every weekend if I had the money and the urge to. It really is all of these things. Maybe it's just that it isn't here. I don't know why I feel like I have to justify it to myself. I'm not wishing anymore. I've done all I can, I've taken the steps. I have a couple of stupid things left, and now it is all in someone else's hands.
If this was the last day of my life, what would I tell people? What would I say to them. For starters, I'd want to tell michael that the whole reason behind the red letter was just that I want one more chance. I need it, because I really don't feel like it's over. I feel like there is something still there. I'd want to tell him that he doesn't have to try so hard to impress upon people the idea that he is intelligent, because he is. I'd want to tell Carly that if she would just stop trying to be original and unique, that she might be, that she is when she isn't trying. When she just is who she is, without trying, those are the times that she really makes me feel like I could just cry forever because she really is beautiful. I would tell Sarah that it is okay. That it is going to be okay. That life makes itself okay, but if she really wants to be happy, she going to have to not accept okay as enough. She's going to have to face that fear of rejection......

I faced my fear of rejection. It does seem so childish. This basic human fear. It is the root to all of the lacks that we have as we grow up, that I had growing up. Lack of self-confidence, lack of self esteem, lack of grip on reality, lack of self identity. That's what the red letter was. I wrote it, and I knew that he'd say, "Jess......." and he would tell me that it was never going to happen. He'd reject me, but it didn't matter, because he knew that I knew. But I don't think that's it. I might have a fetish for rejection. Maybe I just don't want to hear the truth, if it means to hear some things about myself that are actually good.

No I'm not that fucked up.

.....But really, I'd want to tell her that I love her, but I haven't always. That she isn't my best friend and she hasn't been for a very long time. I'm not learning from her anymore, just like I'm not learning from Angie. They're both teaching me how "very bad men are", but not really. More like... how very bad turning into your parents, into white trash, can be. I think the phrase originated in the South and moved to the Midwest. I'd want to tell Thomas... what? What would I want to say? I've already said it. I don't really have anything to say to Sarah. Carly... yes I have something to say, but it isn't important. Thomas... I might have something to say if he were here. Michael, I don't really have anything to say until I see him again, because anything that I say is meaningless at this point. It all could very easily be based off of my idolatry of the man, my idealizations, and not on the actual person.

I don't really have anything to say to the world right now, today. Except that I have a headache, I'm cold, and I really just want to go hang out with Jeff, I want a connection, but I should draw. I'm not going to. I'm sick of drawing, I'm not giving it up, I'm just waiting for there to be... that real feeling like I can create.... to pick up the pen again.

Still

this could possibly take forever to write, since I jammed my finger in the door today.

I feel like things might work out for once in my life. From the beginning of my spiritual journey, the question that really started it all was, If we have free will, then how does god know what is going to happen? Well, I came across an answer to that question through hoping for it. God created us, and she knows us better than we know ourselves, so he knows through every fork in the road which path we are going to take. We all die. We go into eternal sleep, where the dream just doesn't end. Death is just a continuance of our dreams, so how bad could it be? It is the inevitable end to this life... so how can that be so bad? Everything will work out, because we'll all die and we won't have to wake up and face hell for another day. Another... days, time don't exist in dreams. Whenever I project, it sometimes feels like hours and hours. Technology doesn't exist, and that is why the furniture, computers, and art in my room doesn't exist.
When I read a good writer's writing, it is so conversational that it feels like they're just talking to me, telling a story. It feels like they're just talking to theirself. I do this at night. I talk to god, to myself, and this speaking turned inwards turned into an image is really what the truth is that I've been wondering about. The Truth. I realize that with every drawing, every doodle of my hand, every smear of pastel, I really am just talking to myself, and talking to god at the same time. God is inside of me. I'm not god, don't get me wrong. But he created me and just like I seem to show up in all of my paintings, I'm sure I reflect him somehow. Her, it. Whatever.

