| (no subject) |
[Jul. 30th, 2008|03:32 am] |
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The child is six.
He is at home with his mother.
His mother sits in the bathroom, her eyes are red and swollen from crying.
Mama.
Stares.
Mama.
Sits, stares.
MAMA.
Her voice is dry from coughing and screaming into her knees, curled up in the bathtub, despondent.
She sounds far and away.
Baby, please. You have to stop calling Mama's name.
The apartment is dark. Black. She could not afford to pay the electric bill.
Not this month, not last month, not any fucking month, not since she was left alone.
She works as a part-time waitress and is paid $2.50 an hour, plus tips.
She would work full-time, but cannot afford to pay a nanny or caretaker.
The child is considered ill.
Diagnosed with a form of autism at four.
He functions in terms of geometry, symmetry and organization.
He knows the entire multiplication table.
He reads at a fifth grade level.
He can speak just as well, but prefers to stay quiet.
He cannot be touched.
He fights, kicks, punches, bites.
He wails like an ambulance.
Soon, something better will happen for her. For her son.
She does not know if she can wait for soon.
Soon never comes soon enough, it crawls and drags itself; slowly, hand over hand, trudging and struggling to reach its destination as if wounded or maimed.
Her son's feet pat down the hall, across the tile, into the bathroom.
She looks up, he extends to her a worn teddy bear. Its head and body are in separate hands.
She speaks.
For Mama?
Yes.
Thank you baby.
Yes.
You make Mama's heart go pitter-patter.
Pitter patter.
She nods.
Mama, why bathtub? Are you sad?
No, baby. Mama's fine.
Are you sleepy?
No, baby.
Are you angry?
No, baby. It's okay now. Everything's okay. Go play with your toys.
I stay with you.
She half smiles, wipes her face.
C'mere, kid.
Now on his mother's lap, the child leans back, comfortable.
Safe.
Warm.
He speaks.
Mama, when do we die?
Oh, baby...
We have to die, Mama. When do we die?
She strokes his forehead.
When God thinks we're ready, baby.
God?
Yes baby, God. God will take us when we're ready, and we'll live in heaven with Daddy and be very happy. All of us, together.
I want to go now, Mama.
Her steady hand stops moving across the child's forehead. It freezes and falls.
What do you mean, baby?
I'm ready. You tell him. You tell God I'm ready and I don't want to wait. You tell God to come now.
His mother holds him tighter.
No, baby. Mama won't let you. What did we say about Mama's heart? What do you do to Mama's heart, baby?
He pauses, speaks.
Pitter-patter.
Yes, baby.
Pitter-patter.
For you, only for you.
Pitter.
Patter.
Goes my heart. |
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| (no subject) |
[May. 15th, 2007|02:41 am] |
Can I ask you something?
Yes. Of course you can.
What would you do if I died?
If you died I would want to die too.
So you could be with me?
Yes. So I could be with you.
Okay.
- Cormac McCarthy |
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| early to bed, early to rise. |
[Apr. 23rd, 2007|08:02 pm] |
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Scratch another mark in the “things I’ll never understand” column. Samuel Beckett. Contemporary Country music, as well as at least three other genres. Calling your potential employer after they make it a point to say they’ll call you. The parameters of social conduct. Morality. People who don’t use chapstick. People who dislike Robin Williams. People in the grocery store who look like they’re fucking lost. MTV. Mathematics. Making your bed. Toilet bowls without lids. Insect enthusiasts. Drinking a hot beverage on a hot day. Sunbathing. Smoking. Tofu. The westerner’s penchant for foreign foods in an attempt to seem chic and cultural (though I know, you have to keep up with the trends). Boston Crème Donuts. The state of Texas. The state of our country. Early to bed, early to rise. The appeal of fast cars to pretty girls. The average American male. Abercrombie and Fitch as an institution. The ignorance of youth. Nascar. People who drive slower than the speed limit. People who drive exceedingly fast. Movies coming out every month with the same fucking rehashed plotline. Woman is sad. Woman is lonely. A man comes along, he is charming and good-looking. Man sweeps woman off her feet. They exchange awkward glances, small talk, and by nights end, fluids. Man does something stupid, woman is put off and they split up. One day woman meets man on the street by chance. Woman pulls pistola out of purse and pops man in the head, once in each eye, once in the forehead. Man laughs all the way down to the concrete, he’s got a big fucking smile on his face. Man is dead. Man is laughing. But man is dead. |
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| Arthur. |
[Apr. 11th, 2007|09:01 pm] |
Arthur was an independent child and his personality was such that he was deemed unpleasant by his fellow playmates. He was ambitious from an early age, and unlike so many others, had never learned to love the taste of corporate cum. He would do things his own way, and you’d like it. He and his mother shared an old two story home on a residential street in Charleville, where he’d grow up rebelling, having visions, and doing long division for twenty sous at a time, just like his father had promised him. He never did finish these equations, and despised his father for withholding all that he did, including the currency. In the summertime, when the living was easy, their neighbor’s kids would work with their fathers to build a lemonade stand and set up their amateur business for several hours each day. Arthur would come strolling by, rapping a stick along the fence as he went. “Hey little Arthur, would you like to come help me with these lemons?” they would say. He would stop and smile. “No, Charles,” or “No, Paul,” or “No, Ernest,” he would declare. “I won’t touch your fucking lemons and I don’t need your fucking lemons. If I wanted to bake in the crippling heat selling piss for five cents a cup, I’d have done it. Now speak no words to me, you. Let it be as if we never talked.”
