The Emperor (Pt. 4)

Upon His mountaintop, God is standing,
with bush's white flames engulfing.
Moses' mingling meditation:
the difference between war and salvation.

"A world built on faith and love," God requests,
"a world of peace and compromise is best."
With a stir in his speech that he knows is absurd,
the unwitting prophet delivers a new word.

But upon his descension:
a bleak and terrible tension.
From holy land to holy mess,
a land not even God could bless.

Six thousand miles from this hell,
pondering a battle he can no longer sell,
the emperor gloomily looks
at maps and dusty books.

"They hate our freedom,"
his tone now glum.
"Gotta fight 'em there,"
a blank stare.

A voice beckons,
lingers for seconds.
"Change course!
Remove your force!"

But the emperor, slouched on his throne,
shakes his head and ignores the tone
of his beloved savior's eager advice,
apathetic of the deaths, the weighty price.

Disappearing

I want to know
why I did what I did.
There are answers floating
in dark clouds that linger.
Overhead, from thundering skies,
thick red drops rain down.

In the name of this sin,
keep the madness within.
I am masked and unfamiliar
in a scene of clowns and actors.
No words are useful so
I'm disappearing into the abstract.

Safety is hiding
behind metallic curtains.
Tan, white, and red stripes,
I can hardly feel.
I don't want to be found;
don't come looking.

Who I am is wrong and
what you see is an impression.
Lock your heart away:
preserve it for a peaceful day.
I can only be what you see,
but the light between us manipulates.

***************************************************

I don't even like philosophy. I don't like the questions because they have no answers, no good answers anyway. They rattle inside my skull and have kept me awake at night on more than one occasion. I think it's good to question, but no one can tell you the answer. You have to get there yourself. But what happens when someone sets a trap? What happens when you set the trap? What happens when the path to your answers is skewed or unmarked? It's like an ant losing his trail back to the hole, the whole.

Nothing I say is said lightly and nothing I write is written without it being deliberate. I mean my words in every way they can be understood. I mean them when I'm truthful and even more so when I'm deceitful.

Figure out which one I am today. Seriously.

And if you find an answer, do tell. Because I haven't a clue anymore.

Yes, I'm in crisis mode. No, I don't want you to bat your pretty little eyelashes.




"It's hard to be wise and in love." (or something to that effect) Bob Dylan

With Conviction

Tell me something new
or old in a different way.
Tell me something real
or if it's fake: with conviction.

I'd rather hear a passionate lie
than the truth in a blur.
I'd rather know a clearer fiction
than my own meshed fate.

Touch me with your voice
and hold me in with your stories.
Touch me and I'll cry
or I'll laugh or scream or tremble.

I want to see your words
written out in scribbled etchings.
I want my god to know me,
but I know he has no reason.

Listen for the bullshit
in the whispers of your leaders.
Listen to a holy man's cry
in the remnants of a scortched earth.

I wish for clarity, but
in dark corners my bones do shake.
I wish for answers when
even my answers question.

Push me back
or over the edge.
Push and push
and I weakly give in.

I seek an understanding
of which no one can replicate.
I seek your taste:
love on the tip of my tongue.

***********************************************

If my words lie it's only because I have something to hide.



"I'd rather see you lie than see me believe the truth." The Miracle Of '86 Just Say When

Silent Movie

Cancer.

The word flashes in front of my eyes in greys, blues, and browns: like a bruise. It's growing inside me: this bubble, this rotting mound of poisonous body excrement. Dr. Kent's office begins to turn, swivel, and swerve. His diplomas float above his head. His mouth moves, but I'm locked within a silent movie.

Laura. My daughter. Her jaw drops. I feel her heart stop and her lungs deflated through the tense fingers that are intertwined with mine. The hairs on the back of her hand stand straight on end as they tickle my soon-to-be decaying flesh.

Doctors.

Treatments.

Hospital rooms.

Sterile white tile-floored rooms and sterile white curtains and sheets. Needles and blood. Poking and prodding.

My wife - ex-wife - discusses business with Dr. Kent. Cold and smooth as she always is. Chemo? Radiation? If there were subtitles I might know. She's undressing the fresh young doctor in her mind; I have no doubt. His lab coat opened and his tailored work shirt elegantly wrinkled. Immature baby hairs stick out from under the second button. The top unbuttoned. No tie. No class. Chump. This doctor who is ready to sign my death certificate.

Laura sits frozen still. Her eyes: glassy. She's my co-star in this movie we're trapped inside. For my wife - ex-wife - and the good doctor: it's all rainbows and flowers, singing and dancing, life. A fucking musical over there.

******************************

This really isn't anything. It was written during a monologue writing excercise in class today, but in this situation it's not really acting like a monologue. (For the few of you who read the 'private' short story, this is written from that main character's father's point of view from the scene early in the story where he's diagnosed. I think it's like the first paragraph of the second section.) Anyway, we were supposed to take a character we'd created and write a monologue for him/her and this is what I can up with. It was also an excercise in writing with a lot of detail. Figured I'd post it since I didn't post the whole story...even though this really has nothing to do with that story at all.

Excuse the poor grammar and sentence fragments. They were part of the assignment. They are to show his distance: to make things feel choppy. They are intentional, though a little painful for me.



"I have become a silent movie..." Elliott Smith Can't Make A Sound

Bore

I speak in sound bites;
they gnaw at your ear lobes.
Each cliche burns my lips,
but I say them to keep you quiet.
Not a word is true,
at least that's what I tell you.

I speak in revisions:
revisions of revisions.
Each draft less coherent
than the one before.
I have no knack for poetry
and my lines ignore me.

I'm speak in locked diaries;
my lips are sealed.
Each book: a dying part
of who I used to be.
I don't mean to bore,
so I won't speak anymore.

**************************************

I'm really tired of writing shitty poetry.


"Am I correct to defend the fist that holds this pen?" Brand New It's Good To Know...

Coast To Coast

This story was written between May 2007 and October 2007. It is what it is. There are a couple subtle KD references and a few symbolic things that if you don't get, don't matter.


"Those drugs you got won't make you feel better." Elliott Smith Twilight

**********************************


Part 1:

The words came to me half passed-out in the bathtub with water from the showerhead trickling along my naked skin. Bleeding from self-inflicted wounds on my arms and legs and high on handfuls of pills (some legal, others not so much), I heard the answer to my questions. I learned the meaning of life.

When my mind finally fell silent from the loss of blood and the hallucinogens, the words were gone. They’d disappeared and my brain was sadly incapable of latching on and holding them close. It was similar to the feeling one suffers when believing he’s found his Juliet on the subway, but loses her for good among the crowd of other straphanging partygoers. An emptiness: like so many other disappointments have left in my heart.

The incident saddened me, but I shook it off. The bleeding had ceased and my high had worn. Cold water weakly fell atop my skin and bounced to the bathtub floor. My skin felt cold and prune-y as I stood, turned off the water, and reached for my green towel. I was a mess, with opened wounds and dark bruises. I couldn’t remember exactly what I’d done the previous night and I knew that was probably for the best.

In the mirror, my reflection was that of a ghost.

“I’m still me. I’m still me.”

Turning away from the mirror, I pretended to know what the words I’d spoken really meant. The red light blinked on my answering machine and that’s never good.

“Dan!” The voice bit. “Dan!? Answer me! If you miss your shift tonight I don’t know if I’ll be able to bail you out! Get over here!” Allison was pissed and the machine went quiet.

And what was worse: I had missed my shift. Second time this week. Shit.

I liked this job too. Working at a record store is probably the closest I’ll ever get to the music industry.

Looking over at the clock, I noticed I hadn’t managed to miss the entire day and while I may have missed last night’s shift, I can still make today’s if I haven’t already been fired. So, picking up the first clean pair of holey jeans and pulling my Fugazi tee shirt over my head, I stumbled out of my apartment and hailed a cab.


Part 2:

“Oh, this is rich,” Allison squawked. She had every right to hate me. Last night wasn’t the first time she’d stuck up for me and I have managed to let her down every chance I’ve had. “Where were you last night? Huh? You get my message?”

“Yeah, Al, sorry.”

“Sorry!? Where the fuck were you? It’s bad enough I was the one who got you this job…are you determined to get us both fired!?”

“You won’t get fired.”

“Oh?” she asked skeptically.

“Yeah.”

“And you know this…?”

“I know because Lucy has a thing for you and I know Lucy has a thing for you because it’s the only reason she hired me in the first place…to make you happy. Why else would she hire me?”

After a moment’s thought, Allison grinned and replied, “Haha, well, that’s true. It’s not like you have any qualification or redeeming characteristics,” she smirked. There was a short awkward silence and then she added, “You weren’t fired, by the way.”

A sudden ping of relief ran through my veins which carried with it a renewed cockiness in my mannerisms. If she wasn’t going to fire me last night, she wasn’t going to fire me for being a smart ass. My confidence was revived. I felt like my old self: for better or for worse.

“Lucy must really like you,” I joked.

“This is it, Dan,” she replied sternly. “This is it. You fuck up again and you’re on your own.”

“Okay!”

“No, I mean it.”

“Ohhhh-kaaaaaay.”

She gave me a disapproving and unconvinced look as she totted a pile of 45s to the “Used Vinyl” bin. Allison is something. She’s my best friend. She’s the only woman I’ve ever trusted. She’s the personification of “New Yorker.” She’s tattooed, tough, brilliant, and independent. Yes, she’s a lesbian. She’s been there for every failure I’ve suffered through and every success I’ve celebrated, as few of the latter as there have been. She introduced me to my first girlfriend and then ate ice cream with me when that first girlfriend cheated on me and dumped me three days before junior prom. I don’t know why she sticks by me anymore. I guess out of habit…or maybe her conscious won’t let her give up on the wreck she’s been trying to fix up since middle school. She’s always looked out for me and I’ve done so little for her in return. I guess she just hasn’t needed help as much as I. Maybe that’s why we work so well together: I need all the help I can get and she needs to help people. She never does anything for approval, attention, or recognition. She just does it because she can and she wants to.


