tucked into the illustrious folds of this past evening was a version of myself i hope never to encounter again — not five months from now, not ten years from now. not when i begin to grow grey-haired and pock-brained, not even when i realize that i am alone and unloved, do i want this depressant version of myself to emerge again. what i saw this evening was neither me nor a respectable twin; it was me as defined by the energies of others, swept up by the pep and the step of consumptive fevers and allayed fears. it was me, had i never seen the world, never loved a person, never truly lived a moment in my life.
all evening, their affectations feigned distinguished forms. they attracted attention through the droll — discussions of stock markets and housing booms, wage increases and pension plans — all boring me to slack-jawed, blurry-eyed disconnect.
the warning is there, floating around amongst the distractions. “life is not being lived completely!,” it cries, but they heed it not. they have not the desire, but just as much lack the means; their feeble minds cannot even conceptualize the details of an alternative plane. but mechanized biological reactions flash bright red indicators. action speaks where a limited comprehension of self cannot.
their version of living life to the fullest can be found in every over-sweetened dessert and hyper-caffeinated drink they can’t help but order. beneath every thoughtless payment for consumptive delights, a fighting animal instinct struggles, scratching at the walls of the reptilian brain. with hopes of signaling to the rational mind, it primal screams: “beyond your confines lies freedom!,” but its oblivious brother heeds it not. it goes on devouring.
tonight, their sugar courses through my veins. i shake occasionally in the pacifying lethargy. i can’t help it; my rational mind asks questions.
someone twitter-linked me and i got 24 visits today from that. who would do that? and to where? interesting.
—
in any case.
emotions sure are a strange thing.
my mind is telling me that everything is alright, but my body is not.
then again, my mind went back earlier this afternoon to thinking nothing was alright…
—
today crushes me beneath its insidious weight, ever-taunting me with the fact that i will accomplish none of which i set out to do today.
from within my limited field of vision — if “limited” does not assume too grand a scope — days like today are when divination is ousted and marred by the endless possibilities of free will. when free will fails to offer to me the mobility, the motivation, to make it willful, or me willing, there is only wretched, wretched helplessness, now multiplied tenfold, due to the personal responsibility newly revealed to me by the nature of the situation. the incapacitation dealt out by the wealth of universal possibility cripples the beauty of myself, of everyone around me, of abilities, solutions, circumstances. even the most innocent of individuals, or inanimate objects, become tasteless, unattractive, bungled mistakes lacking the potential to be rescued from outward fates, or even by themselves. suddenly, all sentient beings are afflicted with the same lack. relative suffering goes out the window. we are all linked equally by how wretchedly helpless we are.
—
Aaah, late night R&B slow jam radio, how could I have forgotten you? You sum up what I love about music — that it can really reach the core of your being, that it begs to be consumed, voraciously, much more than many things, and definitely much more than sleep! I miss KMEL.
I don’t know what else to do right now, anyway. Between listening to this and writing inane shit… I’m at a loss. So. Pointless. My only hope is that I wake up tomorrow, invigorated.
Other than that, R&B and hip-hop songs I need to have…!!! These songs are all so fucking good… ughhh. THANKS KMEL.
Trey Songz – Can’t Be Friends
Diddy-dirty Money – Loving You No More
Lloyd – Lay It Down
Chris Brown – Look At Me Now
Fabolous – You Be Killin Em
Mary J. Blige / P. Diddy / Lil’ Wayne – Someone To Love Me
Lil’ Wayne – 6 Foot 7 Foot
Miguel – Sure Thing
h o w d o e s anyone f o r g e t i n t h e w a y s t h e y d o?
i suck a t f o r g e t t i n g .
i a m p r e t t y g o o d a t forgiving .
i a m nothing b u t m y m e m o r i e s .
t h e y a r e inherent i n e v e r y m o v e i m a k e ,
every c o n s t r u c t i o n i b u i l d .
t h e y propel m e ,
p r o v i d e t h e fodder ,
w h i l e i want t h e m t o o r n o t .
i t i s f a r f r o m conscious
b u t f a r f r o m unconscious , t o o .
right now in this playfield, plaything, i want only to evade. and this, too, is driven by memory.
