On Friday a woman walked up to me and asked me why I was not going to class. I vaguely recognized her as someone in my biology class. I'm rather dismissive of people as I know my worth on this planet, and it's not very high. Only people who want something from me for nothing in return, ever engage me.
Somehow she controlled this conversation into her explaining that she's been going to college forever, but that she had a head injury that had put her in a coma. I remarked it was good she recovered (as opposed to being in a permanent vegitative state) and she assured me she had not recovered, as in severe memory loss, problems learning, and has to take buckets of drugs everyday. On top of that she had problems with English, and the school was somehow screwing her in credits.
I really didn't fucking care. Especially when she mentioned she was married I pretty much tuned her out. Not that I had any superficial interest in her, rather, I've never even had a girlfriend. Love is all that matters in life, and no coma, no head injury will ever take away the fact that she got married. The way I see it, you get married you win. Doesn't matter after that. You won life.
So anyway she mentions that she's struggling in this class. I know what it's like trying to get out of this school, and knowing only 6% of students graduate, I know there's precious few people who are even trying. So I gave her my email. Nothing too special, I've already exchanged emails with people I don't know in 3 other classes, just in case there's critical information that I or they need.
I tell her if she has any questions I'd be happy to help.
Then she told me how everyone else had blown her off, and how nice I was to offer to help her. She started crying.
I hate people. Also I think I have the gout now, or arthritis or something, but I've been in constant pulsating pain and barely able to walk for 3 days now. I've gone past my limit on ibuprofen and I'm wondering what will hurt worse, this non stop pain in my foot, or vomiting blood when the drug wears a whole in my stomach? I'm thinking the stomach blood will be much less painful or inconvenient.
It took me 15 minutes to walk between classes today. Then I had to take the bus home, and walk about a mile limping in excrutiaing pain the whole time.
Reminded me of when I was in high school in San Francisco. I sprained my ankle. The day after I sprained it, I realized after class that I had no money for a bus, and I didn't really have the strength to walk up two hills on cruches anyway, so I just sat on the steps of the school and waited.
No one was coming to pick me up, but I figured maybe after my mom got home from work, maybe a few hours later she'd drive by. Or I could just sit on the steps until school the next day. Either way, I had no money,no friends, or any physical capacity to go anywhere in the city of hills on a sprained ankle.
About an hour later with few people left at that school a teacher came out. She saw I was in a bad situation and offered me a ride home.
I suppose a positive person would say "see, even when the chips are down..."
But that's fucking nonsense. Suffer long enough, someone'll come by eventually. That message sucks.
Suffer long enough, the bullet won't seem quite so sacrificial.
Showing posts with label lonely. Show all posts
Showing posts with label lonely. Show all posts
Monday, February 08, 2010
Saturday, July 05, 2008
Going Back
I walk across the base. All my money is being sucked down a drain in Stockton, so I can't drive. I want to spend more time at home, so I don't ride my bike. 20,000+ people live and/ or work on this base everyday, but I am the only one who walks out the gate. I am the only one without a car or a boyfriend.
After several miles I am out. Walking into a rich neighborhood. I walk the busy road, alone. The cars tearing past don't know this neighborhood. I know this neighborhood, its past, its present, and its lives. I have walked every street. I have been to museum, the library, and the parks. I have read books; I have drunk with the locals. I have eaten all they offered. I have lain on their beach. I have been in the hotels and motels and dreamed of living out my days there. I walk this familiar neighborhood alone. I have corrected a taxi driver who thought the land owned by the Spanish decedents, because those were his primary customers. I explained to him that Coronado was built by 2 Americans. The Spanish and Mexicans had never used the land but for hunting jack rabbits. Jack rabbits that still control the night in North Island Jack rabbits that only I ever see. I the only one of 20,000 to walk the fields in the dark of the morning hours returning from ever fruitless efforts to obtain even the remotest human contacts, failing even the remotest rudimentary means of pleasure and satisfaction. I explained to the cabbie that those with money, do not ride cabs. I ride cabs, the Mexican servants he drives around may be dressed sharply, but only as a living. I walk the road until I come to the bus stop.
