…for this moment to arrive.
Late-Night Session
January 30, 2003
Childhood adventures have rendered me here to fend for my kind and fight off regret. I shall be more beautiful than I ever thought possible and succeed in any angry and self-absorbed world. I will put to rest complaints and expectations that waste energy and tire my complicated mind. Tonight, a consuming and damaging battle against time, never to be won by the likes of mankind, will be demolished by reluctance to proceed as planned and accept my natural progression through life. I choose to be honest with myself. Through traveling and by means of opening my eyes every morning, I have gathered a small but mentionable collection of wisdom that I keep as reference to my ever-thickening calendar. They are just like me, and anywhere on the map that the needle points contains the exact same elements as I. Pride is foolish and the need for embarrassment is a major premise in the search for self-enlightenment.
She and I
With a little help from tequila, I confessed my deepest secret to my dearest friend. It came from nowhere, it came fast, it came just in time. Nothing will ever be the same.
I remember being a little girl, a preteen, a teenager and wondering if I would ever be able to speak aloud a confession that has only recently been transcribed to the written word. I don’t even know if I love you now. If I had superhuman powers and was able to see the future at my request, I would still have been unconvinced of our outcome, but here I am in my mid-twenties analyzing your worth and assessing my losses. Would your heart break in half if I were to confront you with all the information I have to offer? I grew up in a fucked up world, with fucked up friends, fucked up family, and fucked up experiences. Love has been made questionable and I must say that I felt like a hooker in your presence, and what’s worse, that’s exactly the kind of games you play.
So, fuck childhood for this is what I have and you can no longer take, or persuade, or confuse, or molest, or trick, or find pleasure. I am defending the little girl who was never able to find her voice and confess an evil deed that continued on for the better part of her life. I speak for her, and when my voice is weakened by a past friendship that was based on survival, she will remind me of my task. She and I are looking for sustenance and a miracle cure for damaged identities. This world is relentless but I am controlling my assigned vessel and accepting the responsibility of living with the knowledge of how deceiving love can be.
Verses
January 30, 2003
On a personal level, I am sick of trying to act more intelligent than I am and sick of feeling the need and desire to compare myself to those around me. Society has taught us to be competitive, but what is the point in focusing all of our attention on saving face for pride? My place in the world is located in the nether regions where ignorance of advancement runs rampant and we are all given the chance to proceed unthreatened at our own pace.
For myself, this is a new beginning filled with the opportunity and chance to indulge myself more deeply in the act of self-perception and perseverance. In other words, I can explore myself without distraction.
My roots are once again my own. In a small town just three days away by car, my need to convey falsity came to a halt in the presence of ongoing company. Good company. I cut off my dead ends which reached the neck and stripped myself of menacing pre-determinations. I evoked personal freedom and even went to the extremes just to prove a necessary point. My fears are conquerable and my will to do so is expedient. My need for accomplishment far surpasses my need for acknowledgement.
Verses
As I bring the night to a close, I would like to try my hand once more at long-flowing verses pleasurably spoken.
Younger days of highways and a smoky haze subside encased in plastic awaiting an old fool who feels the need to reminisce, but that’s not yet me for they are not forgotten memories and I hold fast to my grasp on these artifacts. I should like to compare and contrast every aspect I conquest and alter this instinctual method of gathering. I should like to evolve and discover new formulas to solve.
This stillness is deafening and silence is crippling. My air mixes with a variety of smoke scents, thus, becoming much heavier with the weight of dust particles. The man upstairs is still walking around, but I have remained seated upon this sensible stool for quite some time now. Another CD found its way to the last song and I am forced to decide whether to put in another one or call it a night. When this happens, I will usually just flip on the radio in a pathetic attempt to find something pleasing to my spoiled ears, but sometimes it’s nice to have noise pollution.
The Next Unwritten Chapter
February 10, 2003
Bay Area Blvd. traffic lets up at around seven, but the yellow street lights shed a continuous glare through my venetian blinds. My view consists of a McDonald’s set next to a Denny’s that sports a fabulously overpriced hotel in the backdrop. I am still having dreams about Geyser country, but as time pulls me further and further away from my short-lived residency in the mountains, I question my authenticity and dedication to an inspirational obsession.
I question many things these days. I have voluntarily cut and poisoned a portion of my roots that I no longer wished to grow. My allies are dropping like swatted flies, but I am not yet rendered completely alone, and I am holding fast to my remaining essentials. This is surely not how I imagined things to be, but why is that even worth mentioning when the future has never been correctly predicted?
I am going where the day takes me, but as night settles in, an early arriver for two more months, I take hold of my dwindling time and relax into my own world. Come morning, I awake to the sound of a familiar signal, and as my eyes adjust, and open and close for the last repetitive time, I reluctantly rise and then realize my fear of the outside world. Such alarming tendencies wear thin. I psyche myself up to face the day and to put away my premature antics. When do we really grow up?
Verse It must come from my head, or so it’s been said, but I feel old, used up and sold, and so it’s been read that we’re never ahead. But coming from my head, I know where I have been, and through the lens of my wandering eye, I snapped images from the still air and preserved them in gold. And in my plight for insight, I must remember when I gave up security for experience to win and sacrificed my space for others to spin. I chanced the odds at will and jumped from my senses into the unknown and oblivious atmospheric pressure that consumed me until I grew accustomed to my fall, and spread my limbs to slow down my inevitable descent. So it is here that I rediscover discipline and the need to capture every frame in every picture put forth. But I had lost sight “in the thick of it all” and stumbled along as if my time had already come. So it comes from my head and I am no longer mislead as a certain groove evokes me to sing and throw away what I never will need.
Extra Dry with a Splice of Lime
February 11, 2003
Sanctioned here, away from peers, I trace newly developed lines on my face, and, once again, try to predict the future. What a way to spend the day, cooped up in a one room apartment at bay. What a way to spend the night, closed up in a gated community in sight.
Lovely spans of memory stretch lengthwise across my mind reaching crevices I can only conjure up in twilight dreams. Through the slits on a darkening canvas I retrace footprints left behind knowing of my arrival, but as I have been here before, I disregard the inaccessible door, and make my way around back where the campfire is already set.
I take my seat and make note of the faces I recognize, and then drift away into the ceremonial display of pictures set forth into motion and ageless characters animating our remaining space. It is here that I’ve been, away from smoke stacks and broken racks but rather sculpting hands and fertile lands occupied my view.
Greetings from the ancient bottle where time passes slow and the morning creeps in much too fast. I am abusing my rite of passage and prolonging my fading youth. I have come to a line I refuse to cross.
Building Step Ladders
February 11, 2003
I am at the tail end of my generation, and while many have died from avoidable occurrences, I feel I have still been left with a little bit of hope and a little bit of pride. Still, all is not well for the past is hard to sell, and very little importance has been placed on recently.
It has taken me way too long to finish this chapter in my continuous and never-ending tale of a small aspect of life. At the time of this book’s first page, I was still stationed in Yellowstone. Now, almost two years have passed and I’m stationed in south Houston wondering where the hell I’ll end up next. But not until the walls are yellow will I disassemble camp and hike into foreign country. These metaphors are sickening, of that I am aware, but one time at Yellowstone I breathed a breath outside of confining borders and lived outside of my constricting world. One must understand just where I’ve been and accept my constant references to the land of bison as a turning point for something significant, and meaningful, and great. I won’t be here forever, a cliché we must all come to realize, and I refuse to get vacuumed into an accustomed parade where my refusal to march leads to my trampling.
Atmospheric Eruption
February 14, 2003
Days apart are just what I need. Days apart are wearing thin. I am here in a different world making progress towards a goal I am still not completely sold on. I want to tell the world about what I know, and feel, and experience, but the English language is vast and my limited vocabulary is debilitating. I need to reinvent myself and relearn social skills that have become outdated through the years.
I opened my door to smoke a cigarette this afternoon just in time to catch high schoolers walking home from the nearby campus. They weren’t much different than what my generation looked like in the early nineties when we were teenagers, and I wondered if when they looked upon me they saw an authority figure, an adult, or an ally. Strange wonderings, but I can’t help but obsess over my passing through time and my influence and impression on other people. My age has passed for adolescent antics, but I am confused as to where I fit in in the scheme of things. How do I proceed? I am not ready to be an adult, and while I am still adjusting from disturbed land, there is little time left for personal growth. But we do move on, and I am not excluded from this inevitable truth, but yet I still hold fast to my past excursions, triumphs, and losses. I no longer see the future that I used to behold, and now as an empty slate lies before me, growing in size, I can feel the relentless pressure of impending failure.
