I've never posted in this section because I hate my writing and I don't really like people reading it, even though it's really all I wanta do with my life. I probably wouldn't have posted in here anyway if I hadn't seen JCC's couple of things he's got going in here. So whatever... Basically, here's a couple of recent things from my notebooks, which are pretty much just crazy stream-of-consciousness prose (basically journal entries, it's all coming right from my life and my thoughts) and a couple of poems. I know I say I don't like people reading my writing, but really I don't care what you think so say what you will. And a little disclaimer before I start: I've been heavily influenced by Jack Kerouac as of late, which will be mentioned a couple of times in these and often painfully obvious.

Thoughts From 2/7

Like looking through a veil, the blur filter over my eyes distorting the world, my life shifting in and out of focus, am I really here? I can't see, I can't see nothing but faces looking at me as I float around, can they really see ME? O how sweet the sight! Vision is something we take for granted until some X factor fucks with it temporarily... Then having your sight blurred or god forbid lost entirely for five, ten, maybe fifteen minutes is the most terrifying thing you've ever felt, you try to act like it's normal and move on instinct but god damn is it weird, and then I see the great Hanna B- for a moment, she doesn't see me, and everything is clear - well maybe not, this girl is all that's in focus really but it's an angelic, a euphoric vision of beauty when everything else is ambiguous and gray. I'm trying to write too much like Kerouac yet not even doing a good job at it... How can I ever have a career at writing if I'm not good at it... Funny how most of what I write is about the fact that I don't like how I write, what I write, I can't write, etc., but am I right? "I am a mess of self-loathing and doubt"... I said that to Haley in a message once and boy is it ever true.... As I sit in this electronics class doing nothing I notice that Mr. Pelton occasionally falls asleep.

Thoughts From 2/17

And the lights of cars, the streetlights, the lights of buildings sweep by in a blur, I'm seein double - my head my head is crushed, being crushed by the pressure of a thousand stones or rather leaves - More weight! - and I get paranoid for perhaps the first time, this never happens to me - I was so nervous to start writing, to open up the notebook but now it flows from my brain like a river, I can write whatever comes to my head, am I imitating Kerouac too much? Well anyway I got paranoid for the first time, not about writing (I'm always paranoid about that) but about this whole pot business, specifically about driving that damn car, my head's not usually this fucked. Got annihilated Friday night w/ a bunch of junior girls, a little action with the one but no home run - hung out with Rose for the first time ever, she was a real riot - Sharon for the first time since June, 'twas a fun time hope to do it again soon. Stuck again - spontaneous writing not spontaneous enough - I want to learn to overcome that odd mindblock where I stare into nothing for the longest time unable to think of what to write - hell, unable to think. Those street lights are blurrin by real fast but there's a certain spot on the wall I can't stop staring at - why you may ask? Shit, I don't know, I'm just trying to live this strange life and what a life it is - there is one person in the world that I've ever come close to loving and I finally came to terms with it and now I don't even TALK to her or SEE her anymore - spend most of my time talking to something of a ghost, a shadow of the past, and don't really see the old people anymore, except the aforementioned ghost who is one of the REALLY old people, that was way back in the day... My mouth is dry as the fog before my eyes dissipates - I could probably drink an ocean, I think, but wait, salt water is not drinkable - in any case you get the idea, I could drink the equivalent of an ocean in fresh water, or rather Pabst, we'll get real drunk on cheap beer, maybe experiment with some hard drugs... Sometimes I really want to walk down to the railroad tracks, wait for a good old train come and jump right out there in front of it then - Splat! - all gone, live, suffer, die, but really I've been somewhat maybe kinda vaguely ambiguously happy last few weeks here, what three weeks now possibly? I want to get FUBAR, live this sad strange life like a true scumfuc. Away! to bed now - Ho! - perhaps more later... (This is my mind when I'm blasted.)