It has now been over an hour since I got off work. The sun is setting. It is past 7. I sit on the bench waiting to pay $2.25. The cheapest I can pay without going it on my own. The cheapest I can pay and return home before late night. I once rode the distance. The ferry that ever eludes teased me and I sought vengeance. I kept riding. I rode off the base. I rode the peninsula. Cars screamed past me at 70 miles and hour, and I rode in the dirt next to restricted areas for miles with no place to stop. One long strip of dirt and cars. I kept riding. Until the bay turned to piles of salt, salt several feet deep as far as I could see in that direction. In another, Mexico; if not by name than by all other means. I kept riding past the highways up the hill and down again, for miles through cities I had never seen before. I moved until in the depths of the barrio I could see tall buildings on the horizon. I rode until I was home. But I have no bike now. I could try to take the ferry. It is about a dollar more, but it is more consistent. The bus comes rarely.
.. ..
I sit and wait for the bus. On the bench I see the same faces. I see them everyday, and they see me. They look at me, knowingly. They know I do not belong. I listen to my iPod. I play games on my phone. Music that helps me avoid the silence of loneliness. Terrible overpriced under-programmed games on a phone just to look like I have something to do with a phone.
.. ..
Sometime in the evening a bus arrives. I get on and hope to have a seat. I have been awake for about 16 hours now, and 12 of them I was on watch wearing a gun and a bullet proof vest. The people on this bus are always different and new. I find I hear a new language being spoken each time. Korean, Japanese, German, Spanish, some kind of north European language I couldn't identify. I don't know why these people are on this bus. I don't know where they spent their day. I ride it over the bridge and into the city. It takes the barrio path to 12th. I get off surrounded by bums and tourists and cops. I am across the street from the ball park. I am a block from the convention center. I walk away from that and up the street. There are homeless masses in the streets and on the grass and in the alleys. Every time I wonder my fate, but only in passing. Up I walk past the half way homes and low cost housing and retirement home. At Albertsons I stop and purchase alcohol. I purchase food, and drink. Usually a jar of that Pom tea, usually a pizza, usually some meat and various TV dinners. I ride the elevator up to my room. The weight of my purchases tearing into my hands. I quickly enter my apartment. It is now around 8pm. I put on the TV, I turn up the AC, I make up some food and I drink. I drink. I drink until I am no longer coherent. Then I get in bed and sleep for a long time. Eventually I wake. Eventually I move around, eat, go out, drink, and make the day. Eventually. But soon that is over and I must return to work. I want to spend as much time as I can at home, so I don't ride my bike. I wait until it is 7 or 8 I start chugging whiskey straight out of the bottle for awhile, and then I walk to 5th avenue I live on 14th so this isn't too far. Eventually there is a taxi. I pay to have them drop me off at the gate, and I walk across the base.
.. ..
This was 8 months of my life. Save the girl, I did not.
After several miles I am out. Walking into a rich neighborhood. I walk the busy road, alone. The cars tearing past don't know this neighborhood. I know this neighborhood, its past, its present, and its lives. I have walked every street. I have been to museum, the library, and the parks. I have read books; I have drunk with the locals. I have eaten all they offered. I have lain on their beach. I have been in the hotels and motels and dreamed of living out my days there. I walk this familiar neighborhood alone. I have corrected a taxi driver who thought the land owned by the Spanish decedents, because those were his primary customers. I explained to him that Coronado was built by 2 Americans. The Spanish and Mexicans had never used the land but for hunting jack rabbits. Jack rabbits that still control the night in North Island Jack rabbits that only I ever see. I the only one of 20,000 to walk the fields in the dark of the morning hours returning from ever fruitless efforts to obtain even the remotest human contacts, failing even the remotest rudimentary means of pleasure and satisfaction. I explained to the cabbie that those with money, do not ride cabs. I ride cabs, the Mexican servants he drives around may be dressed sharply, but only as a living. I walk the road until I come to the bus stop.
It has now been over an hour since I got off work. The sun is setting. It is past 7. I sit on the bench waiting to pay $2.25. The cheapest I can pay without going it on my own. The cheapest I can pay and return home before late night. I once rode the distance. The ferry that ever eludes teased me and I sought vengeance. I kept riding. I rode off the base. I rode the peninsula. Cars screamed past me at 70 miles and hour, and I rode in the dirt next to restricted areas for miles with no place to stop. One long strip of dirt and cars. I kept riding. Until the bay turned to piles of salt, salt several feet deep as far as I could see in that direction. In another, Mexico; if not by name than by all other means. I kept riding past the highways up the hill and down again, for miles through cities I had never seen before. I moved until in the depths of the barrio I could see tall buildings on the horizon. I rode until I was home. But I have no bike now. I could try to take the ferry. It is about a dollar more, but it is more consistent. The bus comes rarely.
.. ..