Tonight the rain falls in a slant, and south winds are carrying in the familiar scent of salty waters. An early morning storm has set upon me, and I am thankful for its much anticipated arrival. Gray clouds have threatened for three days, and a release has finally occurred. A song on the stereo from a CD I selected is darkening my mood as mournful memories unfold with each chord from a vibrating guitar, but its invasion was short.
I am rambling, which is healthy, for I have not yet relearned how to meet people. Conversation is limited. The CD has played itself out, but skies are still darkening, and tomorrow’s forecast calls for thunderstorms all day. This makes me happy. If I were motivated, I would write an epic poem dedicated to the wonderful processes that Mother Nature produces. But here we are approaching the very same problem that I was speaking of before. My words are expired and my inspiration is spent. I need to know if I’m growing cold from these memories who unfold and spoil my chance to relax and enjoy these clouds as they roll.
One Last Attempt
February 28, 2003
Enticing as it seems, I am resisting moderate dosages of mind-altering temptations. Not to say I haven’t indulged myself, for that would be a fib, but tomorrow arrives early and time must be mine to sleep off. On nights like this I am reminded of the way sunlight dances through tree branches alongside a busy highway. Vision is blurred, but the source of the reason for obscured sight is too inviting to deny.
And so, tonight as I look for my friends, I realize that they are spread across boundaries where I have never ventured, and I know that some of these kindred souls I shall never see again. I look to those closest in range to me and wonder why they have become strangers, but in that same thought I remember why. A three day distance between here and there has been simplified to one hour, but characters well-defined in my past remain extras now. I am losing my allies one by one. My life is no longer here, but here I must stay until I establish credentials worthy enough to claim. I face the hour by the minute, and as lines deepen on my tarnished face, I am reluctant yet hopeful to grow.
Softly Down the Stream…
February 28, 2003
I am trying to make friends, but everybody my age is married with children. I can’t relate. Stuck in my own world again, I pacify myself to pass the time. Jumping over imaginary barriers, I relish in the idea that I might be going somewhere. My generation is losing its youth, and as I compare my accomplishments with that of others, I lose much needed esteem. I don’t want to be married. I don’t want kids. I don’t want a nine to five job. I don’t want to grow up.
So, what is left to do when “the norm” is not desired? I’ve bided my time crossing state lines and sleeping till three. I’ve worked meaningless jobs and took college at a slow pace as an effort to postpone decision. I’ve outdone myself by stepping up to the plate and taking a dive when I never really learned how. I’ve watched death creep through my life like a disease with no cure. I’ve chased ghosts and wasted energy on negative outcomes. I’ve seen passion come and go and realized the many sub-categories that go along with the territory. I’ve experimented with all those enticing sins they tell you to stay away from. I’ve watched time fly by in a series of freeze frames and fragmented illusions.
Grim Expectations
May 20, 2003
Nothing used to give me more pleasure than to sit alone amongst myself and chase away the night with anti-social creativity. I should be so much more advanced than this, but I forgot to grow with my self-given talent. Two years are stagnant in my mind, body and soul, and after the aftermath, I am left stripped of my motivation, enthusiasm, and youth. My life hit a climax and now I am wrestling with preparations for a future that may never arrive. Perhaps it has passed me up all together. I am stuck in a prologue and unable to find meaning or closure in any aspect of my hasty chapters. I am at a loss.
But much has changed, life has evolved, and as the presence of time continues on its obtrusive plight, I am distracted by the inevitable. By nature, I was inclined to record the minute details of my generic life, and with a touch of charisma and a knack for relating my experiences to an invisible audience, my instinct tricked me into believing that I was actually on to something. Now, I am inclined to ignore the importance of capturing a seemingly unimportant day. I am caught up in excuses and minor responsibilities that shouldn’t keep me from accomplishing more than what’s required. How expensive is inspiration these days?
Fuck You
This is just a quick note to say that I have revealed the unthinkable to “you know who” and have found new meaning to friendship. I guess it’s safe to say that you and I are strangers now, and you will probably never know exactly how I feel – maybe you have a clue, maybe you don’t. Maybe you’re too wrapped up in your new plastic, loveless, artificial life. Speaking of life, have I told you how permanently you fucked up mine? The face of my “lifelong” best friend is also the face of my lifelong enemy, and I am lost in this mix and somehow despondent to you and your existence. Can you see the change in me? You must have calculated the occurrence of my resentment for you when I hit adulthood. Are we really this fucked up? I will protect those I love from the truth, but as no one was able to protect me from you, including myself, I dedicate my dreams, accomplishments, failures, and future attempts to overcome your influence to the little girl who needed attention.
Letting Go of Holding Back V
May 2003
What the fuck were you thinking you selfish bastard? If you knew the pain of the living so well, how could you impose more pain upon those you knew and loved? We already know the cruelty, loneliness, and meaninglessness of the world, you didn’t need to remind us and make our suffering worse. Perhaps if you could have given the world a chance, you might have found something worth living for. But these words have no meaning anymore, and your life is wasted by the ignorance of your own hands. The thought of you makes me sick to my stomach, and when she talks about you over and over and over again as if new memories are still being made, I cringe at the self-developed picture I created of you in my mind. The noose, the reel, the plunge, the decision. I didn’t eat for days, I think. I cried only in private, which was very seldom, granted, but my stomach remained uneasy, queasy, and unsettled.
Suicide. What a perfect way to end the day, a self-inflicted prey, useless and drawn astray. Tainted buildings dwell in tainted towns where local derelicts still see you around, but I am a stranger to these desensitized freaks, alone in my nature where charity weeps. Alone in my nature I silently keep.
Shelved Dreams
May 26, 2003
The way things change, I can never predict, and all those verses devoted to shelved dreams, what to do with them now? I think I should never want to be there again, there in the dark, there on the edge, there on the brink of disappointment, but yet “back in the day” always seems extraordinarily perfect when the future is at hand. Here I am in an unknown life losing interest, losing perspective, losing optimism, losing faith, losing friends, losing face, losing.
Chipped away from the aftermath of adolescence and baptized in the youthful idealism and carelessness of young adulthood, I am now left with hasty decisions and pessimism. At least I am aware of my fate and no longer naïve to my position, status, and pre-calculated odds. I am aware of inevitable outcomes and glorified fantasies not meant to be acted on. I am certainly aware of discarded aspirations, but without misguide goals and childhood dreams, what else is left? I suppose I should find a husband, have some kids, get life insurance, and prepare for death like any normal citizen of society, but I’m not ready to settle in for a lifetime. I still dream big. I still want.
We venture forward moving further and further away from one seemingly important time freeze. Handcrafted land-markers are set forth behind each celebrated step, and then they are replaced and repeated.
I am not above the remaining portions of mankind, but as we gather together in a blind attempt to capture or expel something more than what is obvious, we finally surrender to ignorance and welcomed defeat. I am now standing on the outskirts of a remodeled future, but you know as well as I know that the future never really arrives – a mirage in disguise.
Void of spring showers, and as a dangerously dry summer hangs heavily above our heads, I look to the start of hurricane season for release. Conversations about the weather and record high temperatures remind me of when I ventured outside of this metropolis and headed for higher ground. A retreat to the mountains where I used to be a stranger, introduced an entirely different lifestyle far removed from surfboards and seagulls – far removed from humidity and hurricanes. But the cold was bitter and the wind set fire to my exposed ears. I was ill-prepared for summer snow storms. Intoxicating, nonetheless, how drastic is change when miles are conquered.
The remaining portions of mankind extend to regions of the earth where I could never in one lifetime venture to see, and perhaps those less familiar with the modern world could explain to me the equation for importance. Perhaps I am much too complicated to understand simplicity. Have we grown stagnant throughout the course of growth, and since the period of those enlightened, have we advanced in our thoughts?
Stationed among intellects and aspiring minds, I look for traces of individuality I admire and strive to accomplish as best to my ability, but it occurred to me that I fail to make connections in my attempt to socialize because strangers are often intimidating and friends are sometimes nothing more than acquaintances.