Part 3:

I spend my days behind the counter of Lu’s Records. That is, at least, when I don’t forget to go in and don’t pass out before my shift. (Lucy opened the store seven years ago and thought “Lucy’s Records” sounded too “Babysitter’s Club.”) Allison met Lucy at some dingy rock club after one of her lesbian-power girl-bands had wrapped up its set. Allison, in college at the time, learned about Lu’s Records and, eventually, started working there part-time. After college, she just never left. Now, Allison is a full-time employee of Lu’s Records and Lucy lets her make a lot of managerial decisions since Lucy’s other two stores have opened and have taken up more of her time. In other words, Allison’s not doing too badly and she may find herself managing the place full-time if Lucy’s other endeavors are successful. Therefore, Allison can afford to take pity on her old friend: me.

During the time in which Al met Lu, I was also going to school and majoring in Music Theory. At least, that’s what I said I was doing. In reality, I was smoking every leafy substance I could find, drinking every bottle within reach, and swallowing anything that looked and felt like a pill while flunking out of every subject I registered to take. I worked at a convenient store near campus, but just long enough to have money for food, drugs, and booze. When the money ran dry, the food was the first thing to get cut off that list, followed by booze and drugs. When it all ran dry, I picked up a razor still laced with coke and started carving lists on my skin. It’s not that I was suicidal. I was just indifferent, which may be worse.

I graduated college, but just barely and late. I worked at random places and spent the money on the same shit; although, after grad this thing called “rent” peeped into my vocabulary. Nothing ever changes, though. I didn’t want to change. It was easier staying stuck in the same web of bullshit that kept me locked away throughout all of my high school and college years. I lived the rock-n-roll life without the fame or fans. Who says you need an excuse to live in excess? Live fully while you can, even if it kills you. That’s what I think, anyway.

Or maybe that’s just some shit I tell myself to excuse the fact that I am 28 years old, working at a slummy record store with my best friend, and haven’t grown in maturity since I grew pubes. Thinking about my future only leads me back to my addictions with fervor, rather than the usual apathy with which I live my life otherwise. You see, I can fuck myself up really well. I can get high off anything for the sake of being high. But when it’s actually about something or because of something, as a reaction to something, then emotions are linked to it and I become the mess I was last night, sitting in my bathtub, wishing I had the energy to die.
I’m sure I can’t get through life like this. I’m sure someday I’ll need to get a real job with a significant salary and benefits, but what do I know of work? This is the most stable job I’ve ever had and considering my constant inability to perform adequately at it, who the fuck would hire me? Unless she had a crush on my best friend, that is, of course. I have no idea what to do with my life, so I stay here where things are comfortable and I get by. Whether I’m happy or not has never mattered because I’m not sure I’ve ever been happy so I don’t know what I’m missing. I don’t know what it would take for me to feel happiness either, so I’ve decided it’s best not to try just to fail.


Part 4:

“Alllllllison.”

“Dan?”

“Alllllllliiiiisooooon.”

“Dan? What are you doing?” Allison asked on her end of the line.

“Oh, Alllissooooonnnnnnnnnnnnnnn.”

“You are not calling me shitfaced right now, are you? Dan? Really?”

“Hahahahahaha. AlllisooooooooooOOOOOOOOOOoooooonnn.”

“Okay, what? Where are you?”

“Hoooooome,” I sang.

“I’m coming over. Stay put,” she sighed.

She hates it when I drink like this. She hates it even more when I drink alone. I’m not even really that drunk, but I want her here and when she gets here I need her to be stern, but also sympathetic. It’s time for some girl talk. I need some direction. I need to be slapped around. This is called therapy for the poor man.

I hear her fumbling with her key in my door. She has her own key to my place, obviously, so she can come beat me up when I fuck up.

“Oh my God,” she said shocked at the state of my apartment.

“How do you live in this? Seriously?” I didn’t answer and she sighed in frustration. “What did you do to yourself tonight?”

“I don’t know.”

“Are all these bottles from tonight?” she asked disappointedly.

Okay, so maybe I was pretty drunk. I nodded and she released another sorry sigh. Then, she did something miraculous: she stood up and began cleaning my apartment. She wouldn’t talk and she didn’t ask me to help. She just started picking up bottles and pizza boxes, organizing everything into recycling piles and trash piles. She picked up the mail I’d plopped down on random surfaces and organized them into piles of bills, notices, and junk. I didn’t leave my couch the whole time. I’m pretty sure I passed out for a while and when I came to, she sat silently on the other side on the room in the rocking chair.

“You gonna throw up?” she finally asked.

“No,” I said as it seemed my nap had – more or less – sobered me.

“You can’t keep living like this.”

“I know – ”

“No! You don’t! You can’t keep living like this ‘cause I can’t keep living like this. I can’t keep bailing you out and remaking your apartment every time you hit rock bottom. Don’t think I don’t know what you’ve been up to. Don’t think I don’t worry, either – ”

“Ohh, Al, I know you worry…”

“Dan! Shut up!” I shut up. “You’re gonna kill yourself and that doesn’t work well with me. I need you too, yanno!” she blurted.

Why on earth does she need me when all I do is fuck her life up?

“Why do you need me?

“Dan, you’ve been the only friend who’s managed to stick by me over all these years. You’re the only one. You know that. You and me…we need each other. And I need you to be around. I need you to figure out what you want to do with yourself so you stop ending up in your shitty apartment, by yourself, hurting yourself. This shit’s gonna kill you! Drinking is one thing, but…come on. You’re not in college anymore. You need to…I don’t know…grow up. I love you, yanno? You’re not alone, but you need to clean yourself up.”

“I know. I do. I just…I don’t know. I don’t know,” my words trailed off.

“Well, what do you want?”

“I don’t know,” I said and I sincerely thought I was being honest.

“That’s bullshit. Everyone wants something. Everyone has that perfect image in his head of how his life will be in ten years. Close your eyes. What do you see?”

“Allison, come one, don’t be some motivational speaker, telling me how I can be whatever I want to be when I grow up. I’m too old for that shit.”

“No, Dan! You’re too old for this,” she said motioning at my slouched body sunk into a couch and, of course, she had a point so I closed my eyes. “Now…what do you see in there?”

“Nothing,” I said sadly.

“Dan!”

“Alright, alright! Uhhh…I don’t know. A dark club. Lights. A stage. I don’t know,” I answered, embarrassed.

“A stage?”

“Maybe. I don’t know.”

She stood up and walked over to the far corner of my apartment where a pile of junk lay. That’s where I put things I can’t throw out, but really have no use for anymore. She shuffled around until she found the black case she’d been searching for and lifted it out from my pile of junk. She opened the case and pulled out the acoustic guitar I hadn’t played since high school.

“Play me something.”

“No,” I said shaking my head. “No, no, no.”

“Why not?”

“I haven’t touched that thing in…like…ten years.”

“So?”

"I doubt I can even still play it!”

“Dan, you know why I vouched for you with Lucy?”

“Because you feel sorry for me?” I replied and received a hurt look from Allison.

“No! Of course not! I don’t feel sorry for you! I vouched for you because when you’re not shitfaced, you’re talking about music! You’re listing the top D.C. underground punk records of the 80s. You’re spewing out lyrics written by some guy who’s probably long dead, but who used to be in some band out of Queens that no one else has ever even heard of! You probably know more about music than Lucy does!”

“Okay, fine, so I know my shit, but that doesn’t mean I have talent!”

“Play me something.”

“I really don’t know if I remember how. It’s been a while.”

“Try it.”

Reluctantly, I picked up the guitar and tried to play. I didn’t get far because it was horribly out of tune, but once I’d fixed that problem, I remembered an old song I’d written. The lyrics were shit. I mean, I was in high school, after all, but the music was alright. My fingers were clumsy, though, and after battling through the opening verse and part of the bridge, I gave up.

“Keep going!” Allison insisted.

“No, really, I don’t remember the rest. The sheet music is probably around somewhere, but God only knows where,” I replied sheepishly.

I was exhilarated. Picking up the guitar for the first time in so long forced a lot of things to rush back to me: good and bad. Mostly, I remembered the youth and vigor with which I once held that guitar and I wondered where that boy had gotten lost.

“Have you written anything recently?” Allison asked, breaking my train of thought, probably for the best.

I thought for a moment and answered, “No. No, not really.”

“Not really?”

“Not music.”

“Why not?” Al inquired.

“Because. I never had much talent to begin with. I write little things now and then: just words, but nothing with any real meaning and certainly nothing good enough to turn into music or prose. Just thoughts, bullshit.”


Part 5

Allison left soon afterward, once she was confident I wouldn’t run for a bottle or a razor blade. I’m too poor for drugs anymore, but liquor and sharp objects are easy to get your hands on. I wasn’t interested in that, though. I was curious about Allison’s question: why had I stopped writing music. Why did I write things down if I had no use for them?

Maybe I thought that when my life was over, someone would find my notebooks and scribbled upon napkins, put them together, and then let the world see how brilliant I had been. Most geniuses aren’t understood or appreciated until after their deaths anyway, so why not waste away until then?

No. That wasn’t quite it.

“They’re just words,” I said to myself.

