Saturday, December 14, 2002

On Belief

"believe..."

-smashing pumpkins

maybe, for the first time in my life, it's time to believe in something.

"i'm not sure... i'm confused... i'm lost... where's daddy and mommy?... i need a safety blanket... someone to hold my hand and make the choice for me so i never have to..."

not anymore. that's the way of the imaginary paternal law... the one that you constructed so you'll never have to face the horrific kernel of antagonism, the radical indeterminacy and flare of life, the painful shriek of constituting subjectivity. "it's not my fault that things go bad... mommy did it all. they're constraining me. if only they didn't exist i'd be free."

they never existed. they were dead from the start. foreclosed, if you will. you just thought them up so you would never have to really do anything. every problem always gets sloughed off on the scapegoat du jour (modest mouse: "i say i'm not excited bymy life anymore, i blame this town, this job, these friends, but the truth is it's myself").

you thought shackles made you free. you thought you could turn your body cold like a junky to throw off the external cold. the old dull death drive resurfacing in a new form. like gnostics that flagellate themselves only to find perverse pleasure in the paternal law. but the death drive doesn't free you from the theater of desire. it only loops you back in forever, repeatedly approaching and fleeing Jouissance, dying that doesn't occur at once but over and over again FOREVER. like the flying dutchman who eternally sails around the cape, never to end his futile existence.

kierkegaardian angst isn't fear of the finality of death. it's the fear OF ETERNAL LIFE and that there is NO END. that suffering will continue forever. that zombielike state is the death drive.

thus, like antigone, it's time for me to step into death. no more superficial symbolic assaults on "oppressive" institutions that i dreamed up (such as the judgement of others or of my parents). it's time to reconceptualize and reconstruct what the unconscious even is... fuck over the very epistemological coordinates that made it make sense to be a slave in the first place. DO NOT BETRAY YOUR DESIRE. badiou would refer to this as an Event... Events are revolutions, but not just in the overt sense... they are also of love. nihilism and despair are the most horrible, anti-life things that could happen right now. no more reactive politics. an *active* stance, affirming the Good before the Bad, going "into the death" (as alec empire might put it), "shake the disease" (depeche mode) "fight the sickness" (robert smith).

it's a step into death because it threatens my existence as a subject. it calls into question everything that makes me what "i am" and jacks superficial hermeneutics. maybe, in the chain of signification, i will be dead. good.

imagine, if you will, a debate round. the affirmative presents a project, a vision of an imaginary world. the negative stands up and says, "that links to this disadvantage which has this impact." now, some affirmatives (liberals) might say, "no, no, no... we don't link to your argument don't be silly."

BAD MOVE!

BETTER MOVE::: (paraphrasing zizek): "Why yes, you are correct. We DO cause that to happen. That is *precisely* what we intended!!!"

it's time to IMPACT TURN this shit. yes, catastrophe. yes, antagonism. yes, upheaval. yes, danger. yes, nuclear annihilation.

like that le tigre song, "let's run" towards the end, "OR WE COULD FAIL!!!!" of course i can fail. why the fuck did i even try if that wasn't a possbility? it could end up in a flaming wreck with torn up babies thrown for miles. at least i fucking tried when i could have just rotted away on my futon, eating buckets of pasta.

YES. IT IS ALL IMAGINARY. I CONCEDE THAT. the problem is when you deny your desire for the elusive. you just end up circling around to it in even worse ways in the end (return of the repressed, anyone?) the key step is to traverse the fantasy (fantasies are inevitable afterall) and to acknowledge that you have it and to eroticize and revel in it. interpellation is like sexual difference. it's Real insofar as it's impossible. there are GAPS. ideology will always already fail to universally hail us as subjects. there's an indivisible remainder... a ghastly gaping hole that is horrible to look at... but it's there. it's exactly what makes change possible. it's time to stop playing jacks and to try something for the first time ever.

otherwise, nothing matters to me.

Thursday, December 05, 2002

Liar

You’ve been mad at me before, but it rarely hurts this much. Well, i’m not fooling anyone. It always hurts.

Tonight hurts a lot though. It’s a mixture of my recognition of how stupid I was (or lazy, most files on my computer never get renamed and I don’t stop to think about what they mean) and that i was called a liar.

You don’t want to talk now. That’s alright. You don’t have to.

But I have say something somehow, even if I'm not sure if you read this site any more.

I don’t intentionally deceive you. I made the decision a long time ago to be as straightforward as possible and to tell you what I’m doing and thinking as much as possible. Of course, I’m not the most rhetorically capable person on the planet and lots of things come out in the wrong way and convey bad connotations.

But I don’t try to misrepresent things. I would never tell you I hadn’t talked to someone if I had. If i had to lie about something, I should either have been straightforward about it or not done it.

I guess I just don’t understand why you think I deceived you.

I don’t have or even want my past. That doesn’t mean I don’t have a right to remember it, though. Everyone thinks about earlier parts of their lives. I know you do. Sometimes you have to remember the good things and the horrible things you went through in order to appreciate or understand where you are right now.

you’re the one I care about. i think about your lips, your smile when you’re excited, the nights when you tell me about what high school was like or things you used to do, the mornings drinking tea and eating hash browns, the way you hug me when I feel like the ground is crumbling and I’m starting to cry. Why would I trade that for something from a long time ago?

I need you right now. Old stuff is gone. I'm over pain i used to feel and I'm happy about that

I just wish I was believeable

Sunday, November 17, 2002

still ill.

i stayed in bed all day today. i went out once to get some juice with vitamin C in it.

why did i stay in bed? i'm sick

but the word "sick" is a funny one. there's more than one connotation to it. perverts are sick. callous people are sick. violent people are sick. mentally ill people are sick.

yes. i have a cold

but i'm sick too. and that's my fault and my fault alone.
and i'm not trying to be cool. this isn't hip or sexy. you'd have to be a necrophiliac to get off on it. it's EVIL. it's WRONG and i'm changing it. i care too much about everyone to get down because of a... er... cold. yeah.
death is hip like MTV's hip. it's giving up. it's boring. it's everything i'm against. so fuck me. no more.

Wednesday, November 13, 2002

shell

i've never been fair. i've never been fair to myself or to the people i love. i'm just enough withdrawn that i have a hard time telling people what i want, but enough outward at the wrong moments that i ruins everything. who would believe the emotionless dolt? who would ever think he wanted something? i probably wouldn't. but i'd be wrong.

Friday, November 08, 2002

falling.

Got the great idea to go read the books
way at the top of the cathedral,
the ones with pictures of smoking bob-haired women
without lipstick
on black and white covers
kept by the stone ledge.
Dropped a carton of fries in
the trash and jammed buttons with
a greasy thumb.
Got to the 11th floor and
elevator fell out from under me,
dissolved beneath ripped up plastic
shoes and I kicked skinny
legs in space.
Heard an old bearded man cry about
a grey painting i'd never seen as i went past
floor 10.
Halfway caught fuzzy glimpses of
woman shadows in the corners
of the 5th.
And I heard a quiet child's voice
tremble
in a quiet song my mom sang me to sleep with
when i was 4:
"Red and yellow and pink and green,
purple and orange and blue,
You can sing a rainbow, sing a rainb-"
Cut short and tape clicked out
when my head bashed into concrete
basement and fractured bones into metal floor,
splashed my spit all over homecoming posters
on the wall.