Candle Stasher
July 16, 2003
Hurricane Claudette was a disappointment for me, but perhaps if I owned a beach house I’d feel different. I love when the weather is bad, but as a little girl I used to run crying to my mother every time the southern sky saw a darkened cloud. My older brother would only make it worse by teasing me and telling me he saw a funnel coming down, and I believed him every time. Now, we both have reoccurring dreams about tornadoes, which we’ve discussed on occasion. Guess it’s safe to say that we both have a sick love affair with Mother Nature and her stormy weather, and while I was not always a fan, I overcame my fear and fell in love with what I used to loath. So, now that I know it’s possible, what do I do about it? Unable to do anything else with my time besides watching my anti-cable TV, I am sinking lower and lower into my zombie-like state of wasted air.
But it was that last summer that sparked the change and made me rearrange, it was that one summer that rendered me somewhat ineffective and altogether cold. In spite of it all, the rivers, and mountains, and hikes, and bonds, I knew that I would never again see the world in the same naïve way as I always had before. I knew that I had brought an end to my idealistic view of the world and all of its inhabitants. Soul-searching sucks if done correctly, and although I have uncovered the truth about myself, I repeat, once again, what do I do about it?
I used to find inspiration in my want for higher ground. I had my eye on traveling the states by vehicle with my closet friends and we would “highlight the map as we go” but now we are no longer friends due to time and death, and even if they were around, I no longer crave the open road. I no longer crave snow-capped mountains. I no longer crave higher elevations. Oh, how we do grow, but fuck that, because I’ve grown into a wasteland of good intentions. I’ve matured into boredom and accepted the act of becoming accustomed. But what else was there to do?
One of the rules at the Bunk House was that you couldn’t burn incense or candles because they were a fire hazard, and recently, a flyer was slipped through the front door of my efficiency apartment reporting that my lease states that candles and incense are forbidden, and a fire marshal will be checking apartments for these items in the next coming weeks. Memories from yellow rock. Once again, I find myself stashing, not only herb in my closet, but also a collection of soothing fragrances too strong to be concealed. If found, I could be evicted.
Money Well Spent
There is always time for music, and when your favorite musicians are being offered up live, it is necessary that you attend, no matter what the expense is. I finally had the privilege of seeing one of my favorite early nineties bands for the first time recently. A few nights before, Eddie Vedder was booed by a Colorado audience for stepping on a Bush mask on stage, and I just knew that Houston would ban them, but Pearl Jam arrived, and instead of Bush, Eddie decided to abuse Bill Gates’ mask instead. They put on an amazing show, and even played my favorite song, Rear-View Mirror. The show ended with the Neil Young song, “Rockin’ in the Free World” – classic! Nothing could have made me happier, except for a surprise appearance from Mr. Young himself, which didn’t happen. I even bought myself a concert t-shirt, which is something that I haven’t done in ten years.
Verses
July 16, 2003
And now I’m 26, which feels no different from 25, but it’s hard to believe that ten short years ago I was 16.
I have a tendency to distance myself from what may be an answer. Perhaps I am content in my discontent.
And sometimes I think when I can no longer bear to think, I think of you, and proceed knowing I don’t want to be that.
Once again, cramped in a small space waiting for my roommates to arrive to cramp themselves in an even smaller space. I have no room to complain.
Running low again on supplies, I am growing sick of always worrying about restocking. Oh well.
Reruns of Cheers wreak havoc on my time, my hour of creativity. But that’s not altogether fair, because I have me time all the time which I think may be the ultimate problem.
And now I know that my home shall always be by the ocean, and although I do miss the mountains, I have more of an appreciation for the Gulf.
Verses
July 17, 2003
These days I’ve been drinking a little more, and smoking a little more, and smoking a little more, and sleeping a little more, and cursing a little more.
Don’t let em lie to ya kids, I’ve spent my days in a lazy haze and accomplished what I set out to accomplish. I have enjoyed my time, and wasted it at my will and not that of some over-powered opinionated majority. I have seen what I wanted to see and experienced what I thought necessary. Life is overwhelming, don’t make it worse.
Nothing satisfies me more than satisfaction, and as nothing outside of myself delivers this sense of pleasure, I continue to pleasure myself.
Coming back from the dead and trying to start where I left off is much more difficult than I had imagined, but progress has always been slow, and results are not visible until after the aftermath.
My accomplishments are limited, and as I watch my creativity creep away with age, I wonder if this absence of inspiration is not due to my progression through time as much as it is due to my failure to stay focused.
What Are They Doing to the Toothpaste?
September 12, 2003
The teeth of my fellow Americans are glow-in-the-dark white, and I blame this new bleaching epidemic on planet Hollywood. Remaining true to form, my refusal to participate in this annoying fad has inevitably backfired; my teeth have never looked so yellow. I did, however, finally give in to reality TV, and I truly hate myself for being so weak. Basic channels are all that I have access to, and so it shall be understood, I have no other choice but to give in and enjoy the trend.
My feline, Swifty, is feeling very affectionate and his purring is the only sound of which I have to hear. Now he is cleaning the top of his head by licking his paw and then stroking it between his ears. I then have a sharp realization that this is one of those everyday moments that will for some reason, always remain fixed in my memory.
Maybe I do have a journalistic mind, but hard news is not my forte. If I cannot express my opinion, I cannot write.
Lion’s Gate
September 13, 2003
Amongst pine needles and a blue cooler faced down on a huge wooden deck, my mind wonders to an empty house that has not been alone and vacant in quite some time. I almost feel sorry for this inanimate object, but I know that it is not the house that has been left behind. Ten years ago, that rented piece of property offered much-needed change from previous living quarters, and although the house has served its purpose well, once again, change was necessary. Adjustments are still being processed, and as I passively attempt to remain unaffected, I am not yet comfortable with white carpet and drapeless windows.
Verse September 14, 2003 In time I’ll see what all this means to me, but for now, “all this” is vast and full of uncertainties. Maybe I’ve lost my edge and have fallen victim to yet another phase as I drowsily advance through the decades of my age, but I hope to prove myself wrong and spark up another dream to carry myself along. I hope to recapture my passion for verse and advance with my talent I’ve nurtured since birth.
My Many Components
September 16, 2003
I’ve relied on my past writings for long enough, and the more I skim through exaggerated emotions, the more I realize I have nothing. I must learn to compete with myself and try to outdo my latest masterpiece each time I set out to write. On the contrary, I may never write again if I attempt to do that, and the way things have been going, I think it best to write shit than to write nothing at all. Yes, I’ve been uninspired. Yes, I’ve grown impatient and lazy. Yes, I’ve become disillusioned with my progression through life, but creating wasted time is certainly no cure.
It is time to begin again and find new meaning to whatever I see fit. I hate where I’m at, but I always have, and I think my biggest problem is lack of accomplishment. If I could just grab hold of some type of success, I would have an easier time chasing after the unknown. I am too concerned with age, and health, and grades, and money to concentrate on anything substantial. But I am still holding on despite my inevitable relapses, and I am strengthening my many different characters by acknowledging their existence.
An Old Friend
September 16, 2003
Even though we have become distant through the past few years, I have come to you when there was nowhere else to turn. I have explained to you those details, feelings, and emotions that I couldn’t release on anyone else. But I am trying to be faithful again and let you in on all the unimportant events I used to fill you with and reserve space until the big ones hit. You helped me prepare for those moments when writer’s block could prevent me from recording the most significant moments. So much has passed us by because of my reluctance to open up to you or to open you up. Maybe I’ll backtrack and record the most important events, but for right now, I am focused on capturing “now” and honing in on my best features.
No Apparent Reason
September 17, 2003
Last weekend I stayed in bed claiming that I thought I was coming down with something. The sickness never arrived, and although I was left without an excuse, I remained cozy under the sheets. My desire to face the day was missing in action.
Where’s My Advisor?
September 17, 2003
Today I watched the news again and swallowed hard through another hour of murder, war, and political upheaval. As I am studying to be a professional journalist myself, it saddens me to think that this is the kind of writing I have to look forward to. I sometimes have a difficult time not crying while watching the 9:00 news, and I believe I would rather flip burgers than report the evening news. Unless my field is the weather, I must find a different route.