Somewhere in those notes, I knew there was something primal, something about me: my cryptic autobiography. Some were just simple, stupid one-liners about life or death or me or her or him or it: the spring sunshine, the winter’s sting, my insecurities played out through madness, that girl I cut loose, that friend who cursed me, those habits I couldn’t leave in my past. I wrote in hopes that I’d get it one day. I wrote because I know there’s something about me in between the words, something that I can’t see in myself yet, but if I manage to put it all together someday…it might all make sense.

I’ve never been one to soul-search, but thinking about all this stuff made me meditate on my life. I guess I’ve always considered myself to be too manly to look into my soul to find the meaning of my own life. (I am 5’6” and 167 pounds, after all: I just scream “manly man” wearing my “men’s short” jeans and almost needing women’s tee shirts because my ‘muscles’ can’t quite fill out a men’s shirt.) I started listing my good characteristics as well as my bad ones; I wondered what made me so goddamn self-destructive and where that behavior had originated; I tried to figure out what I loved and what might make me happy.

I managed to pinpoint a few life-long loves in my life: beer, women, music, and words. Beer is your friend even when your friends aren’t your friends, so it’s no wonder I fell for her. Next: women. The short list of women who’ve graced me with their panties are women I have and always will cherished. There aren’t many women who would look at a 20+ year old loser and say: “Yeah, I could love you.” Women are beautiful though elusive creatures. I don’t understand them, but I do love them: every single short-skirted, high healed, curvy, luscious woman who’s ever shaken her hips in front of me.

Music is a little like beer and women. It’s always there for you, regardless of what you may or may not have said about his mother, but good music can be flirtations and elusive. I’ve perfected the art of listening and I know what a good band sounds like. Call me a snob and I generally won’t disagree, but I also won’t bode you into a discussion about music if I don’t think you are a formidable opponent.

And yes, I play a little. Or at least I used to. I met a couple guys my freshmen year of high school who had a garage band. I’ve never really been into garage band music, but they were the only guys I knew who played anything and they were nice enough, so I joined up. We called ourselves the Politically Correct Slacks and, no, I have no idea why. Ted played bass and I’m pretty sure he was gay. Great dude: not so great bass player. Alex played drums and, on occasion, did manage to keep a beat. Carl was the band’s singer and lead guitar player. I joined as the second guitar player, but eventually I began writing more songs than Carl. By the time our school’s talent show came up the following year, I’d adopted the roll of singer. I loved playing, even if no one was watching, even if we were only playing in front of idiotic high school kids who wouldn’t know a mandolin from a banjo. We weren’t very good, even as high school bands go, but we had a good time. Alex moved during the summer after sophomore year and the band, for all intents and purposes, broke up. It was fun while it lasted, but senior year I met my first pot dealer and I turned in my pick and sheet music.

As for words: I guess I just like playing with them. I used to pretend I was a writer in college. I did the whole newspaper thing where I saw my name in a byline and thought I was hot shit. They had me reporting sports news, though. I guess because I was the only male on staff when I joined, they tossed me over to do sports news even though I knew almost nothing about any of the sports on which I was charged to report. However, I made the best of it. I used to play a game to see how many sexual innuendoes I could squeeze into an article without getting them edited out. You’d be surprised how perverted sports can be. Still, I knew how to write and I knew how to be clever. Unlike many of my reporter colleagues, I had a pretty large vocabulary and I actually owned both a dictionary and a thesaurus. I dabbled in creative writing: stories and poetry…shit like that, took a couple classes and did well, but always felt too embarrassed to show it to people who weren’t grading me. I guess that part’s still true about me.


Part 6:

“Hey, champ,” Lu greeted me the following day when I showed up to work…on time. “Here, take a look at these,” she added tossing a stack of quarter page flyers on the counter.

The flyer read: Lu’s Records. September 27th. 7pm. Jacob Dunning sings and speaks on Life, Death, and Art. Q&A and signing.

“What?” I asked, quite surprised.

“He has a solo record coming out next week. Wants to make some local appearances. You work that day, right?”

“Uhh…I do now,” I said, a little embarrassed to be seen so dumbfounded.

“That’s my busy little bee!” Lu antagonized, pinching my cheeks as she went back to stacking boxes to recycle.

There are four names that if you know anything about punk, indie, underground music you probably know: Ian MacKaye, Jeremy Enigk, Blake Schwarzenbach, and Jacob Dunning. There are others, of course, but I’d say these are your four essentials. Regardless of your views on their particular talents, you have to respect their influences on music.

Ian MacKaye fronted D.C. punk band Fugazi in the 80s and 90s. They were a very political hardcore band who I only had the pleasure of seeing once when I was thirteen in the early 90s. I snuck out of my house to get my ass kicked at some club that probably got shut down soon afterward. He was also in Minor Threat and a few other bands, but I never got to see any of them play. Pity.

Jeremy Enigk still makes music and is, arguably, the most well known of the four. He fronted the Seattle band Sunny Day Real Estate, who I’ve never been a huge fan of, but I’ve grown to appreciate more as I’ve aged. He went through a big Christian phase and Sunny Day broke up. Then they more-or-less reformed under another name later, but Jeremy seems to focus more on his solo work now than on anything with a band. He has a voice. That’s for sure. I’ve seen him play solo a few times and maybe that’s where his talents are best displayed: on stage rather than on record.

Then, there’s Blake Schwarzenbach. He was Jawbreaker’s front man until they broke up in the late 90s. He started another band after that, Jets To Brazil, and they put out a few records, but I hear he’s teaching English at a college somewhere around here these days. I gotta say: that’d be pretty sweet. I’d consider paying to take some random English class if I knew he’d be teaching it.

Lastly: Jake Dunning. Along the same veins as the others, Jake was the front man of the New York band Honor’s Pearl until he had some sort of drug induced mental breakdown five or ten years ago. The band never really broke up so much as Jake lost touch with humanity and slipped out of sight.

There was always something incredible about his music for me, though. Maybe I just hold him close to my heart because Honor’s Pearl released their third (and what turned out to be their last) album at the same time I was writing songs for the P.C. Slacks. Since that was my only productive song-writing period, you might say he was a huge influence of mine. Regardless of my own attempts at musicianship, his words inspired me and clicked with me. I managed to see them a bunch of times before Jake went into hiding and I loved every second of every show. Everything made sense when I watched to them play.

Until now, I thought Jake had wound up at some mental institution gnawing on pencils and throwing oatmeal around. It’s sad, but that sort of image wouldn’t surprise me at all. You could tell Jake was heading towards disaster every time you heard him talk or saw him off stage. On stage, with guitar in hand: that was his world. That’s where he was born and raised. That was all he knew how to do. Take him off the stage and life fell apart around him and crushed him to death. He was a mess, probably addicted to more hallucinogens than I ever was. But, since he was in a band it was excused. I guess no one really saw his downfall coming.

“Yanno, I thought this guy was either hold up in some institution or dead,” I finally blurted.

“Yeah. I remember he was in some band a while back. I think I saw them once or twice.”

“I saw them a ton of times. Really great stuff. I’ll make you a mix if ya want,” I offered.

“Yeah, do that. I’d like that. Thanks,” Lucy said with a smile.

I felt like a huge geek; I felt thirteen again. Excitement is an understatement, but I decided I didn’t care. I felt like being a little girl at a New Kids On The Block concert.


Part 7:

The grin would not wash off my face as I dusted off my old Honor’s Pearl CDs and revisited the only healthy period of my life. Jake Dunning was before his time. Even now, so many years after the fact, I still believe that to be true. It didn’t matter where he was playing or with whom he played. It didn’t matter if he just stood on the edge of the stage and sung a cappella. His voice mixed with his ridiculously dark and insightful lyrics were magnetic. There was so much talent built up inside this one little man and – I guess – it just made him burst.

I listened to all three records from cover to cover in chronological order by release date. I listened twice and then on the third listen, I began making lists. I’d promised Lucy a mix and I would not disappoint. I had to decide which songs made the cut and in which order they should appear. When making a mix, there are a few basic rules everyone can and should follow, regardless of genre or relation to the mix’s recipient.

Rule #1: always record the mix on a cassette tape, none of this CD burning bullshit. Everyone still has a Walkman laying around the house somewhere or a stereo system that includes a tape deck and if not, you probably shouldn’t want to give said person a mix in the first place. Now, if later on, this person wants to make your mix more accessible (say for iPod use) then negotiate a music borrowing system. Aside from the cutesy novelty of giving a cassette tape, it also shows time and thought was put into this mix. Plus, it’s easier to record vinyl to cassette tape than it is to burn vinyl to a CD in cases where using vinyl for a mix is necessary. You’d either need to have an external CD burner and know how to hook up the equipment correctly or you’d need to buy a fancy vinyl to MP3 ripper, which can be expensive and is – more or less – not worth the trouble.

Rule #2: don’t begin the mix with the song you think is the best. You can’t allow the listener to be enticed by the first track and let down by the following tracks.

Rule #3: pace yourself. You can’t use all the fast songs in a clump or all the slow ones in a clump. You also can’t surprise the listener too much by having the two extremes appear one right after the other. This may be the hardest rule to follow because it truly requires skill. You have to allow the songs to waver up and down: between fast and slow with no extremes next to each other. Putting a really loud, fast song next to a really soft, slow one is bad news. You’re setting a scene with your mix, a mood. You don’t want to break that mood. You have to identify those songs that are the extremes of each case and find appropriate songs to fill the middle spaces.

Rule #4: don’t leave a lot of empty space at the end of the mix. If you can’t fill an entire tape, you need to try harder. There are tons of short songs out there. I’d say if you leave more than five minutes blank at the end of a mix, you’re obviously an amateur.

