Gwar like whoa

2007-06-19T23:11:00.001-07:00

2004-11-21T23:07:00.000-08:00

And Our Hero Returns

This

is daunting to describe and extract.

and this

is just plain daunting.

so bear with me for a bit, yeah?

2004-05-13T23:13:00.000-07:00

We'll Live Forever

tonight you will run away with me. you'll grab your childish luggage set, prepacked in subconscious anticipation. you will have already found what you can't live without, and you'll have already stuffed it into three little rectangular prisms. you've written on your life as three boxes, permanent marker labeled: BOOKS and CLOTHES and EVERYTHING ELSE

you will sit on the curb outside your house, absorbing the chilled and solid concrete. you'll be positive that you left behind four or seven objects you love and need, and you won't care. your mind will be too full of nervous questions, fast and rushed and lost behind your eyes. with your sweatshirt zipped up to your chin, raw-red nose taking in and exhaling vapors of midnight, you'll look left and right every time you hear a sound. you will throw your head up instead of taking your cold fingers out of your warm pockets as it's just as effective in brushing back your hair.

you will pick yourself up by the lungs and let yourself sharply vault back down and hunch over. you'll check the time and for once, you'll be kept waiting. i will be at my house. i'll be scanning my room one last time, heart palpitating hard into my temples. sharper breathing, lurching steps, and finally i'll close the door. i never close the door.

with my backpack and guitars and one too small duffel bag, i will know i left far too many things at my house, not my home. i'll throw it all into the backseat, next to the gargantuan tupperwear box with PART TWO scrawled on the shell cover. i'll breathe for the first time as my back thuds against the cushioned leather seat. my head will be heavier than i ever remembered it, even though it feels saturated in helium. the steering wheel will be hard to grip; my hands made of sweat and apprehension, anxiety and resolve.

i'll have a hard time making it, fidgeting and blinking furiously. stiff necked and dangerous, my body won't relax until i reach your house. the radio will be off and the mirrors won't be adjusted. when i stop, you'll put your three similar suitcases in the back, next to my tupperwear container of books and in between my guitars. you'll collapse into the car wordlessly.

we'll sit there, stalled for a few minutes. dizzy and full of a confidence in the center of our chests, we'll be scared together.

you will turn to me and say something insignificant and profound. you will say something that i'll only be able to match in retrospect, the embodiment of l'esprit d'escalier. you will breathe in and say:

"it took you forever to get here"

and everything will melt away, like it always does. comme d'habitude. as my immediate response, i'll fall from my front, relaxed and placated. mollified and quieted, i'll start the car.

i won't be able to resist smiling when we drive away.

2004-04-22T17:02:00.000-07:00

The Modesty of Here and Now

With scuffed shoes and a makeshift pyramid stance, I blocked out the white and deafening sun from your squinting face. Letting your guard down, you dropped your hand to your side. Your wince was liquid as it morphed to a smile, pausing in the undefined middle ground to wet your lips. Standing above you, I couldn't understand why I was the one who felt vulnerable; later I defined my unease as the apprehensive feeling that I was on display. I looked to my left and felt heat soaking its way into my neck and shoulders. I scanned the left side of this moment, searching for an excuse. A distraction. Searching for words, or questions. Finally, after my left eye had enough of squinting to ignore the immediate sun, I turned back to you.

"well, what do you want?"

you chuckled as though I had asked some ridiculous question. The sky was closing in and swirling heavy waves of heat into my back, the waves driving through my back. I pushed down my urge to stare straight at the sun, and instead focused my confused face on yours. Again.

"what do I want right now, or in the long-term, or what? Give me particulars and constants."

I froze, because all I had prepared was that one question. I didn't have a backup plan or a follow-up. My life was that one question and you decimated it. So I pulled my eyes away from yours and looked at the empty space by your right ear. I took a breath and took a shot.

"right now. what would you be doing if you let yourself go? what do you want?"

you avoided my eyes and let your face hang parallel to my feet. Snapping your head up, your shoulders reeled back and had you sitting upright. My head wasn't blocking the sun, you moved out of my protective shadow. So you winced. You shrunk your eyes and curled your lips and tightened your forehead. Your chin jutted towards me and you used your left hand as a visor. The temporary visor lent to a shadow, lent to your relaxed face. I tried to stand taller to block the sun, but it was almost like you wanted the heat against you.

"ill tell you what I need. is that alright?"

I was sweaty palms and a knot in my throat and a hopeful rise in my posture. I was anxiety personified.

I nodded.

"I need to yell my throat hoarse until the splitsecond before I start coughing and hacking. I need a day where I inflict all of the pain, where I rip through layers and crack skulls. I need smooth eyes and calm cheeks. okay? now do you get it?"

and I nodded again. I shifted my weight, right leg to left, and I felt the creaking echo through my hips.

"what the hell are you still standing here for?"

I was so sure that I lost the me with sweating palms and a knot in my throat, but the posture stayed. Breathing shallow enough to let on that I was affected by the selfish sun and by your razor insinuations, I swallowed anxiety personified. I pushed through. I became acceptance and calm subsumption.

"I catch the bus here. I'm just waiting for the forty-three and then I'll be gone"

and that shut you up.

2004-04-05T00:38:00.000-07:00

San Diego Crew Classic

1. Cal
2. Northeastern
3. Washington

well, you heard it here. before the stupid "official" website. i could babble on and on about this, but no one cares.

it's just crew.

2004-03-24T23:22:00.000-08:00

stewart talked to books, because he knew that if he ran out of things to say, they would supply him with either ammunition or relief. he talked to books while lingering on the subtly sharp edges of paper-thin fantasies, paper-thin worlds made of words. he worshipped fonts and layouts; and shivers went down his own spine when he cracked one of his friends'.
stewart giggled outloud on the BART train next to questionable strangers, straining their own necks in an attempt to examine the contents of yesterdays front page. and he always had a late fee on his library account. because he got jealous of all of the potential future lovers of his current beloved.

one day, he woke up with too many papercuts and decided to obsess over something else.

he took a walk around his city and stared at the bright lights glowing cancerous and artificial. he smiled too large for his face in the place of his awkward giggles from BART. he jutted his chin skyward to see the tops of sad and stale buildings.

he picked up a small piece of trash. he was sure that the rust was a temporary stage and that it was once a brilliantine yellow. so he took the bit of aluminum home with him. he put it in a wooden box, freckled with knots, and smiled.

2004-03-06T11:25:00.000-08:00

A Bout of Uninspired Unoriginality

Bits of stories have been darting past my eyes recently, but i haven't been motivated enough to chase after them. I've been decompressing from, well, nothing really. I've rendered myself passive with disinterest and a pessimistic outlook of "this shit doesn't matter anyway." Slowly but surely, I'm starting to evade myself. I'll snap out of it soon, but for now, I can't do much of anything without prompting.

So. Prompt me.

what i mean to say is: If you see me around (be it in person on via internet) send me an image, a sentence, an idea, a bit of dialogue, anything.

2004-02-14T18:18:00.000-08:00

Foire d'Empoigne Inc.

Larry never thought about things too far in advance. It’s not as though he scrambled to meet deadlines at the last minute, but he wasn’t great at planning ahead. Maybe it was just that he didn’t think about the cause and effect of things, he didn’t care for consequence.

When his boss first started asking Larry to report all of his ideas to him personally, Larry smiled and complied. There was a weekly brainstorming meeting, and Larry almost always heard his boss suggest one of Larry’s ideas every meeting. Having the boss take a shine to him and his ideas was instantaneously gratifying; he felt so accomplished. He entered through those mahogany doors carrying a plastic folder full of his typed ideas and left with a lofty saunter through those same doors, satisfied and proficient.