For the Love of Perry
Did I mention that I saw Perry Ferrell live at the Woodlands Pavilion this time last month? Dare I say, it was the best concert I have ever attended? Although most of the bands playing this year’s Lollapalooza are of no interest to me, to witness a live Jane’s Addiction performance was well worth the wait. Here’s a band that I have been a fan of for more than half my life, and each time in the past when I tried to score tickets to a show, they sold out within minutes of their release, but not this time. Reserved seating went fast, but I was still able to reserve my place on the lawn. Perry was far from where I was standing but still visible to the naked eye, and if I did lose sight, two big screens displayed his image to my left and to my right.
Festivities began at 12:30, and at 12:30, Gwen and I were at the gate with our tickets in hand. Hot. No shade, no clouds, no rain, just endless and direct radiation from the gaseous ball of fire overhead. Our only savior? Waterspouts provided by the pavilion shooting out cold water. It was like taking a cold shower with your clothes on in front of hundreds of people. But Janes Addiction was worth the dangerous heat and crappy music that came before. I thought I was going to start tumbling down the AstroTurf hill once they hit the stage. I have not felt that kind of excitement in years. List of songs played: Three Days, Ocean Sized, Summertime Rolls, Jane Says, Been Caught Stealin’, and songs off new album.
Sage
December 13, 2003
I write when I feel like it, which is very seldom. I used to write every night, whether it was shit or somewhat worthy, I filled my pages with something to fill space.
Tonight, a new, unknown drug introduced me to a sensation I’ve never experienced. I was attached to something inanimate but removed from everything else. Removed from everything and anything outside of my mysterious attachment. My mysterious connection to a couch, or wall, or clock, or table. Five to ten minutes later the semi-mild hallucination subsided and the peacefulness of a Xanax took over and reclaimed command of my body and mind.
A commercial infested version of Alice in Wonderland has brought be back down to reality. Even though the effects of a strand of sage only lasted a total of fifteen minutes, an unknown substance, illegal only in Australia, leaves its lingering mark on an unprepared and semi anxiety-ridden body. Smoking this unique form of sage is not something I would recommend doing on a regular basis, but as far as experiencing a harmless, non-addiction forming drug, I guess it’s something worth exploring. Available at your local head shop.
Walled
December 24, 2003
Night Drivers is going to be published in UHCL’s Bayousphere magazine this spring. My first real publication. Graduation will be arriving this time next year, but let the years pass for I’ve given up keeping count. Foreshadowed by the unprepared future, I no longer feel the need for a journal. Clouded by clichés, I have nothing new to say and my time has already passed for a climax to heighten my interest.
Let them go on to find a family and a better car. Let them find a career behind a computer desk in a world bent on financial success. Let them meet and greet and entertain at parties. Let them pass me by undisturbed as I sigh.
Almost at the end of my college career and facing the inevitable insta-debt. Almost to the end as I realize in fear I hate the path that I’ve drawn.
Nowhere near but halfway clear is a face that I know to be mine.
After the Climax
January 12, 2004
Out of touch with traveling aspirations and strangely subdued by six months of visiting unstable land. A shocking reaction to unknown territory resulted in my failure to fully understand my position. Almost three years later, here I am out of touch and grasping pages that should be filled. Lost ritual. Lost verses. Lost talent. My failure to advance my writing skills is a tragedy, a disaster in the unknown depths of my world. But I haven’t been sitting stagnant for accomplishments have been accomplished. One of my favorite entries, “Night Drivers” is going to be published in UHCL’s magazine, Bayousphere. It’s my first real publication. By the year 2005, I will have finally succeeded in obtaining my BA in communication, and what will I do, I have no clue. No, life has not been stagnant, but I still remain restless, unable to concentrate, and lacking the crucial mix of confidence, motivation, enthusiasm, and faith.
Progression
January 13, 2004
Forgotten streets and vacant lots come out of hiding as trees are cleared away for more. Developing eye sores spread like the common cold and infect my surrounding environment. Deer graze beside a busy highway. Refreshing rains become floods. Property value loses value and discount stores and fast food joints take over.
A best friend from the distant past recently overdosed on 40 Vicodin. A loved one is smoking crack. A childhood friend has cut contact. I never thought we would have ended up like this.
Another semester is a week away, and as graduation approaches, I freeze at the thought of the real world. College has taken for fucking ever, but I guess it’s for the best. Then again, my direction is still lost.
Nothing in between. I’m in, I’m out. Still in love with a distant idea no longer solid or vivid in my mind. But I did live out an abstract dream and found closure to a story I didn’t even realize had reached the end.
In Between
January 20, 2004
I must find something else. Empowered by the sense, the want to create and advance into something much greater than I am. For vanity and self-reassurance, my success depends on superficial elements – supplements for underlying truths. But I must get it out and remove from my system the six month stint that, inadvertently, in the long run, stifled my ability or want to write. A climax of passion subsided, and now there’s nothing left. I must find something else, something new. Six months out of 26 years, but during sleep my dreams are obsessed with the northwest and Yellowstone becomes even more enchanting than it actually is.
So much of my time has been wasted on a lazy mind, and my television has become my biggest enemy. The world around me has gone insane, but I record nothing, I use nothing, I transform nothing. I do my best work when life is at its worst, but here I am in between unable to differentiate the good from the bad or the worst from the best. As life drags on so does my discontent, but aside from all this, the need to reinvent myself is the point of my train of thoughts.
Struggling for a Verse
Old and set in my ways, I am unable to stop recording my thoughts with pen and paper. My thought process can’t function when forced to rely on a keyboard.
A page a day keeps writer’s block away.
A reflection of the sun hides behind the rooftops of my gated community. Although the stars exist somewhere in space, they cannot be seen from the busy street shedding artificial light, spanning until it reaches Galveston’s edge and plummets into the sea.
I guess I can’t expect to write anything exceptional when it’s been so long since I’ve displayed any talent.
Searching for my poet’s eye, I find my groove in the wake of sleep. Treaded land takes form again and draws me in as it always did. Dry air settles into my skin, and I realize then, how much I love humidity and coastal rains. Life was mine, and so it still is, but I am much less idealistic than I was when I first came.
Tomorrow after all, whether we win or whether we fall, it’s just another tomorrow after all.
I have matured, yes matured, since I last felt the warming hand of inspiration. A cloudy distraction of over-analyzed thoughts and hasty interpretations is producing long-term effects on my psyche. What am I doing? Stuck here in south Houston with no chance of escape, dreading the outcome of my finished degree, I think I am finally ready to take my dream seriously.
I Want My Commercial Free Music
January 21, 2004
There is nothing worse than turning on the television and hearing one of your favorite songs being used to sell a car, a shoe, or an Internet company. It is a popular trend in advertising today, but hardcore music fans like myself would rather not accompany a cherished song with an ad campaign. It’s a slap in the face. I was first outraged when I heard The Beatles’ “Revolution” being played during a Nike shoe commercial. The song discusses serious political issues, but hey, isn’t that a nice pair of shoes? Within a minute’s time, the integrity of the song is lost, and as the commercial is played over and over again, the song itself no longer stands alone, and when heard on the radio or CD, it will always conjure up images of athletes and their shoes. The advertisement wins.
In addition to the Beatle’s “Revolution,” a number of my favorite musical artists are joining the trend and selling their songs to advertisers. Seventies punk icon, Iggy Pop, sold his song “Lust for Life” to an Internet company, and The Cure, who were goth before goth existed, sold their song “Pictures of You” to be used to sell digital cameras. The list goes on from The Ramones to Led Zeppelin to Blondie. These are musicians who ignited new fashion trends, challenged the music industry’s standards, and introduced new genres of music to the masses. These are musicians who opened up doors for up and coming generations and influenced and inspired popular musicians crowding the airwaves today. These are musicians who must be in need of money. (Whether it’s due to low sales because of piracy on the Internet, or just the want for more money, hearing a favorite song echoing in the background of an overly-exposed and mind numbing commercial is just a slap in the face.)
The introduction of the Internet to mainstream society forever changed the music industry. Songs can be downloaded off the Internet for free, and while it is an illegal activity, piracy has yet to become a thing of the past. Musicians are having an extremely difficult time making money in the industry today. As if it wasn’t hard enough before, the Internet exposed a new challenge. It seems, as far as the music goes, that everyone has access to everything these days and the need to visit a record store either online or in person is becoming less prevalent. So, maybe this is the reason why so many artists are joining forces with advertising companies. It is their music and they have the right to do what they like with it, but for fans who find inspiration in the lyrics, for fans who are emotionally stimulated by the tone and rhythm of a song, for those fans whose lives can be summed up by a custom-made soundtrack, hearing those songs in commercials is heartbreaking.