After that, the rules of making a mix tape depend on the message you want to send. Don’t fool yourself: every mix is made with intent, even if the intent is just to get your boss into a band you liked in high school. Getting laid is not always the reason for making a mix and if you’re making a mix for your boss, you probably want to throw the “getting laid mix” on the back burner (especially if you’re a dude and she’s a lesbian). Mix titles are often useful and I don’t see any problem with using one as long as if fits, isn’t cheesy, and is to the point. A title can also help ensure the correct message comes across. For example: Honor’s Pearl songs were primarily about all kinds of bad living from drugs to booze to sex to fucking up good relationships. Obviously, I don’t want my boss to think I am a drugged up, boozed up, sexaholic fuck up. (Just because I am all of those things doesn’t mean that’s the message I should want to send here.) So, to ensure Lucy understands the point of this mix, I peel up the stickers which the cassette tape company has so courteously inserted inside the case and stick one on each side of the tape and I write: “HONOR’S PEARL MIX for Lucy” with a fine tip Sharpie.

I would also recommend including a track list complete with – at least – band and song title. If you can fit album title in too, that’s even better. Band name isn’t always necessary: like if you’re making a mix of songs all from the same band. Mix making with songs from different bands requires the list include band and song title at the very least. This isn’t a puzzle or a game. If you want the recipient to enjoy what he or she is listening to, you should never keep this basic information out of his or her reach.

And with that, Lucy’s mix is complete.


Part 8:

September 27th. I woke up before my alarm buzzed. I rested in my bed trying to figure out what people would say about me if I disappeared and then suddenly reappeared. I kept thinking that no one would have even realized I’d disappeared in the first place. I scared myself. Then, the alarm sounded and I walked to the shower. Gotta smell fresh for Jake!

Lucy, as expected, enjoyed her mix tape. She ordered extra copies on Honor’s Pearl’s three records for the store, both in preparation for Jake’s visit, but also so she could snag them. She seemed almost as excited as I on the day of Jake’s in-store, though I suspected Allison might have also been the cause for her delight. I caught them giving each other that hot lesbian sex eye over the counter. I didn’t ask. I didn’t need to. Allison smelled of sex and I was jealous, but that was neither here nor there.

Jake arrived early. Lucy greeted him. I watched out of the corner of my eye as she shook his hand, very politely, and exchanged pleasantries. I imaged what she was saying: It’s wonderful to meet you. You’re music is really inspiring. An employee of mine, really a friend of mine, gave me some of your music. He’s a great guy; I’d love to introduce you” and then she’d walk over to me. But she didn’t. Instead, she shook his hand and he smiled. She pointed over to the stage and the storage room (slash) “backstage” area and, I’m sure, told him to ask her if he had any questions or problems.

By now, a small crowd had become to form before the makeshift stage. They were all in their late 20s and early 30s. Some were wearing suits and ties, just coming out from work or an important dinner. Some were dressed more casually, but still clean and successful looking. These were my peers. These were the guys I played music with in high school and the girls who let me fuck them. This was my youth all grown up. This is how I should have turned out.

Jake was low-tech tonight. I’ve seen him play almost any way a musician can play. I’ve seen him play solo acoustic, solo electric, with his band, with various members of the band, with various members of other people’s bands, and so on. Each setting has a different feel, making the music feel constantly refreshing and different. I wondered if he’d indulge us by playing one or two of the “oldies,” but I didn’t labor of the question too long. He set up his guitar, plugged her in, and set her still on his guitar stand. Then, he walked off the stage to wander among the commoners: peering into CD racks and taking particular care to sift through our used vinyl bins. Lucy interrupted his search. She spoke to him and his yes lit up. He laughed in response to her comments and she laughing in return. He nodded his head, turning back to the vinyl, and she walked towards the stage.

Grabbing the mic and clearing her throat, she said: “Welcome to Lu’s Records!” and there was a polite applause. “Thank you all for coming. We’re always glad to have musicians grace our little store and tonight, as I’m sure you all know, we have Jake Dunning with us,” and the crowd’s applause grew slightly louder. “I just wanted to take a moment to thank Jake for coming in today and to let you all know that Lu’s has copies of Jake’s new CD by the counter, so be sure to pick one up before you leave!” more applause, yeah, yeah, get on with it, Lucy. I watched from the back, right corner of the store where I pretended to work. “Well, without further ado, please welcome Jacob Dunning!” Lucy finally spat out as the crowd gave another round of applause and Jake made his way from the used vinyl bin to the stage.

“Hey!” he said smiling. The crowd had not stopped clapping. “Thanks so much for having me here today and for coming out,” he continued as he picked up his guitar and situated his rear end of the stool Lucy had provided. “Umm, I think I’m gonna play a couple new songs and then a couple old songs, if that’s cool,” the crowd, still clapping, now clapped in great approval. “Alright,” he grinned and began to play.

He began with a song I didn’t recognize, but took only about fifteen seconds to realize I loved. He didn’t talk much in between songs and he kept his eyes focused on his fingers or maybe the carpet or maybe just the air. I watched his fingers fuck the strings. The crowd nodding their heads in quiet contemplation. First, he played three songs I didn’t recognize. New works of art. He finished the third and grabbed his capo from the head of his guitar. The crowd smiled and clapped. I knew what he was going to play. “Ship The Sea.” It’s the second track from the first Honor’s Pearl record.

“Thanks, guys,” he said. “I think I’m going to do…this one,” and his fingers placed themselves of the opening chord to “Ship The Sea.”

He followed it with “Uniforms And Accents,” “Shouting Mexican” and “What Stars?” before pausing for a few more words.

“I think I have time for one more?” he asked looking for Lucy’s approval.

“Sure!” she said, watching from the check out counter with Allison.

He ended with another new song and, again, thanked the crowd for coming out and being so polite. Lucy came up to the stage, playing MC for the night, and explained that the crowd could now ask questions. Most of the questions were ridiculous and arbitrary. Most of the questions I already knew the answers to, so I found myself actually working. No one seemed to want to ask what really happened to Honor’s Pearl or to where Jake had disappeared. I couldn’t blame them. I didn’t want to ask either.

Once time was given for the crowd to mingle and buy Jake’s record, a short line formed to have him sign his new work. He seemed gracious and patient.

“You going up there?” Lucy asked, breaking me out of my little world.

“Me? Ahh…I don’t know.”

“Have you ever met him?” she asked, surprised with my nervousness.

“A couple times, a long time ago, but I’m sure he was far too high at the time to remember me.”

“You should go up there,” she encouraged. “He’s a really nice guy. He might even be nice to a jackass like you!” she joked.

I stayed behind, though. What could I say to Jake Dunning that wouldn’t be totally inappropriate and a little gay? The store began to clear out. He’d played for about forty-five minutes, done Q&A about half an hour, and then hung around talking to fans for almost an hour. By 9pm, the store was quiet. Lucy helped Jake with his gear and took the stage down. Jake stayed, though. He returned to his used vinyl bin and selected a few records. The store doesn’t close until10pm, but it was opened only to him now.


Part 9:

Allison and Lucy had disappeared to the storage room, leaving me in charge of the register. Eventually, Jake strolled up with three records under his arm and a stack on seven CDs in his left hand; his right struggled to grab the wallet in his back pocket. I held my hands out to take the CDs from his hand.

“Thanks,” he said, placing the records on the counter and rescuing his wallet.

“No, it’s my pleasure,” I smiled. My pleasure? That’s the best you can come up with, chump! “I mean: I’m a fan. Thanks a lot for coming in today. The new stuff sounds great.”

“Oh, thanks, man. I mean it,” he seemed sincere.

I rang up his selections. The CDs he found through scouring between the new and used CD racks: Jets to Brazil Orange Rhyming Dictionary, José González Veneer, Iron And Wine The Creek Drank the Cradle, Kevin Devine Make The Clocks Move, Jeremy Enigk World Waits, Elliott Smith From A Basement On A Hill, and Bruce Springsteen The Seeger Sessions. The vinyl albums were all from the used vinyl bin: The Smiths The Queen Is Dead, Fugazi Repeater, and Fugazi Embrace.

“I can’t believe anyone would ever want to sell this back,” I lamented, holding Repeater in my hands.

He laughed, “That’s exactly what I was thinking, but…hey, one man’s trash.”

“This record came out when I was, like, ten or eleven I think. I heard a cassette playing in a friend’s brother’s car, scrounged up a couple weeks’ allowance for it, and wore it out.”

“Yeah, I had it on cassette for a while and then I just bought the CD. I’ve never owned it on vinyl. I’m really psyched about it,” he handed me his Visa. “Have you ever heard this?” he asked, pointing to The Creek Drank The Cradle.

“Yeah, actually. It’s good, kinda folk-y.”

“Awesome. That’s what I was hoping for; that’s what I’ve heard. I’ve really been getting in to that shit recently: bands with weird instruments who play more than three chords, yanno?”

“Yeah,” I laughed.

I chatted, pleasantly, for several minutes with my hero before he asked, “Hey, sorry if this is weird, but have we met before?”

I couldn’t imagine him actually remembering me, but I answered, “Kind of. I saw Honor’s Pearl a lot when I was younger, talked to you a few times, but I doubt I’m that memorable,” I laughed nervously.

“You wore that black Fugazi shirt to a show I played at The Bitter End,” he stated plainly.

“Wow, yeah.”

“I hit bottom soon after that, not to imply that was your fault,” he explained. “I remember you, though. I remember wishing I could hear music with the same enthusiasm you did. You seemed to have an intrinsic understanding of music. I could see in your face you knew exactly what my music meant, maybe even more than I did. I was envious.”

I wasn’t sure what to say, but before thinking my mouth blurted, “Your music was in my life during the only healthy period of my life. Everything since then has been downhill.”