I sit and wait for the bus. On the bench I see the same faces. I see them everyday, and they see me. They look at me, knowingly. They know I do not belong. I listen to my iPod. I play games on my phone. Music that helps me avoid the silence of loneliness. Terrible overpriced under-programmed games on a phone just to look like I have something to do with a phone.
.. ..
Sometime in the evening a bus arrives. I get on and hope to have a seat. I have been awake for about 16 hours now, and 12 of them I was on watch wearing a gun and a bullet proof vest. The people on this bus are always different and new. I find I hear a new language being spoken each time. Korean, Japanese, German, Spanish, some kind of north European language I couldn't identify. I don't know why these people are on this bus. I don't know where they spent their day. I ride it over the bridge and into the city. It takes the barrio path to 12th. I get off surrounded by bums and tourists and cops. I am across the street from the ball park. I am a block from the convention center. I walk away from that and up the street. There are homeless masses in the streets and on the grass and in the alleys. Every time I wonder my fate, but only in passing. Up I walk past the half way homes and low cost housing and retirement home. At Albertsons I stop and purchase alcohol. I purchase food, and drink. Usually a jar of that Pom tea, usually a pizza, usually some meat and various TV dinners. I ride the elevator up to my room. The weight of my purchases tearing into my hands. I quickly enter my apartment. It is now around 8pm. I put on the TV, I turn up the AC, I make up some food and I drink. I drink. I drink until I am no longer coherent. Then I get in bed and sleep for a long time. Eventually I wake. Eventually I move around, eat, go out, drink, and make the day. Eventually. But soon that is over and I must return to work. I want to spend as much time as I can at home, so I don't ride my bike. I wait until it is 7 or 8 I start chugging whiskey straight out of the bottle for awhile, and then I walk to 5th avenue I live on 14th so this isn't too far. Eventually there is a taxi. I pay to have them drop me off at the gate, and I walk across the base.
.. ..
This was 8 months of my life. Save the girl, I did not.
Tuesday, January 01, 2008
The New Year
I went to an Objectivist chat room. Talked for hours with a 25 year old man in New Zealand about getting him laid. Then a Russian in west Siberia joined in. I told him I couldn't believe a Siberian was allowed on the internet, least-ways in Ayn's territory talking shit about Putin.
The important thing was that I was at home. Sitting on my couch, drinking Chapagne out of the bottle alone. Since it took me two hours to get back to this blog I'll make a list of New Year's Eves I remember.
2008 - Last night. Got slightly drunk long before 12, went to bed completely sober about 12:30. Feeling sorry for myself.
2007 - Watched people who love each other count down the new year in a bar at the Hotel Del Coronado. I was not really welcome there, but nobody stopped me. After that I wandered the beach until I laid down on one of the dunes, and there came up with the idea of killing myself on that beach, which is a resolution I have yet to fulfill.
2006 - The day I tried desperately to get my only love to celebrate with me. She had other plans. My friend Tony, who was on vacation at my house suggested I go with him to Tokyo, but instead I stayed home, played video games, watched TV and probably cried. I didn't even stay up till 12.
2005 - I don't remember. I was in Japan I guess, I was probably at the Navy's "Single Sailor Center" which is like a boys and girls club for loser sailors. I honestly don't remember much of those days. They really sucked.
2004 - I was in Stockton, I drank a glass of Champagne with my father and brother and sister. It was my first time on vacation since leaving America, four months earlier.
2003 - I was in Pensacola Florida. I didn't do shit.
2002 - Honestly I don't remember. I lived with my Dad and bro and sis in Stockton. I probably didn't do anything.
2001 - Don't remember doing anything at all. I lived in S.F. with my Mom, bro, and sis.
2000- I was alone in an empty room in a house In South San Francisco. We had just moved in. Before that we were homeless. I remember being very happy to have a shelter from the rain, and I was writing a detective story that essentially captured my experiences and emotions. Lots of killing involved.
1999-1982- uh, it gets pretty fuzzy from here. Asides, I was a youngn'. Well technically 16 isn't that young, but you know, I suck.
The important thing was that I was at home. Sitting on my couch, drinking Chapagne out of the bottle alone. Since it took me two hours to get back to this blog I'll make a list of New Year's Eves I remember.
2008 - Last night. Got slightly drunk long before 12, went to bed completely sober about 12:30. Feeling sorry for myself.
2007 - Watched people who love each other count down the new year in a bar at the Hotel Del Coronado. I was not really welcome there, but nobody stopped me. After that I wandered the beach until I laid down on one of the dunes, and there came up with the idea of killing myself on that beach, which is a resolution I have yet to fulfill.