John Lennon would have been inflamed, and Paul McCartney himself was outraged when he found out about “Revolution.” Due to bad business handlings, The Beatles lost the right to many of their songs, so they are not to blame for the “shoe incident,” but what about all the others? What’s their excuse? Smaller, lesser-known bands are also joining the trend. Bands like Ween and the Flaming Lips have both sold their songs to be played during commercials selling cars. Bands that receive no radio play or exposure from MTV are also joining the trend. Most of their songs are not even recognizable to the general public, but my ears were in paralyzing pain when I heard “Ocean Man” and “Do You Realize” being used to sell a car. What’s next? Am I going to wake up tomorrow, click on the TV, and hear Nirvana’s “Smells Like Teen Spirit” being used to sell deodorant?
As a college student, I understand the need for money, as a human being I understand the need for money, but what is happening to the integrity and rebellious nature of rock music?
School Shit
Hello, my name is Lindsay Niemann, I’m working on the Uclidian this semester and I was wondering if it would be okay if I kept in contact with you by phone, email, or by making appointments on a weekly basis to see if there’s anything going on in the school of whatever.
Shorts
I’m watching for a tornado, but they’re hard to spot at night. The rain keeps falling, and I keep drinking, and I keep smoking. The clouds gather as I gather my voice, but I always fall short of what needs to be said. Thrashing trees and flying leaves ignite my passion for severe and threatening weather – I always hate to see it go.
School Shit
Dr. Esiner:
Thank you for contacting me. I was thinking we could correspond on Thursdays to see if there are any special events, meetings, etc. occurring in the School of Humanities. We can correspond by phone, email, or in person, which ever is more convenient for you. Thank you for your time.
Lindsay Niemann
Foy’s Publication
(School Shit)
University of Houston – Clear Lake student, Foy Curley Jr., received publication for his non-fiction piece in an Arts and Entertainment magazine called Skyline.
Currently working on his bachelor’s degree in communication, Foy was editor of the 2004 Bayousphere Magazine at the time of his publication.
“Editing the Bayousphere Magazine was a wonderful experience. Not only did I learn a lot about magazine publication, but it gave me the opportunity to get published in an established international magazine.”
Skyline is a bi-monthly international magazine published in New York. It features short stories, poems, photography, and fine art from various writers and artists.
Foy’s article, titled, “Good Time Gone Bad” describes a life-changing event that took place in Foy’s life four years ago. A deadly four car accident leaves him (after a night of celebration) struggling in serious physical and mental pain and anguish.
In addition to Skyline Magazine, Foy has also been published in “The Colors of Life” a book published by the ILOP as well as the 2004 edition of Bayousphere.
Verses
March 2, 2004
I hate my neighbors. They trash my stoop, play bad music at high decibels, and talk about things that I have absolutely no interest in. I wonder if I was that annoying at that age. I doubt it.
A big “fuck you” to all you assholes out there trying to sound like Layne Staley. It’s one thing to be influenced by a band or favorite musician, but it’s a wholly different thing to imitate that artist in a shallow and desperate attempt to create something that’s already been created. Strive for originality.
Life Long Dreams
I would like to write columns for a living filling my space bitching, complaining and joyfully expressing my all too important opinion. I would also like to be a travel writer, but my fear of flying, especially now, is quite debilitating in my plight for crossing borders. I would also like to publish my own poetry/non-fiction/ graphics novel, but I guess that’s a long-term goal. I would also like to be a freelance writer, picking and choosing my audience, making my own hours, and writing about whatever the hell I want to write about. I would also like to pursue my love for geology and possibly major in it. I would also like to write for a music magazine. I also wouldn’t mind owning my own record shop.
Verses
March 31, 2004
I have found a way, but it’s hard to say what direction I have chosen for myself.
I am out of weed and fiending for more, but where do I score, where is my corner store?
Lost in myself again. I’ve been wandering around in a sullen gaze watching the masses drift by and realizing how often I go unnoticed. Sometimes I think I could walk around naked with a gas mask covering my face and would still draw no attention, but I guess everyone feels like that every now and again. Who cares about everybody else, it doesn’t help knowing I’m the same as them. Maybe I’ll go hang out in the bar by myself, have a beer, and write about nothing important. Maybe I’ll continue sitting here listening to an unknown radio station and smoke the rest of my weed. Maybe I’ll just go to sleep.
“And here I am, and there you go, and so you see, I’m all I know.”
The Working Tequila Shot
April 6, 2004
I feel like I’m losing my mind over this, unable to focus, unable to relax, unable to go about my usual uneventful day without wondering what will happen and becoming anxiety ridden while waiting for the weekend’s arrival. I think I hate this.
But I feel like we killed two weeks of awkward and uncomfortable dating in just two short nights. I feel like we revealed information about ourselves that we normally wouldn’t reveal to new acquaintances. I went outside of myself, outside of my world, outside of my fears, anxieties, insecurities, and inhibitions and approached you in an unknown place on 4th street, and to think, I wanted to hang out on 6th street. I have tried since to push you out of my mind and confront the very real truth that I may never hear from you or see you again. I should have said something different, something more drastic to let you know how much I enjoyed myself. I should have visited longer and ignored my hangover and need for sleep.
But I didn’t. I played my cards wrong and now I fear that I’ve left you confused and in the dark. I feel that I shouldn’t even be writing about you because I’m setting myself up for a letdown. I don’t want to romanticize or glorify something that does not exist. Perhaps you’re not even thinking about me, but for some reason I find that hard to believe. Wishful thinking? Who knows. I know that I’m sick of myself when I constantly talk about you. Still, I continue trying to keep that picture of you in my head, and regretfully, it’s not as clear as it was two days ago. I wonder if I’m fading as well. Only time will tell. Tom Petty was right, the waiting is the hardest part.
I actually wasn’t looking forward to leaving the comforts of my flea infested apartment, but I went with a semi-positive attitude and perhaps even willed life to happen, commanding it with my own drunken hands. You’re the hottest thing I’ve ever tasted, and if things go right, I’m looking forward to getting to know you better. But if you don’t call, I’ll never have the pleasure.
Late Night Session # ?
April 6, 2004
Austin, what can I say? I love even now in the wake of your congested popularity.
I saw the most disturbing thing on the television the other night. Bob Dylan himself, with angel wings, in a Victoria Secret commercial. The day I hear or see Neil Young in a commercial will mark the beginning of the end for rock-n-roll and the world as we know it. “Hey, hey, my, my…”
What else can I bitch about? How about our government and Bush’s Vietnam? Layne Staley wannabe’s? Hummers? The media? Britney Spears and Janet Jackson’s decorated nipple? How about the billion dollar, tit enhancing, ass inducing, youth obsessed, plastic surgery industry? Reality TV? Tommy Lee? The death of Cash and the rise of the overly patriotic, flag wavin’, propaganda lovin’ Toby Keith who cashed in on 9/11? How about the search for the infamous Bin Laden? Bin who? One thing at a time.
Bending Rabbit Ears
April 7, 2004
Cadillac earrings dangle from pretentious ears. Late night talk shows run overly anxious parodies where the latest talk of the town, no matter who or what, is exposed in a humorous light.
Tonight I am on to you and feeling the full effects of five days. TV eyes welcome Norm into my room twice a night, back to back, but I am still not mindless, I have yet to accomplish my goal. A refill has calmed my nerves, but I’m already guilty of over-indulgence, and to be honest, I don’t want to become numb to you. Sleep is closing in, but I don’t want sleep, I just need it. Need to be rested. Need to be alert and ready for a long day, busy as hell with you nestled in the back of my mind.
Just a state or two away, where I’ve been through and then back again, remains the remains of my eternal itch, abandoned and forgotten by the side of the road.
Awkward Strangers
April 8, 2004
(a page for Jena)
I wonder what you’re doing now and if you’ve made your way out of bed yet to welcome another day. I hear you’re seeking rehab but have been turned down because insurance won’t cover it. Well, at least you tried. Your overdose scared the shit out of me, and I have to wonder how you lived through it. 40 Vicodin. Unreal. I’m sorry I didn’t visit you in the hospital, but I didn’t find out until after you were released. Nobody contacted me, but I wouldn’t have shown up anyway.