Larry liked working for the French-based company, Foire d’Empoigne Incorporated. He thought that he had a very good future as an idea man, and hoped to keep this job longer than his last couple of jobs. As long as his boss liked the ideas he presented, he wouldn’t be fired. He just kept smiling and hoped for the best. Larry really wanted to be his own boss so he could present his own ideas, but he couldn’t without the blessing of his current boss. There was a rule at Foire d’Empoigne Incorporated that dictated strict parameters on advancement. Until he got the go-ahead from his boss, Larry kept smiling.

One day, Larry stopped smiling. At the weekly meeting, the head of the company pointed his trademark golf club at Larry. He had noticed Larry, “You! What’s your name?”

Larry grinned his usual, pleasant grin that most everyone hated, and replied simply with, “Larry, sir.”

He must’ve said something wrong, because Martin (the head of the company), launched into a red-faced rant. He called Larry a freeloader who was incapable of any ideas. He formulated a threat.

“You won’t advance in this company unless you report your ideas directly to me. Actually, this is the only way not to get fired for you. If you don’t contribute all the ideas in your little pinhead, I’m canning you. FIRED. Understand?”

Martin then swiveled and focused his rage to Larry’s boss, Steve. There was a residue of fire in his eyes, but it was slightly tamer. His rant stopped, giving way to compliments.

“Nice work here Steve. You’ve been really consistent with these great ideas. Keep it up.” Then his tone shifted completely. “But if you let up, one inch, I’m dropping you. I don’t keep obsolete people on my payroll. Know that.”

Steve gulped hard and turned to look at the recently disillusioned Larry. Larry knew that Steve relied on his ideas, and he knew that he would be fired if he failed to turn in another plastic-covered weekly report. Larry also knew that regardless of Martin’s mercy, he couldn’t escape being fired by Steve if that report wasn’t on Steve’s desk. A written form must be submitted to the head of the company suggesting their advancement onto the next level at the company, and without that, he couldn’t abandon Steve’s request. But if he abandoned Martin’s request, he would be fired just the same.

He quit the next day.

2004-01-27T23:42:00.000-08:00

HEY GUESS WHAT?

this blog's been around for a year. want to see cool stuff? click on my archives. someone suggested i dust off some archives, edit them, and post 'em when i'm in a slump.

maybe....

2004-01-26T21:14:00.000-08:00

My Father

I.
My father ran track in high school. He took his team to wins and national competitions. He was a hero with a rebellious front, a defiant kid with long hair and a beard that screamed, “fuck you”. He sprinted and ran distance, played football and smoked pot, outsmarted his brothers and felt suffocated by his life.
My father set his future on becoming an architect when he was in third grade. He always had the safety net of a definite dream to keep him focused. His drive to be an architect wasn’t pervasive, nor was it his guiding light. The marquee in his head displayed “I have to get out of here”, nothing more than that kept him going.
My father had a thyroid gland problem, Osgood Slatters, shin splints, a pinched nerve in his back, and high blood pressure. He is the one that sends his mother money and presents on the appropriate dates. He handles multibillion-dollar deals like putting a schoolyard fights to rest. He snores and talks in a made up language in his sleep.
My father rests on our scuffed leather couch, letting the History Channel seep into his dreams. He knows everything about history, even if it is just marginal knowledge that the event existed. He takes deep breaths and sorts out his words with even-tempered justice. He uses anecdotes and phrases that flatter his intelligence. He is far more well-read than people initially expect.
My father’s aortic valve is three quarters smaller than the average heart tube should be. This means his blood flow is restricted to a smaller stream, renders his body weakened with a lack of constantly flowing nutrients.

II.
I went exploring in my parents’ drawers and I found an eighth of weed. I always assumed it was my father’s. He was the one I suspected had a slight cocaine problem and smoked as well. I checked on that eighth of weed everyday for two weeks. One day it moved and I didn’t go looking for it. I peered into my mother’s bedside table a week ago and found it there.
Things have shifted now. She is the secret stoner and he is the old man. Falling asleep periodically because his body’s trying to get an urgent message across. He is the one that postponed a simple meeting with a doctor for a year because he was too scared to face his next challenge.

III.
My father is someone and everyone and no one. He’s proud and he learns. He has seen his own father used and abused, his own brothers failing at life, his own daughter grappling with invisible demons he knows all-too-well he could fix, were he me. My father doesn’t usually make things about him. And I usually don’t make things about him either. Usually.

i thought this thing was gone, but remy saved me. or rather, my subconscious forsight to send it to someone before i put it out here for public berating saved me.

2004-01-26T11:44:00.000-08:00

Day Four

I could manipulate time with my eyes. By shifting my eyes, the water slowly spills and falls. I shift my eyes again and the water jumps to the rocks. I'm watching my third waterfall today, but this time it's in Yelapa. The foaming white adds to the shine of worn rocks, and my eyes find the moss within the waterfall. When the water hits the moss they fuse for a second and I imagine that it smells like mint. La cascada - the waterfall; isolated by a gang of tired rocks.

Yelapa is practically it's own island, separate from Puerto Vallarta. Granted, it's still attached, but everything comes in by boat. Puerto Vallarta is owned by Coke, like most of Mexico, but Yelapa is different. There aren't giant red and white umbrellas shading dirty white beach chairs in Yelapa. It's essentially a cove town, it's self-contained. Coke doesn't lay claim to this mini-island - Pepsi does. The blue umbrellas are faded beachside as the waves get bigger, growing and threatening.

The waves withdraw, lingering on the granules of sand, and then heave themselves back. Growing and swelling, anxious and patient, waiting, waiting, waiting. They peak and begin to descend, advancing and arcing. The sun catches them as the tube collapses and crashes onto the beach. They have all exploded more hollow and deep than expected. Their scattered remnants hungrily slide towards shore, searching and relentless. Until the waves withdraw again.

Yelapa is to dogs what Puerto Vallarta is to cats. What Egypt once was to cats, but with a more abandoned air. There is more of a defeated acceptance than the worship once equated with cats. The dogs are sea-worn and ragged. They wander, contented with their hand to mouth existence.

The boat skips like a rock against humps of glassy fluid. Each time the hull beats down, slapping the water, it bounces twice. Chanting a mental mantra to the rhythm of the boat is easy and smooth. Two more BAM Days left BAM Two more BAM Days left BAM. Until the boat scrapes against the yellow sanded shore, all I can think is two more days left.

i went to mexico over the summer. i knew there was some hidden poetic value in that hellhole of a vacation.

2004-01-13T20:05:00.000-08:00

So Where Do We Go From Here?

It seems as though my core group of friends all hit their peaks and valleys together, as if there is some sacred solidarity in numbers. i'm in a rut and i can only assume that others are as well. i want to be the rock everyone needs to beach themselves on for that safety breath of air, though it seems as though im just as much a piece of flotsam as they are. i'm the driftwood to their, well....driftwood. i wanted to believe in the subtle symbiosis of friends, but it feels like the blind leading the blind.

to quickly change things before they dare to get personal, my mind's been wandering lately. who actually reads this thing, and how can i get more people reading this thing? i think my writing is graduating to less shitty, and though it's great that you read it, i wouldn't mind if more people gave me insight into what is still shitty about it. in case you dont know, i sort of plan on giving this writing thing a go. (this means i want to fix what's crappy, which is lots) i know this means i'll have to write something of substance soon, but, so be it.

fuck. this means i have to write, like a story or summat, huh?

2003-12-24T16:38:00.000-08:00

Digressions Piled Skyhigh

You walk in from the Allston entrance. Anything before this visual is pointless. No description of waking up or eating breakfast is necessary. It’s a new day but the same old routine resounds in your memory. Oppressive, black gates resting harmlessly against the old buildings - they stand out. Your body emits disdain and discomfort by slouching and slogging along. With your head cocked and downcast, your feet move in a dutifully rhythmic path. There is a slight wavering in your steps as you know that this isn’t necessary.
You could change the monotony instantaneously and no one would care. No one else would be affected by your apathy. Then the guilt kicks in, and you continue. Screaming visuals of crying parents and yelling matches, official papers reaffirming your failure, red-rimmed eyes and the heavy stone of disappointment and disapproval pressed against your chest. That’s what keeps the Kerouac and Frost in your mind at bay. Blind duty, guilt of broken obligations.