The child on the receiving end of this response would stand for a moment, brow furrowed and mouth slightly ajar, before running into the house screaming for his or her mother. Arthur would laugh and laugh and laugh. Some nights he would visit these makeshift stands and set them on fire using his mother’s spirits, the ones she kept in her bureau; a place she never suspected Arthur would find them. A religious woman, Arthur’s mother made sure to attend mass at their local house of worship. She would force Arthur to accompany her and dress him in a small tuxedo with dress shorts and high socks. When his father went missing, he had left his bowties behind. Arthur was usually made to wear the spotted black one. They would file into church, assemble in the pew, and just as the priest got up to speak, Arthur would excuse himself, exit to the front of the building, and crudely scrawl “Shit on God” with rocks onto the sidewalk. He would laugh and laugh and laugh. He laughed his little head off until mass ended and his mother came out demanding to know where he had disappeared to. “I was there mother, I couldn’t find you again. Did you enjoy the service?” And they would take off down the rue, bound for home where Arthur would immerse himself in reading and writing and doing that fucking long division, reaping no reward should he finish it. |
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| Aidan & Melissa. |
[Mar. 17th, 2007|04:30 am] |
Melissa showed up at my doorstep with a broken jaw and bruises around her eyes. She hugged me and began to tell me what had happened. She said her father found out she had been lying to him about where she was going one night and fucking lost it. He threw her to the floor and began wailing on her. His clumsy body pinned her to the ground, reeking of liquor and cigarettes. She did not cry. She did not fight back. She clenched her fists and waited for him to finish. She was used to this by now. Afterwards, she drove herself to the hospital, was diagnosed with a mandibular hairline fracture, mended, and dispatched. She turned away their offers to help, their referrals to local crisis centers. She came right to me, met me with a warm embrace. I love you, she repeats aloud. I love you, I love you, I love you.
“I love you too, Liss. I have to go take care of something, will you be alright here for a little while?”
“I guess so…what do you have to do?”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“Aidan…”
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll be back soon.”
She sighs and turns to go in the house, I get in my truck and turn the key. I sit and wait for the heat. It does not come, it will not come for a while now. It’s a January night and it’s fucking freezing outside. I’m on the highway for about twenty five minutes before I turn onto a residential street and pull into the driveway of an old, stucco-ed ranch. There are lights on and I see shadows, figures, silhouettes through the kitchen window. There is yelling. She’s fucking worthless. Screaming. She’s worthless, Anette, you fucking twat, don’t tell me what I need to do. A man’s voice. Our daughter is a whore. A broken, depraved, drunken man’s voice. I walk to the front door and pound my fist against it. The screaming turns into a groaning, a complaining. What is it now, goddamnit, what the fuck do these people want from me. You fucking bitch, you had damn well better not have called the law on me. The door creaks open, I look at him, take stock of Melissa’s joke of a father. His left eye is lazy, his hair disheveled. His face is dirty and unshaven. He looks at me through glazed, reddened eyes and speaks.
“What the fuck do you want, kid?”
“Fuck you.”
He leans back, a cigarette extends from his teeth. He removes it, looks shocked.
“What did you just say?”
“I said fuck you, old man.”
“Kid, I don’t know who in hell you think you are, but you and your big fucking balls better get off my porch before I remove you from it.”
“Not going to happen.”
“Excuse me?”
“Not going to happen. I need to have a word with you.”
“Like fucking hell you - ”
I don’t listen to what he’s saying, I don’t care what he’s saying, I push him back through the doorway and grab him by the throat. He drops his cigarette, stares at me with wide, surprised eyes.
