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Friday, April 20th, 2012

Time:3:32 pm.
i keep watching a pot that wont boil. and freaking the fuck out about the fifteen other pots crowding up my kitchen and boiling all the shit over the place. my heart feels like what i imagine a collapsed lung would feel like. metaphorically. painful and failing to do something vital. i am the asshole who refuses to love the ones who love me. but instead sits in a corner feeling bummed that the ones i love don't want me. my life would be so goddamned fun if i weren't so clinically bored of it. i wish i could successfully slap myself in the face. i wish i knew some one who could slap me in the face and say snap out of it and i'd listen. i am wasting a perfectly good time of my life on all of this chemical melancholy. i wish i could get angry enough to burn the sad down. i am so goddamned sick of being sad.
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Saturday, November 12th, 2011

Time:2:18 am.
one lonely snow bird sitting in a tree. can a web footed bird perch? i suppose if a pelican can then so can a canada goose.

oh my, how can i make a live journal post longer than a face book update? how can all of these electronic communications have perforated my brain so sweetly softly that each new cultural norm feels like a born in constant?

i want to tell the world how cold i am right now (literally, isn't that funny? literally cold in this post) in november in new orleans in a cypress shot gun. i want to tell you that i just unpacked. a month and change after flying down i just unpacked yesterday. i was a refugee to my own safe life for a while, i was displaced from my god given right to a a respectably rational progression of events by the booze drenched inane social politics that govern the collective mind in this town.
you know i bet it is actually a quarantine against sanity. you actually have to be crazy to live in this town. if you arrive un-crazy, you are subject to systematic removal of reason through a series of emotional and mental tap dances done by drunken goats and top hat wearing zombie fetuses and the like at all hours of the day and night until which time it can be proven before a board of citizens and peers that you have gone sufficiently bat shit to qualify for re-entry. in my case, it took a month and some change.
and all in one six hour day i made a home. i don't know how to convey the mystery miracle of that. using just bailing twine, white sheets, christmas lights and several well placed nails, i made it cozy in this high ceilinged closet-less box of a glorified hall way. i am martha stewart macguiver. you ought to know. a bat shit crazy martha stewart macguiver.
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Monday, November 7th, 2011

Subject:death of an heir of sorrows
Time:12:00 am.
i wish i had a rhinestone suit
i wish i had a new pair of boots
but mostly i wish
i wish i was with you.

i believe this place has gone cold on me. or i've gone cold on it. but where are the boundaries of 'this place'? jesus. it could be the whole godamn world. i don't think i've got my teflon skin on again. i don't feel cold, i just feel like i am standing in one dimension and looking at another. i feel separate.
i am tired of this unending self clinical study my perspective has become. dropping myself into impossible realities to see how i will react. will i bubble and ooze? will i change color? will i explode?
i think i am becoming too strange for my own patience. and too self sufficient for my own good.
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Sunday, September 18th, 2011

Time:2:53 pm.
how could i leave you live journal, for over a year this time? my thoughts have been too private for live journals, i've been keeping them in in my dead journal. journal in a coma i know i know it's serious.
i spent another strange time in mexico, as if living in a poorly furnished back room of my brain. i should take up meditation if i need to clear my head but instead i will go hide out in a hostel in oaxaca for six months. my only friends a quiet toothless old texan who played classical guitar all day and gave me a stuffed squirrel for my birthday, and the cook, who screamed 'sucio! sucio!' every morning until i started cleaning the kitchen with her: 'puedo audarte flora?' 'pues si..si'
that must have been six months ago now. last night jason and telsche came over to my space ship to drink wine and say good bye. alaska is almost over again. again and again and again.
i guess some times i can just sit back in this chariot head, and nap while life goes on. but today i slept until one, dreaming first that i had to clandestinely protect a city from a dragon attack (a city of people who suspected i was a witch, and were getting itchy to burn me on a steak), and then that i was considering moving to india, but worried that i'd never get the barter system down. what i mean is all of my intense human interactions have been relegated to my dreamscapes for a while now. when i wake up, i am silently staring out the window.
for the past year and a half i have taken myself out of the world. and floated along on on a soft ocean wave of introspection; watched the world go by from behind my bullet proof glass of mountains or a language barrier.
i left you live journal, on the same day that i left the world. ten days from today i will return to the world. the tattered remains of relationships i set down or set fire to will come pick me up at the airport. i will see them in the street or at the bar. they will toast my return; they will pretend not to see me. there will be dancing and music. ideas will be tossed around and drinks will be tossed back and looks will be tossed across rooms. nothing much will have changed. but i will be back. i am back.
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Saturday, June 26th, 2010