2006 - The day I tried desperately to get my only love to celebrate with me. She had other plans. My friend Tony, who was on vacation at my house suggested I go with him to Tokyo, but instead I stayed home, played video games, watched TV and probably cried. I didn't even stay up till 12.
2005 - I don't remember. I was in Japan I guess, I was probably at the Navy's "Single Sailor Center" which is like a boys and girls club for loser sailors. I honestly don't remember much of those days. They really sucked.
2004 - I was in Stockton, I drank a glass of Champagne with my father and brother and sister. It was my first time on vacation since leaving America, four months earlier.
2003 - I was in Pensacola Florida. I didn't do shit.
2002 - Honestly I don't remember. I lived with my Dad and bro and sis in Stockton. I probably didn't do anything.
2001 - Don't remember doing anything at all. I lived in S.F. with my Mom, bro, and sis.
2000- I was alone in an empty room in a house In South San Francisco. We had just moved in. Before that we were homeless. I remember being very happy to have a shelter from the rain, and I was writing a detective story that essentially captured my experiences and emotions. Lots of killing involved.
1999-1982- uh, it gets pretty fuzzy from here. Asides, I was a youngn'. Well technically 16 isn't that young, but you know, I suck.
Sunday, December 23, 2007
Burger King Onion Rings used to be made with onions
I decided to go to the movies today. I saw I am Legend and National Treasure: Book Of Secrets. I was planning on seeing The Golden Compass, I even bought a ticket, but I was tired. I bought 24 season 6. And I headed home.
On the way I detoured to Burger King to get dinner. I didn't lock up my bike so I spent the whole time in the restaurant looking out. There was this bum standing by my bike the whole time. I had blown him off when I walked in. A car with a big open bed stopped by my bike, and I imagined what I'd have to do if they tossed my bike in their bed. That's how I lost bike number 3. Being on bike number 11 or 12 now I know how to not get it stolen. If they did toss it in the bed, I imagined droping my stuff hopping the railing, knocking a guy over, breaking the glass door on my way out, jumping into the bed of the truck and calling the police while in the truck. I even thought about how I would speak, how I would navigate the cops, and pondered if I would have to fight them or if they would take me someplace where they had backup. In all this bike worry I ordered my meal. I didn't want the soda, but I started imagining that I could find a way to bring it home with me, I certainly didn't want to spend another minute there. I got my food, went out to my bike and dumped months old gatorade out of my water bottle. I tried to put the cup of soda in the water bottle holder, but the top popped instantly and I knew it was hopeless. This whole time this goddamn bum has been watching me, nobody watches me for minutes on end, especially not entire visits, so thoughts of having to beat him to shit, and what I'd do if he had a knife crossed my mind. I imagined kicking him in the throat rather than trying to kick his knife away, in this scenario he's already on the ground (that's why he'd pull the knife of course). I decided to walk my bike for a while instead.
By the time I crossed the street I imagined throwing my soda into the parking lot or against a building, but I don't litter, I don't make messes, and I knew that God damned bum was still watching. I crossed the street again, about 3 or 4 steps into the street one of the straps to the bag holding all my food and DVDs breaks. I know that soon the second one will go, but I'm juggling a bag, a cup of soda, and a bike. At the exact middle of the street the second strap breaks all my shit hits the ground and spills out. My can of "Duff" energy drink I had purchased as a collector item is fucked up and my food is in the street. I bend over but I still have to hold my bike and the cup of soda in my hand. I start stuffing everything into the bag and I see the street light turn green on me. I move faster pick all my shit up, except for one casualty, a package of zesty onion ring sauce. I move over to the side of the road and toss the fucking cup of soda into the trash. All the while I imagine that God fucking damn bum is watching. I hop on my bike. I glide downhill. Down down. I imagine that the flood of criminals and bums I am passing can't hear me while I am traveling in stealth mode. I get down by the trolley tracks and I illegaly cross them on a red. As soon as I am on the other side I see a cop car parked so I make a right turn onto the sidewalk. I pass by a couple men who had just been talking to a bum. "Merry Christmas" they say to the bum and he walks over to one of the street saplings. He grabs a bag of something out of the tree and walked away. I am amazed by this. I just illegally crossed a street, and then these guys just did a drug deal, and this cop car doesn't move. I keep rolling down down hill. Bums and crazys and criminals. Anyway. That was my day. I know I changed tenses half way through, but my left hand is numb, I need to take a shit, I'm tired, and my food's gotten cold again while writing this.