"...you can sing a rainbow too."

Thursday, November 07, 2002

stupid.

i was telling myself, recently, that i don't care about food. i never have. just something that happened and you weren't supposed to obsess about.

but i thought about it for a little while, and that's not true at all.

i started reading ingredients and nutritional information shortly after i learned how to read well (yeah yeah yeah... 1st grade is sooooo late to learn how to read. haha).
i've been pretty aware of what's in stuff for a while, i just never really thought about it. really really fattening food has always made me feel kind of sick, just thinking about it. saying the name "mcdonalds" makes my throat hurt. it seriously does and it has forever.

milk is gross.
apple sauce is nasty.
apple juice tastes terrible.
mint is too harsh.
bacon fat is sick.
american cheese is rancid.

i could spout off the complete lists of all the foods i hated and why. obsession with textures and feelings and physical effects. when i was in 7th grade my mom had a book all about the nutritional content of the items in every restraunt and around the house. i read most of it because i thought it was interesting (want to know what the worst fast food offender is? the taco tub at taco john's... deep fried, ya know). food was gross but fascinating too.

this is weird, eh? i'm a stick. realistically, i'm probably underweight. the real question is whether you're underweight enough. i've been harassed my whole life for being a light rag. at some point, i think i just decided to embrace that and live up to it. "so i'm nothing? you're right i AM nothing. just watch and see how much nothing i can really be. don't you wish you could be my size?"

in 9th grade, something weird happened. i got this idea that i was going to be a "starving writer." not a writer who might be forced to starve to write, but i actually had this romantic idea that i was going to starve to death and never be a successful writer. "how cool is that?" i asked someone. they looked offended. it took me years to figure out why. i've always known myself as an ugly person. a long time ago, i used to have this idea that the world had two kinds of people: attractive ones and unattractive ones. i thought that which one you were could only be objectively discovered by the opposite sex. everyone had to wait until an unbiased person of the other sex told them whether they were attractive or not. i grew up wondering. in 7th grade, in PE (a place where i was really vulnerable), i thought i found out. we were playing kickball and some girl who was in 9th grade made an offhand comment about how at least her boyfriend didn't look like the people waiting to kick (that included me and one other person). i was pretty certain from that point forward that no one would ever want anything to do with me and that i'd die alone.

two years later was when i decided to tell the world to go die and that i was going to be an unhealthy, addicted, skinny, starving dead person. it felt right.

one night sticks out. it was shortly before i began high school. i had determined to be the only thing i thought i could be: an intellectual writer. i sat down in the early evening with a glass of water and a book. i went the whole night without eating, didn't goto sleep and managed to finish the book. i felt tired but good. i've always been a really slow reader, so finishing a book in a night made me feel great. i also noticed something else: if i kept drinking water and thinking about how sophisticated i was, i didn't get hungry. the pangs died away, the longer i went. probably didn't help that i read kafka's "hunger artists" story shortly afterwards.

i don't think i really have a full-blown eating problem. but i think various things have been edging me closer and closer to the cusp of one. i think dangerous things and sometimes they make me forget to live.

i would give anything to just not have to think about food anymore and to eat naturally. why the hell can't i do that? i want to sit down and eat waffles without feeling guilty. why do i feel that way? i SHOULDN'T. i'm light. i tell myself that over and over and over again and i keep setting specific times to make and eat something, but the feeling never goes away. i keep waking up and going to school without thinking about food until i get home and go "oh shit..."

i don't know why i do this. it doesn't make any sense and it's offensive on face. killing yourself isn't supposed to feel good.

right now i think back to my friends in high school, when we'd one up each other on the pretentiousness scale, esp with food. "Ew. My gawwd. You aren't going to eat that are you? It's dripping with calories."

How stupid of them. How stupid of me.

Saturday, October 26, 2002

pulp

to the law, but also anyone else who tried to damage me...

Humynness sickens me. There's the obvious ethical component of this. People do horrible things and i've hated that for a long time.
But there's a physical dimension to it too.
Humyn characteristics are gross in general. Apes have always been my least favorite non-homo sapien animals. they have this general shape... this gawky, awkward reek to them.
And people have it 10-fold. Look at their arms, skulls, legs. I'm a walking piece of meat. There are all these veins pumping boiling nauseous warm liquid through cancerous groves and organ caverns. Underneath the pimply, porous mask, people are all shaped red clay and spurting geisers of blood. Nasty.
Men are the worst. Their build... their harsh, blunt external organs. Their low voices. their sprouts of hair shooting up everywhere... curling and dripping with vomity sweat drops.
Sometimes I wish everything would shrink away... like a piece of beef dissolved in a jar of digestive acid. Disgusting substance burns on its own fumes and vanishes to a place where nothing can touch it.
But that can't happen.

So I make myself cold. Then, they can't hurt me. Flames can't touch an already immolated pile of ash. Punch me again.
See me smile through broken teeth. your hand isn't even yours. It's mine. Force me to strip and take notes on the filth. Comment on the bubbly arrangement of assorted plumps of fluid and fat. Try to hold back your gag reflex when you see the random bumps all over my skin and the collapsing, heaving abyss of my stomach. Collect my bodily fluids for analysis in a sterile lab to see if I'm using. Follow me. Put me to work. Ruin my back in commercial freezers and make me wipe splattered frosting and ketchup off of infants' faces. Cripple my body with constant threats of violence... what the legal machine can do to me and FORCE me to be.
Handcuff me with tournequette palms that turn purple, record the indentations on my fingertips with grease (so you can tell your friends how well you know all the nooks and crannies of what's left of my body), hurl me in a concrete box and joke about how good it'll be when the "retard" next door shoves his penis in my ass while you scream at me to breathe through my nose while you're in my mouth... Smear my "pretty face" with your gizz and pop my neck with your flashlight for good measure. "You'll be old before you're ever out of here." "Better get some money in your commisary, kid... the weekend's almost here. Just give up." The weekend's almost here. Buy instant coffee crystals and eat them raw, but don't fatten up because Boss likes boney asses, likes punching ribs when he climaxes, likes feeling jagged hip bones up against his roast. "Don't worry. I'll eat those hot dogs for you. I know they forgot you don't want to eat meat. Just give it time. You will." "Don't even think about looking at your parents. If you do, I'll hold you in contempt and you'll go back to your cell to watch Rodney Dangerfield and clean more toilets."

Go ahead. Do it. You'll get no fight from me. Put me on your rack and come in my eye over and over again in different situations. No end of legal cocks are enough to finish breaking out my teeth. It's just plastic surgery cheap... trim down my muck... clean the mud off my face with lysol spurts, anti-bacterial bukkake. Make these organs melt and spew out of every orifice you can see. Make me strong, but make me weak, like the river that bends submits always goes downhill path of least resistance just like Lao Tzu,

You can't break water.

It flows.

It's cold.

And it disappears when you burn it.