Time:10:13 am.
the shooting was of a mother and two children in thier home. it was on the news, i just wasnt watching the news.

i am back in alaska. there are wasps every where, the kinds with yellow stripes and the kinds with blonde highlights.
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Friday, March 19th, 2010

Time:3:37 pm.
in the back yard of my new house the other afternoon, my room mates and i were looking around; surveying our lands and enjoying the sun. there is an abandoned elementary school at the end of our block. it is old and grey and beautiful. i'd like to go inside of it some time, i imagine others have gone in already and all i would find would be empty 40oz containers and a bad smell. but i would like to go in there some day any how. chris was standing on the back steps of the house on his tip toes looking over at the school. "poo people...talk?" he said. there was a message spray painted on the side of a small building on the roof of the school. but we could only see half of the message from our back yard. so we all climbed up on the roof of our shed to read the rest of it. to confirm that it did indeed say 'poo people talk' and then to ponder that and laugh about it later. now and then. to the company. but it didn't say 'poo people talk' after all, it said, '200 people inside' and then a date: 9/29/05.
at the other end of our block there is a cemetery. the above ground kind they have down here in new orleans since the bones push up out of the graves if you try to burry them. behind our house is a big empty lot that makes our back yard seem larger and gives us a good view of the white marble angels and crosses sticking up over the white brick walls of the cemetery. i realized after we moved in that the empty lot is covered with rectangular shaped piles of brick and debris and that it was with out a doubt a part of the cemetery across the street once upon a time. i realized a little bit after that that our own back yard is composed of one and a half rectangular shaped piles of brick and debris and that it too was once most definately covered over with a layer of no less than one and one half dead people.
it seems unlikely to me that our new back yard was ocupied by a couple of crypts as recently as five years ago, but i wonder if that empty lot behind our house was one of the cemeteries that was flooded and destroyed, crypts all busted open, ancient corpses floating around out side of their labeled boxes at once and for ever after to remain anonymous, during the hurricane.
i should ask the neighbors or look it up on line. the back door of our house is equipped with a barricade. there is a three foot long length of sturdy two by four that slides in to supports mounted on either side of the door. this came with the house. we assume it is protection against the zombies.
the neighborhood seems very nice. our block any how. every one is very friendly and the sun is always shining. there are kids on bikes and parents on front steps. it is odd to think we're book ended by such epic tragidy; such clear and maudlin metaphore.

another thing that has happened recently here, that i suppose i am disturbed that i am not disturbed about, is the shooting exactly one block from my house. i believe it was a week ago. at around one in the afternoon while i was at work, so that when i came home around three there were still a few cop cars with their lights on sitting a block up from the house. six shots were fired and two people were killed. i assume it was two young men, but that is the thing: i assume. i've only heard any thing at all about it from two of my friends and that only in passing. the most information i've gotten, the time, number of shots and number of deaths, was from a friend of mine who lives almost a block further away from the corner on which the event took place than i do. but on the same street.
any how i don't have a tv or really catch the paper too often but i don't suspect the shooting got much press regardless.
it isn't disturbing to me that i am not afraid of my block after this, what is disturbing is that it has been a week and i am only just now as i type really considering that two people are dead, and that they were violently murdered a block from my home. out on the street. in broad afternoon day light. i've never been particularly bothered by death, but most other people are. and murder, well, jesus. i am sitting here a week later finally realizing that it is not right that i've not seen any indication any where that any one is even remotely freaking the fuck out about this. not the tv, not the paper, not even the neighbors.
i don't know, maybe i am poorly informed. i am fairly self absorbed, maybe all of you reading this have already read about the shooting, watched the replay, know the names of all those involved and their next of kin and their dogs. if that is the case then fine. i am just the wierdo who doesn't notice death. but if no one noticed. god if no one noticed.
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Thursday, March 4th, 2010