On the way I detoured to Burger King to get dinner. I didn't lock up my bike so I spent the whole time in the restaurant looking out. There was this bum standing by my bike the whole time. I had blown him off when I walked in. A car with a big open bed stopped by my bike, and I imagined what I'd have to do if they tossed my bike in their bed. That's how I lost bike number 3. Being on bike number 11 or 12 now I know how to not get it stolen. If they did toss it in the bed, I imagined droping my stuff hopping the railing, knocking a guy over, breaking the glass door on my way out, jumping into the bed of the truck and calling the police while in the truck. I even thought about how I would speak, how I would navigate the cops, and pondered if I would have to fight them or if they would take me someplace where they had backup. In all this bike worry I ordered my meal. I didn't want the soda, but I started imagining that I could find a way to bring it home with me, I certainly didn't want to spend another minute there. I got my food, went out to my bike and dumped months old gatorade out of my water bottle. I tried to put the cup of soda in the water bottle holder, but the top popped instantly and I knew it was hopeless. This whole time this goddamn bum has been watching me, nobody watches me for minutes on end, especially not entire visits, so thoughts of having to beat him to shit, and what I'd do if he had a knife crossed my mind. I imagined kicking him in the throat rather than trying to kick his knife away, in this scenario he's already on the ground (that's why he'd pull the knife of course). I decided to walk my bike for a while instead.
By the time I crossed the street I imagined throwing my soda into the parking lot or against a building, but I don't litter, I don't make messes, and I knew that God damned bum was still watching. I crossed the street again, about 3 or 4 steps into the street one of the straps to the bag holding all my food and DVDs breaks. I know that soon the second one will go, but I'm juggling a bag, a cup of soda, and a bike. At the exact middle of the street the second strap breaks all my shit hits the ground and spills out. My can of "Duff" energy drink I had purchased as a collector item is fucked up and my food is in the street. I bend over but I still have to hold my bike and the cup of soda in my hand. I start stuffing everything into the bag and I see the street light turn green on me. I move faster pick all my shit up, except for one casualty, a package of zesty onion ring sauce. I move over to the side of the road and toss the fucking cup of soda into the trash. All the while I imagine that God fucking damn bum is watching. I hop on my bike. I glide downhill. Down down. I imagine that the flood of criminals and bums I am passing can't hear me while I am traveling in stealth mode. I get down by the trolley tracks and I illegaly cross them on a red. As soon as I am on the other side I see a cop car parked so I make a right turn onto the sidewalk. I pass by a couple men who had just been talking to a bum. "Merry Christmas" they say to the bum and he walks over to one of the street saplings. He grabs a bag of something out of the tree and walked away. I am amazed by this. I just illegally crossed a street, and then these guys just did a drug deal, and this cop car doesn't move. I keep rolling down down hill. Bums and crazys and criminals. Anyway. That was my day. I know I changed tenses half way through, but my left hand is numb, I need to take a shit, I'm tired, and my food's gotten cold again while writing this.
Sunday, June 24, 2007
sans reason
Di was assaulted in Hong Kong. Swore to never talk about it. It was $90 for a massage and a harassing bitch of unknown nationality. At least I wasn't had. Just a thought. Mikey got video of me with some whores, but hey. You just don't know. When I think about how stupid I was in Japan, I know I can't go through with it anymore. Here though. Here is just depressing. I think about the origins, and the lies, and I lie to myself, and I punish myself.
She swears she feels nothing. I don't know if it's because she's doing that thing that teenage girls do oftimes, but I know I can't claim I'm any more down than her. I told her she wasn't allowed to die until after I do. You know there's a curious and seldom publicly discussed political/ethical debate about suicide. The two sides have no titles, but if they did, the pro-lifers would do as much as possible to legally ruin any one who thinks about self extermination. The pro-choicers are primarily pro-suicide. The opinion I hold, that reason allows for both life and death, seems a rare if not unique one.
Lately I've been thinking more of my past. I mean a more broad view, not the typical narrow and short version I usually employ in thought.
There was a boy of 5 who know every person on his street by name, because he went to their houses and spoke with them. There was a reality much harsher, in his life. Though the boy resurfaced, a kiss, a lack of kisses, and the ease of corruption in the souls surrounding makes this boy me, and I only talk to who I must, and I think often of the boy's choices, and of the Glock.