Autumn brings with it for me, not just Aenima and the cool moisture frizzing my hair, but also the cool warm humidity of California Dreamin'. Robitussin-flavored cigarettes, a mixture of permanent ink and tar, in Cleveland, Ohio with the feeling of absolution. The feeling of moving a hundred-twenty miles per hour while opening doors by pushing a button and also static, unchanging spaces on the train. Divorce in Utah followed by the greatest of squiggly kisses in the rain. It's hearing the leaves crunch under my shoes, feeling like Popsicle tripping on DXM, skipping school hoping to leave, leaving. Smoking a joint out the window of the hotel room across the country from the place where I bought the pot and smoked the same green stomachy plant with my pet, stumbling off of the Citilink bus, and waiting for the Greyhound while riding the trolly to North Beach (like the beats?) and conning the RIPTA driver into taking us downtown, where I'd update my journal at the library, where I'd update my journal in that stuffy e-bay room on Suttenfield, while I update my journal in the lower Haight and right here...right now, in the Basement.

In your dreams, whatever they be, dream a little dream of me.

mechanics

I can feel all of my dreams and all of my goals, fantasies, and drive imploding . I can feel the lightning and sparks of electricity from above, from around, shocking me like an endless seizure and I wonder when I'm going to wake up from it...... snap..... out of it..... and have that feeling like I've been crushed by a Dumpster truck. None of this is mystical. I lost my job today. My cat ran away about 2 weeks ago, matt left. I'm taking these things for what they are. What do I do? I mean, obviously if my finances don't come together because of this, I can't go to Providence. I can't stay here. If I do, I'll turn into an alcoholic, or worse yet.... my parents. If I don't have a partner, it's not like I can go travelling. Would I want to? no. I'm not 17 years old anymore. I'm just going to keep hoping that my finances come together, that I can get a counselor reccomendation, that a dorm clears itself up, that these things all happen. Only time will tell.

In the course of 72 hours, I've realized that I can see. I have eyes. I can see what is really there, and what is really going on. I am who I was then, fitter happier. I'm not in doubt of who I am as a person. I doubt whether that person can function in society. Whether society will accept her for who she is. I won't change. I won't let my eyes become gray and dulled, nor my pencil, from the lies that this Hell seems so eager to force into them. I can see how much 'fitter happier' than I was then, at 5 years old, but it is really only a matter of introspection and exploitation. The more I find about myself and the world, the easier it is to exploit their weaknesses. As a society, I realize how very little people know about one another. How little art there really is. How very little leeway there is for real, genuine obscurity.
The more I find out about my true self, the more I can exploit these corruptions- fitter happier-
I already know that I'm never going to fit in anywhere. There are a few people I feel comfortable with, and vice versa, but people as a whole do not understand. They don't get my adversion to a car, a cell phone, take a shit, eat your dinner, television. Tele-vision is really just a distraction from intro- and extro-vision. I can't read someone's ora that is on tv. I can't feel the living breathing essence of that person, so if They just decided to replace people with robots, most people wouldn't know anyways, but I would.

No, Pat, our chemistry doesn't work out. I'm sorry I'm not mundane and numb to the fucking core, but it doesn't change the fact that I'm a lot nicer to people than you are. Here is your change. You didn't even smile at that guy. If you're going to be a fake piece of shit salesman, selling your soul, then you could at least do a good job of it.




I just learned how to take off the mask, I'm not putting it back on. I know there has to be some place, some person, in this world that will accept me for what I am-- not how well I can cover it up. Everyday is Halloween. Keep moving.

goddamn it, joshua

fuckers. this is going to be a real fucking struggle. to not change my mind stick to my guns.


tramps leave me alone

autumnal equinox

as the autumnal equinox grows nearer, I wonder more and more about what the coming year will hold. I really don't want to idealize everything down the hill of hopelessness. at night before I sleep, I try not to picture the way that things will be... I plan, and I really hope that just hoping is enough, because it is all I can seem to do anymore. I can say every night to myself that, tomorrow, I will try to rise above whatever today's shortcomings were, but the only way to really know whether the catalyst for them has disappeared is to wake up in the morning and let time tell.