“Does it feel good pushing around girls like that? Does it make you feel bigger to beat your own daughter, huh? Your own fucking wife?”
He does not move. He looks at me with wide, excited eyes.
“I want you to listen to me scumbag, and listen real goddamn hard. If you touch these women again, I will end you. You hear me? I will fucking end you, you lousy piece of shit.”
Wide eyes.
He says nothing.
Just stares.
“I will not call the police on you, I will not come back here swinging, I will simply take your worthless fucking life. I will take the air from your lungs, I will stop your loveless goddamn heart.”
He stares.
Stares.
Deep into my intentioned, impassioned eyes.
No sooner do I throw him to the floor does he stumble to his feet and lunge at me. I grab the fist he’s thrown and twist it behind his back, slam his body against the wall. Using his greasy, ratty hair, I drill his head into the sheetrock.
Slam.
Slam.
Slam.
He falls to the floor and groans, cradles his head. His evil, worthless fucking head. I leave him there to moan and bleed. I leave him to think about what a waste of a human being he is. I leave him because he deserves to be left. He does not deserve what he has been given. He deserves to be left alone.
I get back in the truck and drive home to see Melissa. To hold her in my arms and tell her everything will be all right. I love you, I’ll say aloud. I love you, I love you, I just fucking love you and everything is going to be all right. |
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| Lullaby. |
[Feb. 26th, 2007|02:03 am] |
Julian took her to the hilltop on a cold November night. The hill overlooked the city, there was never a sight so beautiful, never a sight so breathtaking. Elise is speechless until she croaks out a broken sigh and asks Julian if he’s ever seen anything so wonderful in his life. He flashes a smile and looks at her with a pure and humbling teenage adoration. “Yeah,” he says. “I can think of a few things.” He takes her by the hand and pulls her in close, pulls her in tight. Elise is shaking at this point, it’s just above freezing tonight and she’s grossly underdressed. They hug each other warmly, in a way only lovers can. It is beautiful and it is right and it is familiar. They’ll be goddamned if anyone should try and part them. It has been too long, thinks Julian, too long since I’ve held her this close, since I’ve been able to hear her breath, taste her lips, feel her skin. Her warm, porcelain skin that was once so pure and unscathed. Her skin that had never been ripped or pulled or punctured, her skin that was always whole and always perfect and always together. Now it was broken, red and scarred. Julian takes a gentle step backwards and holds the undersides of her forearms, he looks down and takes stock of the damage. They’ve been gauzed to excess and are covered by pads held in place by medical tape. He exhales with a notable, irregular syncopation and speaks.
“I’ve never been happier to see anyone in my life. I’ve missed you so goddamn much.”
Elise smiles.
“I’ve missed you too.”
“Would it be alright if I asked you about your stay?”
She nods and averts her eyes.
“Yeah, I mean, it’s not very interesting or anything. It was just a clinic.”
“I know, but I’ve been thinking about you and that place since you left. I’d really love to hear you say that it was at least tolerable.”
She laughs.
“Hardly. It always smelled like piss and cleaning supplies and I fucking hated it. Sometimes it was okay, we’d do activities and things, but mostly I just wanted them to see I’d recovered so I could get the hell out. The patients were all very nice, though. There was a large black man who walked around to everyone and introduced himself as Jesus Christ. I mean, he really thought he was Jesus Christ, and everyone had to call him either Jesus or JC. Nurses, doctors, the lunch staff, the janitorial staff. Fucking everyone. And if they didn’t, he’d be uncontrollably frantic and start to freak the fuck out. They had to tranquilize the poor guy probably six times in the three weeks I was there. Someone was always forgetting to call him Jesus.”
Julian chuckles.
“Did you remember to call him Jesus?”
“Yes, but I didn’t get to talk to him too often. The women couldn’t really speak to the men, nor could the men to the women.”
Julian nervously strokes the sides of her arms, now down to her sides, and breathes deeply.
Elise lovingly places two fingers beneath his chin and lifts his head, stares into his eyes.
“Julian…”
He starts to break.
“It’s okay, honey.”
Tears pour down his cheeks. She embraces him once more.
“I’m fine, Julian. Please don’t worry about me. Everything is fine.”
Elise met Julian when she was four years old. He lived across the street from her and her mother in an affordable suburb of Portland where they had moved from Omaha, Nebraska. Later in life, Elise would tell Julian that the reason they had moved in the first place was because her mother couldn’t have stayed in a house that reminded her so strongly of Elise’s father. She needed to get away, to escape and forget, to get the fuck out of the state. She had said that house was a catalyst for immense psychological pain, and she wouldn’t have even considered staying put.