She swears she feels nothing. I don't know if it's because she's doing that thing that teenage girls do oftimes, but I know I can't claim I'm any more down than her. I told her she wasn't allowed to die until after I do. You know there's a curious and seldom publicly discussed political/ethical debate about suicide. The two sides have no titles, but if they did, the pro-lifers would do as much as possible to legally ruin any one who thinks about self extermination. The pro-choicers are primarily pro-suicide. The opinion I hold, that reason allows for both life and death, seems a rare if not unique one.
Lately I've been thinking more of my past. I mean a more broad view, not the typical narrow and short version I usually employ in thought.
There was a boy of 5 who know every person on his street by name, because he went to their houses and spoke with them. There was a reality much harsher, in his life. Though the boy resurfaced, a kiss, a lack of kisses, and the ease of corruption in the souls surrounding makes this boy me, and I only talk to who I must, and I think often of the boy's choices, and of the Glock.
Saturday, June 09, 2007
what life this man has wrought.
Backed into a corner. I just want this pain to stop. I know what I've done to deserve this. Oh god. Somehow. End this. My eyes burn. waiting. Kick in this door a kill me.
Monday, May 28, 2007
Mr. Wacy's Push
Here's the short of it, Wacy wouldn't listen to me when I told him my spirit was dead, because of him I ended up dancing with a beautiful half black/ half native american college girl from Novato and her 3 friends. Fucking Wacy quit and went to a titty bar. Don't know how that turned out. I really am unhappy about the matter. If I weren't dead inside I might have enjoyed it more.
Sunday, December 10, 2006
Spirals and the nature of the 3rd dimension (my neurosis)
I was about to declare that spirals don't exist in nature but within seconds I noticed a vine spiraling up a potted tree. Spirals do exist, but in the 3rd dimension. I was thinking of spirals in 2D. We see in 2D, which is annoying to me. None of this was what I was wanting to write originally, but it did help me remember.
I think in spirals, when I come back around I'm a little farther from where I started. Thought threads are fleeting though. I can't even remember what the particular spiral I had in mind was.
So, my current loops of bullshit;
1. I need to care again. (this covers lots of littler issues)
2. My Mother's death (oh my dollars is this a lot of issues)
3. My lack of house and transportation (FTN)
4. My morality (this is just too much)
Where I am: So I decide that once I learned enough about the Vikings, I no longer felt the guilt I've felt for years for not telling my 12th grade British Literature class all I knew about the Vikings when the teacher put me on the spot. It always pissed me off that I didn't talk about their conwquests of America, and Russia, and trade with Constantinople and their written language. Now that I have learned much more, I see that even then I was not too qualified to teach about them at any length. I figured the same logic would help me to regain my control on the General Vallejo situation. That being I have read conflicting sources siting both Vallejo, and John Sutter as having had an army that wore Russian uniforms and took orders in German. It pissed me off that I could know so much, and then be unsure of something so grand. So I thought I'd go to a library. Then I remembered that I wasted years of my youth at libraries instead of socializing. This made me feel guilty for even wanting to read more. So I thought about going to a gun store. Why now? I can't buy one yet, I should take care of important things first. This issue was dropped when the phone book revealed that gun stores aren't open on Sundays. Are Libraries open on Sundays?
I thought about going dowtown to drink and socialize, once again though it's Sunday. I didn't want to go back to the ship. I had nothing else to do, I felt shame for liking to read, so I thought about this spiraling search in my mind for something productive to do on this Sunday. This led me to want to write about spirals. As you may imagine, Fashion Valley Mall is devoid of blank paper. I saw a Hallmark store and checked it out. Cards are almost stationary, but in there I thought about the nature of Hallmark cards. There are in a sense; For those who can't write on their own. Hallmark hates creative people, because creative people don't need Hallmark. They would then logically despise blank paper, for it takes creativity to make that paper valuable.
I then went to Border's Book Store. No paper there. Not a bit. I was mad at this, but had to conclude; For the common man, there is no direct correlation between reading and writing.
Fashion Valley Mall isn't about thought. Fashion is anti-thought, if it's "fashionable" then you didn't choose it, you didn't make it, it isn't creative. I also noticed it's mostly girls there, but they came to shop, or if they came to socialize too, I wouldn't know it, becuase I'm kinda pissed at sex right now. We aren't on speaking terms.
So all I have left to do is go back to the ship. I start walking, cause the trolley was packed, and I didn't want to call a Taxi. Eventually I end up at another Border's I see a beautiful woman in there and as soon as she looks at me, I know we won't be making-up any time soon. I find a book that is all about mid 1800s California with a lot of Vallejo shit in it. I get all excited and buy it. I'm a nerd. Fuck it.