Wednesday, August 07, 2002

want.

i'm trying,
i'm trying,
i'm trying,
i'm trying...


i was supposed to go do some work at the salvation army today.

i didn't though. i just drove around town and listened to pavement for most of the day.

i'm not sure what i want. today stuff's going on in a closed hearing that could change the rest of my life... or it could do absolutely nothing, i'm not sure. a judge, a prosecutor, an attorney, and a PO are all discussing whether to send me out of the state or not. for months i've been told by everyone that mattered that i could never go back to pennsylvania. i got used to that, but yesterday a new possibility opened up... something i would have loved a while back.

the new idea: let's put aaron on unsupervised probation. that means he wouldn't have a probation officer and wouldn't have to check in with anyone. he wouldn't have to do UAs and wouldn't be subject to random breathalizers and searches of his home. he could go back to pennsylvania, debate, and attend school.

sounds good, right? everything i've been dreaming of?

fuck no. that freedom has a pricetag on it: almost everything i've grown to love this summer: not debating, reading whatever i want, the first time in my life in which i could do almost *anything*, friends, and the prospect of going to school anywhere.

i would also have to move half a continent away from abby, someone i have feelings for that i've never had before. she said she wanted to fit a whole lifetime into one summer. i kept denying that i'd ever leave. yesterday, for the first time, it hit me that i might and i can't symbolize that. it's just too scary.

i don't have anything in pittsburgh. there's no one i regularly hang out with. no musical scene that i really identify with. no debate scholarship. no class that i like. i already spent a year there. most of it was either bored or really unhappy. i spent the entire first semester sitting in front of a computer waiting for someone to come online. i spent the second semester wishing i could be in wyoming with someone. it's a waste of my short youth.

everyone tells me to goto pittsburgh. they all think they know what i really want. mom: "it's just another two semesters." dad: "we put too much effort into this." PO: "i'm not doing all this work for nothing." wpdu: "it would be really good for the debate team." abby: "you shouldn't give up that oppurtunity."

and now it looks like i might not have a choice. they can probably force me to live anywhere they want. i don't even know what i want for sure. but i'm pretty certain lots of people don't respect what i think i want. i'm going to fight though. it's my life. i hope at least some of the people can see that.

Tuesday, July 30, 2002

lonely.

there's something, no, things, floating around in the air between noses. it's a jolt. a pop. joints firing up. it's when my stomach turns as i eat my favorite food and remember someone i miss...

thinking about you even though you're in a different town and can't read this. i left a message on a machine listened to only by an empty house at two o'clock this morning.

"i don't know why i'm leaving a message when you're not their to hear it, but..."

i can't remember how i made it through months in a row. maybe i didn't know you the same way back then. it fucking hurts now.

Monday, July 08, 2002

acid.

i just vomited.

it wasn't food though. it was just hyrochloric acid.

"i want you home now." those were the last words he said before i said the millionth "okay" and hung up the phone. then my throat squeezed up bile. it boiled at the top layer of my upper throat before i choked it back down.

i walked back into her bedroom. "fuck. i just coughed up stomach acid."

"i'm sorry." i put on my shoes and didn't say anything. we both knew what was happening.

i reached over and put my arms around her. we lay for a few seconds, but then she took my arms off and said, "bye."

i kind of crouched there for a few minutes. didn't say anything.

she said something.

"what did you say?"

right after i asked that question, and right as she repeated it, i realized what she said: "i miss you."

"i'm sorry i'm such a coward." i walked towards the door, said goodnight, and left.

last week i told my mom that she terrified me. it shocked her.

"we never hurt you."

"i know... it's not physical. i'm just... scared that you won't love who i really am."

i'm tired of being scared. these obligations waste life. tomorrow is just an excuse. i have to change, and i know i'm not ready, but i have to. that means i need to act now, as i'm thinking about it. i don't have the time to do otherwise.

if they can't let me go, if they can't let me love, then i'm leaving them.

Monday, July 01, 2002

last november.

feels like last november.

when i waited up every night.

every single night

for her to come online.

she never did.

Saturday, May 11, 2002

cry.

little dog shakes in the corner,
beaten by
a tree branch.
nose bleeds,
paw torn
short pants
vomit
in the shade.

thrown apple rots in the rib
and vision blurs behind
the iodine sponge
in your eyes.

"speak."
"speak."
"speak...."
speak?

just a frail whine,
gasp between lungs.

collapse.

Monday, May 06, 2002

a burned figure.

i have this horrible feeling that i could lose everyone.

i don't know why.

i just feel it in my chest.

maybe i shouldn't consume so much caffeine. i'm so shaky and nervous i can't stop repeating the same pointless things (eg, checking the same internet bulletin board over and over and over again).

Thursday, May 02, 2002

heroin.

people are just shells. pieces of skin that quiver and get racked with pain for a length of time until they stop working. this wouldn't be such a problem if the shells didn't get filled up with personalities. unfortunately, the finite boundaries of bodies get to enclose something that doesn't want to be constrained that way.

which is why i now advocate heroin usage. for everyone. normally, we're subject to emotional needs that make life unbearable. you think you need things like friends, lovers, entertainment, sex, and belonging. get addicted to smack. i'm serious. that shit won't matter to you anymore. you'll have one need and one need only. it's the perfect objet.

friendship? keep chasing it. i think we all know how elusive that is. even when you think you have it, there's always something missing.

but shoot up? oh yeah. it's all there. sure, you may need to take more and more as time goes on... but that's okay too. just keep drowning in that mess of heroin dreams. you'll stop caring about the rest of the shit in the world. they can strap you up in chains, but you're still free when you've got your drug. more and more and more and more until you OD

and die.

but that doesn't matter. because nothing matters anymore. what a great way to end it all. makes me excited just thinking about it. that's when you're really free... when no one can touch you or drag you down.

I don't know just where I'm going,
But I'm gonna try for the kingdom, if I can,
'Cause it makes me feel like I'm a man.
When I put a spike into my vein,
And I'll tell you things aren't quite the same.
When I'm rushing on my run,
And I feel just like Jesus' son.
And I guess that I just don't know,
And I guess that I just don't know...

I have made the big decision:
I'm gonna try to nullify my life,
'Cause when the blood begins to flow,
When it shoots up the dropper's neck.
When I'm closing in on death,
And you can't help me, not you guys,
And all you sweet girls with all your sweet talk,
You can all go take a walk.
And I guess that I just don't know,
And I guess that I just don't know...

I wish that I was born a thousand years ago,
I wish that I'd sail the darkened seas,
On a great big clipper ship,
Going from this land here to that,
In a sailor's suit and cap.
Away from the big city,
Where one can not be free.
Of all of the evils of this town,
And of oneself, and those around.
And I guess that I just don't know,
And I guess that I just don't know...