Two weeks before the move, Elise’s father was upstairs in the master bedroom. He called little Elise in from her room where she had been combing Barbi’s hair and narrating a dialogue between she and Ken. “Hello Ken,” she would say, rocking Barbi back and forth with every uttered syllable. “I think you are very handsome and I would very much like to go on a date with you.” Ken would respond. “I would like that too, Miss Barbi, you are so very pretty, pretty, pretty. Would you like to drive around in my sports car? It is brand new and you can wear your sunglasses in it, we will put the top down because it is a convertible.” Elise is summoned by her father and prances into his and Mommy’s dimly lit bedroom. Her mother was in Toronto on business for her architectural firm, she left two days ago. Her father sits alone in the room on the bed he and Elise’s mother share. His cheeks are wet and spread out in front of him are a few dozen yellowed Polaroids. Between his legs there is a large bottle, Elise does not know what it contains. On the nightstand are several more bottles of the exact same dimensions, they are tall and fat and have long, skinny necks. They are all empty. In her father’s right hand there is something silver and shining, it also looks like it has a long neck. It is round in the middle and there is a lever on its hind he obsessively thumbs. Click, release. Click, release. Click, release. His cheeks are soaked.
“Elise, honey.”
“What are you doing, Daddy?”
“Elise, sweetie. Oh God, Elise. My sweet, sweet Elise.”
Elise stares at him, she does not know what is going on. She watches her father’s thumb. Click, release. Click, release.
“I love you Elise. You know that, don’t you? You know, Elise? Daddy loves you with everything he has. He loves you to the moon, darling. You know that, don’t you?”
He sobs, he has broken.
“Yes Daddy, I love you too. You’re acting silly though, Daddy.”
He coughs out a laugh, exposes a sad grin.
“Yes, honey, Daddy is acting very silly. Daddy is a silly, silly man and you should never try and be like Daddy. Not now, not ever.”
He reaches out to Elise and brushes her bangs out of her eyes. He continues to sob, he is visibly shaking.
“Daddy’s going to go away for a while sweetheart, but I promise you will see daddy again, okay? Do you hear me Elise?”
His sentences are broken, his speech is slurred. The crying is uncontrollable. Elise just stares, she doesn’t know what to do. She stares at a despondent man whose wounds cannot be healed. A man she met four years ago at a hospital not ten miles away. All she can do is stare.
“Yes Daddy, I do. Where are you going? Mommy is at work now, Daddy, who will take care of me if you go? I don’t want you to go Daddy, I want you to stay.”
Her father is hysterical.
“Go back to your room, Elise. Please.”
Inconsolable.
“I’m so, so sorry Elise. I’m so, so sorry. Please, Elise, leave Daddy alone now. Daddy needs to be alone. Listen to Daddy, honey. Please listen to Daddy.”
She stares for a moment longer, gives her father a hug, and slowly exits the room. Ken and Barbi are waiting for her to come in so they may resume their rendezvous. She sits on the floor and brushes Barbi’s hair.
“Daddy is going away, Miss Barbi. I think Daddy is sad. Do you know why Daddy is so sad, Miss Barbi?”