I think in spirals, when I come back around I'm a little farther from where I started. Thought threads are fleeting though. I can't even remember what the particular spiral I had in mind was.
So, my current loops of bullshit;
1. I need to care again. (this covers lots of littler issues)
2. My Mother's death (oh my dollars is this a lot of issues)
3. My lack of house and transportation (FTN)
4. My morality (this is just too much)
Where I am: So I decide that once I learned enough about the Vikings, I no longer felt the guilt I've felt for years for not telling my 12th grade British Literature class all I knew about the Vikings when the teacher put me on the spot. It always pissed me off that I didn't talk about their conwquests of America, and Russia, and trade with Constantinople and their written language. Now that I have learned much more, I see that even then I was not too qualified to teach about them at any length. I figured the same logic would help me to regain my control on the General Vallejo situation. That being I have read conflicting sources siting both Vallejo, and John Sutter as having had an army that wore Russian uniforms and took orders in German. It pissed me off that I could know so much, and then be unsure of something so grand. So I thought I'd go to a library. Then I remembered that I wasted years of my youth at libraries instead of socializing. This made me feel guilty for even wanting to read more. So I thought about going to a gun store. Why now? I can't buy one yet, I should take care of important things first. This issue was dropped when the phone book revealed that gun stores aren't open on Sundays. Are Libraries open on Sundays?
I thought about going dowtown to drink and socialize, once again though it's Sunday. I didn't want to go back to the ship. I had nothing else to do, I felt shame for liking to read, so I thought about this spiraling search in my mind for something productive to do on this Sunday. This led me to want to write about spirals. As you may imagine, Fashion Valley Mall is devoid of blank paper. I saw a Hallmark store and checked it out. Cards are almost stationary, but in there I thought about the nature of Hallmark cards. There are in a sense; For those who can't write on their own. Hallmark hates creative people, because creative people don't need Hallmark. They would then logically despise blank paper, for it takes creativity to make that paper valuable.
I then went to Border's Book Store. No paper there. Not a bit. I was mad at this, but had to conclude; For the common man, there is no direct correlation between reading and writing.
Fashion Valley Mall isn't about thought. Fashion is anti-thought, if it's "fashionable" then you didn't choose it, you didn't make it, it isn't creative. I also noticed it's mostly girls there, but they came to shop, or if they came to socialize too, I wouldn't know it, becuase I'm kinda pissed at sex right now. We aren't on speaking terms.
So all I have left to do is go back to the ship. I start walking, cause the trolley was packed, and I didn't want to call a Taxi. Eventually I end up at another Border's I see a beautiful woman in there and as soon as she looks at me, I know we won't be making-up any time soon. I find a book that is all about mid 1800s California with a lot of Vallejo shit in it. I get all excited and buy it. I'm a nerd. Fuck it.
Monday, May 15, 2006
Josho vs. Rum
Perception. Your eyes lie to you. How's that for a begining? Rationality has to be founded on one's perception, but what we perceive isn't exactly right to begin with. It's the butterfly effect and the stampede is me at a picnic seeing Ian alone and quiet. It's seeing her. When I see her I don't see a person, I see issues. I see an unresolvable conflict. These perceptions. So Sean show me a nice way to enjoy rum with Sprite. I had about 4 glasses, then decided I wasn't nearly drunk enough. So I slammed the bottle, literaly I chiped a tooth doing it. I just kept drinking it. I drank it like water. I drank it empty. I hoped it would kill me. I still wasn't drunk enough because it hadn't hit me yet. I hoped I'd at least pass out. I grabbed a beer and drank that too. Then I played some Weezer and did the dishes. I went to bed around 9:30. At some point in the night I found myself opening the door to my other bedroom. I don't know why or how I was there. Sean asks me if I'm ok, I say I'm really drunk, he says "Yeah I saw wht you did to that bottle." I go back to bed, and notice two huge piles of vomit on my bed. I sleep until 5:30 a.m. and get up for duty. I'm still drunk, I tell Sean about it. I shave drunk, I clean up the vomit, mostly. I notice at some point in the night I had gone downstairs grabbed my iPod and took it back to my room and recharged it. Aparantly I'm a very productive drunk. I tell Sean not to go into my room, he says that the only time he'd ever been in there was the night before to make sure I wouldn't choke on my own vomit in my sleep. I tell him I don't care if he goes in my room, but it's mass casualty in there.