Delirium 2/20

Then we were sitting on this porch in the sunlight, seemed like Lakewood, Ohio, maybe Kevin R-----'s porch with head spinning delirious between two worlds - She says "Don't you have to leave because don't you have to be home soon? Well I'm leaving" - then gets up with a little kiss on the cheek (or was it because I can't remember if she kissed me or not, I was caught in a purgatorial haze) and walks out of the scene - Exeunt all but TMS for the soliloquy (not sure if that's spelled right so I got real hung up on it for a minute wondering how to spell it - I have to stop doing that because what's the point in writing if you stop the free flow of thoughts because of something so trivial as spelling - this is a notebook and pen, for godssake) - Why has this girl plagued my dreams when in the fuzzy halfsleep on the long lecture hall table under the dim lights (dim perhaps so the speaker confronting the army of scrutinizing faces can't see them so well so doesn't get so nervous) I see her on this porch in the sun but really it's like fog, this girl that I've met once and was not really that interested in - It was just a Friday night drinking and smoking bout as Jack would call it - But really I'm not hung up on her at all and probably will never talk to her again so the only girl I truly care about occupied a more significant dream last night when I wasn't interrupted by noises of life from fellow students or the ring of the bell tellingme the period is over, just an uncomfortable futon and pillow with Tom Waits growling to my subconscious so I can see it all clear as day, although it was really night and snowing - No eerie fog screening my mind's eye this time and it was beautiful, beautifully sorrowful, like so much of life really is - We embrace and kiss and I know it must have been a dream for this can never happen in waking life for reasons that depress yet must somehow be in order to make things right - But are they truly right? Some people doubt themselves too much, myself included.

Nothing

I have experienced nothing.
I have seen the Caribbean, the Virgin Islands, Mexico, Canada,
yet I have not truly seen them.
I wish to drink with the natives,
wander across the alien landscapes,
drink up the people and places of
this world in all their purity.

I know nothing.
As much as I may pretend,
I know in my heart that
nothing is all I know.

I am nothing.
In the great cosmic meaning of it all,
I mean nothing, you mean nothing.
This poem is nothing.
I know that I am nothing,
I accept my nothingness.
Do you accept yours?

All we may do
is live our lives and be happy,
because at the end of the day,
everything in this world-
me, you, my words, our technology, our wars-
means nothing.

Untitled

Splatter of light against pane of glass
Flash at the end of the tunnel
Walk into it and the world melts into color
A vibrant mystical wood surrounds

What is its source?

Sunlight seeps through
A canopy of green, purple, red
Onto my face
The forest is just a rebirth

It is her.

Map

I got a map of the world
hangin on my wall,
every country a different color
showing me the lay of the land.
Perhaps a globe is more accurate,
but I like this old map.
I can scan my eyes over this map
and fly above foreign nations,
gazing down on their crazy citizens
and imagining how brilliant their
culture must be.
This map hasn't been updated in years -
on my wall the Soviet Union still stands.
This map knows nothing of tiny nations
that have emerged since it was printed,
so it just hangs on my wall
illustrating antiquated borders,
happy as can be.
I got a map of the world
hangin on my wall,
and it's just as happy as can be.

Thoughts From 1/30

What is this thing we call life? Awash in imperfection, a game you can't win, and some of us wake up and try to really make the most out of it and abandon trivial bullshit while others give in, allow themselves to become slaves to the empty lifetime routine of consumerism and big business. I often ask myself, "Are these people with nice new cars and big houses and 60 inch plasma screens really happy?" Money can't buy happiness, I think the only happy people are those who own little by choice and live what others would regard as seemingly simple lives, but there are so few of those left these days... I hate people but I've had a few key personalities that I really care about. Human beings generally annoy and anger me but I'm trying to learn, and really beginning to, just live my life and roll with the punches, just look back and laugh at the absurdity of it all. I am slowly stepping onto the path of enlightenment and Kerouac is my guide. Maybe not the traditional Bhuddist sense of enlightenment, but my own kind of understanding of life and coming to terms with it. That's a fine way of putting it... I have already come to terms with and accepted death, now I gotta come to terms with this thing called life. I'm more and more solitary these days and I think it kind of helps me as much as it hurts me. Today I felt so full of life for the first time in centuries, millenia even, it was a great feeling but mixed with a lot of sorrow. Maybe that's what life really is. I had a solemn conversation with H that left me feeling both heart broken and restored. This is the only person I have ever been able to really open up to...

"This Is The Impossibility Of The Existence Of Anything."

I thought I was only going to read one of them, but ended up reading everything. Strange thoughts, yet I could relate to them. Especially, cause I also hate if someone actually READS something I've WRITTEN. I just absolutely hate that.