>>>
i am reading a children’s book on shamanism, which is remarkably advanced considering it’s for children. a lot of the things i have been doing intuitively lately have been basic tenets of shamanism. this is interesting. this i will explore further.
sometimes i think i’m psyching myself out… but then… the things that happen beyond my control make me realize it’s much more than me just psyching myself out, though that would be the nice thing to believe — rather, the easy thing to believe…
it’s hard to believe it’s almost may 2011. 2011 is flying by like a motherfucker, and it is supposed to be my year of ultimate fruition, according to not only my astrological chart, but my numerology, as well. how far can one frui-it with only half a year left to go? i look forward to seeing how this craziness manifests itself.
i had been meaning to read jean-paul sartre’s nausea since it was mentioned to me, by an unmentionable human, that it is a must-read. when i went to sante fe, nim’s sister had a copy. i began reading it there, and from then on, had been looking for it in every bookstore i went to (of which there were many). seven or something bookstores later, it still was not to be found. this book is, evidently, really hard to find, and even harder to check out of the portland library system (which, frankly, kinda seems pretty bad).
finally, though, suburbia comes through. the alameda county library system has it. hoozah. so, it is my goal (i am 1/4 of the way into the book) to finish it before i leave, a week from today. i think it is quite doable, indeed.
anyway. i would not deign to say that i can relate to everything sartre feels in this book, though some rings familiar. of particular familiarity, however, is a passage which is today, ohhhh is it today. and coincidental, as well, that around the time i was reading this passage was around the time that is mentioned to be…
“Friday:
Three o’clock. Three o’clock is always too late or too early for anything you want to do. An odd moment in the afternoon. Today it is intolerable…
I liked yesterday’s sky so much, a narrow sky, black with rain, pushing against the windows like a ridiculous, touching face. This sun is not ridiculous, quite the contrary. On everything I like, on the rust of the construction girders, on the rotten boards of the fence, a miserly, uncertain light falls, like the look you give, after a sleepless night, on decisions made with enthusiasm the day before, on pages you have written in one spurt without crossing out a word…
A perfect day to turn back to one’s self: these cold clarities which the sun projects like a judgment shorn of pity, over all creatures–enter through my eyes; I am illuminated within by a diminishing light. I am sure that fifteen minutes would be enough to reach supreme self contempt. No thank you I want none of that… I yawn, I wait for night to come. When it is dark, the objects and I will come out of limbo.”
I don’t usually feel this way about the sun. I hardly ever feel this way about the sun, particularly these days, in California. But today, I feel it; I returned home from the dentist at eleven-thirty this morning, and I’ve pretty much done nothing. Not a damned thing. Not for all the lists of things that need to be done could I be roused to make even the slightest of useful moves. Sloth and disgust prevail this afternoon, and may continue to, until nightfall.
—
I no longer have an active interest in phones.
—
If you hate the taste of wine,
Why do you drink it till you’re blind?
And if you swear that there’s no truth, who cares,
How come you say it like you’re right?
Why are you scared to dream of God
When it’s salvation that you want?
You see stars that clear have been dead for years
But the idea just lives on…
In our wheels that roll around
As we move over the ground,
And all day it seems we’ve been in-between
A past and future town…
We are nowhere, and it’s now.
We are nowhere, and it’s now.
And like a ten minute dream in the passenger’s seat,
While the world was flying by;
I haven’t been gone very long,
But it feels like a lifetime.
I’ve been sleeping so strange at night,
Side effects they don’t advertise;
I’ve been sleeping so strange,
With a head full of pesticide.
I’ve got no plans and too much time;
I feel too restless to unwind.
I’m always lost in thought as I walk a block
To my favorite neon sign
Where the waitress looks concerned,
But she never says a word –
Just turns the jukebox on and we hum along,
And I smile back at her.