I hadn’t intended for that to come out as pathetically has it had.

“You can’t think of life as good or bad, though. It’s both. All the time. Plus, the bad wouldn’t be bad without the good and – likewise – the good wouldn’t be so good without the bad. Bad days suck, but they only make the good ones all the better.”

Amazing. Even a guy who managed to get himself so fucked up, he disappeared from the scene just before he could have really taken off somehow, somehow, he manages to be more optimistic than I.

“Listen, you wanna grab a drink? I’ve sensed since I walked in that you’ve been trying to say something. I’ll beat it out of you if I have to,” he looked at me with the same all-knowing eyes with which he peered upon me as a teenager.

“Yeah. That’d be awesome,” I accepted the invitation. I’m a fuck-up, not a fool. “The store’s pretty quiet. Let me just make sure Lucy doesn’t need me,” I handed him a plastic bag with his records and CDs inside, locked the register, and went in search of my boss who had no reason to cut me any slack and let me leave early.

I knew she would, though. And she did.


Part 10:

Jake’s car was parked outside the store and he locked up his gear and the Lu’s Records shopping bag in the truck. The bar two blocks from Lu’s Records was loud and busy. We sat at the bar, but he ordered a soda. Not wanting to be the lush between us, I did the same.

“You want to know what happened, right?” he asked.

“It’s none of my business, but, yeah.”

The bartender looked at us displeasingly, leaving our non-alcoholic cheapo drinks. We paid him and tipped well to keep the death stares to a minimum.

“It doesn’t have to be your business to be curious,” he took a sip of the fizzy brown cancer in his glass. “Most of the rumors were true,” he admitted, “except the one about the straightjacket,” he laughed and I did too.

“So, what? Rehab? Mental institution? What happened? What caused it?”

“Rehab and a short stay at the Riverside Mental Health Facility in some middle-of-nowhere town,” he corrected. “Imagine,” he paused. “Imagine having the life you’ve wanted since you had the ability to want and still not being happy. Imagine living the life you always strove for, even being in love for a while, and still finding fault in yourself. You begin to realize you can’t win. You begin to convince yourself it’s impossible and that happiness is this unrealizable goal no one ever truly achieves. You obsess over it. You won’t accept that you’re unhappy because of what you do to yourself. It’s not totally your fault, though. You’ve been raised to assume you’ll fail and you constantly wait for the other shoe to drop. You begin to wonder what the point is of God putting you here if you’re just going to suffer for 60 or 70 years. That’s when you try to kill yourself, the first time.”

“Suicide?”

“Attempted. Twice.”

“Mental institution?”

“Mental institution,” he confirmed and took another sip. “You get it. You’ve got that cynicism that even the ‘reformed me’ still has. I like you,” he nodded in contentment. “I wasn’t there long. They knew I wasn’t crazy, but they didn’t know what to do with me, my band, that is. They thought the label and fans would be more sympathetic if I wound up at a mental health place than rehab, but my mental problems were caused by being drunk and high for four years.”

“Yeah. I know how that feels,” I said staring straight into my glass.

“I know you do.”

“So, then, how’d you get out of it? How’d you find yourself back in the studio and playing shows?”

“My unhappiness wasn’t caused by my band. I loved all of that. Traveling from coast to coast, seeing the world, just being on stage? There’s no better rush. Writing your life out in chords and confessing your sins every night is the best form of repentance –”

“You found Jesus?” I asked skeptically, cutting him off.

“God, no!” he exclaimed. “You have to forgive yourself and knowing other people get it makes you realize you’re not alone, you feel less ostracized. But you have to realize when you’ve fucked up and put your foot down to do something about it and you can’t get there until you’ve hit bottom. You can’t hold it over your own head either, though. You have to know how bad you’ve gotten before you can realize you need to stop. I would have killed myself had Ralphy (you know: Pearl’s bass player) not brought his concerns to our manager. The band was the most sacred thing in my life and the realization that my actions were fucking even my band up was what lead me to understand the depth with which I’d fallen. I wanted to change and I had no idea how hard that would be. You never realize when you start something how tough it’s gonna be to quit. You know it’s bad. You don’t even like the taste of liquor and you choke every time you take a hit, but you smoke ‘til your throat bleeds. It’s not the action itself; it’s the way your body reacts afterwards. You can’t help it. It’s an addiction. That’s no excuse because you can still overcome addiction, but you can’t hate yourself for it. Humans are idiots. We fuck up in really creative ways sometimes,” he finished his soliloquy and took a long drink of soda. “So, how’d you fuck up?” he asked. “Confess! Confess!” he joked, but seriously.

Then, I needed a real drink, but I picked up my soda, disappointedly, and swallowed the bubbling tar.

“I am an alcoholic, drug addicted cutter,” I stated.

“Ohhh, juicy. Go on,” he leaned in, obviously not a stranger to stupidity.

“I am 28 years old, working at a record store with the only friends I have. And – for the record – I only got the gig because Al put in a good word for me. I live alone in a tiny shit hole apartment. I’ve never been in love. I get paid just enough to afford rent, utilities, and booze.”

“What about drugs and razors?”

I laughed, “I have a supply of razors and the drugs are only for special occasions, like Christmas ‘bonus’ time.”

“So, what do you want to change?” he asked.

“Is ‘everything’ an option?”

“Sure, but it’s not the right answer,” he paused. “Your friendships with Lucy and Allison seem pretty healthy.”

“What do you know about that?” I asked confused.

“Lucy told me about your mix tape. Cassette, by the way, was a ballsy move. I approve. But she had nothing but good things to say about you.”

“Really? Okay, fine. I love them both. They’re great and I owe them both my life for several reasons, but I need to treat them both better.”

He nodded, “That’s fair. Sounds like a good place to start. Do they know you’re an alcoholic, drug addicted cutter?”

“Al does. She baby sits me sometime to make sure I don’t, but she can’t keep her eyes on me all the time.”

“Well, one thing I learned is that if you can’t do it for yourself, find someone else you could do it for. I stopped because I had friends I was really hurting. So do you.”

“I wish that were enough. I feel guilty – ”

“But not guilty enough to do anything about it.”

“Right.”

“Well, what do you want?” the question sounded eerily familiar. “What gets you going?”

I thought this time, knowing my idol would hear my answer.

“I’ve always had a knack for writing, but no outlet for my writing and no encouragement or confidence. I love music, but have no talent.”

“Oh, you play?”

“You could call it that, but I wouldn’t,” I replied and he chuckled hardily.

“Well, then I have a solution for you.”

“Oh?” I asked, amused.

“Write about music. Find a magazine, a blog, anything. I know you know your shit. You know who I am for Christ’s sake: you must know a decent amount of punk history to be familiar with my tiny blurb and – trust me – publications that write about music and claim to have some kind of cred in the music industry are in desperate need of people who can both actually write and talk music.”

“Ehh, I don’t know. I doubt I could get hired for that kind of thing. I haven’t been published since college.”

“I didn’t say it’s be a walk in the park. I’m only saying it’d be good for you; it’s what you want. Plus, I hear chicks go for writers.”

I laughed loudly. I couldn’t help it. He did too. This man who – for all intense and purposes – has never had a conversation with me before knew me better than anyone else, including myself. He knew my fears and he was able to discern my greatest desires. Was I he? He was right about everything, of course, though it’s not as if I hadn’t thought about it before. I just thought no one would ever take someone like me seriously enough to let me think it out loud.

Jake finished his soda, “I need to get back home. My wife’s seven months pregnant and I promised Chinese food.”

“Oh, congratulations!” I exclaimed. “I had no idea.”

“Yeah,” he laughed. “Our first: a girl,” he said.

“That’s fucking awesome, man, good luck. I hope she’s happy and healthy.”

“Thanks, man,” he said, slapping me friendly on the shoulder. “It just proves there’s life after all this shit,” he paused, “and you’ll find it too.”

“Thanks. Really,” I said, “for more than I could ever tell you.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “Oh…hey. I never got your name?”

“Oh, yeah, it’s Dan. Dan Crenshaw,” I said sheepishly.

“Well, Dan Crenshaw, I’ll be keeping my eyes out for your first big article in Rolling Stone!”

“You may be waiting a while,” I laughed. “I’ll start small.”

“That’s okay. I’ve got time. See you around,” he smiled and vanished among the bar hoppers and drunken frat boys.

Kaleidoscope

Late night.
Sore joints.
Shaky legs.
Bruised arms.

Thinking through exhaustion
is like looking through a kaleidoscope.

Late night.
Frizzy hair.
Heavy eyes.
Ringing ears.

A mysterious melody
is like a jigsaw puzzle.

Late night.
Stiff neck.
Achy head.
Knotted stomach.

Writing in silence
is like drinking alone.

*********************************************

^ My coffee is wearing off. ^

Why am I feeling pensive at 1am? I drank coffee around 11pm and now it's wearing off and I feel fuzzy. My thoughts are blurry. I have something I want to talk about, but it's both incoherant and inappropriate for this post. Maybe I'll collect myself and put it all together soon, but I probably won't.

Tonight was good. Kevin is Red Bank sounded awesome and felt right, but was far too short for how I'm feeling. Give me another Glen Cove. Give me another Smithtown.



"A good man doesn't drink and I've been drinking alone." - Kevin Devine Ballgame

New Hampshire Moose

I used to know this guy, Joe. Joe was terrified of moose. When he was a kid, his grandfather used to tell him stories about the moose in New Hampshire and how - if you're not careful - they can kill you.

"They'll charge at anything that moves, sonny!" his grandfather would always tell him.