{And this is all in your head. All of this is without what’s happening in the world of cause and effect. To pan out, we rewind and begin again, distanced.}

You walk from the Allston entrance. You casually glance at the kids that have been there since their mothers’ dropped them off for a zero period they’ll never attend. Both of your thumbs are wrapped around your backpack straps, and your head snaps back to your immediate path. Looking forward, you tilt your eyes up and see something that makes you grin slightly. There is always someone in the sole clear window of the breezeway on the second floor, between the C building and the G/H building. That window is the closest thing to directly center in the block of windows. The grimy frame of the bridge and the irregular faces of glass panes make for a great sight. From where you stand, ten or so feet from the black gates of the Allston entrance, there is a small comfort in that peculiar constant. You are always too far away to see who this person is, and there is something mollifying that rests at the top of your stomach, right below your ribs, from that gentle knowledge.
Until it becomes uncomfortable for your neck, you keep your focus on that window. It never ceases to jar and placate at the same time. The benches are occupied by freshmen at which you can’t help but silently scowl. Eager to please and loud enough to be deliberate, they defy the assumption that one can’t have fun before nine in the morning. Their eyes anxiously dart to yours, hoping to gain a grin of acknowledgement. Somehow, at the end of the exchange, you are still alone, and regardless of how painted, their smiles are still there. Who’s the winner?
With feet that refuse to stop, your body is dragged up brick stairs and past the ugly portable “control center”. Strangers’ glares rip through you and you can’t help but wonder if paranoia is a prerequisite to high school. Judging and evaluating incessantly, these people pooled in groups and standing defiantly alone compress your existence into what you throw back to them. Attitude becomes everything, and it’s not even time for first period. You feel yourself callous over as you hike your backpack up on your back and let the oxygen become sparse in your calves. Climbing the stairs, you ignore the humid affect that too many students have on the walls, trash haphazardly clumped in corners.
Noticing the first few hall-dwellers, you avoid eye contact. You avoid any contact, because you’ve learned. Contact is a variable; contact is a gamble. Pretending to have your eyes fixed on a point somewhere in the distance, you plod onwards. The book you crammed into your bag at the last minute this morning is jabbing at your back, causing you to shift every couple of minutes. You are cruising the main floor of the C building, the second floor.
If you don’t know many teachers at Berkeley High, it can be a lonely place at eight in the morning. But if you do know a fair amount of teachers, as a result of kicking it in the teachers’ lounge when you had a proctoring period freshman year, then you are golden. You, happen to be golden. Appreciative of those hardworking teachers that come early to make sure they are prepared, you sit quietly and read. Call it getting it out of your system, call it meditation before the war - call it whatever you want, but you can’t function without downtime. Out of the corner of your eye, you watch whichever teacher you are insinuating yourself upon flitter around the room, looking simultaneously expert and virgin. Their moves are understandably uniform, but if you are in the presence of the right teacher, it all becomes apparent. Their passion, their nervousness, their confidence, their pride, their tired eyes. All of it bubbles to the surface when they aren’t looking.
The bell rings to rudely interrupt you and you adjust your bag so you wont feel the corner of your book burrowed into your shoulder blade when you put it on. Slung onto one shoulder, you thank the teacher and walk out. Avoidance becomes your priority and you dodge and duck your way to first period. Scornful of oblivious people, you wish that today could be the day you tell them off. Today could be the day you tell them that they can’t take up the entirety of the hallway with their selfish melodrama. Their attention-grabbing antics aren’t of any interest or concern to you. Instead, you compromise your pace by swerving and ducking and sliding and silently excusing yourself for being rude. You place your heavy bag down and adjust yourself for a class you used to look forward to.

Post.Script. i actually expect to be graded on this thing. i was supposed to catalogue one day in my life, with major emphasis on Berkeley High's impact. I was going to go through the whole day, but its pretty much this, times six. should i turn it in? it reads like one big emo song.

2003-12-12T00:51:00.000-08:00

An Angst of Teenagers, A Crotch of Car Salesmen

really, quite an awesome link:

what do you call groups of animals?

2003-12-07T15:40:00.000-08:00

Why I Love Microsoft Word

"...solutions keep getting shot down by the dozen."

grammar error! edit to:

the dozen keeps shooting down solutions

i don't know about you, but i imagine a carton of eggs with shotguns. and the solutions have wings.

2003-11-10T00:39:00.000-08:00

You Like Me, You Really Like Me

Serious entry time. I didn't know that anyone actually read this thing and wanted more of it. I'm just going through a period where everything I write seems inconsequential, unimportant, and/or poorly written. Right now is a time of passive recognition for me. Things are happening. I just don't seem to acknowledge them. I recognize them, but don't change. I can't change. It's not symbolic, it's not metaphorical, it's just what it is. My world is changing, as it's prone to. I just can't deal. If you honestly want some insight into my life, i'll spill. I hate talking to thin air, so unless i get a pulse from this shock, i'm not going to keep defibrillating this site. Yeah yeah, really bad, long winded metaphor.

In other news, i'm apprehensive about my right pinky finger. I'm afraid it's getting a big ego, feeling more important and necessary than it actually is. My right hand is more attentive than my left hand because of the way i type. My left wrist rests on the keyboard and my left pinky is forever lagging on the A key. Occasionally, i'll need to use Caps Lock or Shift, but for the most part, my left hand gets to slack off, stationary for the bulk of my typing needs. Being left-handed, I suppose i have a favoritism that manifests itself in everything i do, including my typing. My right hand hovers more. Though my right pinky finger waits anxiously over the Colon/Semicolon key, it's eager to jump to the Backspace and Enter. It stretches and pounces, the last defense decisionmaker. It has the last say.

The cocky bastard can make my writing it's bitch.

2003-10-16T21:48:00.000-07:00

Not Exuses, Reasons

I'm back. But without anything really important to say. So, as once directed by my mother, I won't say anything at all.

2003-10-04T16:40:00.000-07:00

Channeling My Brother

procrastinating in my brother's room shooting the shit. he had an english essay due. so naturally, i tried to do it for him. but i did this. it's what i think his dreams are like. maybe. if he took lots of drugs. dude, don't ask. i wrote it really quickly while talking to him. i'm rusty at the whole computer thing, and i've still got another week. yep.

There is this one dream I have. Well. I keep having. I guess it could be called a recurring dream, but it’s not the same every time. It just ends the same. I kill my English teacher. And get away with it. I move somewhere new, somewhere else, and I get a new name. A new life, a new identity. I’m rich, because, you know, in dreams, anything can happen. So I’m rich. And infamous. Yeah, that’s right. They know that I killed her, but no one will come after me. The cops fear me, the world respects me, and I live in what I proclaim is my own country.

It’s not that people think I’m crazy,* it’s that they have no jurisdiction when they enter Trilequinaig. Yeah, Trilequinaig. It’s pronounced Can-nuh-duh. It’s right above the US and my population keeps growing. It cost a fortune to buy from the fucks that owned it before, but once they heard my name and associated it with all the articles and books devoted to what I’ve done, bargaining was easy. How did I get my money?