Anyway, I'd say that you can write. But can't tell for sure, cause English isn't my first language. whatever.

Haha, thanks. I think I'm going to just make this topic my running topic instead of putting up something new every time I write something down, so yeah. I wrote a lot today... I felt pretty good about it, because it was serious spontaneous writing, I rarely stopped and just wrote everything as it came to my head during two periods of the school day (a little under an hour and a half). This is mostly thoughts on high school, and thinking about the trip I took out to the college a few of my friends go to this weekend, and the house party we went to, etc. So here it is....

Dreams Of Kent, 2/26

Rumble of the student body rolling along the track to next class, hallucinated sideglances of a friend ("Was that such-and-such, why didn't she talk to me?"), trying to shake off the grogginess of sleeping through the last period again, in danger now of failing that class - Rumors whispered among the masses of other districts being called off due to this damn snow - Passing through brown brick hallways, that old quilt from years ago still hanging on the wall (each kid made one square and they sewed it all together), a relic - Trophy displays of the school's ancient victories dating back to the Second World War maybe - but this building probably wasn't even built yet at that time, it's fairly new - A different Shakespearean tragedy every year - Romeo & Juliet, Julius Caesar, Macbeth, & Hamlet for the seniors - while our own high school tragedies unfold around us, there are no romances or comedies here, just pain and everyone dies at the end (Ah, how pessimistic) - This place we can't wait to get out of yet so afraid to leave, the uncertainty of where we're going: Do we continue the school fantasy in college or shuffle out hunchbacked into that terrifying place called the "real world" looking about warily because everyone else is out to get you? Visions of Brett O----, that ghost of Friday night in Kent - "This is not the real world, come to Kent and get free mozarella sticks and cheaper cigarettes!" - "Whatever I want is free, if I want food all I have to do is slide a goddamn card!" - Brett O----, that sad drunken poet, a real Bodhisattva, the most exciting guy you could meet - In meeting him once I've been drained, empty until I see him again - And Libero! my bosom friend of Kent State University, if I were to go anywhere it'd be there with people I love so much - Libero, Leahanna, Christie, Danielle, this Brett O. - The name reverberating in my mind for days perhaps so I don't forget it, another Friday night not to be forgotten - Is this what it's like to escape this high school prison? Bowling alleys - bowling alleys! - and convenience stores 100 yards from your dorm room door, everybody in the town walking with a case of beer in hand, maybe one in each, even? Yass, even if I don't go to school there I must move out there to dig this incredible place - "Hey, there's a Guys' here!" - and waste my life with these lovable fools, attend all the wild parties... Talk to these people walking in the streets - "A skunk just walked RIGHT by us!" - "That was a close one huh?" - And perhaps those will be the best days of my life. At a house party with all these faces I don't know except three, or rather four now - Smoke-filled room in the basement with dirty white brick walls, leaky ceiling - Table full of various empties in the middle, Ian cashed out with arms folded on it, drooling to the floor - Catching up with good friends I haven't seen in well over a month, recalling the Friday nights of Chris's living room halfpipe and Pabst Blue Ribbon, Maggie the dog wild in excitement, Fear blasting through the stereo - Bong rips - Our lovely Shannon K---- writing on the wall drawing her silly robots - And she's here in this basement this Friday night with band playing upstairs while we chat like old companions which we all are - Dreams of Kent haunt me... But look at this snow out the window! Tree branches hang heavy with the white divinity and occasionally drop their loads as more falls down upon them, can't see a thing out the window except the white snow and brown bark of tree - A sacred vision - But alas! I'm back in this wretched world of high school for the final five minutes of this pre-calculus class, harsh reality smacks my face after a beautiful period of reminiscence... Then later the old depression sets in again... Ah, why? I understand it not.

The Ups and Downs Of My Personality

Dip and dive, gleam and thrive
The ups and downs of my personality-
Now radiant, now decayed-
In just a matter of hours!
Like the lifespan of the adult fly
Buzz buzz for twenty-four hours-
No more-

Dead.

Where Are You, My Brother?

Where are you, my brother?
In our confusion drifting
down sad streams unable to find
one another, your soul is lost like mine.

We'll both keep floating along
our own strange separate tributaries,
until we meet in the vast ocean
of years from now -

We are bound for all time
by love, brotherhood, alienation, frustration -

I will not let you go.