Joe had a natural fear of moose from then on and refused to ever visit New Hampshire.

However, Joe could only avoid the state for so long before the inevitable happened: his grandfather died. His grandfather, who had grown up in New Hampshire, wished to be buried in his home state. Being the good guy that he was, Joe felt obligated to attend the funeral of his dear grandfather.

Now a 28 year old journalist living in Chicago, Joe hopped on a plane for New Hampshire where he was greeted by various family members. He's arranged to spend a few nights at his aunt's home.

The funeral was a beautiful service, so the story goes, at least. I was not there. Apparently, Joe's grandfather was beloved man. Even the mayor of the small town showed up. It was a bitter sweet service: sad for all the reasons funerals are sad for, but also joyous for all the memories Joe's family recreated.

After the reception had ended, Joe traveled with his aunt, uncle, and two young cousins to their home. It was a modest home, as homes in New Hampshire go at least. They plopped Joe in the guest room: first floor in the back of the house.

Exhausted, Joe loosened his tie and threw it to the floor. He then kicked off his shoes and laid flat on his back on the guest room mattress. Dazed and half asleep, he then heard and enormous splash and saw the back light flash on. Confused, Joe sat straight up and then ran to the window.

Out back, he saw a huge beast in the family's pool. At first, Joe was unable to recognize the creature. It was dark and the splashing made it difficult for the back light to shed any brightness on the animal.

But then, Joe's beast managed to pull itself from the water and on to the back deck. Now, staring it straight in the eyes, Joe recognized the species. He was facing a nine foot tall New Hampshire moose who was now wet and angry.

Joe screamed and, though he rarely admits to this, wet himself and ran from the room. In the hall, he encountered his twelve year old cousin.

"What, Cousin Joe? What's wrong!?" said the boy.

"MOOSE!" shouted Joe.

The boy gave a questioning look, but alerted his parents nonetheless.

Joe's uncle (though not by blood, by marriage) was first on the scene. Carrying a baseball bat, he opened the back door. Much to Joe's dismay, there was no sight of his giant moose nor any sign that the pool had been disturbed.

Embarrassed, now, Joe swore to his story. However, most of us believe this is just the story he tells to explain why he still wets the bed sometimes.


**************************************************

^ Don't ask. ^

This story was written on the fly at abour 1am. It has no moral. It's just supposed to be silly...and about moose.

Fingertips

I'm thinking in Shakespeare and Austin and $.10 bargain books.
I'm hearing in black and blue and purple.
I'm tasting cold coffee and cold looks.
I'm wanting someone more than he's wanting me, or, maybe,
I'm just wanting something which I've never had.
I'm trying to find you.
I'm wishing I knew what you were.
I'm fighting over voices and failing to be heard.
I'm wondering if this keyboard says everything or nothing.
I'm writing in confusion with icy fingertips in circles.
I'm eating my words.
I'm seeing my verbs.
I'm smelling my adjectives.
I'm missing my subjects.
I'm overusing my gerunds.
I'm changing my formula.
I'm stepping out of my norm, but
I'm staying exactly the same without moving a bit.
I'm hoping for a chance.
I'm fooling only myself.

*************************************************

^ Also not a homework assignment. ^

Again, I don't know. Random lines, little connection. It is what it is.


So the white tooth man with his kids in the car and a wad of money that was already spent said, “I love my dog but she just ran away; she’ll keep running like the world never ends.” Iron And Wine White Tooth Man

Six Months Prior

Trianglular sun glimmers in
her raindrop eyes.
Circular parking spots
with zigzap limits:
busses, cars, and trains,
the miles of nothing
but the shine of her smile
on each billboard we pass.
I didn't pack my heart;
he's too clunky and
it costs extra to ship
something fragile.
He's in a sraight jacket
back east: blindfolded.
He waits for my slow
brain to understand,
but Brain's preoccupied
by a cardboard stage,
broken bass strings,
unnatural screams,
conffetti guitars,
blood soaked notes,
spaceships with hands
(or maybe just vans).
Until October
or six month prior,
in a state near home
and totally alien.
She is outside,
but very much in.
Heart breaks free,
jumps a carrier pigeon.
He slides between
the hollow bars of my ribcage.
He shoots a loud,
frantic message to Brain.
The lightbulb:
yellow like that triangular sun.
She is a literal impression.
Tomorow will be bright for a rainy day.

***************************************************

^ Not a homework assignment. ^

I couldn't tell you where this came from or what it's about. It's strange. The lines just came to me oddly. I'm not sure why the speaker is male, but I've never written a poem from a male view before...I don't think. So, yeah, don't read into it because it has only vague meaning, even to me. It was just silly and fun to write. It obviously relates somehow to music/tour and I guess I was thinking about the Manchester/Kevin/Brand New tour when I wrote it. Aside from that, it's up in the air.


We were made to fuck each other one way or another. Iron And Wine Everything On The Ground (Lilith's Song)

Hatshepsu(t)

Foremost of noble ladies,
joined with Amen.

A husband died too soon:
left me a son too young to rule.
The survival of my family’s reign
depended on my strength.

To promote my endeavors,
the desert is littered with my statues.
A secret affair with a common architect?
I won’t kiss and tell.

Read of my grandeur
on ancient stonewalls,
visit my grand temples, and
learn of my bold military campaigns.

But notice what they have done:
see my face scratched out of history,
my accomplishments left anonymous,
the credit of my work given to the undeserving.

I am the King, the Pharaoh,
and my daughter: Egypt’s prince.
I am the woman they call ‘he’
who wears the royal headdress and false gold beard.

His Majesty,
foremost of nobles.

**************************************************

^ Third poetry assignment for Creative Writing. ^

I'm a history dork. We had to write a "persona poem," as someone or something other than ourselves. So, we had to write as if we were that person or write - at least - about that person. It didn't have to be a person, either. One of the examples we read was a mirror talking about what it sees.

So, since I'm a history dork, I wrote mine of Egypt's first (and I think only) woman Pharaoh. The title of Pharaoh is only for males, but she adopted the title and turned herself male. Everyone around her called her my male names. She even changed her name from "Hatshepsut" with a "t" to "Hatshepsu" without it the "t" because the name with the "t" means "noble female" and the name without means "his majesty." She wore the traditional male clothing and a false beard made of gold. Egypt had many queens and many female rulers: women were treated almost equally in Egypt, being allowed to own land, etc. Hatshepsut actually ruled as an equal with her husband, Thothmose II, until his death. (He was always sickly and died young. Their son was too young to rule at the time of Thothmose II's death, so she took the throne herself, originally as queen and gradually as king.) In hopes of continuing female rule, there is evidence that Hatshepsut was training her daughter, Neferura, as a prince. There are inscriptions that illustrate Neferura wearing a false beard. Though she ruled for about twenty years, a lot is unknown about Hatshepsut because after her rule, a lot of work was done to erase her accomplishments from history. Neferura died young and never ruled. Hatshepsut's and Thothmose II's son (Thothmose III, the one who was too young when Thothmose II died) grew up and reigned after Hatsheptsut, but it is unclear whether she died or if she was removed from her position by force. She disappears from history pretty suddenly. Her face and name are scratched out of the ancient structures she built and out of the historical records. Her records weren't just eroded with time. You can actually see wear stones and other tools were used on the structures, statues, and walls to scratch her out.

[Aside from doing a little research before writing the poem, I first heard about her from some Discovery Channel special where I saw the damage done to her monuments.]

But, if you don't believe me, these are a couple websites I skimmed:
http://www.egyptologyonline.com/hatshepsut.htm
http://www.thekeep.org/~kunoichi/kunoichi/themestream/hatshepsut.html
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hatshepsut


Hundred years, hundred more. Someday we may see a woman king - sword in hand - swing at some evil and bleed. Iron And Wine Woman King

Mission Accomplished (The Emperor Pt. 3)

The court jester saved the day
with his air force of purple piloting penguins.
He defended against the Invading Invaded
and proved the Democratic Peace Theory.
One way or another.
A Band-Aid on a brain tumor.
That miraculous swirl:
that day, the confusion,
when blind men hunt hawks
and the deaf danced on beat.
Never a celebration so yellow
had ever occurred in this kingdom.
The old King’s breasts perked
as she knighted him: Sir Fool.

*********************************************************

^ Second assignment for Creative Writing. ^

I like this poem, at least considering the assignment. We had to write a surrealist poem. We were told: don't write the way you've been taught to think. Defy convention. Write something that makes no sense while still having some kind of bond linking the lines.

So, this is the weirdest poem I've ever written, I think. That was the point of it.

Believe it or not, this poem is an allegory for the US in Iraq. It works; I promise it does. The only thing that doesn't really relate back to the real situation is that President Bush in not a woman and does not have perky breasts. But since it was a surrealist poem, I liked the idea of a woman king and the juxtaposition, in one line, of the words "King" (making you think male) and "breasts" (making you think female). I also like, in that same line, the "old King's breasts perked" because you think of perky breasts being the trait of young women.

Normally, I wouldn't explain a poem in depth because I want the reader to get whatever he/she wants from it, but since I've never written a poem like this before, I want to explain it mainly so I don't forget what it's about. Ignore the rest if you're disinterested.

This is what the poem means:

The jester is, essentially, General Petraeus and his air force of penguins is the military in general. Penguins don't fly, so the fact that these are flying penguins relates to the utter impossibility of a military engagement saving the US in this mess we've made, but in the poem, the jester is successful in his efforts.