Well. You see. I didn’t just kill my English teacher. I like to cook, right? So I have all sorts of knives and other cooking utensils. So. When I killed her, I hacked her up. No. Hacked up isn’t the right phrase. I divvied her up. I sold all of her body parts to different black markets. The Indians would be proud. Not a part unused. Or unsold rather. I guess I should use the term Native Americans or else people will get confused. So yeah, the Native Americans would be proud. Not that the Indians wouldn’t be proud. Not that they aren’t. I had a few Indian kids in my class,** I’m sure they are proud of what I’ve done. But not because I used every part of Miss Fontana; because they hated her.***

Why anyone would buy an already failing liver or toes (not the whole set, just a couple), I have no idea.**** I don’t really ask questions anymore. Not even how much, because I either get things for free or I can pay for what they charge me. I’m comfortably rich. I say comfortably because when I go home, I have a nice, Italian leather couch to recline on. Full of money. Why? Because I can.****

*People do think he's crazy
**He doesn't really have Indian kids in his class
***If he did, they wouldn't hate miss fontana, i hear she's cool
****he does have some idea why anyone would buy a few toes
*****"Why? Because I can" was arbitrarily written on his binder. he just did it, he doesn't know why

2003-09-30T19:17:00.000-07:00

pullin the plug

internet out for two weeks. i know it'll be hard. but you'll survive.

2003-09-25T20:13:00.000-07:00

Reminiscing in Odd Places

wrote this elsewhere and decided it didnt suck:

I was in the bathroom today. at school. remembering last year's st. patrick's day. it was in that bathroom i drank melon liqueur with devin.

Green, viscous liquid coated my mouth and throat, stinging and biting, hissing its way down to the straight drop. it fell. empty stomach, poured alcohol. acids combat. churning and slightly gurgling, little bits confuse my brain. hot, dizzy, tingling, spinning, buzzed. lighter and endorsed with flushed spots on cheeks.

Chuckles wait on lips, eager to be bounced against walls. eyes swim and faces search. ridiculous poetry is found and desecrated, modified, reinvented. ants bustle along, and we look out omniscient. they dont know what we do. they cant know. its golden power and secrets and swelling pride. we glance at people, grinning content, quick to retreat. to our safe place. our core. in the handicapped bathroom stall of the third floor C-building. leaning on a dirty sink and against a humid door.

This. free of consequence and responsibility and future. this is my self-fucking-expression. my masturbation and my performance art. for now. for this very moment when pipe cleaners and construction paper and safety scissors cant be grabbed.

and then i snapped back. grinned. shook my head. dried my hands and went to take notes on the two faces of andrew carnegie. a man that made a fortune because he wanted to ride in a carriage through the high road with his mother and feel pride and smug contentment.

2003-09-15T19:29:00.000-07:00

swirling around my head

last year was our coping year. our lacksidasical, doldrum-inspired year of slacking and sleeping. now its the year of recovery, rehab, masochism. We took a mental health year and now we are running twice as fast.

last year we ran with failing duty and dedication, slowing and slowing. not caring about our time. this year its a six minute mile, hitting the wall and going over. faster and accelerating. too fast. cant slow down fast enough. lead calves and ragdoll arms. chest swells to the point of a break.

last year was comfort and networking and making tangles for a mess we knew we wouldn't get around to disentwining until now.

now is consequence. now is my year of productive insomnia.

2003-09-10T00:43:00.000-07:00

Question of the Day

Dude, if ninjas and pirates fought, who would win? Seriously, who?

formalized version: In a strictly hypothetical situation wherein a group of ninjas came to blows with a band of pirates, which group would prevail?

Seriously, dude. Who?

2003-09-06T02:10:00.000-07:00

What if I'm not ready?
What if I simply decide not to let time pass by, and i block it from going any further?
What if I can't change?

Well I'm not ready. I won't let time pass by. And I can change, but i refuse to. Hollow. I feel hollow. I'm not ready for all of my friends to leave. I can't deal with the shift in dynamic. I can't be older, they can't be older. There has to be a loophole, a void, a place where we can stay until we are ready. No matter how much i beg and plead and think and write and cry and create and destroy, it wont change. but it will. I cant change it. but it will change all the same. Disappointingly dissipating flashes of the past blur my vision, or maybe its just my tear ducts acting up again. Either way, i cant make out two steps ahead, only one step behind. I can't sharply predict or infer. I want to see how things will turn out but i cant bring myself to looking forward. Backwards is so inticing. I could adapt. I could change myself for backwards. Learn to walk again, talk again, see again, if only for backwards to be forwards. I just cant bear to invest myself into loving something that will leave all so suddenly. as soon as comfort sets in and i can smile contently, something has to jostle, fall, and shatter. And i follow. Jostled. Fallen. Shattered. But it's not all bad. I can wistfully reflect. Can I? Can i remember them? How did he sit? How did she laugh? How did we grin while falling victim to the overflowing spilled energy? Do i remember anything? Do i remember it correctly, or am i just imagining? I want to lose myself if you all promised to find me, put me back together, and make sure that everything was how it once was. I want to lose time and hope it doesnt find its way back. I want to stop. and make everything stop. and make you stop. i want. I wish. I just. I hope you remember me better than it was. I hope you dont forget, and i hope when you come back we can schedule days of being back there. We can go forward too. but backwards is just as nice.

2003-08-30T00:18:00.000-07:00

Juggling

Waste time. That’s what I do. I sit idly, wondering why I have nothing to do, forgetting millions of projects on backburners. Instead of devoting all energies to one set goal, I divide up my energy to every aspiration I put forward in my head. On good days, I get out of my element and character and am decisive and motivated. I pick a favorite hobby and get serious about it. I get swept away by the excitement and enthusiasm of single-minded application. Overall, I love being. I am a writer, a musician, an actor, and a coxswain. I love being all of the above.

Both playing guitar and writing are important to me, allowing me to articulate my emotions in two very open-ended and expressive mediums. I find writing to be much more representative of myself. I have been claiming the title “writer” since the age of four, and my style has developed slightly since that initial proclamation. I get intensely frustrated when I cannot convey my feelings through writing because writing is my first impulse and my saving grace. When I can’t write I am ill at ease, awkward, I can’t think, and I can’t get out of my own personal purgatory. Being a writer evokes pride and confidence where there would be a void.

Writing is my first love and completely fits, whereas with music I am still grappling with originality and creativity. No matter how much I agree with the original creator of a song, when I play someone else’s music I can only interpret their emotions, not my own. Rendering myself to be judged exclusively on my technical talents, playing other people’s music is less genuine and honest to me. When I listen to a song and find myself able to decipher it into chords and notes, that’s one of the best rushes of accomplishment I receive on a regular basis. Writing music is more intense and rewarding, but infinitely more difficult for me. Jamming for hours with talented musicians, riffing off of ideas I stumble across while I aimlessly play guitar, and performing live – I live for that kind of adrenaline rush.

I am filled with a different sense of accomplishment when I do crew and act. While I feel the same intense adrenaline rush, I get a less comfortable contentment from their respective “achievements.” Winning a race and performing a part fill me with relief and a less intrinsically satisfied gratification than writing and guitar playing. I hastily speculate that I am less at ease with acting and crew because I have been writing and playing music for so long that they have become second and third nature. Everything else feels alien and less essential and fundamental, but I’m working on it.

My position is one of the more bizarre ones in the sporting world. As a coxswain, I sit in a small seat, facing an athlete that is leading seven others in a set of completely matching motions. Confined by a narrow, sixty-four foot long boat, these eight place the blade of an oar in the water and propel themselves backwards towards the finish line using virtually every muscle. While they repeat this action approximately two hundred and fifty more times, exhausting themselves almost completely every stroke, I yell. I critique their technique; I make them row near flawlessly. I steer the boat using a rudder the size of a credit card, and I call the race plan. I am their eyes, their brain, their motivator, their steering mechanism, and their dead weight. I am the only one facing the finish line. I never stop talking and the pressure of eight lives, tens of thousands of dollars worth of equipment, and the outcome of a race, is overwhelming. It is addictive and I can’t help being proud at the clack of oarlocks in unison and the shell cutting through the water, deadly and soaring.