I drunk bike to the base. At the main gate I get paranoid, I stop ten feet from the gaurd and try to get my ID card out of my pocket. I look at him, and I'm sure he knows. He says, "You dropped your money." I loudly say;
"Yeah it's just a Yen." I reach down and pick it up. I think he knows now for sure, because I should have said 'one Yen' not 'a Yen' or maybe 'a Yenny' if I were hip. I go through and drunk bike to my boat. I see the gate gaurds and I'm sure they know, but we don't talk. I get to the ship and I'm sure the OOD knows, but he says nothing. I drunk iron my uniform, because I had remembered to bring it. Then I go to muster, and afterwards I sleep most of the day. I have a dream that two guys, Misty Stokes, and I are burglars (only two of you could possibly know who she is, to you I say, I haven't a clue why, I never dreamed about her before).
It was more than 15 hours before I started feeling sober again, more than 24 before I stopped feeling sick. The whole time I was drinking I was thinking about Sasebo, Kagoshima, Hong Kong, her. I thoroughly distorted my perception, just for a momentary release from this hold on my soul.
I drunk bike to the base. At the main gate I get paranoid, I stop ten feet from the gaurd and try to get my ID card out of my pocket. I look at him, and I'm sure he knows. He says, "You dropped your money." I loudly say;
"Yeah it's just a Yen." I reach down and pick it up. I think he knows now for sure, because I should have said 'one Yen' not 'a Yen' or maybe 'a Yenny' if I were hip. I go through and drunk bike to my boat. I see the gate gaurds and I'm sure they know, but we don't talk. I get to the ship and I'm sure the OOD knows, but he says nothing. I drunk iron my uniform, because I had remembered to bring it. Then I go to muster, and afterwards I sleep most of the day. I have a dream that two guys, Misty Stokes, and I are burglars (only two of you could possibly know who she is, to you I say, I haven't a clue why, I never dreamed about her before).
It was more than 15 hours before I started feeling sober again, more than 24 before I stopped feeling sick. The whole time I was drinking I was thinking about Sasebo, Kagoshima, Hong Kong, her. I thoroughly distorted my perception, just for a momentary release from this hold on my soul.
Friday, March 24, 2006
How I feel
Sliding on my ass at the bottom of a snowy hill, the fun is over, but the ride hasn't stopped. Waking up after 2 hours of sleep, and spending an entire day sitting around. Wasting an entire day playing video games that I've already beaten. Standing watch. Red streaks of silk flash by and a sword enters my stomach, but it is just a dream and I move on and never remember it. I was 4 years old and he hit me in the head with a pipe. I was 12 and I stood in a field, a boy told me she had a crush on me. I have stood on a cliff facing the wrong direction. Sunday morning. Every day of December. After 4 ejaculations, and 5 hours of sexual activity, all the while thinking. Watching a opossum die on the side of a road, only 5 minutes into a two hour bike ride. The rear bumper of my Grandmother's Ford. Greyhound station at anytime of the day except 9:45 pm. Stale Dorritos out of a freshly opened bag. The same t-shirt, 4 days in a row. Never at the beach. Never in the forest. Never on a mountain. Never by a river. Swenson Park, on a weekday. My Mesquite tree. Recess after 5th grade.
I want to apologize to someone I shouldn't forgive. I want to leave someone I should kiss. I sit on a pedastal I made them build, if I stand, I will be higher than them, but I am content. I am so out of sorts, this is truly the closest I can come to speaking about how I feel.
I want to apologize to someone I shouldn't forgive. I want to leave someone I should kiss. I sit on a pedastal I made them build, if I stand, I will be higher than them, but I am content. I am so out of sorts, this is truly the closest I can come to speaking about how I feel.
Monday, December 19, 2005
To you, my love, or me, my pain
I was an open book. You read me, and threw me away. I'm sorry there isn't more. You don't want there to be more. If you ever want to read again, just pick me up. I am right where you left me. In the trash.
I can't be any more open to you. You can't be any more recluse to me. If you no longer fear what the pages say, then pick me up again.
I will remain here until someone else comes and takes me away. May I grab them like I could never grab you. May I mean enough to them that they pass me along, and not abandon me. You don't want to hear it. If you could even pretend you cared you wouldn't have slammed me shut so hard.
It is ok. This is life. I will suffer. You will play. Maybe another day.
I can't be any more open to you. You can't be any more recluse to me. If you no longer fear what the pages say, then pick me up again.
I will remain here until someone else comes and takes me away. May I grab them like I could never grab you. May I mean enough to them that they pass me along, and not abandon me. You don't want to hear it. If you could even pretend you cared you wouldn't have slammed me shut so hard.
It is ok. This is life. I will suffer. You will play. Maybe another day.
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