Time:3:17 pm.
i have my home page set to the onion. so there are the joke headlines. but when ever i go on the internet, i immediately check my email account which is a yahoo account which goes to a home page with news and all. and i just assume i am still reading onion headlines while i wait for my email to come up. so when i read "passengers aboard cruise ship describe freakishly large waves" i laugh, and when i see a victoria's secret add featuring five or six rediculously thin yet large breasted caucasion amazons, airbrushed smooth and digitally bronzed, standing mostly naked in some magazine shoot breeze under the slogan "we love our bodies" i assume it is a deliciously pointed spoof, and not a sickeningly earnest rip off of the dove love your body line.
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Friday, October 2nd, 2009

Time:4:25 pm.
what am i doing. i am sitting in a cafe between oakland and berkley. i am on my third soy latte today. i am exhausted. if i move to this town, i don't think i will attend the university of berkley, but i may sit around on its campus a bit. i may move to this town because it is steinbeck country; i may move to this town because i suspect just over that hill is the old rock query lake with the rope swing i've been searching for. i am exhausted because i rode a train down here from seattle and slept in my seat. train sleep is to sleep as potato chips is to food. i got in this morning and i am leaving tomorrow night. i knew about twenty minutes off of the train that i would move here, so the next twenty seven hours are just passing time. weird to think i'd move to california again. but i don't want seattle and i am afraid of new york and i don't trust middle america and i am not prepared for mexico. so where else is there. i don't know about california either, it seems depressing. but depressing in an unreasonable way. i picture living here and working at a cafe/bakery in the mornings at first to establish myself. i will meet a group of people that i will connect with initially over our mutual dislike of california hipsters (we will never succeed in logically differentiating our selves and our styles from the california hipster self and style, but we will just know, just know there is a difference), and though our friendships will broaden and gain depth, we will always have that to fall back on. i will most likely date a grad student. i will most likely break up with the grad student because his progressive and intellectualized pro feminist sexuality creeps me out. or because i think he is subtly oppressing me. or both. i will probably be in a band. i will probably write a song that says my heart is chapped; it smiled and cracked; now it is bleeding and stings. so now i don't know if it is safe for me to move here. but then i don't know if it is safe for me to move any where right this minute. right this minute i am feeling cynical. i should move here. it makes me feel kind of nostalgic for my eighteen year old self to walk around in california air again. i don't have to date a creepy oppressive grad student, i can write a book instead. i probably will have to work at a cafe/bakery though, it is kind of all i know.
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Tuesday, August 25th, 2009

Time:2:05 pm.
it is hurricane season in new orleans. kids are probably failing to ride their bikes up the street. i have work to do on our booth for the fair. i want to cut stencils of damask wall paper. and spray paint it on in gold. i've already got velvet ball tassels to hang off of things. i think i will stay up here another two weeks after the damn state fair is over. i don't want to give up this space ship just yet. this winter i will retract all flags planted by assfish in new orleans, and next year i will winter in southern mexico. i am going to count submersion learning of the spanish language as returning to college, and i am going to duck the loan officers for another year at the same time. look for my novel in stores. i mean look for my novel in your mom.
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Saturday, August 1st, 2009

Time:2:56 pm.
yesterday in the bank parking lot, i saw my soul mate. he was chubby and pale with shoulder length hair, bald to the ears and greasy. he was wearing his driving gloves, fingerless with holes for his knuckles. god what else struck me. oh, he was smoking a cigarette and applying chap stick AT THE SAME TIME. i love him. i would die for him.
i want to paint a strong animal; i want to paint a dark bird. i want a set of false teeth in black, and one in sea glass.
i feel couched in this state. i feel wrapped in a blanket of mountains made by my grandma for me as a baby. i feel my home like i grew right up out of its dirt. there is a nourishment meant to be absorbed through the skin and the walls of the lungs and the backs of the eyes, you draw it in when you smile, and you can only get it from your home.
good god i want to write all of this surface area right off me and just go. just go. just melt into these mountains or the gravel on the river.
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Wednesday, July 29th, 2009