Acting is a fairly new passion, and I feel like a rookie next to seasoned veterans. It’s theoretical to me – I’ve not been in a single show. I guess at what to do when on stage and try and struggle completely. It’s an amazing rush to be without a net, in total control of the outcome of a performance piece. The consequences are to risk failure and embarrassing all fellow actors involved. Without the possibility of failing on your own, acting would have no pressure to be great and moving. Becoming a character is the ultimate test of versatility and control, something I’m having fun developing. I still feel green and awkward with acting, though I get exponentially more comfortable daily. It’s fresh and alive for me, something I am still exploring and perpetually discovering in a new way.

All of these things are motivating and productive. These passionate and vital activities are making me interesting and interested. And I like it. To wind down, I like reading and that’s uncomplicated enough. Writing, playing music, coxing, acting, and reading keep me breathing, as long as I can keep juggling them.

2003-08-28T21:38:00.000-07:00

school.fucking.started

I am attending my classes. All of them. Even my seventh period. I'm doing homework, being only mildly snide and mocking to teachers, and I'm taking time writing my third essay of school. And yes, the second day just ended. A fucking saint.

2003-08-28T01:06:00.000-07:00

a little story

There once was a fellow named steve. he had a huge head. he was nine years old. and green. he had stickup hair and bulging eyes. he didnt really look too creepy, but he looked a bit like a chihuahua. but hes pudgy a bit. big cheeks, slender neck, tiny bony shoulders with a rootbeer belly. chicken thin legs

and he had a friend named horace. he was a small guy. nondescript typical seven year old. sandy blonde hair. knobby knees. and elbows.

they were in second grade together. steve was a bit dumb and horace a bit smart.

they were classmates and buddies.

steve lived on 7150 Ronson boulevard and horace lived on 6820 Greenhill drive. they lived around the corner from each other. sort of in a residential near downtown area.

they liked bugs. steve claimed he wanted to study bugs. and horace remarked that it was the science of entomology.

they got along really well. both were fairly softspoken

steve liked beverly cleary books. and horace liked reading instruction manuals.

they hung out at eachothers houses. they watched tv. they camped in the backyard. they pretended they were indiana jones and superman and james bond and aquaman and the hulk and godzilla. they avoided hot lava and made sure not to break their mothers back. they went to the bookmobile near their school every second tuesday of the month.

steves shoelaces were big and floppy bows and horaces were neat and nondescript.

while walking the two blocks, some boys started following them. three boys. older boys.

danny, was sort of the leader though he was really only second in command, but tyler wasnt there so he was the leader.

he had mahogany hair that flirted with his eyelashes, swaying back and forth in front. bucktooth grin from (shhhhhh, whisper) too much thumbsucking. his white socks pulled up a bit past mid-calf.

arthur stuttered but he found that when he chuckled like a goon, it got covered up. thats what he did. he was big for his size. his eyes were twitchy and he rubbed them a lot. his hands were dirty and his eyes were red.

dakota had sharp blue eyes that stared. he never blinked. his hair was never combed. his shirt was always dirty.

arthur and dakota never talked. well they did, but not around danny or tyler. only when spoken to.

steve and horace sped up and scampered into the bookmobile. steve got Ramona B. Quimby by beverly cleary.

horace just read the stickers on the bookmobile and talked with the driver while he waited for steve.

when they got out, a rock was thrown at steve. more like a pebble.

steve and horace kept walking, faster and faster and faster and faster. their legs blurred with the bushes next to them and their shoulders tried to swell. they were just walking fast. not running.

another rock was thrown and they stopped. well, horace stopped and steve stopped shortly after.

horace whipped around and turned to danny and arthur and dakota. he pointed a finger and walked to them.

an inch from their face, he stopped.

"hey!"

he was panting. heaving chest, bobbing head, shaky fingers.

"fuck you"

his eyes only left danny to turn around and walk away with steve.

Post.Script: I wrote this for a friend who felt down. It took around ten minutes. I want your honest opinion. Throw your dishonest opinion in a pile for your friends column or something. Constructive criticism, praise, insults, comments, questions, concerns. et cetera.

2003-08-18T01:34:00.000-07:00

a genesis of sorts

I've started a newly un-postponed project. Hmm...made no sense. I've picked up what was once a fleeting idea, and have begun to work it into something more. I'm not sure what, where, when, why, or how - but i do know who. Devin Miller is responsible for defibrillating my creative streak. She is a great photographer and friend, and she inadvertently sparked my imagination.

I was sitting with my feet dangling off the roof of a mid-eighties Honda, feeling less like myself and more like someone...else. My head was lightly throbbing from whipping around against biting air to look straight forward at the lights of the city. Half-obscured by an oak tree, I craned my neck to see everything i could without appearing too eager. I wanted to see the water, reflecting the smog and clouds swirling together, illuminated by a waning spot of porcelain bending down to meet the bay bridge. Instead i got black, stagnant-looking scales with light linings of ecru. A vividly colored billowy mass hung with the presence of suprising consideration and vigilance, watchful almost. It fell implausibly unblemished. Jagged wisps looked purposeful and full of grace.

This was my aurora borealis. Lightly contorting sky fabric stretched watchful over the city, lit up with candles and neon and incandescent lamps. Breathing it in, realizing my knuckles were white and my mouth agape, my head tilted to the left. I shook myself back and moved to align my body with my cocked head, letting the roof slowly remove my body's indent. I pushed off and absorbed the shocks of my feet against the dirt road, letting it snake up to my neck. I put my hands in the pockets of ill-fitting pants and for the first time in thirty seven minutes i spoke.

"I wish Devin was here. She would've taken a mean picture of this for me to scrutinize later."

But my memory had to do. I ran into her on the street a week and a few days later, and bullshitted an idea for a project off the top of my head. She takes pictures, i write stories/monologues/dialogues/poems/descriptions/narrations. I write a little something-something, and she takes off on a treasure hunt of sorts to capture what it is that she took out of it. The idea was great in theory yet lay static as we both left for the week. It lingered in my head, near the back, where the jukebox oozed jazz and the bar was lit by neon.

One uneventful evening, i went to her house with some friends and she produced two binders of her work. I was a kid in a candy store, and while some shopped for art, i shopped for spare parts to weld. Ever ambitious, i took with me a stack of fourteen black and white photographs and three color photographs. I'm brainstorming on post-it notes, drinking by myself with Classics for Relaxation blaring from two speakers, orchestrating invisible cellos to hum and growl in time with the french horns, and sleeping without socks when i do doze off. I wish i had a scanner to show you her photos, but i may just have to scribble down my works and transcribe them here sans photographic company. Maybe ill add a bit of a description of the photograph, but maybe ill just let you use your imagination.

yeah, probably the second one.

2003-08-10T12:08:00.000-07:00

Made My Day

"Some Arabs just don't appreciate the free self-governing democracy that we are currently in the process of imposing upon them at gunpoint. " - Tom Friedman with shortening by Elton Beard {busy busy busy}

Okay, so maybe it didn't make my day, but it gave me a good hearty chuckle to start it off. After I was rudely awakened by my mother screaming into my answering machine to help her with groceries. After my dog ran away. After I spent twenty minutes hunting her down. After my brother tried to stab me with a spoon. After I remembered I had a middle school reunion of sorts to attend today. Oh don't worry, I'll be sure to tell you how it turns out. The middle school reunion that is - the rest of the events are settled in the dust of the past. Except for my brother trying to stab me, which didn't actually happen.