When I was in Yellowstone, I wanted you there with me and actually felt guilty for leaving you behind surrounded by towering asphalt and toxic air, but you were too far gone to notice. I hear you still dream about moving west all by yourself to chase a dying dream. The tired face of Hollywood still appeals to you, but I really do think you would hate it after a while. LA is not much different from Houston, but at least you still dream. I wouldn’t know what to say if we came face to face. Awkward. Strangers. Unreal. I miss you nonetheless.
Stepping Off Step Ladders
April 8, 2004
You are diseased but didn’t pass it on to me for I am above your obscenities.
You no longer know who I am and will never have the pleasure of knowing who I’ve become. I silently hate you and everything you’ve done, and when I am forced to come along to see the damage done by her self-inflicted hand, I don’t know if I will be able to look you in the eye without revealing my position.
I completed my metamorphosis that summer in Yellowstone, and when you traveled thousands of miles to meet me in the mountains, I was even surprise by my disappointment to see you. My how things change.
I am still working through my demons. I am still trying to get rid of you and your influence. I am still in shock that I am able and willing to despise you so completely. I am still betting on myself to come out of this a winner, to have gained, to have overcome.
Palms Up
Who am I kidding, you’ll never call. Tomorrow is the due date and a week in between without contact worries me the most. But my creativity has been sparked, and if I gain nothing else, if I don’t gain you, at least I gained my verse.
Silent Phone
(Waiting)
April 9, 2004
Twenty-something idiots wreak havoc outside my bedroom window. I can’t wait to move. Can’t wait to be somewhere else besides here. So, I’ve been stood up and it sucks, but hey, that’s the dating game. Fuck it. No wonder I never liked participating in that game. A hopeless romantic I guess I am, but I hate putting myself out there. I hate losing. I hate this feeling. So life will go on as it always has, but I will have gained a mild amount of pain, and a great deal of inspiration. I guess I win in the end…
I picture you now in the elevator after our awkward goodbye, and it hits me that you probably never intended on calling. Perhaps you’re not who I thought you were, but how would I really know anyhow? You said you wanted to take it slow, well, there you go.
And I want out of here now more than ever, but where the hell do I go, I no longer know. My destination is not as clear as it once used to be. But I must get back into the groove and discover something else, I’ve nothing to lose. You have caused me great disappointment this Easter weekend, but at least I know I’m not dead.
Rejection and the Thunderstorm Blues
And here I am as I was before. And here I am as I was before. And here I am as I was before. I thought for sure it would happen this time. I just knew it would happen this time. Had a feeling. Instinct. Bullshit. Naïve. Our moment has passed. Passed over. Forgotten. Let go.
Should I think about redundancies like “what did I do wrong,” or “was it something I said,” or “was it the kiss goodnight that turned you off?” Maybe you’re just a prick asshole and it had nothing to do with me at all.
How do I use this to my advantage? How do I forget about your carelessness? I have deleted your phone number from my phone and burned the hard copy in the sink. I’m still in the process of burning you from my mind. Suffice to say I really liked you which hasn’t happened to me in quite some time. So did you get laid last night, maybe picked up a girl or two at the bar? Did you take full advantage of your one night stay here in H-town? I don’t understand this situation. I don’t understand you. I feel like a complete idiot. I was actually looking forward to seeing you all week. By the way, have you seen Jesus lately?
Mother Nature is on My Side
April 10, 2004
Cool air has settled into the area quite late for this time of the season. As always, I welcome its arrival but in the back of my head, I know it could be gone tomorrow. The summer will soon be on her way and I brace myself for ozone warnings, droughts, 100 degree temperatures, love bugs and mosquitoes. Can’t wait. Will I find relief before the end of August arrives? But I will enjoy what I have for the time being, I will enjoy where I am for the time being, I will enjoy who I am for the time being. For the time being I am lost in the need for substantiality.
Enjoy the Ride Home in a Hail Storm Tennis Boy
This is one last verse for you before I put you in the past where you belong. I think I have you figured out, you’re just like all the others, but your move, your play, was astonishingly convincing and disturbingly deceitful. Did you really think I was going to give it up to you? You’re the fattest pig of them all. I no longer find you intriguing and pleasantly eccentric. I no longer find you interesting. I think you’re a freak, and I think I’m too trusting.
The Working Novel
(conversation between Ricky and Ashley)
“Conjuring up thunderstorms on a steep cliff overlooking the cold Pacific, he raises his arms above his head, mumbles an incomprehensible chant, and welcomes the rain with silent gratitude. In other words, he’s a fucking witch, man.”
“Just how many drugs have you taken tonight, Ricky?”
“That’s not the point, dude. I saw it last night at the welcome home party. He went out surfing, and about an hour later, I went outside looking for him, and he was standing on the very edge of that cliff behind the house. He was just sort of swaying back and forth from side to side with his arms resting on his head, and then he raised them straight up towards the sky, you know, like this…”
Ricky attempted to demonstrate this description for me and reminded me of one of those freaks, or shall I say, those poor lost souls you see in the congregation of one of those televangelist programs. I couldn’t help but laugh.
“I’m serious dude, Michael is in to some seriously weird shit. I decided to go up there to see what the hell he was doing and I could hear him mumbling some kind of chant, sounded like a different language, nothing I’ve ever heard before. But no shit man, the wind started picking up, and within a matter of seconds, it was raining cats and fucking dogs. I don’t even think he noticed I was there. I stayed hidden behind some trees. I didn’t want him to know I was there. The shit freaked me out man. It only lasted for about five minutes and then he just sort of collapsed onto his knees and remained completely still. I watched him for a few more minutes, but he didn’t move at all. He just kneeled there, like in a trance. I left unnoticed and went back to the beach house. I haven’t seen him since.”
He stared at me waiting for some sort of response, but I was still digesting his story. I responded with a level head.
“Ricky, it was overcast all day yesterday, the occurrence of rain is not an uncommon thing, and as for Michael, he loves thunderstorms. He throws hurricane parties and has reoccurring dreams about tornadoes. What can I say? He’s obsessed with the weather, it’s almost a ritual for him, but I assure you, my drunk friend, he’s no witch.”
Time to get out of here before he starts telling me about the time he saw a UFO hovering above Clear Creek Mall. I swear, dude, I saw it with my own two eyes! I can hear him now. I made my move.
“It’s late. I should get going. I’ll be by tomorrow to get that touch up from Matthew. If you do see Michael, tell him to give me a call.”
It has been at least six months since I last saw Michael. We always lose touch when he goes on his mini tours across the States. He’ll send postcards, and we occasionally talk on the phone, but contact is sparse. Upon his return, he is always slightly changed, slightly different, but always the same Michael. I get bored when he’s gone. Life is just never as exciting as it is when he’s around. I’ve been trying to get in touch with him since I returned from New York this morning. I’ve been calling his cell phone and home phone all day. Nothing. Before I went to Matthew’s, I stopped by Michael’s house, ignoring the fact that I might see his wife Lisa, but nobody was there. Why hasn’t he called? The phone rings, it’s Michael’s number. About fucking time.
“You haven’t been trying to get in touch with me, have you?”
His usual friendly sarcasm. Michael’s way of saying hello.
“Ah, I see, you finally decided to check your voicemail. Let me guess, your battery’s low so you’ve had your phone turned off because you’re too cheap to go out and by a new battery.”
He ignored my insult.
“Meet me at Casper’s. I’m here with Billy.”
“Casper’s?”
“Don’t worry, we’re about to leave, just meet us here and then we’ll go somewhere else.”
What the hell were they doing at Casper’s? One of three things. Michael is looking for heroin, they’ve made an amends with Casper, which I seriously doubt, or they’re so drunk they forgot that Casper’s place was the forbidden place.
“Yeah, okay. Give me about 30 minutes.”
“Alright. See ya then, oh, and hey Ashley, I’m sorry I didn’t call sooner, but uh, we had a crazy-ass tour and then I get back home and Lisa’s dad is there waiting to talk to me and Lisa’s all pissed off and then I get a call from…”
Michael’s phone finally ran out of juice. So, there was something going on, and his fast-paced words and sudden need to explain to me these recent developments had my curiosity peaked. What the hell happened this time? What has he done?