Heroin, be the death of me,
Heroin, it's my wife and it's my life.
Because a mainer to my vein,
Leads to a center in my head,
And then I'm better off and dead.
Because when the smack begins to flow,
I really don't care anymore,
About all the Jim-Jim's in this town,
And all the politicians makin' crazy sounds,
And everybody puttin' everybody else down,
And all the dead bodies piled up in mounds.
'Cause when the smack begins to flow,
Then I really DON'T CARE ANYMORE!
Ah when the heroin is in my blood,
And that blood is in my head,
Man thank God I'm as good as dead,
And thank your God that I'm not aware,
And thank God that I just don't care,
And I guess I just don't know,
Oh and I guess I just don't know...

something must break now.

i am a dangerous person to society. i don't understand why anyone would ever trust their children with me. well... i guess people used to do that because they didn't know who i really was. i played a good role and they all thought i was safe.

not anymore.

but you know what's really sad? i probably do awful things to other people as a backlash against the "good" image that i and others have constructed for myself. the image of me as a good, pious student is just a fantasy screen that covers up the brutal reality of what i am. i haven't been stable or socially agreeable for years. but i keep smiling and telling everyone that i'm an upstanding citizen. every once in a while it surfaces and transgresses the phantasmatic frame and people get hurt real bad. sure, i got 5s on a bunch of AP tests. i somehow got onto the B team of a competitive debate team at a big university far away.

and then i turned around and shocked everyone by commiting a felony. great.

and now they want to force me back to the way i used to be. they want me to be docile. 8 PM curfew. can't see friends. have to pay ludicrous amounts of money to the state (amounts that i never even approached damage-wise). have to put on a mask again and pretend i'm a good kid. whenever anyone asks about political opinions, i have to lay low. no more outspoken radical opinions. i have to be obedient again.

think it'll work this time? sure as hell didn't work last time.

i tell you... the social network i'm in is probably playing with matches. i don't intend to do anything illegal ever again... it'll be more subtle next time. but it'll probably be ten times as destructive to me and the people around me.

ever light up a molotov cocktail, but instead of throwing it against the ground, just let it sit? the pressure builds and builds until eventually it can't be kept in anymore. it just explodes where it's sitting. anyone who's nearbye gets hurt really really bad.

keep hammering me in. we'll see who gets jacked up in the end. not even nuclear bombs can stop the five knuckle shuffle.

Monday, April 29, 2002

An unsent letter.

Wow. I think this is the angriest thing that I've ever written. It kind of bothers me to read it.

it's been one day home and i already can't stand this house.

tried following advice today. here's an idea: why not be honest with your father? you can interact with him as an adult, right?

wrong. things are just easier when i decieve him. he doesn't respect my ability to make personal decisions about who i interact with and i should just keep on pretending that i'm the "good son" that i've tried to portray for the past 18 years. developmental problems? hell, yeah. maybe there's a reason i hide things from him. maybe it's because when i don't, he doesn't like the result. in this house, i have no agency. i never have and i probably never will. i could never talk with him about personal relationships or what i felt about certain people. if the answer isn't the correct one, it has to be crushed. and as long as he can hold finances, bond, college, and career over my head, i don't know if i'll ever be able to become independent.

i never rebelled against my parents when i was younger. sure, i was interested in radical things, but i always hid that from them. we never really engaged each other about those issues. i hid abbey hoffman under my fucking bed and we all pretended that i was a good student who would continue the tradition of our family's liberation from our old impoverishment.

well here's a fucking clue: i'm *not* that good student. i'm not an asexual machine who goes to bed at 11 PM, gets straight A's, never drinks, wins debate tournaments, pursues an academic goal as an english teacher, enjoys attending the university of pittsburgh, doesn't have feelings, doesn't see the drama in your personal life, and obeys the law. i'm the fucking disjunct that you never wanted to believe you created. we've been repressing all of this anxiety for years because it's just too "painful" to look at and now, when we finally might have to come to terms with the dogshit painting that is who i've become, we can't even look at it. it's too horrible. maybe it tries to burst at the seems and transgress the imaginary threshold that we all use to pretend that i'm perfect, but no one wants to accept it.

i told you one little thing tonight, dad. well, it's actually something that's very significant to me. i tried to expose a small corner of what i want and the way i live my life, and it visibly upset you. i don't think this is about the sanctity of your house as a concrete space. it's about the sanctity of the imaginary representation that you've constructed of my identity. there's a whole circus of flames and blood behind that curtain. today you saw that one part, which i think is beautiful. back in december you saw another part when i responded with rage and violated cop cars. doesn't matter. it's all ugly to you.

i dream about leaving my current role and just running far far away
i have strong feelings for people.
i don't give a shit about getting a degree.
i hate pittsburgh.
i listen to music that celebrates street violence
i hate organized religion
i read horrible, violent books
i think sex is great
almost every class i've ever taken bores me. i'd rather read whatever the fuck i want in whatever order i want, regardless of what someone else thinks i should do
i spend more time hating debate than liking it
i've fantasized about illegally destroying vivisection laboratories.
i'm pro-choice
i have no hope for our species. i don't think we'll be saved. rather, i think history is a confusing maze in which we keep hurting each other over and over again because whatever strange force created us just fucked up
i used to be terrified that you thought i was gay.
i'm unhappy with what i've done with my life. i had everything available to me and i just didn't care enough to use it to my advantage. i wasted it all because i stopped being passionate about most of the things that i do.

i don't like where i put myself to please you. it's just like when i did judo back in junior high. remember that? those classes were my weekly burden that i dreaded going to. i wasn't comfortable with any of the people left in it. i hated going home feeling like shit all the time. i was tired of doing vigorous workouts because i'm a LAZY PERSON. i complained to my sister once and she gave me one of the best pieces of advice i've ever heard: if you don't like what you're doing, then don't do it. why would you waste your short life on things you're not passionate about? abby, chris, and my counsellor have all said the exact same thing in different ways.

so i tried telling you all that i hated something everyone thought i enjoyed. i tried so many times and could never manage to say the words. even on the few times that i did, i was never greeted with an affirmation of my feelings. i'm not sure if i was even believed. finally, i managed to talk seriously about it with mom. she withdrew me from the classes and for a whole summer i never told you that i was no longer in judo. tenth grade came and we could just ignore the issue by saying that it conflicted with debate and PE courses at LCCC. i don't think the question of what i wanted to do ever came into the picture. i was too scared to say anything about it to you. a few years later you asked me if i missed it. i told you, "kind of." here's what i really wanted to say: "no! quitting judo has brought me more happiness than most other decisions i've made in my life."

or the divorce. did we ever talk about that? at the time, i didn't even realize it was happening. i had to have an older kid at school explain to me what a divorce was and how that's what my family had gone through. i still have no fucking idea what happened. maybe i don't have a right to know everything, but in the 14 YEARS since it occured, we have never sat down and tried to address that painful part of our lives in a serious way. the stupid kids can't handle it, even when they're almost 19 years old. sure, you sent me off to a counsellor to "talk about it" when i was in fourth grade. it was an idea, but we still never *really* talked about why i have such a huge need to conform to your expectations or why social interaction terrifies me.

this is all part of the way i think about myself. and you know what? i'm going to continue down the same path of never revealing a fucking bit of it to you. because we've all always known that it hurts too much to talk about these things or to be honest with each other. occasionally, you'll see eruptions that shatter the fantasy frame. next time, it won't be in the form of vandalism. maybe it'll be more subtle, but ten times as self-destructive. you'll see the flares, but you'll never see what's really going on, because I WON'T TELL YOU and you can just believe and mandate away the source. you may respect me as an "intelligent young man who makes you proud," but you'll never respect me for myself, on my own terms. i'll just keep doing fucked up shit that demonstrates how false that lie really is. but through all the repressed horror, we're just going to keep crawling through the shards of broken glass and smouldering carpet in the living room and i'm going to keep lying to you over and over and over again, because neither of us wants to talk about what's really going on.

newsflash: i want to have the chance to screw up in the world. i want to gamble and have fun. i'm too young to play someone else's game. maybe you should just tell me to fuck myself and send me off to prison. at least then, when i get tortured, i'll know i earned it all myself for what i really did, not because i was putting on a pretty show for you.

i had a long talk with mom about all sorts of stuff today. we talked about things that i'd always been too scared to tell her. did she criticize me or call my feelings into question? no. she said that she respected me and wanted me to be happy. she was glad when i told her about abby. did i get a barrage of accusatory questions and demands? no. remember how when we got home, she mentioned all of the stuff we'd talked about and how much you and i had to go over? did we ever have that conversation? you don't want to hear it and i don't want to tell you. as far as i'm concerned, we will *never* have that conversation because it's so much easier to just sneak in the back door and hide my life from you.