Elise awaits a response she doesn’t get. She bends the doll’s pliable legs and fits her snugly into the pink plastic convertible beside Ken. Just as they begin their date, there is a distraught scream and a loud bang, respectively, and in quick succession. Elise jumps up from her place of sitting, kicking Ken and Barbi’s car into the wall as she runs to investigate the noise. She observes her parent’s room. Her father remains on the bed, but he is laying down now. He is calm. Peaceful. Still. Nearly a third the comforter has turned a dark red, the liquid drips in shining beads from the side of the bed down to the floor. Elise climbs up on the mattress using a technique she’s mastered after countless nights of bad dreams and encounters with unidentifiable noises. She looks at her father, his eyes are still open, but he is no longer crying, he is no longer sad. He is calm, peaceful and still. Elise nestles in parallel to him, she lays down in the red, on top of the Polaroids and begins to sing a lullaby, her favorite lullaby, the one her father sang to her every night before she went to sleep. |
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| Mark & Kate. |
[Feb. 17th, 2007|02:55 am] |
Kate moves her hand, her small, delicate, porcelain hand and gently palms his face, she uses her thumb to play with his lip ring, she leans in to kiss him. They are at a party. People around them are smoking, drinking, having what they believe is a good fucking time. Not one of them will remember any specifics from tonight the proceeding morning. They will wake up sick, empty, regretful. They will wake up sad and lonely no matter how many chicks the guys carelessly fucked, no matter how many guys the girls drunkenly seduced. For tonight, though, none of that matters. Kate sits off to the side with Mark and they kiss. Her lips position themselves artfully on his; her upper meets just above his, her lower is situated between. Both kids are intoxicated, their levels of inebriation vary. Kate is a slender, lightweight one hundred and five pound petite. Her man has been making her drinks all night. Three fourths Bacardi, one fourth mixer. Three fourths Smirnoff, one fourth mixer. I will have her tonight. I will have her tonight. Everything is going exactly according to the motherfucking plan. Both kids are drunk, both kids are horny, both are promiscuous, tactless, and immature. She sits on his lap, off to the side of the room, on a tacky thrift-store ottoman. They move from the ottoman to the couch, the couch to the floor, the floor to the bedroom. Kate met Mark at this same place exactly one week ago. They exchanged glances and she introduced herself, he was cute, she was buzzed. Kate is obnoxiously outgoing and flirtatious as it is. Liquor only intensifies these traits. Mark thought she was hot, her low-cut shirt and high heels told him she would give it away, his friends all said damn son, this girl is on your dick son, you better hit that. Tonight he would fucking hit that, son.
Anton is not at the party with Kate, but he wishes he was. Anton hates parties like this, he can’t stand the obnoxious drunks, he hates coming home reeking like smoke, having the taste of cigarettes drip into his open mouth when he showers the morning after. He’s seen the guys there, they’re a bunch of pricks. Despicable, date-raping heathens. He’s observed the girls, they’re a bunch of whores, a bunch of sex-crazed maniacs. He would not be in his element, but he wishes he was at the party. He wishes he was there so he could find Mark and beat his motherfucking ass. He would take Mark and his fucking sideways hat and his fucking tattoos and his fucking lip ring outside and break his face. He would snap his ribs, grab his throat, kick in his teeth. He would say if you touch my woman again I will fucking end you, you hear me? I will fucking end you. Anton imagines this scenario and smiles, it makes him happy. It is the only thing that makes him smile tonight. Anton drinks alone tonight, again, because the pain is immense. Kate left him two weeks ago and she’s moved on. She is smitten with Mark, and Mark is smitten with her. It’s probably not true love, but it’s a damn good fuck, and for now, Kate says, that’ll do. Anton sips on J&B Scotch Whiskey. It tastes awful but he hardly notices, he is numb, he may as well be considered paralytic. As defense, he has gone completely fucking numb. He no longer has any claim to Kate’s heart, he has absolutely no right to beat Mark’s ass, Kate is single now, she is single and ready to fucking mingle. Kate has treated Anton like shit, but he loves her, he loves her still. He imagines winning Kate back, he imagines beating Mark’s ass. It makes him smile. End you, asshole. I will fucking end you. He imagines Kate apologizing for what she’s done to him, apologizing for all the lies, manipulation, abuse. I’m sorry Anton, I’m so sorry I hurt you, I’m so sorry I used you, betrayed you, broke your heart. But this is all a fantasy. This will never happen, and Anton knows it, and he has to deal with it. He mourns the love he knew, the love he knew with Kate. He sits and he drinks and he mourns.
Kate is on a stranger’s bed screaming Mark’s name. They writhe and sweat on one another, the muffled music seeping through the bedroom door is drowned by the sick slapping of skin on skin. Again and again and again. Skin on skin, skin on skin. Anton cries at home. Kate screams Mark’s name. Mark grunts and curses, his hands unromantically clutch her hips. Anton sits at home with his J&B and he cries. I will end you, motherfucker, I will fucking destroy you if you touch her again. Mark finishes himself off and rolls his body away from Kate’s, they both light up a clove cigarette, they hardly acknowledge each other’s presence. They sit naked and upright in bed in a room that smells of wet, cheap sex and they don’t even look at each other. It’s a good fuck, and for now, Kate says, that’ll do just fine. |
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| Uncle Andy. |
[Jan. 27th, 2007|01:10 pm] |
Aside from being a rabid alcoholic, Uncle Andy exhibited many obsessive-compulsive behaviors; all of which indicate he had OCD to a rather severe extent. Before taking a seat, Uncle Andy would demand to know who had sat in the chair before him. He would walk into the bar, his favorite bar, the Place Pigalle, and approach the assembly of stools. He would find one surrounded by patrons because only they knew how many rear ends had found their way into Uncle Andy’s prospective seat. They held the key to his comfort. If the bar was empty or relatively empty as it was most nights when he showed up at two or three in the morning, he would need to take this issue up with the bartender, which could also prove difficult because of shift changes.