END
Personal Review
(school shit)
When FotoFest visited Houston, I examined many of the exhibits on display in the downtown area. The exhibit I found most appealing was Mark L. Tomkins’ 13 Currents. Water was this year’s theme at FotoFest and Tompkins captured the essence of water beautifully in his exhibit.
The use of lighting is the most dominate effect in all 13 of his photographs. A human form is seen standing with arms stretched before a vast body of water (which I assume to be the ocean) and the moon can be seen as the picture’s light source. Each photograph depicts this image from an entirely different angle, changing the perspective and overall meaning of the picture.
Tompkins’ exhibit brings to life the beauty of nature and the simple appeal of water. As I wandered through the exhibit I found myself wishing I was at the beach, my second home. Entire summers have been spent sitting on the shore or wading in the water, looking out into the endless ocean analyzing every aspect of my life and life in general. Tompkins’ photographs invited me to envision and emotionally experience my connection to water.
Another aspect that I absolutely loved about his exhibit was the way in which it was organized.
May 13, 2004
The streets are flooding but I’m okay with that as long as I can make my way home eventually. Another semester has come to an end, and with the summer sprawled out before me, I am at a loss with what to do with my time. South Padre is scheduled to appear sometime in my summer calendar, but we’ll see if it actually pans out. My friend Stacy is enjoying yet another summer in Yellowstone, and a huge part of me wishes I was there, but a small part of myself is glad that I’m here in the mosquito infested, insanely hot, and relentlessly humid Bayou City. Graduation is a year away, I like to take it slow, and although it is a weekend event, and long past due, I’m not looking forward to insta-debt and rejections from future employers. To spend this long to acquire a degree that means nothing to the real world is not something to celebrate.
No Letter Jumping
May 13, 2004
Have you heard of this XY generation thing? It’s the generation between the X generation and the Y generation, from like 1979 to 1981. Please! You can’t be both. If you were born in 1980 thru the 1990s, you’re in the Y generation. No matter how bad it may suck, that’s the cut off. There’s no in between. That’s cheating. Hey, I wanted to be a 20’s flapper. Instead, I’m on the tail end of a generation that’s already run its course.
We went back from where we came from.
Amazed though I am about hearing from you, I am not as excited as I once thought I would be. I still kinda think you might be a head case, but I’ll still meet up with you Saturday.
It’s 3:30 in the morning and I’m still awake, milking my beer, watching the People’s Court. Finals are over and time is mine to kill.
Planning Ahead
May 29, 2004
Too much security induces fear, and because of this, I plan on taking it to the road. Graduation is about a year away, and after I obtain my BA, Yellowstone will once again be my destination. It’s a good plan. I’ll be able to pay off some student loans because living expenses up there are next to nothing. I’ll be able to re-evaluate my life and decide what exactly it is I want to do. Yellowstone. I can’t imagine being back. Stacy still goes every summer, she’s up there now and doesn’t plan on returning to the Big Apple. She keeps me in touch with Gardiner life.
Mia and Anita are still there, but JoAnne had to leave because her mom got sick. Brad and Sammy are still there. Lynn and Justin are there, Bob was supposed to show up, but apparently he got lost along the way. No one has heard from him. Ray the Recycling Guy was there, but he had a little accident, and after he recovered, he couldn’t get his job back.
Get this. He ran himself over with his own car. I shit you not. He was driving his station wagon across the Bunk House parking lot and didn’t shut his door all the way. He was only going about 20 to 25 mph, but he ended up falling out of the car and somehow rolled underneath it and it ran him over. He’s okay, minor damages, he has enough fat on his body to provide adequate cushioning. I would pay good money to have that on tape, but no such luck, a camcorder wasn’t around. The visual in my head is enough to make me laugh out loud to myself in public. I think that’s probably the funniest shit I’ve ever heard. Stacy had a difficult time telling the story due to uncontainable and hysterical laughter. That’s good stuff.
I’m already getting excited about going back, and to be honest, a bit reluctant. I hate not having privacy and I absolutely loath living in the Bunk House. Maybe I can find a cabin to rent somewhere in Gardiner. That’s what Stacy is doing. I’ll have to ask her how much she’s paying. Already planning. I know what to expect this time. I know what to bring and what to leave behind. Better prepared. Older. Wiser. More experienced and toting a BA under my belt. Hopefully I can land a job in Human Resources and not have to deal with Mia or Anita. Hell yeah. I’ll make more money and have a better job. I hope. I’m not taking classes this summer, and although I now have the motivation needed to graduate as soon as possible, I need a summer off. I need a break from school. I need a break from Houston. Gwen and I are planning a trip to South Padre sometime late summer. My nephew is due to be born in July, and I must be here for that. Gage Holden Niemann. I can’t wait.
Tennis Lovin’ Jesus Freak
June 4, 2004
Well, it turns out you are a head case. I know how to pick em’. I never should have agreed to meet you, but I guess I’m a bit desperate and I ignored my better judgement. I feel better now knowing that I’m the one who walked away and decided you’re not for me. I no longer think about you or even see you in the same light. I’m turned off as easily as I’m turned on.
Twenty-Seven
Left behind to witness a climate shift as the effects of global warming become more prominent to the eyes of a skeptic. Left behind to watch the world die as Earth readjusts itself. Left behind to grow old and find pleasure only in memories. Left behind to watch up and coming generations make the same mistakes we did. Left behind with no other choice than to go on living.
As the world goes crazy and my mind grows hazy, I disassemble what’s mine and discard meaningless fragments. I still love what I have to give.
Catching Up with River
June 4, 2004
I miss him. Older now than he was when he died, I realize with every year I age how young he was when we lost him, and how the tragedy seems to worsen with time. You would be turning 34 in August, and as I near my 27th birthday, I wonder how it would have been had you lived. What roles would you have taken? Where would you have gone with your music? Would you be married with kids? Would you have given up Hollywood altogether? I want to hear what you would have said about the state of the world. I want to hear you rant and rave about Bush politics, environmental issues, bad music polluting our airwaves, no-brainer blockbusters and everything else under the sun. Like an obsessed fan I keep you in my thoughts when my mind drifts to the climax of my generation, our generation. Clichés drift off my tongue as I confirm the dizzying effects of time. A steadfast progression that the young, no matter how hard they try, can never quite grasp until they’re looking back on their own year wondering “where did the time go” and realizing that ten years is really not so long.
Just Another Day
June 6, 2004
The summer is flying by, and as I spend my days as I always have, sleeping till noon until I force myself out of bed only to lounge around for another 2 to 3 hours until I decide how to kill what’s left of the day, I realize it is time again to take action and do something other than this. It’s time to do something other than grow older. How strange it is that I don’t have anything to say anymore. For the past three years it’s been nothing but forced entries, and every time I try to get my groove back, well, I lose it as quick as it came. These days I find myself believing in nothing and my diminishing inspiration is very seldom missed. I must be turning into them. The dreaded them. The clones. The unaffected. The blissfully ignorant. The conformists. The sheep. Them. But this does not sit well with me, and while I know in the back of my mind that I could never join the other side, I suspect that life would be a lot easier. My life seems to be repeating itself, but at least I have a plan. There’s always a plan.
Quitting the Circle
June 7, 2004
Decisively removed from the circle, but I still find it hard to believe that we have gone this long without communication. I still can’t believe that this is where we have ended up. I never thought we would let a year go by, but now that time has turned us into strangers, I realize it can happen to the closest of bonds. They were right, nothing is sacred. But turning my focus to the shadowing future, I will never reclaim my spot in that treacherous circle where I once thought I had support, love, and loyalty. Deceit, hate, and betrayal.
Enough of me has flowed through you, but you never really got it. You never really got me, and I’m just now beginning to understand you. I thought I knew back then, but I was clouded by childhood.
Maybe when the air is clear and your mind is yours, we can start planning again our trips to the sea, and you can follow me to where I’ve already been, and see for yourself what I’ve been raving about.
Disband or Die
June 8, 2004
I want to travel the King’s highway to the end and then turn around and do it again.