He really was right when he said that "Only time will tell," but in more ways than he could ever possibly know. I always had a million questions, and the answer to them was always just this simple. Now that I have it, does that stop depression from coming over me? Does it make me love him any less? Or become more patient? No, no, no.

(m)(m)

I finally wrote the letter and mailed it. It took 4 months, 14 shots of gin, and 92 insect bites... but I really think that I may have actually used words to express myself truthfully (at least 92% so).

muse

okay this is what is going on with pumpkin spoon, that stalker-chic girl:

• applying to RISD and some other places
• working on my portfolio of course
• quit my old job and now I have a new job at the zoo
• haven't been sleeping much, summer insomnia, so I've been studying and reading, thinking about things to incorporate into my art, taking pictures, thinking about the issues and problems I have had/ am having in life and pondering different solutions to these such dilemmas
• doing spiritual exercises as much as possible what with the idealization of M haunting my mind and soul
• looking inside; continuing to search for truths within a girl whose entire perception of life is loosely based on nothing (lies).

reading:

Jean-Paul Sartre's Essays in Existentialism

Kerouac's Big Sur (yes, still)

Deliberate Prose/ Selected Essays 1952-1995/ Allen Ginsberg, Edited by Bill Morgan

studying:

Egon Schiele Drawings and Watercolors by Jane Kallir

The Origin of the Gods: A Psychoanalytical Study of Greek Theogonic Myth

may i feel said he poem by E.E. Cunnings; paintings by Marc Chagall

Lucian Freud paintings

Lawrence Ferlinghetti

Ellipses (...) (...)

I'm not sure what to think about this whole thing. It really doesn't feel permanent at all. It feels like, hey, I'll be home in a couple of days... when I know in reality that is not going to happen. My last few days with T.S. were... I don't even know how to describe it. They made me not want to leave at all.

Needless to say, the fantasies of Michael have been replaced. Not really replaced, but they're kind of competing with these others as of now. I'm really hoping to get a job at this trendy diner by my house that's open 24 hours a day. And I'm going to start looking for a library and checking out the scene here in the Bend pretty soon. I'll also check out the train system, and maybe go to Chicago for a day or something. I don't know. I think I'm just really trying to keep my mind occupied, and it's quite difficult. This city is not at all what I want it to be. For being just a mini-Chicago, it should be more....ummm, hip? Is that the word?

I really need to figure out this camera situation also. That will give me something else to do.

I'm not at all unhappy, just missing You.

Equilibrium

Feeling pretty good right now, and have for the past few weeks. I am absolutely content with my life and my plans at this point.
Celibacy is... fulfilling. I am done searching and waiting. This is my life, and I want it to be one that I can look back on and smile. I no longer have to look forward to ____.


I have become myself.

Matt dropped dirty for his last probation meeting, and is now travelling. He called me last night from somewhere in Ohio. He's already hitchhiked further than I did on my entire trip. I'm beginning to wonder what would've happened if I would have just gone on that trip by myself. No Amtrak, no bullshit. I think that if I tried again, I would make it. I get this whole different feeling about travelling now. It's not so much of a fear as it was before, maybe it's hope?

Crossroads

It's amazing how the tiny little inhibitions can quickly turn into my basis of decision making. The scabs have been torn back open, despite taking it with a grain of salt. I really do know what unconditional love is now.


I feel very lost right now. I just don't know what to do with my life. I know that I do not need to have everything figured out, but I do need a goal. I don't think just waking up is a big enough goal.

My options are:

Stay here in Fort Wayne, go to college, room up with Sarah and Small Hobbit.

Work to save up enough money to live in Boston, live with Michael, maybe go to college, depending on if I have enough time in the day after working to make rent and trying to maintain a relationship with him.

Move to South Bend, go to IUSB or something like it, get to know my dad.