The Invading Invaded is the Iraqi insurgency. The US claims to be the good guy even though the violence only increased when we got there. Now, they're fighting us and we try to paint ourselves as the victims. So, the military is defending the US against fighters whose fight escalated only when the US invaded them. (I mean, it was violent in Iraq before, but it got worse because of American military operations.) Fighting this war proves the Democratic Peace Theory one way or another by illustrating that this is a democracy fighting a theocracy...or at least something far from another stable democracy. It's meant to be cynical and a little ironic. US victory in Iraq (building a democracy there and lessening the violence) isn't really fixing the whole problem: it's just covering up and smothering underlying problems. Until the US is out of Iraq, the problems will remain and I'm not even so sure that's enough to stop it. Violence it the Middle East goes back hundred of years and it's a religious division that I'm not sure any outside force can fix...but that goes into my own philosophy which is unimportant here.

Moving on. The rest of the poem after the Band-Aid line refers to celebration at home. It was a miracle: a grand victory so wonderful it made the blind read and the deaf dance...and give an old lady perky breasts. Surrealist poetry uses weird images, so I wanted to describe the celebration as being yellow (meaning kind of bright and energetic, happy), rather than fun, exciting, etc. However, I chose yellow because it's also a word used to indicate cowardice. I wanted the double meaning. It isn't to imply that our soldiers aren't brave. It's more to imply that US citizens have been scared into this war. It's more of a reflection on the people than the administration.

And then the last two lines, I already kind of went over...except for the knighting of the jester. President Bush has a tendency to give people - almost degrading - nicknames. He likes calling people by names that indicate they are below him. So, the King knights the jester to reward his bravery, but still calls him a Fool so that everyone knows who's still in charge.

It was also a deliberate choice to use a royal allegory. Kings are thought of as being absolute rulers and imperialistic...and I think that describes the current administration pretty well. Making Petraeus a court jester wasn't to degrade him, really, but more to show an unlikely person going against what he would do in a normal situation. (He wrote a book about Iraq, but his recommendations have been going against what he wrote.) I've used similar allegories before in both my "Emperor" poems: using a fictional monarch as a symbol of the president. It's probably not a rare usage.


Okay, done with that. I have fifty pages of Walcott's "Omeros" to read by Tuesday and since I'm going to Boston this weekend for Brand New, I better get going on that.


"I belong in the service of the Queen. I belong anywhere but in between." Counting Crows Rain King

Auburn

The faint smell of rain
gets sucked up my nostrils:
fell two days prior,
moistened the soil.

Threatening buzz of bees
circle above my head:
scares passersby,
lands on dying blossoms.

A hidden sun peaks
from between clouds:
burns my eyes,
but warms my skin.

A young fall breeze
blows over sunburned rooftops:
bites the tips of my figures,
brushes through my hair.

Grasping onto weak branches,
old leaves rustle and turn:
green to brown, green to brown,
and yellow, and orange, and auburn.

****************************************************

^ First poetry assignement for Creative Writing. ^

I'm taking an intro Creative Writing class this semester...mainly because the intro class is required before you're allowed to register for upper level creative writing classes. This was our first real assignment: a nature image poem. [There was an assignment before this and I wrote a two page short story that was good for what it was, but didn't really say anything sophisticated or intellectual. It was a fake memoir of a futurist country singer explaining how Kenny Chesney inspired her to become a musician. How that became the plot is a long story, but it was part of the assignment and not how I would have written it outside class restraints.]

Anyway, I'm not really a fan of writing nature poems and I think that comes across by how...bad...this is. I went back and forth about whether to post it here publicly, but since I haven't been writing a lot of poetry (with my short story monopolizing what little writing time I have), I figured I'd post - at least - the poetry I write for this class. I also really like the second poem I just wrote for this class and I actually want to post that one.

This poem was written last weekend on the way to Philly for the Brian Bonz show. I wrote it on Milo and emailed it to myself. Haha. (Hey...you see nature when you're driving around! It would have been harder to write if I'd been inside at my desk!)

We'll also be writing a short story and a play for this class and, depending on what kind of restraints are placed on us, I may post them here. In other words: if I can write a story and/or a play about what I want to write about and I like how it comes out, I'll post it. Haha. If we can write a story about anything, I'll probably use the story I'm in the process of writing so I'll have ample time to finish it while, also, telling my parents it's for school and not just me writing for fun while avoiding doing homework.


"I got an attitude of need. Help me stay awake: I'm falling...asleep in perfect blue buildings, beside the green apple sea. Gonna get me a little oblivion, baby. Try to keep myself away from me." Counting Crows Perfect Blue Buildings

Defiance

If you think you've got the time
then I think I've got the patience,
but I'm running out of steam:
it's not fatigue; this is defiance.

If you want me you can have me,
just kindly ignore all of the scars
I see my sanity is fleeing
and you're watching from afar.

If this pen and page are not enough,
then it's metal's chill and adrenaline.
And if it's not a peaceful night,
it's: "How did this happen?"

If I can breathe in one more breath
and take another big step back,
I can remember why it's worth it
and I can see all that I lack.

***************************************************

^ Partially written en route to Oneonta and then completed in class. ^

Yep, classes have started. I'm over it.

I've been sick, though I'm not sure it's actually sickness. I can't quite figure it out. Most of the time it seems to be triggered by anxiety, but not all the time. I'll be fine and then I'll suddenly feel like I'm going to throw up. Because of this, it hasn't been a very pleasent couple of weeks.

I have reading to do and then errands to run.


"Is this the way a toy feels when its batteries run dry?" Brand New Guernica

Post-tour thoughts...

This is more of a journal entry than anything "creative," but it's about a significant part of my life recently and I thought it was worth posting here as well. Plus, I just spent, like, two hours writing it and I want to get some use out of it...



Tour has been over for more than a week, but my mind's been everywhere and there's been a lot of shit to do, so I haven't had the chance to write anything resembling a real end-of-tour reflection entry. I know this is late and I doubt anyone is keeping up with tour blog since tour is now over...and maybe that's why I feel most comfortable writing it now.

Maybe I'll get bold and re-post it in my LiveJournal where a grand total of five people might bother to read it.

Anyway, as crazy as it was, the couple weeks Jess, Catherine, and I spent travelling the east coast to hang out and watch some dudes play guitar will always be remembered as one of the more perfect experiences of my life. (Jon and Jenny, of course, were also important players on this tour, but it was the three of us at the start - both in Buffalo in March and, more recently, in Cambridge - and the three of us at the end in Ohio.) We succeeded in attending twelve shows in eleven states over seventeen days. Aircraft. Rental car. Karaoke. No major catastrophes. With the exception a few sleepless nights, it really couldn't have gotten much better.

This was something that I needed and now that it's over, I must admit to feeling sort of...lost. This tour was something Kevin mentioned to us back in April and we began planning for it and getting excited for it at that exact moment. I miss having a place to go every night with some of my closest friends and getting that release. I miss seeing these two guys I've respected since I was in high school play around every night, having a great time, and knowing I was a part of it. And they really did make us feel a part of it. They all made us feel welcomed...even Jameson once Catherine broke the ice! It seemed, though, that Kevin and Jesse both understood that this was important to us...even if they couldn't totally grasp why.

I worried that they would all get tired of us or just think we were creepy, but that ended up being a senseless worry, as Kevin and Jesse both assured us of as early on as the Maxwell's show. Although, because I'm me, I'm still going to worry about it, but maybe that's what'll prevent me from ever crossing that boundary that Jesse spoke so knowledgeably about. I've grown pretty comfortable around Kevin and he's making it hard for me to feel like he doesn't like us around...so maybe this tour really did help me get over something. Even Jesse, though, separated what we did from the creepy things other people have done and I guess hearing it from him almost meant more than hearing it from Kevin. "I think you're crazy, not creepy!" Jesse explained. Haha...and I think that's pretty accurate!

Jesse knows we're Kevin, too, and that's awesome (...austin?). It seems to make him pretty happy seeing people getting as into Kevin's music as they get into his own. As embarrassed as - maybe - I should have been in Chapel Hill when Jesse watched us freaking out as Kevin played "The Longer That I'm Out Here," he was smiling right at me as Jenny hugged me and I knew that he knew we got it...so I didn't care if it was a total geek moment. Jesse still intimidates me so I was actually sort of proud of myself for making eye contact with him, mid Kevin freakout, for as long as I did and not forcing myself to calm down. I love that Goddamn song. What can I say!? And it sounded really fucking perfect that night.

These writers and their songs have helped me more than any journal entry I've ever written. Through whatever I was dealing with - as early as my sophomore or junior year of high school - I've had Jesse's or Kevin's words there to help pick me up. I guess Kevin's music, in Brand New's absence, ended up becoming closer to me, but that isn't to say at all that Jesse's writing doesn't touch me...because it certainly does. We all have our reasons for listening to the bands we listen to. We all have a need to get something inside us out. A lot of people never get lucky enough to even meet the people who inspire them the most. Not only am I lucky enough to have met Kevin and Jesse, I'm lucky enough to know them, at least to a certain extent. They recognize us and talk to us. They seem to know we're on their side and that we have no other agenda than to listen, take in, and enjoy their music.

And, yeah, Jesse...I knew Mike Strandberg before you knew Mike Strandberg. Now what!!?? Haha.

There are so many highlights and so many crazy stories that will never translate well out of context, but we'll have them in our memories forever and while that's not quite as good as living in those moments forever, it'll have to do. I don't want to think too far in the future. I know I probably don't have too many more years where I can drop everything and run around following a tour, so I'm really glad I had this chance. This could be it. I'm going to get the most out of the time I've got left before real life forces me to stop or, at least, slow down.