And my friend comes after work
When the features start to blur;
She says these bars are filled with things that kill,
By now you probably should have learned.
Did you forget that yellow bird?
But how could you forget your yellow bird?
She took a small silver wreath and pinned it onto me;
She said this one will bring you love.
And I don’t know if it’s true,
But I keep it for good luck.
… can you give me my fucking period, already???????????
dude, it just dawned on me this afternoon. this is going to sound funny, but…
i’m kind of a writer. haha.
haha?
haha.
haha?
haha. what.
a couple days ago, i realized when people ask me what i do i always say that i’m a graphic designer. but i’d say more than that, i’m a writer. i certainly do more writing than graphic design these days. what… a… funny… thing…
i am heaven sent; don’t you dare forget.
i am all you’ve ever wanted,
what all the other boys all promised.
sorry i told. i just needed you to know.
i think in decimals and dollars.
i am the cause to all your problems,
shelter from cold. we are never alone.
coordinate brain and mouth.
then ask me what’s it like to have myself so figured out.
i wish i knew..
i hope this song starts a craze.
the kind of song that ignites the airwaves.
the kind of song that makes people glad to be where they are,
with whoever they’re there with.
this is war.
every line is about who i don’t wanna write about anymore.
hope you come down with something they can’t diagnose,
don’t have the cure for.
holding on to your grudge.
oh it’s so hard to have someone to love.
and keeping quiet is hard.
’cause you can’t keep a secret
if it never was a secret to start.
at least pretend you didn’t wanna get caught..
we’re concentrating on falling apart.
we were contenders, we’re throwing the fight
i just wanna believe, i just wanna believe,
i just wanna believe in us.
oh, we’re so controversial.
we are entirely smooth.
we admit to the truth:
we are the best at what we do.
and these are the words you wish you wrote down.
this is the way you wish your voice sounds,
handsome and smart.
oh, my tongue’s the only muscle on my body
that works harder than my heart.
and it’s all from watching tv,
and from speeding up my breathing.
wouldn’t stop if i could.
oh, it hurts to be this good.
you’re holding on to your grudge.
oh, it hurts to always have to be honest
with the one that you love.
oh, so let it go..
this is the grace that only we can bestow.
this is the price you pay for loss of control.
this is the break in the bend,
this is the closest of calls.
this is the reason you’re alone,
this is the rise and the fall.
we’re concentrating on falling apart.
we were contenders; now we’re throwing the fight
i just wanna believe, i just wanna believe,
i just wanna believe…
we’re concentrating on falling apart.
we were contenders, now we’re throwing the fight
i just wanna believe, i just wanna believe,
i just wanna believe in us.
BRAND NEW – OKAY I BELIEVE YOU, BUT MY TOMMY GUN DON’T.
this morning, i woke up @ 7:30 to get ready to go to san francisco to help tinwin take some photographs for her wedding. i feel rather ambivalent about it, in retrospect. it is like, 5 pm. stuff kicks off at 6. i have been stranded in and around wedding activities for what feels like a million pointless years. so extremely pointless. i have just been drawing by myself for the past couple hours. it is pointless because everyone else is a bridesmaid or a groomsman and i am just a human, here by myself. they seriously asked me to carry a cellular telephone while they were doing a photo shoot, and it felt kind of insulting, almost! slavery! i know it is “help” but i’ve already helped so much, and especially considering i am not great friends with the bride… it feels unfair anyway, and i know one is not to be expecting of things reciprocated for good deeds but right now that sounds nice. and i feel like an alien; these people are so different from i, talking about their favorite tv shows, what latest crap they bought online… and it all leaves me with a sick taste in my mouth and an even deeper dislike and boredom for weddings, in general. such excess and waste, and it pains me, yet i know i am being a total pompous judgmental ass in saying so.