Save up money here, not much, find someone here in town or the whereabouts to travel with, and be a drifter.

This is what happens to people when they don't have a rolemodel. If I could meet someone who was 25 years old and genuinely happy, interested in art, and remembers what it was like--I would take their advice. I really just want some guidance. All of these things seem possible to me, they all seem like they could harness my happiness, and I could learn a great deal from any of them.

Is reality subject to interpretation? or would It exist despite Our interpretations of It?

Did God (or the Zar of the Universe or Alah or Our Creator) create all of This, including Us, or did We create the idea of God just to make Ourselves more comfortable in a lonely universe?


I'm writing this not for answers, but simply because I wonder what kinds of things in life lead people to believe either way.

My crew manager Andrew let us off 4 hours early today, but instead of actually going home we had to endure his lame attempts at trying to make us feel sorry for him the entire time. We rode around in the van while he pretty much told us the inside scoop on Erie Construction's canvassing team. He says they're going to shut down the whole thing, because our sales suck in comparison to the Ohio and Michigan teams. I don't understand why he is so paranoid about it, and at the same time, he claims to be able to write 20 leads per day and is just not trying. The thought crossed my mind about paying him to give me the leads and sign them, but I realized that it's probably more sensible to just go out and find another "filler" job. Time is running out, and I hate always being the new guy, but in a few months it won't even matter.

I've been thinking about that a lot lately. I'm trying to decide what the hell does matter. It seems to me that I've been brainwashed into thinking that as long as you don't have kids before you're 25 and you go to college, your life will be easy. Is that true? I think not. If college really doesn't matter in the Grand Scheme of things, what is the point? I already know what it is. I have been trying to get this point over to Andrew for 2 weeks now. I want to go to college to learn so I can get better at art, my passion, my favorite thing. He seems to think that I will be unhappy in my decisions no matter what if I don't follow Jesus and bow to the cross. It just irritates the piss out of me. Can people really be that ignorant? He's 32 years old, and knows less about the world than an 18 year old little girl. People seem to think that the actual God is really that dogmatic. Do they really think that the actual God gives a flying shit whether I believe in something that is completely corrupt and was meant to (maybe) teach some very evil people a lesson hundreds of years ago?

Even if Jesus is the son of God, lets say: Would the real God understand if now, in the 21st century when all of Jesus's followers (or roughly 60%, I'd say) are inundated with their BS "You're goin' to hell, Faggot",(we) people choose not to believe that they are a reflection of a real God? I'd say that if God wants to damn me to hell eternally for not believing, and in fact despising, in this bullshit...I didn't want any part of that God anyway.

I spent the weekend in South Bend. It was enjoyable, but very sad to see it gone so soon. That may be my last time seeing family until...who knows when. There are pieces of me that tell me to stay here and harness the American Way forever, and the rest tells me that this is something I must do in order to move onto what is next.

Scarlit

"It's not my fault," the stupid girl says as she represses fantasies. White walls, white room. Where's the salvation now? Pathetic. Cronies are what you fucking imagine. Rust clings to the stenchous toilet and she sticks her little palm in. Nothing left but shit. Shit would be a goddamn dream for this stupid cocksucker. Why dream? Why dream when the toilet is your wishing well?

"Suicide" is the exact word. But it's not the word. Suicide is just a wish. Wishes never come true. I mean...look at yourself. You're inedible, inaudible, and intangible. You wished for love and look what you got-look in the toilet, that's what you got.
I am your gateway drug. Your seven dollar freedom. Wishing doesn't come cheap for addicts. The price you pay is more than you'd think.
"All I ever wanted was...for you to...NEED me...," the bitch yells into space. Mascara runs. Tears are building up in her inner cavity. Deep tears.