2003-08-04T17:39:00.000-07:00

Expect a Robbery

Canadians are weird. Well, maybe not all of them. But Hot Hot Heat is pretty weird. I'm on the fence about them. On one hand, i hate Canada. On the other hand, i hate Hot Hot Heat's lead singer. Oh, nevermind. But then on my third and genetically mutated/grafted hand, I like two and a half of their songs. The rest are bipolar and nonsensical - too much see sawing from a high peak to a low valley [quality-wise]. It's all quite catchy and their lyrics are written by some sort of a deranged crackwhore with a dictionary and a thesaurus. HOWEVER. If you listen to more than two of the tracks in the same sitting back to back, you will want to shoot yourself and the lead singer to bits and pieces. Any alternative to hearing his nails-on-a-chalkboard, half-crying, unintelligeable slur of words. They're cool though. The lyrics make absolutely no sense. Or maybe so much sense that you can't make sense of it. Or maybe they make absolutely no sense.

I present you with an exerpt of what Sir Nicholas Sebastian Cavendish Cross Esq. and I misunderstood:

These bandages cover mud and scrapes,
cuts and bruises from egrets and my steaks
I've been hoping and moping around the street again
I've been tripping off of the fucking dirty water Bitch.

Actual lyrics:

These bandages cover more than scrapes,
cuts and bruises from regrets and mistakes
I've been hoping your moping around the street again
I've been tripping from sipping the dripping dirty water tap.

Another set:

My bottom will never grow up to these speculations...
I still have plantations.
Oh! Oh Goddamnit.
I think I've lost Schmidt and I think I've lost Lou.

Actual lyrics:

My body will never live up to these expectations...
I still make invitations.
Oh! Oh Goddamnit.
I think I've lost it and I think that I've lost you.

Maybe we have hearing problems. Maybe we're smart asses. Maybe we lost our brains in 'Nam. Maybe....

2003-08-04T04:14:00.000-07:00

Yarrrrg. Even pirate captains get ill. And E to the MO.

2003-08-02T13:01:00.000-07:00

Say Ahhhhhhhrrrrrrrrrrrrggggggggg

Went to the dentist's office a few days ago. I still go to the same dentist i went to when i was a wee one, so while in the waiting room i get to distract myself with One Fish Two Fish Red Fish Blue Fish.
I look to my left and a toothless seven year old with stringy and unbrushed dirty blonde hair has jutted her jaw towards me with equal parts confusion and mocking. Oh yes, seven year olds can mock. This one did. Whatever, her face looked like a halloween jack-o-lantern, so i call it a draw. Granted i am the one that still gets my teeth cleaned in a luau-themed dentistry practice with a giant Hawaiian shirt on the wall. The size is 28XL. pretty clever huh? Skip ahead two minutes to brushing my teeth next to a surly ten year old boy. I call him Michy, because he looks like the Michelin Man. I could call him pudgeball of fucking lard, but Michy has a better ring to it. Can you tell that I dislike trips to the dentist and all that come with it? Well if you couldn't already tell, now you know.
I try to put toothpaste on my ridiculously small blue toothbrush but what i don't anticipate is that all of the faucets are put on sandblasting intensity. I drop "my" toothbrush in the galvanized steel sink and off comes the toothpaste. It was a blessing in disguise as i had accidentally applied orange flavored sesame street brand kiddie toothpaste to the blue midget stick. With the utmost care, i gingerly pick up the 'brush and discard it. With a new knowledge of how the faucets work, i coerce it to place a drop of water upon my new red plastic toothbrush. An artificially colored cylindric gob of toothpaste is still wedged in the hole of the sink, though water pressure should be bullying it down to the sewers.
Scrub scrub scrub, and i'm in the chair with a purple bib on. I play mrs. pacman on gameboy advance for quite sometime. Then a harsh woman i shall call Olga, though i know is named Tammi, practically shoves her elbow down my thoat. While trying to clean my teeth she must've lost her wedding ring and countless other items to my digestive tract. After she has sufficiently tortured me, she cleans my mouth using a vacuum cleaner and a waterpik. I swear she derived pleasure from bruising my gums, and more than thirteen times she got the suction-straw-vacuum-cleaner-thing stuck to the already raw insides of my mouth.
I wait again and a thoroughly sedated Hawaiian asks me questions to which she should already know the answer. "Wow. You have nice teeth. Did you have braces?" No. And fuck you, for being so goddamn lazy you can't look at my dental history. She then proceeds to ask me questions that demand long and drawn-out answers, while checking out my teeth. I dont know how she did it, but she managed to make me feel guilty for not being able to say "junior at Berkeley High School" whilst two latex-encased hands are prying at my mouth.
Two thirty second swishes of orange-flavored fluoride later, i'm out of there like my dog in a room with Jane and a razor.
I fucking hate the dentist. On the bright side, i don't have any cavities.

2003-07-30T21:39:00.000-07:00

Summertime and the Living is...

Well it must be summer - days disintegrate faster, the sun stays up longer, and good friends are always one calendar page or pencil mark away. Promises to keep in touch, yearbook entries, and graduation celebrations have all been attended to with the obligatory diligence of a naive choir boy. Now the only thing keeping my summer at bay is a lack of structure. I'm an errant scrap of flotsam, aimless as of present moment. I'm not sleeping much, which isn't new, but I'm dreaming more. I'm reading lots, but sometimes i get lost in all of the books i'm reading. I was dorky and foolish enough to try and expand my horizons by reading a shitload of quasi-classics. Fuck Kafka, man, let's go bowling, or swimming.

2003-07-22T17:43:00.000-07:00

Damn it Feels Good to be a Pirate

Yo Ho, Yo Ho, a pirate's life for me - We pillage, we plunder we rifle and loot

Drink up me hearties, yo ho We kidnap and ravage and don't give a hoot

Drink up me hearties, yo ho

Yo Ho, Yo Ho, a pirate's life for me We extort, we pilfer we filch and sack

Drink up me hearties, yo ho Maraud and embezzle and even high-jack

Drink up me hearties yo ho

Yo Ho, Yo Ho, a pirate's life for me We kindle and char inflame and ignite

Drink up me hearties, yo ho We burn up the city we're really a fright

Drink up me hearties, yo ho We're rascals, scoundrels villains, and knaves

Drink up me hearties yo ho We're devils and black sheep - really bad eggs

Drink up me hearties yo ho

Yo Ho, Yo Ho, a pirate's life for me We're beggars and blighters and ne'er do-well cads

Drink up me hearties, yo ho Aye, but we're loved by our mommies and dads

Drink up me hearties, yo ho

repeats

Yarrg.

2003-07-20T22:25:00.000-07:00

An Airport Goodbye

And they left. Glances over shoulders. Wistful smirks displayed as residue from a hotel movie memory. Grins, headshakes, the narrowing of eyes, and a downcast chin. Hiking up their messenger bags on their strained shoulders. Embraces with closed eyes and surreptitious inhalations have become taboo, handshakes and backpats substitute with an almost visibly lingering remorse for the deadened and archaic farewell. A puzzlepiece too late, only in eagle-eyed hindsight will it be a perfect goodbye. An outdated garbled automaton blares at no one in particular and no one notices. The queue surges forward and one by one they follow. Wrinkles from forced smiles become blurred as passengers dissipate.

I stand. Left leg slightly trembling from a locked-kneed stance held ten minutes past perception and five minutes past unambiguously liberal confirmation. Resolute stare fixed at the dirty plexi-glass. Shoulders unyielding and slanted away from the worn tunnel that leads to ascent. Eyes asquint, lips loosely unclosed to allow for shallow breaths.

Smaller and smaller until it is just a trace of a flyspeck, absorbed by unbounded expanse of pellucid firmament.

The traveling team left for Nationals sunday. i wasnt at the airport, but i imagine it was something to that effect.

2003-07-12T14:35:00.000-07:00

D.Camp

I didnt make the team. Enough said.