Friday, April 26, 2002

muddle.

tapped my fingers against the desk.

just clipped them
so the ends burned and
each tip jolted as it
hit flat surface.

patter patter patter...
rain
chills skin,
ice
creeps up your
arm and hugs your neck.
taps on your nose
and eyelashes,
leaves dimples
that glow red tomorrow.
little charcoal briquettes
under your eyes,
grease marker puddles for
puppy baths.
pay call girls to lick them up
and try not to vomit them back
into the bathtub.

they were plastic dolls
until they couldn't hold back anymore
and i made them sick.

traced fingers down the burnt embers
in the fireplace,
two fingers down a charred log.
held them up and
licked,

sucked for hours in the corner.

mmmm.

----

i've wanted to hurt people before. i'd hear about something horrible that happened to someone and just wanted to channel my rage by destroying whoever was the source of the problem.

but not anymore. that's not my role. i don't have any right to do that. i always thought i was responsible for fixing things, but i'm not. there are times when you don't have any agency and you just have to accept that. i can't hurt the cops who beat up my grandfather. i can't touch the guy who i thought ruined me last semester. even if i could, it would only make things worse. there are a million people commiting atrocities right now and i can't make them stop. people don't want me to act on their behalf and i was stupid for ever thinking that they did.

i can't fight the world today. run over me with a bulldozer if you want. i'll only greet you with open arms. drag me through the street and wave your flag. i can't stop you. not today anyway.

Thursday, April 25, 2002

claustrophobia.

i watch lots of shows about the criminal part of the legal system. if i see something on TV with someone being arrested, booked, standing trial, living in prison, etc. i have to watch it. law & order, shawshank redemption, nypd blue, escape from alcatraz, oz, those dumb cop shows, half baked, anything.

it always terrifies me, but i have to watch it. things like that didn't interest me that much until i experienced the whole process. in my opinion, incarceration is one of the worst fates that could befall someone. when i was in jail, everyone just seemed dead. all of the life had been sucked out of them. here were grown people eating the most disgusting mush you could ever imagine, watching rodney dangerfield movies and giggling about jr. high quality rape jokes every single day for years upon years. they occasionally read magazines to look for pictures of womyn, but that was mostly it.

i met a kid i knew from elementary school in there. he asked if i could deliver a note to a girl he knew. i told him i wouldn't be able to get out of my house for a while. he seemed so desperate to see her.

they shut off the phones while i was in jail. the guard did it because he was having a bad day or something. no contact with the outside world. you just sat in freezing cold, shivering and hoping you wouldn't spend the next year sitting in this lobby, eating regurgitated baked beans and deformed hot dogs.

can't think of many things worse than imprisonment. they really take you apart... let you know that you're not an individual anymore. the state and a group of convicts own your flesh and your mind. just horrifying. i got lucky because my parents had money. can't even imagine what it's like for people who don't have resources like that.

so i just keep watching those shows. at the end of every law & order episode i secretly hope the defendent gets off. is that a messed up? maybe a little. but the more i see of the penal system, the less i'm convinced that it works. we don't reform people. we teach them how to be even more cold and desperate than ever before. whatever. i'm not ever going back there.

yeah. i keep telling myself that. but it doesn't change the small thought in the back of my mind that i could spend 10 years in prison. it's all up to one judge. he can do whatever he wants with me. if he has a hangover or something, could be screwed. gives me a lot of reason to enjoy life and the people i love as much as i can until then.

Wednesday, April 24, 2002

no reason.

lately tons of stuff has been freaking me out.

nothing really scary. it's just weird stuff. tonight when i thought for a little while that i was going to fail a necessary class, i really didn't care. banks in the northwest may get blown up, but that doesn't bother me. i'm going to go cash some checks tomorrow and i'm not perterbed in the slightest (i know... no one's going to blow up the little bank that services college kids... but still...).

i get scared of stupid stuff. like e-mail. it terrifies me. i have an inbox jammed full of crap that i don't want to read. some of it's from people i know. some of it's from stuff at school or from various listserves. a few are from people answering my requests for a place to live. i waited a week to read one of those. i about had a seizure trying to look at the screen. it didn't really say anything, but it took tons of energy to look at.

going to normal functions is scary too. seeing people. talking to parents. studying. reading. eating. anything. it just makes me want to stay home all day sleeping (which is pretty much all i've been doing this week). if i could have my way, i'd sleep 12 hours a day and spend the other 12 hours talking to and hanging out with a small handfull of people who i know. yeah, ideally i'd read a book or watch a movie per day too. those few people, music, books, movies, and sleep are the only things i care about anymore

but by the end of the week i have to move the totality of my posessions across town and fly away for the summer. i know this is really stupid, but the thought of it is unnerving. weird.

Tuesday, April 23, 2002

caught.

woke up this afternoon
from a nap
and muscles ached,
pressed by hours under wood
chair, desk,
and a pile of hardcover books.
stretched out on closelines,
drawn out by pens
pig intestines
across the pavement.

looked up at the ceilling,
eyes focused a second
on cracks and
out of nowhere
there was your face.

you smirked,
laughed,
blinked off mascara and
told me i was a fool.

"HA!"

smiled back and reached
out a hand,
wavered in air and mouthed
words...

but then a splash
of lightning wrecked
the room

and you were gone,

left me with myself
and a black doll
under a pile of blankets.

pulled them tight and
thought to myself:
"only eight hours left today."

Wednesday, April 17, 2002

was created by an evil god.

tonight i decided that i want to consume reality.

i just want to burn and reorient everything, the way radiation changes molecular structure. mutates particles and makes them move in new ways. poetic rays that real around skin. you shiver and bathe in hormesis metaphors as pictures of saints and dragons eating pigflesh dance around your eyes and you remember what it felt like when you met your first best friend in pre-school, the kid who talked spoke to you in a timid voice when everyone else told you to get lost.

or that girl who shocked you when she said you weren't ugly after all in junior high. she's gone now but your skin's still flaming.

let's get alive, yo. shower in hydrochloric acid that streams down your face and burns off skin, that part of you that made you weak. like the taxi driver that held his hand over the flame and wouldn't let go. you are kishatriya, warrior god that knows no good or evil. you are the artist in the theater of cruelty who delights in spectacularly horrific performance art just to make everyone happy. you are shiva. the world is destroyed in wake of your terrible dance. buildings burn and glass is broken and you burst super nova style because clothes can't take the heat.

let's love everything. yeah. the world is horrible. people die and do mean things to each other. even you are the epitome of evil. but that doesn't mean you can't cherish it and kiss everyone you see. hug a friend until they think you've gone off and ask what on earth you're doing.

hang on and sing. laugh even. roll eyes at mathmaticians and political pundits who want to tell you who "you are."

to hell with that. you don't know what i am. i am and that's too much for you. my burned skin and layers of scars just don't jive in your world of equations and logical proofs. it jacks the code, a virus injected that breaks down everything you ever considered real.

the world is on fire tonight.