In the rain...the warm smoky rain...the girl has lost hope. Out of her lungs whistle, "Whenever is convenient to you," into a receiver that is dead on the other line. It's a pity...that you're still here. She is inconvenient to the world. Her existence is spilled red wine on your new white carpet. Her feelings are your panic attack waiting to happen. Even the fact that she's still alive-still taking up space-is a late train, a missed flight. "Tomorrow," the girl denies, "will be better."
She carries an armful of junk. The only things that ever mattered to her are just a bunch of trash. Trash you don't even want the neighborhood rats to live amongst. You are a fucking homeless bum-a bum to the homeless. Quit acting like you care. Tomorrow never comes.

She is a hollow piece of shit. Her best friends are these boots that carry her from pond to pond scanning the murky goo for a lost friend. Her old companion. The one who made her realize that boots do not compensate for a conversation. Melty brown hair seeps over her face. She gives me that stupid look again. She's not really looking for a friend in these swamps. She's looking for something more. Her whole life is a syntax error, so she guessed fixing it would mean covering it. Tossing it like a cigarette butt only to be ground out by a muddy boot heel. Pondering the sludgy pond, vaporized and scant, she waded through the tidal waves, collecting liars in her spoon.

One by one she scooped them up, diesel power fuel.  Placing them, oh so del i cate ly onto (astro) tuelle.

Vibrant green, around his neck, he fucked away her. black. berries.
The antique shit pile in her arms is overbearing. These heels are too high, her persistence is none. She dumps all of it on top of the green ooze and lily pads.

She's started believing in Jesus since that night. Sparkly crucifix clasped to her neck. She's saved.  The skin so salty like sea water. She covers her whole mouth with a left palm, pinching her nostrils tightly together. One step... The rope clinches down hard and her face is hot. This is her underwater adventure.
~~~

This is the sink where sins are washed off. Where fetuses are cleaned with rose oil. Dead mothers lay and dream. The mud seeps down a crumbling hill, and I want to sleep
~~~

She knows what she has done is not wrong.  How could it be? There is no purpose to human life. This was no god that she has soaked in blood. This was so fucking saint, or a father. He didn't love her and that's the price he paid. HE was the only thing that ever mattered to her.
He was a piece of trash.
And she smears the snot all over her bloody arm. I've tried several times to convince her that she is sub-human. That she can no longer hide, because I know the piece of shit that she really is.
She swims here every day. This is her fucking sink. The sink that washes off the day's aggravations. The trash. She murders him in her mind every fucking day- with disregard and indifference.
She drowns everyday in the murky gray- and hopes that tomorrow...well it's not going to fucking happen.
Tomorrow doesn't matter if you can't conquer today.
She is finally at peace-completely-with the idea of not ever being loved.  She looks up and there is rain.  The rain tells her that
IT'S ALL GONNA BE ALLRIGHT
and the silver, cold protrudes her veins.
Free.
~~

They ate her blackberries together. They hustled through the alley with the leaves as companions. Just the two of them. And they tried so hard. Fingering  her scrumptious blackberries. They were tiny, and freshly picked, but unripe. Not a moment to waste, they must be devoured quickly and precisely. They shoved them in so fast they were heaving as dogs do when they eat the green, green grass that they love so much.
At church, she sang hymns of God and his precious Lamb, knowing the entire time that her day would come. All of the children hammered nails into the wood to gain the knowledge of the tree- to feed the birds, so they'd know that they were people too.

I never knew what she was running from. But I'd run too if I were her. I'd try to be someone else, as she is.
~~~

The man was on a mission. He loved the carbon dioxide trash. It seemed so pure.  The oil of that bus was gaining on him, and he was losing.  Soon enough, he'd give them what they fucking wanted. His teeth were rotten like banana peels.  Brown and soft.
He only hoped for one. Once he had it, he could die with satisfaction in his shell of a soul. It was a never ending man vs. man. But if a man has no eyes, or passion...is he still a man?
The other man was sub-human, waiting for the perfect day to kick and scream like a little fucking baby.
He consumed the entire chunk of meat with his bare hands, carnivorous and satisfied, he continued to sanctify the gauntly gluttonous creature inside, desensitized to its supplicating.
IF YOU ACT LIKE A BABY, YOU'LL BE TREATED LIKE A BABY.
~~~