Time:2:26 am.
i am drinking water that's been frozen for thousands of years. it just melted today. yesterday i saw, running across the glen highway out side of thompson pass, i swear to god, a gnome on a gopher. true story.
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Sunday, July 26th, 2009

Subject:return of the sound stage cowboy
Time:3:15 pm.
old sound stage cowboy. got his heart broken on an assembly line. rosaline inc. manufacturer of fine protagonists since 1985.
the bleach cotton blonde is loosing her focus. he can't tell how old she is; he can't tell how thin. he can't tell how he loves her if he can't tell how to rescue her. bile is fighting toward every orifice he's got, he's trained his whole life to save her from age and corpulence. he's been lead to believe it is his duty to save her from independence. but she doesn't want to be saved. why doesn't she want to be saved?
sound stage cowboy stands transfixed. his bleach cotton blonde is bending and warping, she starts to bubble and ooze. and a bullet flies. and hits him boom. square in the heart.
the assfish stands. in a puddle of rotting blonde. with scales and a snarl she blows the smoke from her finger.
sound stage cowboy staggers and coughs. "i...knew...it...was...you..." he ghasps.
"you don't know who i am." she replies.
the assfish rides again.
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Tuesday, July 21st, 2009

Time:2:14 pm.
i was thinking i wanted to wonder on the live journal what thomas pynchon would think about wikipedia. or what does he think about it. but i don't really wonder what a crochity old genius thinks about wikipedia. probably something wise and critical. i wanted to wonder what the young thomas pynchon would have thought of it. anyhow there was this whole group of english aristocracy hanging around being scandalous in the 17th century and they had the most rediculous names and unbelievable titles. i feel like there must be a sit com or an edgy broadway play converted to indie film that parodys the whole group. Charles ll had a mistress he was very close to named Barbara Palmer, her husband's name was Roger. He was the baron of limerick and she was the baroness of nonsuch. Barb and Roger Palmer. it is funny to see antiquity's nobility with names you can't imagine being pronounced in any thing but a midwestern accent. and barbara got to be the duchess of cleveland for her work with the king. i wanted to also mention this french liberteen who's winning my heart from way back in that same century. he had a lot to say about sex so he crops up all over the place in this history of prostitution book i am reading, but he also had a lot to say about love and honesty and friendship. pietro aretino. said "i love you, and because i love you i would sooner have you hate me for telling the truth than adore me for telling you lies."
and a bunch of other poignant things. if you look him up, you get to see lots of paintings in the style of raphael depicting people having sex in various informative positions. well i went to post some rambling about thomas pynchon but i got distracted by livejournal's mentioning some other blog i should read by a scottish artist. i was wondering as i read it if i should take note of what focus and structure look like for the future when i turn into an adult, and to help me wonder i went to read the comments section, the guy gets you know a lot of comments, and one of his fans has oedipamass as his lj name. it is a conspiracy. i don't think i really liked that book too much. or i loved the book but i didn't want it to end as it did. i suppose that i liked it enough to really consider having a small muted post horn tattooed on my body some where discrete, but not enough to actually get one.
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Tuesday, July 14th, 2009

Subject:tainted love
Time:2:32 pm.
last night i drempt i was in new orleans again, waking up and trying to remember how i had gotten home the night before. it is an action that has occurred enough in my waking life to have become imprinted on my subconscious i suppose. but it is especially disconcerting to try and figure out what one has done the night before in one's dream scape. to start out with, i wasn't consuming any kind of intoxicant; that wasn't the source of my amnesia. instead, my character wasn't strong enough to hang on to an individual identity with any continuity. i had just been careless with my recollections, and dropped them some where during the night. trying to piece together where i had dropped them, and why, and what they contained was compounded in difficulty being as i had lost them in a fragmented abstraction of new orleans, its self not an actual city but a set of symbols, metaphore, faces, and emotion my brain has assigned to a name.
i have a hard time picturing any memory i have of new orleans in the day time. we spent time in the day time there, good time with fancy memories. coffee and eggs and jump rope. all of mardi gras happens in the day light, and every second line as well. maybe it is the heat or maybe it is the romance, but in all of my memories of new orleans the sky is black and the streets are a series of shining orange globes. the whole town is coated in red candy cough syrup oblivion. the nights are full of darkness and colored lights, the neon sea you press out of your ocular nerves with the heels of your hands.
pinochio's island of asses; the scariest town i've ever been in all of my travels. i am terrified of what the city could do to me, physically, emotionally and mentally, but i don't want to live any where else. i have a feeling that town is going to make me a grown up.
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Monday, July 13th, 2009