“I’m sorry to bother you.”
The bartender cleans a glass with his back turned to Uncle Andy, he has his fist buried in a washcloth, twisting and turning on the inside of the cup.
Andy was not aggressive by any means. He wasn’t even assertive. He feared any and all conflict, confrontations, and hated the idea of possibly being inadvertently rude or offensive. But he needed to speak up, tonight he really needed to be heard, just like every other night when the disease would kick in because fuck, it was all he could think about. He try and walk away, even try to leave the bar but it would follow him and haunt, haunt, haunt the hell out of him.
“Hello, I’m sorry to bother you.”
This time it was better and louder, the bartender turned to him.
“Yes, what can I get you?”
“Could you tell me who last sat on this stool?”
“Who last what?”
“Who last sat in this spot, at this bar, on this stool?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t think I can recall. Hasn’t been anyone there for a few hours, though.”
“Are you sure you can’t remember? I really need to know. It would help me out a lot.”
The bartender shakes his head, looks confused.
“I’m sorry. What’s all this about?”
“Nothing, nevermind, I apologize.”
He ordered a scotch because tonight he was feeling real fucking classy, it was the best in the house at twenty bucks a glass. He had fifty-three dollars, he ordered two and left a measly tip. He kept on standing and drank them. On the walk home from the bar, he stopped at liquor store. The tip he had left was purposefully measly because he intended to save a couple bucks for some more poison. It was a bad night in hindsight, but it was no worse than a sober one. He got really sick, but he was sick anyway. He felt really unstable, but he was never one for stability. He was really sad, but alcohol helped a lot, he said, and without it God knows what he’d do. He got used to everything, which is probably the saddest part of it all. He just got real fucking used to it. The crying, the shaking, the vomiting, the intrusions, the repetition, the awful things he kept thinking, the self-condemnation. He knew he would never and could never be in control of this shit. He didn’t sleep that night, he couldn’t rest, he didn’t sit down. He hypothesized because he had time to himself; he had time to think, which is possibly the worst thing a severely frightened obsessive-compulsive could have aside from the obsessions and compulsions themselves. He thought someone had broken into his home while he was out and sat in all of his furniture. His heart was pounding, racing, he felt nauseous and light-headed. He stood in the center of the room and tears rolled down his cheeks. He preferred to stand. Most of the time, he simply preferred to stand. |
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| (no subject) |
[Jan. 14th, 2007|04:30 am] |
Everyday I convince myself of something more preposterous. Yeah, this will probably do me in. This will put the nail in the coffin, for sure. But then something else comes along, and knocks it right out of its place. Usually, the successors are uglier, and more vile, which is why they win and are able to take precedence. Worry and guilt, worry and guilt. A smile. I'm in love with a girl who's in love with me, I have wonderful friends. Worry and guilt, worry and guilt. Heart racing, sweating, lethargy. Nothing is fine, why won't this end? Worry and guilt, worry and guilt. A smile. A laugh. It feels fucking good to laugh. I want to laugh until my head comes off, until it really hurts, until I cry. Worry and guilt. What if this happens? What if it's true? What if somehow, in some way, I lose her? What if I hurt someone? Who will I let down?
Morality, in itself, is a fine concept, but it shouldn't be taken too seriously. Be good, take care of yourself. And once in a while, fuck morality. Break the law, skip out of work, explore private property. Throw an egg at a cop car. I mean, someone should. I can't, but someone should. Hypermorality. Worry and guilt, worry and guilt. Magical thinking! Oh good, it's come back to me! And I was silly enough to think I'd seen the last of it.
I'm in love with a girl who loves me.
I have wonderful friends.
And I'm petrified. |
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| (no subject) |
[Jan. 8th, 2007|04:29 am] |
It's hard to be social, and it's not from lack of trying. I'm just no good at it. It's so goddamn easy to disconnect and keep to myself. I might get lonely, but I won't get hurt. Of course, there are no guarantees, are there?
I'm exhausted. I wear myself out. The medicine isn't working, I realize nearly two years later - the thoughts are worse, in fact, and far more prevalent, but it could be circumstantial. I have so much on my plate already, and I simply don't have any more room for worry. I'm completely maxed-out. Any more would induce a psychotic breakdown, I'm fucking sure of it. It's all a big fucking joke. One day I'll look back on it and laugh my head off.