He kisses her feet because she is his goddess. They are callused and torn from the running. Her body is paralyzed by precious desires. She wants what she used to have...the freedom, I mean. The sticky, scarlet paint that covered her body.
She flinches and continues to stare blankly into space.  His clammy fingers aggravatingly protrude her.  He can see the disdain she has for him right now in her bitter eyes, and he wants her disgust to go away; he won't stop until she gives in.
She aborted reality with pain.
HIS precious desires lie within her aching body. The body that has a drowning sensation inside of it. It kicks her inner tissue.
He wants that last drop of flavor to melt on his tongue. These calluses don't soothe his urge. HE IS cutting around it trying not to slip.
And he is conscious of the hot, trickling juices. They awaken him to a world that he loves so. The mistakes are covered with staples and burlap.
One at a time, so each tear is stapled away.
Pulled back inside, for she is strong.
He doesn't hear the screaming or the beating heart.
~~~

He's torn them off like limbs.
He trims them.
Now she can never fucking get away.
Even if she could, would she?
She never flew away before. Never dared expand those wings. It's a pity, pithy as it may sound.

~~~
I'm safe under the covers where it's warm. She's safe here. She wishes to come out, but the wooden floor will transfer the ice cold to her dry toes.
Another dilemma-the blankets are piled up and she can't get out.
Would she if she could?
Tongue in cheek. Smiling.
Her eyes are crusted shut.
"How long have I been asleep?"
It's been days.
The irritation covering her face is just one more annoyance that those men begat her.  The pink and red color of conjunctivitis dominates once hazel eyes.  The matter is only made worse by her fingertips rubbing it until the infection thoroughly diminishes any sign of beauty on her countenance.
The cold shards of glass are piercing her skin.  She's bound in wires, or are the wires bound in her? It's hard to tell.  She spouted words as delicately placed as lace, "
He's been trying to program her like she were his robot or something. She was fed false pretenses and made to wear a plastic smile.  The wires and chords were assembled ingeniously, twisting through as her cervex with information, exiting like a larynx.  Her eyes her made from glass.  The stitches on her bandages were ejecting themselves with a vengeance.

~~~
She meanders through a parking lot with a glass of ice jingling like bells. The tracks are so far away, leading from behind, each one is something old, something passed that she can't help but to gaze back upon.

His iron-worked hair was cut in a sloppy asymmetrical trim. The thick, wavy side held his sanity in its split ends, and the rest...well, it held the past. The keyboard click, click, clicked and this was his only form of communication because he's grown gaunt and pale from avoiding actual conversation. He never wanted this. He wants to float away from the chains of this clump growing from his scalp. It is exasperating to work your way through it, and he is oblivious to your trying. So just don't. He is cold and hypnotized by the hum of the computer monitor, and its neon shots of pornography. The stalker-esque (piece of shit) girl peers into his window, sighing with a feeling of guilt in the pit of her stomach. She'll never help him. He can't even see her.

They laid spooning, with soft purrlike breaths, her dorsal region in tergiversation with his pelvis. They made note of one another's breathing patterns, silently compromising so that their chests expanded in unison.

In a few hours, it would all be over.

~~~
A redolence of obstinacy closed in as the two entered into a metal, trapezoid-shaped contraption. She was snug under his arm, his shield, or blanket if I may, from the perverts lurking about. I watched as he helped her aboard with a peculiar sense of protectiveness, which I'd never seen in someone like himself. The girlchild was shaking in her boots and the slippery vinyl plating on them rubbed together to make a relaxing buzz.

I felt threatened by that noise. She was trying to hypnotize me, and I did that bitch right. I struggled for a second, but finally pried that pack from out of her tiny hand, just to find a puddle of seedy, damson fluid.

2003-2005