Friday, April 05, 2002

the cook.

Afternoons spent in front of the stove,
Countless onions simmered with minced bulbs of garlic.
Potatoes grated with basil,
Olive oil drizzled over shallow gratin dishes with bread crumbs.

I watch the news on TV and want to kill.
Clutch butcher knife and grit teeth while scientists
sew shut infant eyes.
I plan raids on oil drills,
but never leave the kitchen...

So I cook.

My dull cleaver chops carrots to tiny pieces,
slams against the ceramic cutting board.
It clatters and bangs for hours,
so loud that no one can hear me swear when
the knife slips and saws off my thumb.
I boil pasta once a week.
The violent roar of a high boil ignites the room,
The steam rolls in my face and blisters skin
as parsnips drain in the colander.

But eyes can't withstand when red onions
are sliced.
They jab at my face and release tears.
Sulfuric acid scorches my cornea every night.
I used to let a food processor do the work,
but now it's my burden.
I have to face those violet membranes when they're
ripped apart by the knife.

I read investigative reports while the marinara sauce simmers and know
what rots behind my closed pantry doors,
I make the vegetable stock and the fried Spanish Paella,
I steam the asparagus and the wilted summer greens.
I rip the hearts out of artichokes and
boil the parasites just to watch them

die.

Cookbooks and TV shows,
Underground manuals and models,
I've read them all.

Flayed the slabs of firm soybean curd and rice tempeh paste while slaughterhouses
Exploded.
Peeled off the skins of tomatoes while the rapists screamed,
I've run from the wraiths of mad cows and trichinosis worms.

But I don't have a choice.
I am the cook.
What else can I do?

Monday, April 01, 2002

doing the unstuck.

sometimes you feel alive, ya know?

i used to begin my sentences with capital letters. i used correct punctuation too. but then that stopped mattering. other things are more important. yeah, it's dumb. ah well.

heard about a friend today who'd found something he liked. something i didn't hear about and had never imagined. that's so cool.

another friend also told me something that made me feel really good. sure, life is really fucked up and ugly. i think i'll always think that. but sometimes people work with that and make things better.

and belive it or not, this isn't some dumb april fool's joke. i've had enough of those.

i didn't write this. robert smith did. it's what i listen to on the occasion that i feel good about something, even if it's small.

It's a perfect day for letting go,
For setting fire to bridges, boats
And other dreary worlds you know,
Let's get happy!
It's a perfect day for making out,
To wake up with a smile
Without a doubt.
To burst grin giggle bliss skip jump sing and shout,
Let's get happy!

"But it's much too late" you say
"For doing this now,
We should have done it then"
Well it just goes to show,
How wrong you can be
And how you really should know,
That it's never too late
To get up and go...

It's a perfect day for kiss and swell,
For rip-zipping button-popping kiss and well,
There's loads of other stuff can make you yell,
Let's get happy!
It's a perfect day for doing the unstuck,
For dancing like you can't hear the beat
And you don't give a further thought,
To things like feet,
Let's get happy!

"But it's much too late" you say
"For doing this now,
We should have done it then"
Well it just goes to show,
How wrong you can be
And how you really should know,
That it's never too late
To get up and go...

Kick out the gloom,
Kick out the blues,
Tear out the pages with all the bad news.
Pull down the mirrors and pull down the walls,
Tear up the stairs and tear up the floors.
Oh just burn down the house!
Burn down the street!
Turn everything red and the beat is complete,
With the sound of your world
Going up in the fire,
It's a perfect day to throw back your head
And kiss it all goodbye!

It's a perfect day for getting wild,
Forgetting all your worries,
Life
And everything that makes you cry,
Let's get happy!
It's a perfect day for dreams come true,
For thinking big
And doing anything you want to do,
Let's get happy!

"But it's much too late" you say
"For doing this now,
We should have done it then"
Well it just goes to show
How wrong you can be,
And how you really should know
That it's never too late
To get up and go...

Kick out the gloom,
Kick out the blues,
Tear out the pages with all the bad news.
Pull down the mirrors and pull down the walls,
Tear up the stairs and tear up the floors.
Oh just burn down the house!
Burn down the street!
Turn everything red and the dream is complete,
With the sound of your world
Going up in the fire,
It's a perfect day to throw back your head
And kiss it all goodbye!

Saturday, March 30, 2002

slaughter.

Ed sat in class, bored. The clock ticked away the seconds. It threw them at him with disdain. Ed’s head sank deeper into his desk. His meager stare droned at Mr. Warsaw. It had been about an hour since Ed noticed the way the lines of his teachers shirt blurred together. Everything blended into a fantastic watercolor mess. Trig Identities ran into Henry VIII and none of it made any sense. His only mental effort came from imagining the taste of the chalk that Mr. Warsaw scribbled figures with. Its dusty screeches drew and mesmerized Ed. He had never really held chalk before. He had touched it, but he had never really experienced it. He had never felt it chip and powder the insides of his mouth. He had never felt it crunch between his teeth and dust down his parched throat.

The lunch bell rang and the class drained. Ed stayed though. His only concern was that chalk. It was comfortable to concentrate on.

“Ed? Do you have lunch detention?” asked Mr. Warsaw.

Ed was startled, “Uh… um… no.”

“Then please leave. I have papers to grade and I expect to not find you when I come back.” Mr. Warsaw walked out the door, towards the cafeteria.

Ed stared at the empty room, without interest. He didn’t really want to leave. He didn’t want to stay either, but it was easier to do nothing. That way, he could believe, in secret, that he was doing neither.

That felt good.

Ed stood up and walked to the front of the room, eyes fixed on the chalk. Without a thought, he reached down for it. Ed took the stub and placed it in his mouth.

It tasted terrible.
Ed didn’t mind.
It felt terrible.
Ed didn’t mind. His teeth crunched down. He could feel the dust. It flaked back into his throat. It almost gagged him.

“Cool,” Ed thought.

With the chalk still in his mouth, Ed turned and saw a stack of papers on Mr. Warsaw’s desk. It was arranged in the neat piles typical of the classroom. Ed reached over and picked up the white ceramic tea cup where Mr. Warsaw kept his pencils. He moved it to the other side of the desk.
A flash joled down Ed’s spine. It surged through his nervous system and flared at the tips of his fingers. It felt damn good. He stretched up and enjoyed the feeling. Something was different. It was intereresting. Yeah…

Ed picked up a ruler and rotated it 45 degrees. The feeling came back. It encouraged him to do more. He started to move random things back and forth, out of their designated places. Papers were strewen about. Pens were knocked around. Paper clips were scattered.
Then Ed picked up Mr. Warsaw’s cold coffee and dumped it over the desk. The black fluid splashed over papers. It drenched and destroyed all that lay in its path.