2003-07-04T17:54:00.000-07:00

Hell

I'm off to development camp for a week. Development camp is for crew. You have to get invited to go, and i am one of seven coxswains going. The preliminary week starts this saturday {July 05.03}. They call it "Phase One." We all call it hell. I am paying to go to a rowing center for a week in 100 degree weather for six to seven hour practices daily. I shant be able to update as i will be in Sacramento.
To satiate you once more as i slink off due to crew-related reasons, i leave you with links:

If you are planning on flying the friendly skies, i recommend you fly Dillta, the only way to fly.

Stupid Russians - Winnie the Pooh

On love, on games

you can die of ennui?!?!?!?

dont click, unless you want to shut it down

Rudy Burckhardt rocks {click images, then click the bottom left corner}

2003-06-22T13:46:00.000-07:00

Dork

New Harry Potter Book

yeah yeah, i'm a dork, but you know you are too. dont even try to deny it.

2003-06-21T18:04:00.000-07:00

Starting to Lie

Today I woke up, and climbed up my magical ladder to nowhere.

Upon the suggestion of "Tito," i have started to lie. It's hard work, very tiring indeed. I like being bonecrunchingly honest to the degree that the descriptions are bizarre. but oh well. truth out the window, lying is the new vogue.

2003-06-11T00:16:00.000-07:00

How Many Candles?

I'm sixteen now. whoa. how teenage. this is too much.

2003-05-24T20:18:00.000-07:00

What is wrong with me?

Before you answer this post's title [which is an obviously rhetorical question] with one of the many potentially correct responses let me explain myself. I have been busy removing the "borderline" part of my title as a "borderline truant."

You know it's getting bad when:
you can count the number of classes you attended in a week on one hand

your pre-school routine includes one hour of Saved By The Bell, putting on sunscreen, and sweettalking your friends out of anything scholastic

2003-05-07T22:48:00.000-07:00

Wierd Stuff

I've got SWRJC's [affectionately dubbed CJ's by us crewies] starting early Friday 9th and ending late Sunday 11th. To satiate your appetite for the bizarre until I return, I found some stuff for you.

What with this odd economy, gas prices rise and dip and soar again, but those Australians and their Stock Exchange...they have the last laugh.

Want to see a wiener? How about a pussy?

Best Blog Ever, nothing more can be said.

your guess is as good as mine

I am so getting one for my birthday party, and there is no way you can stop me.

takuya, you are just plain startling.

musical horses - its like musical chairs but with singing horses instead of music starting and stopping around a circle of chairs.

”Aibohphobia” is the fear of palindromes, heheheh.

2003-04-27T13:19:00.000-07:00

Dusting Off - or Trying to

I know you missed me, but I needed to donate my online time to more precious endeavors like crew, homework, music, and friends. Sorry I deserted you, but I know you found a lack of wit somewhere else in the World Wide Web [did you miss that self-deprecating style?].

Anyway, so much has happened that I hardly know where to begin. There was that whole war thing, my grades plummeted as gas prices rose, and I bought myself a makeshift recording studio within my very own room. Well let's adress these points of odor, yes odor. Regarding the war, I'm really too young and unknowledgeable to formulate a highly valued opinion, and if I was to claim I knew half of anything about the war, it's really not a well-founded claim with much merit. Regarding my grades descent to hell, I merely state that I am apathetic to most things academia-related and it is well-reflected through my transcripts.
Last, but definitely not least, I call to focus my new recording studio. Three years ago I started putting aside a small amount of cash any time I could, and I had no idea what I was going to do with the money saved. Recently, I went to my friend Eric's house and fell in love with his rig for recording music. I opened up my cash box, pulled out the greenbacks, and marched over to Guitar Center. I bought a cheap Behringer mixer, a not-so-cheap Oktava microphone, a sturdy mic stand, and I obtained the recording program Sonar by Cakewalk.
I'll keep you posted from now on, I promise...perhaps with erratic frequency, but I will keep you posted.

2003-03-04T17:00:00.000-08:00

shake it once that's fine.
shake it twice it's okay.
shake it three times and you're playing with yourself.

2003-02-24T22:30:00.000-08:00

Note to all four of you who care: New haikus have been posted here.

2003-02-20T20:47:00.000-08:00

Ah Youth

"i miss the days in journalism when brandon would sit right behind you and you'd throw his backpack across the room and sit on his feet. it was the highlight of my glorious day." Daria
"did i really do that?" Me
"from what i recollect, multiple times. it would land on Elena's head or something. that was my favorite class." Daria

2003-02-16T20:07:00.000-08:00

Haikus for YOU

Due to the popularity of the haikus I post, the haikus have gotten big egos and requested their own site. They are starting to grow in number so I was wise and met their demands. You can still check out the haikus on my archives but the site for the haikus is : Haiku for You.

2003-02-16T19:53:00.000-08:00

The Good Life

Many apologies to all two of you avid readers of this here blog. I have been occupied with what some people call "the good life." Recently I've been feeling a bit too complete for my own good - I feel so complete I question it and start to feel incomplete again. I check myself constantly, trying to remember the problem du jour and what the restrictions to my happiness are - yet search as I might, I find no major obstacles. The shit hit the fan with my report card from last semester [atrocious gpa] so thats one of the issues that doesn't loom ominous over my head any longer. That fear of my parents finding out about my horrible school reputation was a pretty big black cloud that has all of a sudden vanished. I've decided to follow the old anecdote and trust it's a turn for the better and not a false backdrop for disappointment. Does one really trust a turn for the better? No, never, not completely. The good jaded cynic in me is always looking down so that the minute possibility of looking up is even more likely. Sure its positive thinking, sort of...

2003-02-05T21:30:00.000-08:00

The Hits Keep A-Coming

My hand in the air
An important announcement:
Nobody likes you.

When he grimaces
In the midst of a sentence
He looks like a frog

Stop start stop start stop
Start stop start stop start stop start
Stop start stop start RING!!!!

Alleged teacher
Talks about the government
Is this history?

Movie time is great
Students pay no attention
Write haiku instead

Frogs and toads are green
They are the most awesome things
Now irrelevant

Islam is not bad
Or so he tells us. Again.
Again. And again.

A movie again
This is a typical class
This is so boring

So full of hot air
Bigger and bigger he grows
We will deflate him

His pants are too short
Way too much thigh is revealed
Must avert my eyes

This is not a class,
It is the time before lunch,
So why is "Pond" here?

Please don’t ask questions,
He does not know the answer
But he can stop tapes

Is "Pond" dead today?
He walks through the door again
Damn, he’s still alive

Clutches chest and gasps
Teacher has a heart attack
Students don’t notice

Our unbiased lord
He who surveys all below
What a joke he is

Oh what a martyr
Without indoctrination,
But so full of shit

Stuttering "Winston"
Blindly groping for a point
Yet, alas, he fails

Broken podium
Oh such pandemonium
Our ancient ruins

Videos daily
Eerie glow of TV rays
Do we have cancer?

Overstuffed scarecrow
A shirt pulled taut over his
Protruding stomach

I think he’s realized
We spend classes mocking him
Wait…nope, nothing’s changed

This class is better
In terms of education
If I sleep through it

A revolting smell
This room stinks of flatulence
Oh wait, that’s Brandon

Pulls his eyebrows in
Makes a very grumpy face
He looks three years old

Hand waving quickly
I do not understand it
Is it sign language?

Shitty bad classroom
The monstrous piles of papers
Behind "Pond’s" desk

Why are the lights off?
Oh right, we’re watching movies
Oh well, back to sleep

No eating in class
Such irreverence will not
Be tolerated

This lecture contains
So many tangents I feel
Like I’m in math class

Speaking as a guy
Who owns but two pairs of pants
Brandon – buy some pants!

"Pond" points at TV
He tells us to look at it
Goody. It’s a goat

Brandon, shorts and all
A three toed sloth he is
Man, or perhaps not

Happa with bared legs
Haughtily holds his head high
He I love to hate

So slowly time moves
A frustration vocalized
Gwar like whoa indeed

Eyelids become lead
I’m drifting into a daze
Sleep now sleep noww sslleeeppp

Such emphatic hands
Now who am I speaking of?
Who? Brandon or "Pond"?