I think the musical tides are changing. We are experiencing the backlash of the early to mid-nineties grunge fest. The end of Nirvana also marked the beginning of bad music. Everyone is so whinny these days, and originality is no longer a goal. Bands either sound like Green Day/Blink 182 wannabe’s, or they pathetically attempt to sound like Alice in Chains, with the lead vocalist sounding more like a dying cow than Layne Staley. But I think things are changing for the better. With Slash and Duff McKagan back on the scene we are bound to witness a decline in whiny, alterna-boys plaguing the airwaves. I see good things for Velvet Revolver, if Scott Wieland can manage to stick around. Yes, a change is coming, just like it has always been. Like classic rock in the late sixties to the inevitable 70s disco, and like eighties hair bands to the Seattle sound of the nineties, we will see an end soon, and a much anticipated beginning to another round of pure, raw, mind-altering sound of rock-n-roll music.
It’s That Time Again
The hardest part about growing old is keeping the dream alive. I haven’t been doing so good, haven’t been doing my part. Caught up in planning my future, I’ve once again lost myself and my ever-changing vision, but at least I had one. At least I had a glorified vision of what I wanted, what I believed in, what inspired me with passion. Who knows what I’m doing or where I’m going. I have somewhat of an idea, but who knows. It goes by fast. One day you wake up and you’re almost 30, then 40, ten years, a decade, who knew it was such a short amount of time. I hate birthdays.
I can smell the sulfur in the air. Atop a super volcano with burnt to a crisp lodge pole pines awaits the land that I once knew. I must get it back. What has happened to me?
Time
“I won’t change direction, I won’t change my mind, how much difference does it make?” Pearl Jam
Like the days when being on the road was all I thought about, I’m once again looking forward to experiencing new land. Blue oceans await, biding their time by warming their summer temperatures. How time goes by, but I don’t mind it as much, as long as I keep moving with it.
Almost There but Not Quite Yet
June 9, 2004
Forced again to come up with something to bring this to an end. To put an end to three years that have passed me by with lightning speed. But, here, I have made progress and have spent my time, for the most part, how I wanted.
My face grows character as my 20s come to an inevitable end. Three more years and the #30 will decorate my birthday cake. It blows my mind. How does that happen? But here I am in my late twenties questioning my own mortality.
In a society obsessed with youth, it is not surprising that I find myself fretting over every new permanent line I see invade my face. Women have it worse than men, and I hate to think of how I will handle turning 40.
At least I have been where I said I’d go, and although I took it at a slow pace, college is almost in my rear view mirror.
Character Revealed
Role Play (the meeting)
June 10, 2004
And here I am years later feeling much older than I should. By the contents of my thoughts, you would think I’m a senior citizen. I feel used up, out of style, out of date, and in the dark. Perhaps it’s just my current position, perhaps it’s my refusal to change or accept the look and sound of a new generation. Hard to tell really. I haven’t been doing much dissecting. I guess this is always the feeling I get after coming home a year after being on the road. My marriage is still in question, but what’s new? And aside from spending my free time in the ocean, I’m already feeling restless and bored. Things are taking shape though. Things I’m still trying to understand. Things that blow my mind if I ponder them too much. But the band is doing well and Stacy is a nice addition, a nice replacement for the psycho Velvet. I had asked Lisa to go on tour with us, but she declined because she didn’t want to leave her newly found secretarial job. Whatever man. She says she needs something to fall back on just in case our marriage fails…again. Whatever. Tonight, the wind is a little too windy, and as I contemplate making my way towards the ocean, I hesitate due to a bad vibe in the air. I never hesitate. What’s my deal? Maybe I should give Ashley a call.
The place was packed as always, and instead of waiting in the long line gathered out front, I made my way to the back door and followed the stairs down until I was met by one of Casper’s bouncers. He quickly recognized who I was and let me pass on through. I followed the winding, dark and smoky, hallway which was always congested with the horny and drug-induced patrons of Casper’s place, until I reached the backstage area. Where scantly dressed women and drunk musicians usually congregate in abundance, the backstage area was deserted except for Limbo Diver and a few unknown stragglers.
“Ashley, there you are.”
Michael rose to greet me and welcomed me with a hearty embrace while telling me how much he missed me.
“Sit down, have a drink, we have a lot of catching up to do.”
A beer was placed before me. I lit a cigarette and said my hello’s to the rest of the band. Billy looked a bit under the weather but happy to be home. Stacy and Ty greeted me with hugs and then continued on with their heated debate that I had interrupted.
“Yeah, so Lisa’s dad was at my place when I got home. Can you believe that shit? He wanted to talk to me about a fire that was started in a trailer park in Lafitte outside of New Orleans. Who the fuck does he think he is questioning me like that, like I had something to do with it.” He lights a cigarette and takes a swig off his beer. “Anyway, now Lisa’s all pissed off because I was rude to her dad. Whatever man, I’m sick of dealing with this shit. So, what’ve you been up to?”
“Uh, same old shit, I guess. Trying to sell my art and keep Timothy out of trouble.”
“How’s he doing?”
“Okay, I guess. I never really know with him. He keeps me guessing.”
“Yeah, he’s quite a kid.”
I’m not sure what that comment was supposed to mean, but I figured it was just something he said because he couldn’t think of anything else. Uncomfortable about talking about Timothy, I changed the subject.
“So, who did you get a call from?”
“What?”
“Before your phone cut off, you mentioned a phone call.”
“Oh yeah, get this. Christian called me. I don’t know how the hell he got my number, probably Velvet, but he actually fucking called me. Unfucking believable.”
“What did he say?”
“Oh, he rambled on about the fact that we’re brothers and we should be on the same side, like that’s fucking possible. Boy, he sure does have a short memory, smoke another one my friend, you still have some brain cells left. The nerve of that asshole.”
“Is that all?”
“What the fuck do you mean is that all, what did you expect?”
“I don’t know, nothing.”
“What?”
“No, it’s nothing. It’s actually kind of funny. Ricky was talking some weird shit earlier today, I thought maybe he called you or something.”
“Ricky? Why would Ricky call me?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know? Well, what was he saying?”
Bored and Bothered
(Bothered and Bored)
June 15, 2004
Almost out again and at a loss as to where my next shipment will come from. I hope it will come from somewhere soon. Aware of myself again and much too distracted by the future, I continue struggling to recover my groove. My brain is lazy and polluted with practicality and negativity. Open your mind. Open your mind. Open your mind. Idealism is hard to hold onto. I’ve been trying too hard, but I’m restless, and doubtful, and desperate. I’m too dependent on too many things and constantly feeding my wants and acquired likings, I am now guilty of over-indulgence, which has inevitably led to boredom. I’m bored again.
Bothered
I often think about your death and how I’ll feel when it happens. There is much I would like to say to you, but what would be the point of such a bother? I have bitter love for you, you’re lucky I have any love at all. You’re lucky in so many ways, and I’m fucked for life.
Bashing Burroughs
Whatever the day may hold, no worries, I’ll get by no matter what is revealed. Sucked in and unamused, it’s nice to take a break from the institution. Age is fast becoming irrelevant, and I figure I’ll get there when I get there.
I can’t wait to get out of here and go somewhere else. I can’t wait to come to an end to start another beginning. I can’t wait to meet you, wherever or whoever you are.
Burroughs killed his wife and became a famous writer. I tried reading two of his books, Naked Lunch and Junkie. Couldn’t get through either one. I’ve come to the conclusion, that, although I love the Beats, I am not a Burroughs fan. Perhaps I’ve overlooked his talent, but I am not impressed by his writing or who he was as a human being.
Fuck This Pen
June 16, 2004
Three members of Generation Y sit outside my bedroom window playing their Game Boys and cell phones. I am disconnected. Happily disconnected.
I realize tonight how much I need to nurture my love for the road. Too content with familiarity, I need to be among unfamiliar land.
Looking for closing words to sum up a three-year span. A three-year span gone mostly unrecorded and altogether ignored. Altogether uneventful. Uneventful and forgotten.
Finally
(Three Years)
June 18, 2004
Searching again for my poet’s eye, I look to the Beats for inspiration.
At 2:30 in the morning, I walked outside to have a cigarette and was amazed, although not for the first time, at how loud and alive the backyard was. Seated in the middle of a swamp, I took drag after drag trying to identify each sound.
I was standing in the living room by the sliding glass door waiting to let Sadie in from outside. She must not have been looking or thinking because she ran right into it. I was facing the other way, but I heard a loud thump, and turned around to see my dog backing away from the door, slightly dazed.
Well, it’s about damn time!
The Apple and the birdcage 