A soaked, brown mess remained on the desk. Ink blotted out over drenched papers. A’s, B’s, D’s, and F’s smudged over lines and bled into pools on the desk. All the writing looked the same. It was all ugly.

Ed opened the desk’s drawer and began to pull papers out. They flew into the air and rained about the room. Ed grabbed one page at random and scanned it. The first line read: “How to Make a Peanut Butter Sandwich. By Ed.” In a fit of rage he ripped the page to shreds. He screamed as he tore the fibers over and over and over again.

“What do you think you’re doing, Ed??” Ed turned around to see Mr. Warsaw. His teacher’s face burned in anger. “What the hell are you doing?”

Ed dropped the crumpelled mess into the garbage pail: “Just getting rid of my trash,” Ed said through a mouthfull of broken chalk. He walked toward the door. “You don’t have that right!”

“Neither do you,” Ed mumbelled and walked out the door and down the hall. “Ed! Where are you going?”

Ed continued toward the front doors. “Anywhere else! Somewhere real!”

Mrs. Washburn ran over and asked, “What just happened?”

“I don’t know,” replied Mr. Warsaw, “But God save his soul. God save us all.” The two were silent. The only audible sound was of Mr. Murphy down the hall, as he scribbled sentence diagrams on his black board.

“Monday, nothing. Tuesday, nothing. Wednesday and Thursday, nothing.”
-The Fugs

Tuesday, March 19, 2002

confused.

i don't know how to talk to people, especially certain people.

i say things and they become unhappy.

i try to be serious, but everyone says i'm fake. they all leave eventually.

don't know what to do anymore. wonder if anyone's ever been able to believe me.

Sunday, March 10, 2002

burn.

ever set a house on fire just to watch it burn?
at first it's beautiful and it makes you think that life isn't all that bad. flames dance around and remind you of your childhood.

but then it hits you. you get burned. the flames gnaw on your inflammable clothes and scorch you. fuck up the right structure of your skin and jack you forever. you'll be a disfigured mess for the rest of your life. fuckers will spit at you and cover their kids' eyes when you come near.

but that's not even so bad until you hear them. yes, them. the voices of the little girls inside burning. they cry... partially because they're being devoured by heat and strangeled by fumes... but also because they'll never see their daddies and mommies again. parents just wake up in the morning to find that the babies that they loved are just...

gone.

and they're never coming back. you killed them. i hate people like you, people like me, people who fuck everything up, people who set fires they can't put out.

it's a quiet burning behind my eyes. feels like they need to close. they're shaking from the strain of being up for days. got cigarette burns all over your body and you know you need to sleep but you can't.

it's the damn screams of the people you burned.

Friday, March 08, 2002

cold.

feeling cold tonight. something's missing. every once and while i begin to think that i know what that is and i reach out for it. but i usually end up grabbing the wrong thing or, when it's the right thing, i second guess myself and lose it. people slip away.

i haven't written anything here for awhile. just thought i'd say something tonight because i feel so weird. nothing interesting to write. i'm not sure if i'm capable of producing stuff. it's not unique to tonight. it's just in general. it's my fault too. no one else is to blame. i've been given every possible oppurtunity, but i just don't care enough to make use of it.

i care about people... but i just don't know how to express that. :(

i know that no one reads this or cares about it, but don't expect to see anything for awhile. i'd far rather lay in the dark and sleep than think. it's just too damn cold.

Tuesday, January 22, 2002

i kill people.

i kill people.

destroy them without a second thought.
sometimes it's while i wait in line at the
supermarket.
pen knife flicks out by
batteries and red & black cartons
of marlboros.
quiet flash in the back,
dead pan to look of shock.
eyes betray a tear that
trickles down and lands
on a can of string beans.
hand drops wadded up bills as
the shank twitches in the back,
cough,
slide down to check out floor and
quiet.

or it's at parties.
they don't see me coming.
sip mountain dew and vodkha and laugh
when
a spectre catches the eye.
slides in.
almost audible cry,
a faint moan
caught in throat,
choke on the spasm,
drop the lover's hand and gag
by the stereo.

fuckers never see it.
they never see me
until it's too late.
one minute it's about boyfriend's kisses
and loud pop music,
but then i'm there and it all
burns.

i kill people.

Sunday, January 20, 2002

Black asphalt

Check it out. I wrote this about a year ago and just found it.

Black asphalt,
Rips over dusty prairies and fields.
Plunges into canyons,
Carves up North America.
Electronic knife roars around thanksgiving roast.

Hot asphalt,
Saws into meaty enclaves of grass and stone.
Bridges over sunken rivers,
Infantile crayon scribbles on cave walls.
Wax peels off the clean space in the dining room.

Fat asphalt,
Smokes down in sleepy towns where older sisters wash the dishes.
Sizzles through living rooms,
Coffee spills on silk ties.
Stains blot delicate fabric, chemicals burn handmade cloth.

Dead asphalt,
Violates brush and furious seas.
Dives into dens and nests,
Birds and fawns stabbed in the womb,
Eggs smashed,
Hospital beds razed in forest fires,
Cribs crashed in the road,
Tar melts away finger nails...

As we ride, ride...

On black asphalt.

Friday, January 18, 2002

closer

What is it to be really alive? Not just the banal act of biologically living, but to truly feel the rush of your life and to be aware of your breathing, coughing, sneezing, heart-beating existence?
I think it comes in certain moments... when the grey samsara drone of the daily routine gives way to change, surprise, fear, or joy. When you stop caring about petty things like school in the face of something that challenges who you are. Those moments flicker like candles and can be accompanied by intense pain or pleasure. Often the threat of death is at hand. At other times, it's a feeling of euphoria, when you feel connected to something and don't want it to ever end.

It happens when you're struggling to gasp for air and you're gashed up and bloody as you struggle to crawl up the side of the road after you've been thrown from a car crash.

It happens when someone starts talking to you in a way that you'd never thought of before.

It happens when, no matter how hard you try, you have trouble believing in your religion (Catholicism, Marxism, humynism, science, art, whatever).

It happens when you round up all of your possessions and burn them in a pile on your front lawn.

It happens when you do the unexpected.. when you defy the categories you created for yourself and you BE in a different way, something you would have never imagined last week.

It can happen now. Or you just forget it. Sometimes it's just too frustrating and you have to go back to zombie-life. But sometimes... everything falls apart. The foundations break and, while it can be terrifying at first to realize that your support is gone, it can also be the most liberating thing that you've felt in your entire life. Mere words and their traditional meanings stop mattering.