Here are some really good songs:
Thom Yorke - Harrowdown Hill
Ray LaMontagne - Burn |
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| (no subject) |
[Dec. 21st, 2006|01:01 am] |
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Aside from being a rabid alcoholic, Uncle Andy exhibited many obsessive-compulsive behaviors; all of which indicate he had OCD to a rather severe extent. Before taking a seat, Uncle Andy would demand to know who had sat in the chair before him. I'm quite certain he preferred to stand the majority of the time. |
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| (no subject) |
[Oct. 27th, 2006|12:09 am] |
Scientists say that if we keep consuming natural resources the way we do, by 2050, there won't be enough to support us. The population projection is 9 billion. What say we wear some prophilactics, eh?
Let's worry about that later.
For now I'm thinking about David Bazan next Friday; I nearly had a heart attack when I saw he was returning to the northeast.
Speaking of music, booking agents made a dire error when they had Ted Leo open for Death Cab For Cutie. They clearly meant it to be the other way around. Oh, well.
Okay then. |
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| (no subject) |
[Oct. 11th, 2006|04:17 pm] |
This morning I didn't go to class and I didn't sleep in. I couldn't stay in bed, it just wouldn't have worked out. Instead I showered, listened to David Bazan, stared at a computer screen, paced, recorded a new song, shaved, and rescheduled a psychiatry appointment, all the while nursing a psychological hangover which I'm still choosing to endure. It will likely last for a while. But that's okay, because that's the way it goes. It sucks. But what are you going to do?
Well, I'm going to procrastinate, watch the entire fourth season of Scrubs, try and resist drinking heavily, attend my fucking psychiatry appointment on friday which will inevitably go something like this:
"Mr. Ryan, it's been a while. What's new? How is everything going?"
"Fine."
"How is the Luvox? Any changes?"
"No."
"I'll see you back in six months."
Then I'll take a form to the sizeable receptionist who will charge me $175 for the aforementioned session. I'll say thank you and drive all the way back to school. That's Princeton to Madison, taking roughly an hour fifteen. Then I'll meet up with Tom and play a show in Trenton. I have no idea where it is, no idea who will be there, and I have a strong feeling we're not ready to play this show. I also think that as much fun as it can be playing music with other people, I might prefer playing by myself. I have all the control, I don't have to run orchestrations by other people. The songs won't mutate. Not that they're so immaculate that I never want them to change, but I think I'm just used to them a certain way.
We'll play the show and the people I'd like to attend can't attend, but that's okay because I'll just have them in the back of my mind the entire time and it will keep me from losing my nerve. Then, in all likelihood, I'll come back to school because that's where people are, that's where socialization takes place and I need that to keep from going out of my fucking mind. Home is lonely and boring, and who wants to deal with that?
Sunday brings what will probably be my only salvation this week, the Okkervil River show. Then that will end, I'll go back to school, and monday will bring more class, an idea I'm having a really hard time with right now.
But that's okay, because that's the way it goes. It sucks. But what are you going to do? |
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| (no subject) |
[Sep. 23rd, 2006|12:48 am] |
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In the interest of remembering:
10.03.06 - Be Your Own PET @ The First Unitarian Church, Philadelphia, PA
10.10.06 - Jenny Lewis w/the Watson Twins @ Theatre of Living Arts, Philadelphia, PA
10.15.06 - Okkervil River @ the Bowery Ballroom, NYC
10.21.06 - TV on the Radio @ the Starlight Ballroom/Club Polaris, Philadelphia, PA
11.04.06 - the Black Keys @ the Electric Factory, Philadelphia, PA
11.06.06 - Voxtrot+the Annuals @ the Bowery Ballroom, NYC
But, then what? |
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| (no subject) |
[Sep. 12th, 2006|12:14 pm] |
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09.10.06 - Jeff Hanson @ Northsix, Brooklyn, NY
09.11.06 - Jeff Hanson @ Knitting Factory Tap Bar, NY
It was somewhat tiring going into the city two nights in a row, returning to school at 4am and 1am, respectively, but it was entirely worth it. Jeff Hanson was awe-inspiring and very kind. I never had an artist put me on the guest list before and it was exciting, for reals. Between the two nights, though, I think I enjoyed the latter one better, probably because I'm partial to the Knitting Factory, it was easy to get there and back, and it was fun going with my friend Tom, who is now an avid fan. It was also funny when he told Mr. Hanson his music reminds him of a "medieval forest". I'm not sure what it means, but it was funny, and the three of us were able to joke about it.