the other day sherry was brainstorming for an hp project in which they had collected demographics of music lovers and realized they are mostly my age or my peers’. the studies they found also showed that this (our) generation is particularly nostalgic and resonates w/ music from the ’60s. this i know to be true from personal exp. in the music industry. this they know not for they (hp) are disconnected. the goal, then, is to brainstorm ideas w/ which they can find an “in” to this demographic. and though that is, innately, what advertising is, it sickened me to no end. and i said this. and sherry said, “thanks for making me hate my job,” and i realized i was being an ass, yet i am so strongly disdainful of the particular brand of consumerism most americans subscribe to that, seriously, it disgusts all fibers of my being. and while i like to look nice, i realize that people didn’t grow up like me and don’t feel this way because they don’t have the same experiences i do. it is one thing to realize this but separating it enough so that i am not thoroughly disgusted by it all is damn near impossible. my interests occupy an extremely esoteric niche and so i look down upon those who run the hamster wheel… but it is just… so judgmental. and i hate the concept of hating upon others for that, but it cannot be helped.
2:47am
… or, at least, it is difficult to help. i am to help it.
this all compounded by more feelings of inadequacies, from: a) people asking me questions about me — in a very nice way, with nothing but positive curiosities in mind — which make me “unique” but also point to how much i don’t exactly fit in; b) purgatory; c) my realizations that i am kind of an ass in an unintentional sense; and today was just an overall bad day. like, a really bad day. blazing realizations of the fourth kind. discomforting blurry haze. inwards braindead daydreams. friend disconnection resulting in them asking me what was wrong — something which used to happen consistently all the time, and hasn’t really happened in a long time. these days are dark.
i am ever so proud of what i do, yet i am hollowed out… hollowed.
(the devil and god are raging inside me.) (brand new)
brand new will eternally mean a lot to me. and to so many others.
emo 4 lyfe. the stigma matters not.
i met my writer david today. first time in like six years (seriously) or whatever. it was a pleasant meeting; i treated him to lunch to say, “hey, thanks for being a writing slave for years!” in a sense, he was equally thankful, i think… but in a different way. from his point of view, it’s more like… he works a 9-5 job in a law office but loves music and writing, and this keeps that part of him alive. luckily, he is happily married and with child, even though he lives in the suburbs. i think it is a bittersweet thing, but ultimately sweeter than bitter…
tomorrow, tinwin gets married. hopefully i won’t be all depressed like i was at the last marriage i went to. haha. the lat marriage i went to, for some reason, really just… bummed me out… because it was so… generic… if i am to get married, you can bet that shit is going to be a fucking party… a unique one. i don’t really think so much about marriage because it is so far removed from my existence, but i assume that will change sometime soon, perhaps. everyone is always asking me if i am interested in marriage (and to an extent, surprised when i say that i do expect to be married sometime). it’s not an end-all, break-all for me, though, if marriage doesn’t happen. it simply doesn’t matter if the other person happens to be significantly against it. but i do imagine it happening, if only because it’s the best godamn reason for the coolest party on the planet…!!!! is that a horrible reason to get married? whatever. it’s as horrible as any other. ;p
anyway, for her wedding tomorrow, i’m going to help take photographs… that should be a good time. i am so different from all of them. but i guess it’s cool in my book to have as diverse a set of friends as i do.
aaron once told me that i was like no one else i ever knew, simply because no one else he knew would ever like the valley arena. hahahahahhaa. the funniest reasoning, but it makes sense, to some degree. it’s like how i can never find anyone who likes la dispute. most people simply aren’t that broad in their tastes.
i think that’s why redefine is cool — because it’s so broad because everyone contributes his or her own unique tastes to it, and sometimes they overlap. but that’s also what makes it difficult; when a publication is super niche, it’s easier for it to find its audience. when it’s casting a wide net, and has a shit ton of content, it’s also easy for it to find its audience. but when the net is cast wide and only reels in a few fish (horrible analogy, sorry) — which is our case — you can bet there’s an audience, but it’s a hard audience to find. but i feel like that audience is an audience that truly loves music. unfortunately, i don’t have any statistical proof of this, and the only proof i have is second-hand… an example being that we did an article and video series on metavari, and they reported to me that they sold a bunch of records shortly thereafter. now that is awesome. it’s awesome to see journalism actually leading to action…
i realized today that i am proud of what i do. really, really proud. this dawned on me because i was listening to our mixtapes (of which i would recommend the ones by atelier ciseaux, skrot up, and marjorie for valentine’s day… as well as my own icelandic ones, but that’s cheating, isn’t it?)