Wear something else please
I wonder, do you smell bad?
You probably do

Every ten seconds
Stops movie, says: blah blah blah
I wish he would shut up

Elena’s written
What could be a haiku but
Her handwriting sucks

Gray-um is shit head
Makes fun of my heiroglyphs
Rrr, narrator brit

2003-02-04T22:57:00.000-08:00

To All You Would-Be Plagiarists

Don't think twice about stealing these haikus, as Mr. Khalsa, Mr. Heimler, Mr. Oto, and Ms. Rudy among others are already in the process of compiling these amazing works of poetry into a wonderful book. If you do wish to display/quote these haikus, please make sure that credit is given where credit is due:

Initial Idea Design: Graham Heimler

Managerial Defibrillator: Ram Dass Khalsa

Engineering Team: A few good men and women from C309 3rd period

Quasi-Publishers: Ram Dass Khalsa, Rachel Rudy, and Mischa Spieglemock

2003-02-04T22:35:00.000-08:00

Brand New Batch

Hot off the presses, this is a warm batch of homecooked haikus from C309:

So the week begins
"Pond" is again diseased
Why? Why am I here?

Which of these is worse—
The backbreaking pain of desks
Or "Pond" droning on

His beard, big and white
The booming strength of his voice
Like God, but stupid

Minutes like dust motes
Flying, dancing in sunbeams
Potential wasted

Do not trash the room
Mister "Pond" will not clean it
Nor will janitor

Words are flying out
His mouth is moving quickly
Too bad no one cares

My head hurts. Hey, look—
The sun is coming out now
Outside... not in here

A smug old bastard
He is a real know it all
Why won't he just die

Twitching and spasms
His twangs are ridiculous
Random bursts of "blaagh"

Blah Blah Blah Blah Blah
Why does not he stop talking?
"Pond" is so stupid

Never stops talking
He thinks that he is in pain
But he hurts us more!

I don't know my grade
In this God-forsaken class
Please, "Pond," have mercy

Paying attention
In this class is difficult
Except Jewish stuff

Put the movie in.
Please put the movie in now.
We'll like the movie more

Using waves of sound,
The true master paralyses his opponent
Leaving him vulnerable to attack

It's as if he shouts
His germs toward us, all packed
Like sardines against the wall

Same rules apply, the names of certain "teachers" have been altered ever so slightly.

2003-02-04T22:18:00.000-08:00

Something to Pass the Time

This may be a tad too openly malicious, but my history class and i bide our time until we are in the real world by making haikus. This was started by an ingenious fellow by the name of Graham Heimler. I appreciate his quick thinking and i shall post these online for all to read. These were all done after our History Final [please note that names have been altered to cover my own ass from being called a slanderer...except for Mike Orloff, i dont think he'll care] enjoy:

Hair like white sea-foam
Eyes like endless rich caverns
Too bad he's a fool

Stuffy rows of desks
Large black man gets no respect
Where is the learning

So many questions
Drops of wonderment on grass
Why is Mike Orloff?

My neck hurts so much
I think I have a fever
I want to go home

So many questions
One hundred multiple choice
Lots of essay shit

Sniffing the back yard
Nose in the grass he squats down
The dog lays a poo

Goat sleeps in dumpster
Words fall from mouth to deaf ears
Brooks gets no respect

This class is so dumb
IQ falling from the brain
De-evolution

Rain falls on window
This sounds like our stinking class
The joy of learning

No soap radio
Purple monkey dishwasher
Don't kill nobody

Where is my lunch break
Head throbbing stomach aching
Must stab "Winston Pond"

A snake in the grass
Swallowing large children whole
Needs more seasonings

2003-02-02T23:45:00.000-08:00

An Early Break

This weekend was a three day weekend, and i should be happy and appreciative of every moment. I should have behaved like a saint in classes this week, but going to all of them was too much already. Instead of attending the latter half of my courses on Friday, i decided to take an independent field trip. I gathered up fellow "reformed" borderline-truancy cases and procrastinating students on Independent Studies and we saw a movie. What movie you ask? Well I'll tell you...FINAL DESTINATION 2. Shudder, wince, and frown upon me if you wish, but while a great majority of you were enjoying a teacher exploding in anger upon your class, i was laughing at a movie that realized it didn't have a fighting chance in hell if it took itself seriously. Half of this wonderful movie was wasted trying to convey a half-baked plot and some "serious acting" but by the second half of the movie all but one actor got the memo that Operation Serious Movie was aborted. The special effects looked as though they were done with PhotoShop, the actors attempted to convey nothing more than exaggerations of character flaws, and the product placements within this movie could not have been any less subtle. Being the immature teenagers that we are, my friends and I held a snide running commentary throughout a majority of what I have affectionately nicknamed "FD2." Granted there were only about two other people in the audience with us on that sunny Friday afternoon, but still, we must have pissed those two off.

2003-01-30T23:54:00.000-08:00

One Hour is Too Damn Long

During the course of my drawn-out adventure called school I come across some random etchings on school property. To pass the time I read these works of art and add my own renderings of boredom. If you have the...pleasure of having a disgruntled and sickly, yet still quite portly black santa for a history teacher [we'll call him Mr. Rivers] you have several options for classroom activities:

1. Sleep...and possibly drool
2. Read all of the urban poetry on all surfaces of the classroom
3. Compose your own unique sayings on these surfaces, as drool erases the previous urban poetry that riddled those surfaces
4. Read a book brought from home, or one of the bricks from the Theopsych book-tower
5. Sketch your classmates/teacher on your desk

These are just a few of the numerous things you can do to kill time in class, but if you notice, a majority of them have to do with writing on school property. I believe the term is "defacing school property." I know that initially that phrase sounds powerful and teeming with consequences, but the this phrase is mainly penalty-free. It's just a small annoying "fuck you" you can send back to the school in your quiet rebellion. I do my part, believe you me. If you have ever looked down at the seat of your desk to see "1 hour is too damn long" scribbled in a corner think of me. I know you agree, i know you think that one hour is too long to keep still, feign interest, learn, and maintain sanity. Good, keep thinking like that and i'll keeping writing 'em.

2003-01-28T22:59:00.000-08:00

Pandas in Teddies

I am exhausted from one full day of school. To zoom in closer to the details, I am exhausted from my first day of [going to all six of my goddamn hour-long] classes. It was the first day of classes spring semester, signifying that I am now a second semester sophomore - this is worth absolutely fuckel. A vast majority of my close friends are second semester seniors and screaming it out with justified satisfaction. They bellow it ["Whoooo! Second Semester Seniors!"] at the top of their lungs and smile this contented smile as their eyes fix on me and it hits them, "she's not graduating with us...." They avert their eyes, make a lighthearted chuckle and say something like "whoo! second semester sophomore!" as they nick my shoulder with a light punch. I am not bothered by the reaction they give me or their justified bellows, but I am bothered by the fact that my parents didn't meet and marry two years earlier at the least. Damn you parents! Bastards are just like those fucking pandas in captivity that don't fornicate to save their motherfucking species. Hell if I was a panda, and all that was asked of me in return for lodging, food, and adoration [and prodding] was to have sex with a panda that I'm sure is pretty damn attractive, as most pandas are attractive, I would have sex with that panda in a heartbeat. So all you pandas out there reading this lame weblog, I beseech you, I implore you, I beg of you to look to that foxy looking panda next to you and just consider it. Come on, I'm sure you have before, so just consider it more wholeheartedly...do it, for the kids.

2003-01-27T23:28:00.000-08:00

well, i have a blog now. i am no longer blogless. this is...a new sensation. i feel so...fullfilled.

2003-01-27T23:26:00.001-08:00

this is a blog.