Carry a big stick…
I don’t know what to write. School has over-taken my life, and although I am thrilled to take part in the field of academics, nothing else in my life is happening. This summer is going to change everything, but as of now I am reluctant to even talk about this up and coming adventure, maybe because it’s just too overwhelming. I have stayed in one place much too long, which, unfortunately, makes it more difficult to leave. Security, familiarity, redundancy – I wish I could be content with everyday life.
Back for More
January 4, 2000 (2:14 am)
I am beginning to see what all of these melodies mean. Stranded again under the fist of time, but it is useless to struggle for his grasp will only tighten. These days it has been less about me and more about everything else for this is where meaningful material is first conceived. I have come to a new understanding for plastic trees and rubber knees that I used to look upon as sensationalized commodities. It is true that everything happens for a reason, but this is not an excuse for lazy lifestyles for we have all been given the power to change. It is simple. It is complicated…
I am addicted to journal writing. At the end of the last one it was conceded that I would not be starting a new journal, and if I’m not mistaken, I have recorded that very same sentence before. One of these days there will be more to write about. My next choice of destination is Seattle. Once again, my friends and I have been discussing future plans to travel there in late August. There is a Twin Peaks festival being held there and tickets for this event will seize to be sold after March 1. The tickets alone cost $180, and after we purchase them there will be no turning back, but we have yet to order them. I already have the money in the bank, I’m just waiting on them. I’ll keep you informed. School starts up in a couple of weeks and I still have yet to register. I’ll get around to doing it soon enough, I suppose. I love my new journal. It’s much bigger than all the others. Hopefully it will be a good one.
Cabbage Patch Kids, Hula Hoops, Rubik’s Cube, Twister, coloring books, Pound Puppies, My Little Pony, Smurf cereal, Zilker Park… my life as a child in Austin.
Wasted Ink
January 9, 2000 (3:25 pm)
The thought of living outside the state of Texas is something I would like more than anything, but sometimes it can be a difficult concept to grasp. It’s true what they say about Texas being a country of its own. Not that we still ride around on horses wearing spurs and holsters (well, some of us do) this is just a big fucking state. You can drive for 48 hours straight and still not be out of Texas. I’ve lived here for 22 years and have yet to visit certain places or see all the “wonderful” sights. In 97’ my friends and I took a two week vacation traveling through New Mexico, Arizona, California, and Nevada and it was on this excursion that I realized how foreign the rest of America was to me, but about a week on the road I found myself sitting in the backseat chanting the word “Houston” in my head over and over again until the once familiar word became absurd to me, and the actual place then became foreign as California (being a word and location) began to make sense. It is true that you cannot leave the past behind, but the power of a new start, a new location, and a new identity is the antidote I had been searching for.
The spring semester starts next Tuesday, and although I am excited about going back to school after a year of working a brain dead job, I am reluctant to commit myself to this place for another five months. My plans of transferring to San Marcos to finish off college are practical, and it would be better than living in Houston (hell is better) but how much more difficult would it be to transfer to a different state? God, these words have been exploited for four years now and under the same roof I sit at the beginning of another journal. When will I lose interest? As you probably might have guessed, that Seattle thing will most likely not happen. My friends are slackers as I am as well, but we have our excuses for what it’s worth.
“I had the biggest shit-eating smile on my face as we passed the state line into Southern California. My friends had fallen victim to sleep but I could have driven all night.” – Next Stop Hollywood –
Freckle Bugs
January 11, 2000
“I think this day I will remember.”
Winter has been made a fool today. Outside the sun is shining with mockery chasing away northern clouds that threatened a much-needed rain.
Suspended in September
January 16, 2000 (8:13 pm)
Remember when we used to walk down to the docks to get away from life? For hours we sat under that bridge talking about our dreams and crying about our current situations. I need that now. Tonight is hard to handle when the past repeats itself and the future already decided. I am finding it hard to deal with sensitive feelings that are looking to me for explanations. Keep it to yourself. Suppress. Deny. Keep it together. I wish you were here to walk with me for miles and lend that ear that I used to take for granted. I wish you were here to throw glass bottles with me against graffitied concrete over and over again until the last of our hidden rage was exhaled. I know this now that I could have been a better friend that you were counting on in the end. How did you know it was time? I wish I could have been home when your last phone call dialed my numbers the night before you…
The night before now six years ago but I’ve been meaning to write this letter. I have been selfish today and yesterday as well, but I need time to myself in moments like this. I need time to myself for hours on end. With instinct I grew numb just as they said I would, but this year I am still not gone and the numbness has slipped away leaving me suspended in September. In dreams I have seen your smile smiling back at me as if my mind had been playing tricks again and your heart never missed that beat. Tonight I feel like walking to the street where magnolias bend, but my feet remain planted in an empty backyard fenced in.
–To Julie-
Smile Again
(Letter to River Phoenix)
April 2000
I supposed I should be studying for up and coming tests that plague my new college life, but I stumbled upon a page while surfing the net. Every single picture that you took without your shirt on was crammed into this webpage. They even have the picture of you in your coffin. I emailed this asshole telling him to “fuck off” knowing good and well that my reaction was probably his intention, but I couldn’t help myself. You wouldn’t believe the things they said.
Smile again for we hold you within, and these assholes are killing themselves. God’s green earth was a fad. Fur is back on the runways, and clean air would probably strangle our polluted lungs. We are still doing our part. Lyrics are still being sung in your name by friends you had touched in your life. So, I guess these assholes are killing themselves and us, but maybe you already knew this. Maybe you already knew the things they’d say.