a lot of people i know personally have a hard time reading our publication just because they don’t recognize any of their names. i suppose the ideal point, though, is that we become like a boutique label, where we finely curate and filter through all the bullshit to give people, who will trust our opinion, what they want. we do the filtering so they don’t have to. i mean… someone out there appreciates this, or we wouldn’t have 400-500 unique visitors a day… but i don’t know who those people are, and i don’t know how i can find out. it’s an interesting quandary… but again… it feels good to have a product that i feel like is growing without my/our sacrificing any of our journalistic integrity.
inversion,
in this form
reconstitutes its borders
into framed petals,
unwrapped.
i write because i know not how not not to in these moments.
ever i find myself more caught up in my own thoughts.
it’s horrible.
but it is a moment of introspection –
of a returning to familiar grounds,
which i have not truly tread for years.
i am turning back inwards,
into myself,
a simultaneous blessing and a curse.
but from a interactive level,
i’m having a fucking hard time giving a shit about anyone else.
like i said:
it’s horrible.
i hate it.
but i just need this time to sort out my dismay.
then i can get back to asking people all about themselves.
because that’s all i ever do.
i just want to be selfish,
to indulge in me me me me me me me me me,
to better me
without constantly doing the thing i always do,
which is turning the conversation outwards
to ask everyone else a million things about themselves
while avoiding the topic of me.
who the hell are we all anyway,
and why do these windows keep giving me a glare of unreality…
if even such simplicities can turn me inside out
what won’t, idiot!
if a prospector can mine for gold through centuries of dirt, so shall i.
—
12:45
i just got dropped off at bottom of the hill in san francisco for a ty segall and trmrs show. i wasn’t on the godamn list even though i just confirmed it yesterday. so i walked back to the financial district-ish… took me a bit more than an hour. i got back and told tinwin and her friend this; they said i was CRAZYYYYYYYY. “look what portland has done to you,” they said, but it isn’t portland that has done this to me; it is other parts of the country, where i never know a soul, where my lack of advanced gadgetry leaves me ignorant to bus routes. walking is not simply traveling, though; it’s exploration.
what moments of lucidity to be found in night walks… of seeing a city’s dimmed delicacies! layered cascades of shadows cast by trees and framed windows harboring any number of panels — ranging from cardboard inlays to the pristine! in that setting, child-like wonderment remains commonplace rather than luxurious and foreign — one sees an old world with new eyes when in the night, when given the moments, presented by mobility, to reconsider all. the clarity they offer is transcendent.
night walks are the fucking best! i would trade them for nothing! absolutely nothing!
—
01:09
and finally, this letter i have been crafting for a month’s time; i think it’s ready. i think i’m ready. hope to talk to you in the future nearest to ours, where we will be real human beings, saying and doing real things.
we gather as moths to the light.
tomorrow, i meet one of my writers, of five+ years, whom i have yet to meet. this will be the first time. i’m excited.
this track below is from the death cab for cutie album, transatlanticism. as “un-hip” as death cab is in recent times, i can still remember the first time i heard about them. it was from my “gothic” and rather hermity freshman year roommate, who often smelled a bit surprisingly like cheese, and really, really loved radiohead. her name was julia. she had pretty good taste in music — far superior to my next roommate, who was far worse, though on the surface a much “nice little asian girl,” rather than a gothic hermit. in many ways, i rather liked my freshman year roommate, though we were drastically different at the time. in any case, i remember her listening to death cab for cutie — i think “company calls” was a notable track — and it was instantly appealing… i had no idea who they were at the time… and how humorous that i am now here, and now who i am…
transatlanticism, at the forefront of death cab’s journey into un-hipness, still means a lot to me. it is nostalgic. i recently (a couple days ago) found the album burned onto a cd in the car. i don’t know when i put it in there, but it must have been quite a while ago. re-discovering it has been quite pleasant… even if the feelings are bittersweet.
there are three, embedded into this album’s whole.