To be completely honest, it didn't hit me that tour was over until several days after it ended. We had Kevin and the Goddamn Band on a boat and two dates of the Colour Revolt / Manchester Orchestra tour. Granted, Brand New was missing from this week, but it almost felt like we were still on tour. Kevin on a boat was fucking amazing and had there not been any bros there, it would have been absolutely perfect. I mean, there were a bunch of creeps there, but there were enough legitimate Kevin fans there to counteract them. I just really didn't appreciate these white collar dudes acting like they know something about Kevin Devine, getting trashing, and then being disruptive. Whatever, though. Fuck those kids. It was the perfect night to be on a boat, too. It was beautiful out. I was really sad when it was over because I have no idea the next time we'll see Kevin play with the band. I love Kevin solo, of course, but I just had twelve shows of him solo...I'm ready to see full band. They played for a long time, but it didn't feel like it. It was perfect...another moment I wished I could have lived in forever.

Colour Revolt / Manchester at North Star Bar in Philly was fantastic. Jess and I got to talk to Andy Hull for about half an hour before the show. (Catherine, you'll be glad to know the beard is in full effect!) He saw us walking out of the little bar area...which we're old enough to go into while he's not. Haha. We talked to him about the KD/JTL tour and other things. He made me cry when he justified our craziness by saying, "But you guys do it for the music." We were talking, I guess, about Brand New and the motives of some fans. The show was great, but Jesse Revolt was really sick so Colour Revolt only played four songs. Manchester played everything off their full length except "The Neighborhood Is Bleeding." Andy opened with that song we thought was a new jam at Highline, but is apparently and old, unreleased jam. He also played a Right Away, Great Captain! song. The crowd was amazing. I cried a lot...mostly during "Where Have You Been?" I can still see various Brand New members and various Goddamn Band members on stage with them, but Andy's intensity gives me goosebumps independent of Brand New or Kevin. I bought a Manchester hoodie...and it has replaced my Core hoodie. At least, for now. ;)

Colour Revolt / Manchester at Knitting Factory was good, but I got more out of the Philly show. The crowd in Philly, I thought, was very respectful. They knew when to jam and when to be quiet. There was another bro-invasion at the Knitting Factory. There was an opener called The Jones Street Boys and they were AMAZING. Seriously. Amazing. They were a folky kind of band: harmonica, accordion, mandolin, upright bass...the works. They did their last song unplugged, just standing at the edge of the stage and the crowd was pretty receptive for them. They played pre-bro-invasion. I really liked them, so: www.myspace.com/thejonesstreetboys. Check em out. Unwed Sailor played. They played in Philly too, but we didn't really catch them. They're instrumental and it's pretty, but...I don't think I get it. Jesse Revolt must have been feeling better because I was feeling Colour Revolt. They played a longer set which included: "Mattresses Underwater," "Our Homes Are Graves," AND "Circus!" He was still sick, but he was obviously feeling better than he had the night before. He was moving around more and talking. I mean, he played "Circus," so his throat must have been feel a little better! Manchester did the same set they'd done the night before...with some help from other drummers (ex: Skinner) on "Where Have You Been?" It was really good, but I didn't feel them as much that night as I had the night before in Philly. I think that was due to the bros moshing during "Wolves At Night." Yep...I said moshing. :/

When it ended, though, I realized I was hugging Jon. And that's exactly how I ended the Manchester / Kevin / Brand New tour in Philly back in April. That's when I realized it was over. That's when my sadness turned into a pretty nice depression.

And then I sat in gum, which pissed me off.

So, I was in a very foul mood. I came home, still feeling like shit. I got in bed and had a headphone session with "The Devil And God Are Raging Inside Me" and I fell asleep feeling slightly better.

I don't know. I love my bands and I feel good when I'm at shows supporting the bands whose songs make me feel something. Furthermore, I'm sad when those bands aren't around...and even sadder when I'm not sure when they will be around. But, for now anyway, I know we have Kevin solo on September 6th, Brand New on September 8th, and Manchester on September 18th. I can deal with not knowing my next Colour Revolt so long as that means they're recording a full length! Jesse Revolt says they'll be around for CMJ in October, though. They better be. <3

This entry is really long. A lot longer than I'd intended to make it. Sorry.

Hollow

It's that song from your past:
whispers softly and laughs,
knows your name and your face,
left you naked in that place.

But darkness leads to health,
at least, that's what you tell yourself
and sorry melodies can't hurt you now,
but you still can't listen somehow.

Not without regret,
as if you could forget
and you're about to lose the bet,
with cold steel your future is set.

Swear you won't touch it,
like you won't miss it a bit.
It's not fair and it's not true,
but it always gets the best of you.

Moved on, but left behind,
it's yourself you still can't find.
Mirror reflections deceive:
this isn't what's become of me.

Two years, about to crack
and the chemicals you lack
are forcing your limbs to shake
and it's a dive, a binge, you have to take.

Another step, another breath,
another daydream about death.
It's so much more than you can swallow,
but you're hollow, hollow, hollow.

It almost doesn't matter
and your heart beats pitter patter
while the fighting grows louder and louder
as mind poisons soul from inner to outer.

But you always stop just shy
and avoid another mistake, another lie.
You hurt, but know it's right
because, this ruin: it's only your life.

*********************************************

^ To fix a ruin 'cause no one else is gonna do it...it's only your life. ^


Parts of this have been floating around in my head for a while, but I didn't put them down on paper until last night when I listened to a record I hadn't listened to since 2005. It's a record that's really pretty, but that I just can't listen to anymore and I wish I could get over it. So, the poem was influenced by that album as well as one of the new Kevin Devine songs he's been playing live. This is the first poem I've written in a really long time that I don't totally hate, so I suppose that's something to be proud of.

Still working on the story, but...yeah...I need to be in a class room ignoring a professor in order to really write a good story so it's been slow going.

I'm getting over a cold and one of my damn wisdom teeth is making my whole mouth hurt. Booo. This weekend was refreshing, though. Can't wait for next weekend. <3





"You can't see that he loves, but he hates his life. 'Cause he hides it so well when he smiles and he knows that you'll never find out..." I Can Make A Mess Like Nobody's Business The Kindler Burns

Conversation

Trust me: things are spiraling.
I am not in control.
Sing words and phrases.
Say nothing at all.
Your conversation lies.
Your devious grin shines.

If you think it's bad,
it's worse than that.
There's screaming
even in silence.
Never far from danger,
sleeping next to Hate.

Trust me not to trust.
I am not what you see.
Shout commands: I'll listen.
Spew poison: I'll drink.
Confuse what you have.
Lose what's left.

If you think it's tough,
rethink your path.
It can't be undone
once it's begun.
Mistakes you'd die to correct
will stab you with regret.

**************************************************

I hate poetry...specifically my own I need to focus on my story, but I've been lazy. I don't know what this poem is about. I guess maybe that says something about where my head is. It makes sense to me, but it makes no sense at all. It's about a million different things. The "you" of this poem refers to everyone, but also no one in particular. I've had a mixture of Good Charlotte and Gin Blossoms in my head today...which may also say something about my state of mind. Everything mixed up and everything's a mess. I can't see straight. It's all a joke and progress is bullshit. Why am I still writing this?




"And you can trust me not to think and not to sleep around. If you don't expect too much from me , you might not be let down..." Gin Blossoms Hey Jealous

Clock

The wind stopped blowing,
got swept up in himself.
The ocean quit churning,
under waves she pulled herself.
My gut is burning,
acid engulfing myself.

The clock stopped counting,
quarter to one.
The sun quit burning,
not having fun.
My habits are laughing.
I told them they won.


*******************************************

^ I noticed a few nights ago that the batteries for my wall clock in my room died. I did nothing about it. ^

Nothing ever really changes. I still have a headache from Wednesday night. It won't be discussed. I never say anything when I talk anyway.



"He's in my ear, wants me to live in denial. Says you've gotta settle for something, though it might not be really living...anything is better than nothing." Elliott Smith New Monkey

Virginia

Ashes and oranges taint skin.
My cheeks burn and my lips quake.
I pray for the sharp sting of sin.
My gut turns and my head aches.

The quiet once brought such relief.
Now, echoing silence barks.
Consequence of lacking belief:
these branding and shameful marks.

It's in my head, just locked inside:
"You can't change! You know that's true!"
I cover my ears, try to hide.
But you can't run from what's you.

***************************************

^ Last poem of the 2006-2007 school year. ^

This poem isn't really about anything new. I wrote it to kill time in Comparative Politics and came across it today while I was studying for my CP final. I guess it's just about feeling shitty when you have every reason in the world to be happy.

The more I write poetry the more dissatisfied I am with the medium. Maybe that's because I suck at poetry, which is true, but I really have been enjoying writing fiction more. So, I guess you can look forward to more stories. I have started another short story, but it's only about a page long so far and I'm really not sure where I'm going with it yet. Need to let it simmer.

I'm feeling old. 21 isn't old, but finishing my third year of college is making me feel older than I think I should be feeling. I feel like I should have come to major conclusions about life a long time ago: job, love, etc. I haven't done a damn thing. I feel behind. Going to Bamboozle didn't help much...just made me miss high school, even though I have no real reason to miss high school (especially not my senior year). I have one year left to figure out what I want to do with my life...or, at least, to figure out what I want to do with my life for the next couple of years. No pressure. :/

So, summer is upon us. My air conditioning is broken again. Thankfully is hasn't gotten too hot yet. My mom's birthday is a couple of week's after Mother's Day, so my life for the next couple of weeks consists of planning for those occasions and trying not to let my mother drive me crazy in the meantime.

KD in nine days.
Brand New in sixteen days.
Manchester Orchestra in forty days.



"Kids today are getting old too fast. They can't wait to grow up so they can kiss some ass. They get nostalgic about the last ten years before the last ten years have passed..." Ben Folds Bastard