Subject:jessica simpson and i
Time:1:33 pm.
jessica simspson and i are close to the same age. she was going to have a barbie themed birthday party this year for her 29th. i was going to go back to college. she had to cancel because the pro foot ball player she was dating broke up with her and he was going to be the ken at the barbie party. i can't go to school because i am in default on a federal loan so the government wont give me a pell grant.
despite these set backs we are both doing pretty well and have a positive outlook towards the future. jessica simpson twittered earlier this week that even though the barbie party didn't happen she felt like she was on top of the world and shouting "I LOVE GETTING OLDER!" i've been overheard telling friends and family that i'll begin payments again on my loan and reapply for school next fall, which will give me more freedom to travel this year. i also love getting older.
in addition to having in common our names and ages, jessica simpson and i probably share the same bra size.
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Thursday, July 9th, 2009

Time:12:34 pm.
if there is green out side the windows and the doors. and there is so much humidity that from some angles the air looks green, when those little water drops all mirror the jungley plant life, and from some angles looks yellow, when they reflect the sun just now pushing up the sky through all that water. it is green every where and i was just sleeping on the floor of some hut, who's simplicity of construction would not fly where i come from. mostly no one speaks english and i don't speak what ever it is they speak, so we usually just talk about how nice the weather is and what i would like for breakfast. the air is hugging me. any one i meet who was born speaking english thinks i am a fucking weirdo. some times we are friends and some times we kiss, but mostly i am a crazy person. and that is that.
if there is green out side the windows and the doors i am going crazy. i go south when i go mad. it is like my diy club med.
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Friday, July 3rd, 2009

Time:10:54 pm.
i just saw an advertisement for face powder that gives one "that healthy airbrushed look".

good god.
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Monday, June 15th, 2009

Time:1:18 pm.
we got a notice of temporary water shut off from 'prosser dagg' construction company, but i read it 'professor drag'. which is an example of the particular fanciful dyslexia i've had since i could read. where something in my brain will turn phrases and words around to read more ironically or perversly than they do in reality. the only example i can ever remember on the spot is this clothing brand 'gitano' that walmart carried when i was a kid, i always thought it was 'giganto', for plus sizes or something.
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Sunday, June 14th, 2009

Time:12:53 pm.
i don't know if i have a right to write. that is why i've stopped. every time i start to have an opinion about something i get sick to my stomach. last night a girl i went to high school with told me i should write about my life because it was such an adventure and all of the stuff i told her about new orleans was so fantastic. but how could i possibly write about new orleans. how could i presume. and by that logic, how could i write about any thing. i don't think i am being reasonable, but every time i sit down to write about an experience or an event, i think of all of the opinions out there. i think about the people i know and the people i read and the people whos' art is assaulting my eyes in coffee shops and banks with loud narrow minded opinions and i get sick to my stomach. i know how full of shit i can be and especially when i've found something i think i am good at or right about.
i suppose i have a valid point of view, being as that it is mine, and i exist and am a verb et cetera, but is it relevant is what i wonder.
dan's book is about the sickness of modern western life. it is an apocalyptic fictional prediction of the future of our capitalist society. and while it makes no new points, it is articulate and in earnest.
my book seems to be about how awesome i am. how awesome my life is. how sad i am. how poetic my sadness is.
man if i could find a direction, a cause, it'd be so fucking glorious. i understand the bliss of the born agian christian these days, which incidentally is making it even more difficult to shake off all this jaded.
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Saturday, June 13th, 2009

Time:9:26 pm.
according to jaques cousteau, to be migratory is to be suicidal. "the rarest of all behavior".
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LiveJournal for lulu, lulu, quite contrary.

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You're looking at the latest 20 entries. Missed some entries? Then simply jump back 20 entries.