For the first time, you can become something new. You not only see the walls of your ontological prison disappear, you realize that you were only imagining them the whole time. Some religious people talk about being "Closer to God." I like that

This is one of the most beautiful things that I've ever read. It left me shocked the first time I saw it. It's from Closer by Dennis Cooper, kind of a nasty book, but I just love this. It says so much without really putting it into words:

There was Mr. McGough. George recognized his suit. George rose and made his way through, sometimes accidentally bumping into, some people he vaguely knew. If they were greeting him he couldn’t tell. Still, he was pretty sure Mr. McGough licked his lips when their eyes met.
“Hey George,” the teacher said. He led them into a quieter part of the gym, “I trust you, don’t I?” George nodded. “I’ve gotten access to the coach’s lounge.” He pointed a finger at George. At its end, swinging back and forth like a pendulum, was a big ring of keys. “You and I . . . ?”
George licked his lips. “I get the picture,” he smirked. Inside the office, Mr. McGough felt around on a cluttered desk, found a lamp. It lit up Coach Burke’s diploma and an old snapshot of him in red swim trunks. “Once that fat blob was a knockout,” George thought. “Yuck.”
“Prepare yourself for a charming surprise,” said a sexy voice. George settled back on the desk top. He felt his ass squish against it. He gripped the trimming. His knuckles turned purple. He shut his eyes. He parted his lips wide enough that a tongue could fit through them.
George thought, “If God made a visit to earth it’d be in the form of a kiss. Being kissed by someone I admire is the closest I’ve gotten to peace on earth, like Xmas carolers sing. God would give each boy a taste of His lips then go back to whatever dimension He hides in. That would help.”
What a wacked-out idea. George liked how acid could blow up the flimsiest topic. Just then a sharp object scraped through his lips. His eyes flipped open. Mr. McGough put a match to its other end. “Pure Nicaraguan,” he said. “Go ahead. Blow you brains out.”
Two minutes later they edged through the door. The dance floor was a blur. Its details had blended together, a greenish white. It made George think of a Xmas tree, flocked, lying down on its side. He was afraid he’d get cut if he entered it. “Come meet some people, kid.” “Huh? Oh, right.”

Sunday, January 06, 2002

blind.

Lay on your bedroom floor with eyes closed,
Clamped shut, block out, projector pictures flicker on the wall.
Papers rain down and a corner
Cuts your eye.
Reaches down through eyelash into delicate iris and cornea,
Slash up instruments with paper cuts,
Rakes across pupil and into egg white.
Blood shot, delirious eyelid flutters,
Opens one last time to see the pictures.
Red haze drowns out walls,
Pools around into a dank puddle,
Fuzzy hallucinations reach outwords.
Try to glance at everything around,
Try to fix the pictures as they fade,
Ram polaroid into your face...

Until red sea rises and you're thrown
into a closet.
Door crashes shut, smashes fingers in
the way.
Breaks digits, joints, and bones,
Run through claustrophobic corridors...
Strapped face down in a gasoline pot hole.

Saturday, January 05, 2002

watching them die.

We ate red construction paper hearts
cut out in Kindergarten with safety scissors for
valentine's dinner.
Felt tip ink bled through the edges
and pooled under our tongues,
dripped out of the corners of mouths,
formed the shapes: "I love you."
Written by porcelain doll
fingers with preschool letters,
shook out after paper plate macaroni and apple juice lunches.

I still can't control my hand when I write.
It convulses in epileptic seizures
and scribbles pictures and
shreiks over blotted lines,
illegible oil splattered on leaves.
Someone across the hall scores my thoughts,
unfinished symphony.
Violins saw high notes, stab through shower
curtains and shred shot glasses
of vodka. Scratched up across dusty chalkboards,
Frozen notebooks shatter aganst the kitchen floor.
Forgot to scoop them into the dust bin... mom cried
when she stepped on their jagged edges with
her bare feet after work.
Stared out the window all night, muttered
and traced question marks on the frosted glass.
Red toe prints still archived on
kitchen linoleum.
Tracks crawl up the walls and over the
Microwave where I roasted my sister's toys,
Radiation therapy couldn't melt their pulsing tumors.
Plastic just wilts into puddles
to grow and ingest.
Frightened glances in the mirror can't hold you up in the shower.
Twist off arms and legs - the mutilaton dance...
Sorry, only holds off the inevitable

Until Christmas morning,
When saviors are born in salmonella stables and in rusty sinks,
And grandparents are found, breathless,
under the decorated tree.

Wrinkled faces droop down and get pasted to
the living room foor.
Outlines in the carpet for years,
Can't tell if they laugh or cry.
Nauseous laughing gas giggles,
choke in the dentist's chair,
and novicaine shots injected every morning before school,
So I can still force the paper pictures
down my throat,
and not feel the cultures grow under
my skin.
Ruddy crayon landscapes,
Messy ballpoint sketches.
Light smiles glance at tattered scrolls taped
up on the beige refrigerator
next to grandpa's butterfly magnets.
Blue stick figures smile and live in burnt embre
houses with red chimneys.
Two crossed windows and a bush painted
orange because we ran out of
green crayons.
Walk down halls,
watch upturned grins fall into ridiculous frowns,
Strained grimaces burst seams of
skin.
Tired eyes strain and leak cleaning fluid,
Wash grease off of kindergarten faces,
Bury plants in the shade, out of the sunlight,
under mask of Pagoda roofs.

Away from the microwave radiation in the kitchen.

Friday, January 04, 2002

fear.

If last Friday was the most unenjoyable day of my life, today is one of the scariest. We're waiting to see if a judge will sign a request to let me go back to school. The DA's recommending it and they usually go with them, but it's still freaky. My college career is in the judge's hands and he can do whatever he wants with me, depending on his mood. Honestly, going back is probably the safest option. All I do is study over there and I'm not around anyone who would do anything stupid. That only happens out here.
It's also scary as hell because my plane leaves tomorrow. We don't know if we should pack or what. My parents are on the brink of hysteria and they scare me when I'm around them. A judge was supposed to make a decision yesterday, but the one who got the case has been sick, so it got delayed. Now all we can do is wait and try to calm the nauseous feeling deep in our stomachs.
I stayed up really late last night talking on the internet to some person who I've never really met in person. She says that she likes me or something and it's kind of confusing, but I don't really care at this point. It's really nice to talk to someone who isn't going insane and is optimistic about my situation. Everything's really distorted. I've never felt like this. I don't know where I'm going. But right now I have to deal with the anxiety that's devouring my stomach. I used to think that I would get sent back, but now my parents are making me think otherwise. I'm scared. :(

Note: shortly after writing this I found out that I could go back to school. Nice.

Tuesday, January 01, 2002

On New Year's Day

Wow. I'm shaken. New Year's is completely arbitrary... but a lot has happened in the last year. I've...

discovered psychoanalysis

lost my faith in humyn agency

thought I was in love twice

got drunk for the first time

won state and districts

fucked up and only won 7 ballots at nationals

became intimate with someone I cared about

began listening to Throbbing Gristle and Black Flag all the time

did time in jail

got my arms slashed up in a botched car stunt and almost bled to death in the backseat of my friend's car. A friend patched it up with $5.00 of medical supplies for Walgreens. I thought I was going to die that night.

Wow. Everything is changing and falling apart. That's not necessarily a bad thing. It's exciting, but i need to think long and hard about my role in the Dionysian play. Shiva dances and destroys the world. What's my role? Not sure, but hopefully love will play a great role. That's the only thing I can hold onto.

In the Mahabharata, it says:

"Earth is strewn over with bright
weapons and red with blood. She
resembles a dark dancing girl
dressed in crimson, fallen, confused
with wine, her golden bells and
silver ornaments all deranged . . .
But it is an illusion. It is done in
play.
Who has been slain?
Who has done murder here?"

We shall see in 2002. Into the death. Let's go..