Very very cool beans. |
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| (no subject) |
[Aug. 13th, 2006|02:26 am] |
A few things:
1. I bought a mattress topper that makes my bed heavenly. Perhaps heavenly is extreme, but it's pretty comfortable.
2. I go back and forth, but I'm not dreading returning to school. It's the classes I dread.
3. I can't wait for winter. Fuck this heat! Layers all the way! Snow! Seeing my breath! Christmas! Cancelled class!
4. I got some great posters courtesy of ebay. I need to cool it now. I spent too much money, and I'm broke as it is. But I got two vintage 1978 Garfield posters for less than 15 bucks. What a world.
5. Some good movies I caught recently: Scoop and Punch Drunk Love. V for Vendetta is also a great action movie. I very much want to see Little Miss Sunshine.
6. Mine and Richard's summer of music is coming to a close. Our fall of music is just beginning. Here's what we've got so far, including my JUST having purchased Jeff Hanson tickets about 5 minutes ago (he doesn't know about those shows yet):
09.10.06 - Jeff Hanson @ Northsix, Brooklyn, NY
09.11.06 - Jeff Hanson @ Knitting Factory Tap Bar, NY
09.16.06 - Magnolia Electric Co., Shearwater @ Knitting Factory, NY
10.03.06 - Be Your Own Pet @ First Unitarian Church, Philadelphia, PA
10.15.06 - Okkervil River @ Bowery Ballroom, NY
10.21.06 - TV on the Radio @ First Unitarian Church, Philadelphia, PA
11.03.06 - the Black Keys @ Nokia Theatre, NY*
11.04.06 - the Black Keys @ Electric Factory, Philadelphia, PA**
11.06.06 - Voxtrot @ Bowery Ballroom, NY
*Wicked expensive.
**Tickets aren't on sale yet, but they're probably wicked expensive. |
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| (no subject) |
[Aug. 1st, 2006|07:58 pm] |
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EDIT:
This post was about posting pictures on Flickr, but as it turns out, Flickr only lets you have 3 sets of photos (as a free customer). Since I'm not about to pay to put up some pictures, they'll all be on facebook, and some are on myspace.
http://fdu.facebook.com/photos.php?id=22304120&l=0323d
kudos. |
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| (no subject) |
[Jul. 22nd, 2006|03:33 am] |
Shameless post alert!
Yesterday, I decided to cover Pedro the Lion, and (for better or worse) this was the result: The Longer I Lay Here.
In the process of uploading this song, I stumbled across a crude Death Cab For Cutie cover from about a year ago!
This one is more embarrassing.
So, for your listening (pain or) pleasure: Crooked Teeth. |
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| (no subject) |
[Jul. 14th, 2006|03:13 pm] |
Feeling sick sucks. I called in sick and my boss said "We need more notice next time." Okay. Shut up. I just started feeling this way. Boo, F minus for you. Maybe if I call in sick enough they'll fire me. That would actually be doing me and my dizzy head a favor.
The good news is, I'll get to watch my USA Network lineup tonight.
Speaking of line-ups, I need to post a revised summer music schedule. Shows have been added!
06.12.06 - Be Your Own Pet @ Knitting Factory, NY
06.21.06 - David Bazan @ Maxwell's, NJ
06.30.06 - TV on the Radio, Voxtrot, Matt Pond PA @ Prospect Park, NY
07.13.06 - Okkervil River @ Castle Clinton, NY
07.19.06 - Sondre Lerche @ Barnes and Noble, NYC
07.27.06 - Bloc Party @ Stone Pony, NJ
07.28.06 - Sunset Rubdown, Voxtrot, The Joggers @ Metro, IL
07.29.06 - Pitchfork Music Festival @ Union Park, IL
07.30.06 - Pitchfork Music Festival @ Union Park, IL
08.13.06 - Deerhoof, Beirut @ McCarren Pool, NY
08.24.06 - Neko Case @ McCarren Pool, NY
08.25.06 - Ted Leo/Rx @ Southstreet Seaport, NY
09.16.06 - Magnolia Electric Co., Shearwater @ Knitting Factory, NY
09.29.06 or 09.30.06 - Sufjan Stevens @ Town Hall, NY
10.03.06 - Be Your Own Pet @ 1st Unitarian Church, Philadelphia, PA
10.15.06 - Okkervil River @ Bowery Ballroom, NY
11.03.06 - the Black Keys @ Nokia Theatre, NY
and/or
11.04.06 - the Black Keys @ Electric Factory, Philadelphia, PA |
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