Sometimes I think this cycle never ends;
We slide from top to bottom and we turn and climb again,
And it seems by the time that I have figured what it’s worth,
The squeaking of our skin against the steel has gotten worse.
But if I move my place in line, I’ll lose.
And I have waited, the anticipation’s got me glued.
I am waiting for something to go wrong;
I am waiting for familiar resolve.
Sometimes it seems that I don’t have the skills to recollect –
The twists and turns of plots that turned us from lovers to friends.
I’m thinking I should take that volume back up off the shelf,
And crack its weary spine and read to help remind myself.
But if I move my place in line, I’ll lose;
And I have waited, the anticipation’s got me glued.
I am waiting for something to go wrong;
I am waiting for familiar resolve.
I am waiting for another repeat,
Another diet fed by crippling defeat.
And I am waiting for that sense of relief;
I am waiting for you to flee the scene
As if you held in your hand the smoking gun
And on the floor lay the one you said you loved.
And it’s strange –
They are basically the same,
So I don’t ask names anymore.
Sometimes I think this cycle never ends;
We slide from top to bottom and we turn and climb again,
And it seems by the time that I have figured what it’s worth,
The squeaking of our skin against the steel has gotten worse.
The squeaking of our skin against the steel has gotten worse.
DEATH CAB FOR CUTIE – EXPO ’86
—
The Atlantic was born today and I’ll tell you how.
The clouds above opened up and let it out.
I was standing on the surface of a perforated sphere,
When the water filled every hole.
And thousands upon thousands made an ocean,
Making islands where no island should go.
Most people were overjoyed; they took to their boats.
I thought it less like a lake and more like a moat.
The rhythm of my footsteps crossing flatlands to your door
Have been silenced forevermore.
The distance is quite simply much too far for me to row;
It seems further than ever before.
other than in this love sector, everything totally makes sense. whyisthat. it made sense before. is it a temporary curveball that will make sense later? does it make sense already but in a way that is simply nonsensical to my human self but makes sense to my purer self? is it a test of determining whether my purer self can shine through the bullshit and accept it not making sense until it does again — as a sort of reward? is the lesson to be learned one of transience — that his presence in my life is short, but perfectly-directed, at this point in my life?
(written in portland.) march 31st, 2011
—
april 20th, 2011
looking back… i still don’t know how the situation is going to work out, but it’s been a long while. and this is the feeling i’m left with and another lesson learned…
before i left portland to come to the bay area this trip, i was back to sleeping on my sofa at 2939 for a couple of days, because i had subletted out my room. the feeling was extremely peculiar. this time around, i was lying on the same couch, but the bliss was no longer present… instead of being giddy with late-night texts and promises of future meetings, i was instead left with yearnings for communication which had once been so smooth… and questions! endless questions!
the same space, once inhabited by a particular moment that made me so elated with my — no, our — fantasy life that it had me proclaim, “vivimos en los cielos, en las fantasías, donde nada puede tocarnos,” was now occupied by a deep and very real sense of nothingness. it was all loss. how could such a space be punctuated by both so deeply? and most obnoxious of all… these feelings were now confined to a fucking couch, of all places, its godamn velvet cushions soaking up the most extreme of my emotions, a permanent ridiculous reminder of the fickle nature of man.
—
on april 15th (it seems so long ago now), i wrote this poem. it explains, in a sense, the regret i have for taking fate for granted, in some sense.
In my pride, I forsook the unseen.
I boasted faith.
I traded chance for glory.
I claimed divine knowledge.
Of these acts of high treason, the unseen took note.
Ever astute, it restored balance.
It revealed mastery through rule.
It showed mercy in experience.
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