Feeling Quite Smart
February 2000
It is at times like this that I no longer feel the need to fear myself. Whether it be a moment of realization or a mellowness brought on by chemicals, I can see where I exist and am able to exercise that much needed frame of mind. It is too easy to doubt myself. Why is that? What is the point? All this talk about saving the world, finding truth, and capturing happiness will prove useless if I keep feeding myself bullshit.
April 16, 2000 (2:00 am)
My grades have been remarkable this semester. I’ve amazed myself. They haven’t been all “A’s” though a good majority have. I’m into the college thing now more than I ever have been in the past, but my personal writings have become sparse. I bought RHCP tickets for their show in Austin this May and I’ve also got Cure tickets for June. That $1000 I put back before quitting my job sure has come in handy. Oh yeah, remind me to tell you about Beth. She’s not dead after all.
In One Place Too Long
March 9, 2000 (4:25 am)
I got kicked out of my room due to family this weekend, and, feeling the need to be alone, I jumped in my car and just started driving. Sunday night means nothing to Humble traffic as I found myself sitting through another green light gone bad due to trucks and minivans blocking the intersection, but I did not grow irritated for I had nowhere to go.
Memory lane was a straight shot down 1960 and I followed it all the way down to the big “A.” Much of the old neighborhood had changed as rows of trees had been transformed into rows of apartment complexes, but the landmark of Atascocita still sat proudly, cemented into the ground and looking the exact same way it did when I first laid eyes on it ten years ago. I drove by the old house and had to circle around because (as it always happens) someone was behind me denying me the chance to linger. I could still see myself sitting on the curb smoking a cigarette at the fragile age of twelve underneath that street sign that still reads “Magnolia Bend.” I wonder how many of those exist.
I drove around for about an hour toking off my one-hitter and pondering the concept of time. I was babbling to myself about how, at the age of thirteen, I never would have seen myself driving around the Jr. High like a fucking tourist, or how ironic past conversations, adolescent attitudes and student half days are to me now. I drove by my best friend’s house who died about six years ago. Why do we do this to ourselves? What is the point? The past that I remembered down memory lane was the past I already knew.
“Most of the afternoon was spent watching a fat man in suspenders trying to fly a pink kite.”
March 31, 2000 (3:00 am)
These nervous habits worsen when the scenery fails to change. When I can’t breathe I smoke too much and when I can’t pay I spend too much. Life in my early twenties seems more like a cliché than the best years of my life. It’s okay, I won’t start whining, I’m just bored and ready to be anywhere than here.
Wooden Floors
April 21, 2000 (12:10 am)
I’m in Bay City right now trying out my cousin’s multiple colored pens. This one writes like a dream.
Okay, here’s another one, Liquid Express. The color is green.
Bob Dylan’s Greatest Hits VII is creating a mood. This is a much needed fix since I left my most favored album “The Free Wheelin’ Bob” at work my last day there, and believe me, I’m not going back to retrieve it.
I’m hanging out with the family, I guess you could call it a kind of Cousin Reunion for the Easter holidays. The four of us are all twenty-something freelancers making money by going to college or doing temporary jobs wherever and whenever they pop up.
This is the kind of writing that records any meaningless thoughts that venture into existence. Whether it is done to take up room, kill boredom, or fulfill some need for accomplishment, at least it is something.
So, I have about two more weeks left in my philosophy class and I have taken the view many others have taken – there is no such thing as nothing because acknowledging “nothing” would make it something. Green is the ending.
Green Envy
April 22, 2000 (12:25 am)
Inside the bubble eighteen year old kids fresh out of high school plague the college campus. Some can be seen sporting pants that look more like a dress with legs. Outside smoking a cigarette, I overheard various conversations about monthly trips to Hawaii. Their plans for spring break consisted of taking a train from Italy to Amsterdam, and they were bitching about the accommodations on the train being shitty. They knew this because of the last trip they took last spring break.
Rich people are really starting to piss me off. My lifelong dream is what these people do in their leisurely time. It’s not their fault, I would take advantage of it too if my parents were loaded. It just seems like some of these toe-heads take their privileges for granted. Is it me or have cell phones, beepers and laptops become way too popular these days? At my house we don’t even have call waiting. I find myself to be old-fashioned at the age of twenty-three. Finals are coming up in two weeks and I haven’t decided if I’m going to take summer classes. My thoughts are looking to the annual New Mexico reunion this July, but a lack of money may cancel plans this year.
Corner Spot
April 23, 2000 (3:00 am)
Should we believe in what is here if we are not around to witness? If we arrive at halfway only to arrive at halfway of halfway, will we ever arrive at our destination? What is the point of our existence (if we actually do exist) if there is an “evil will” that abolishes any chance of freedom?
Theatrical posters pinned to the wall possess backwards titles and subtexts that belong to the other side of the mirror.
To my right, a joint is being rolled that must satisfy six dope friendly friends. Well, friends from mutual interests, similar situations, and present surroundings.
What in the world are we doing here all gathered together in an imperfect circle? Various pairs of red eyes come into view now and then from the thick blanket of smoke that blurs average vision. Which conversation do I join? The joint makes it around about twice which hardly seems worth it to a daily smoker. What time is it anyway? My wrist watch sets off a silent alarm as my body rises to dismiss itself. Now I know why no one agrees in philosophy for the world is what you believe it to be.
Chicken Feed
April 24, 2000 (3:03 am)
No one knows how anyone is feeling. Most of the time it’s hard to find someone who even cares. I have found myself thinking of tasks that need to be accomplished throughout the course of the day while a friend sits shoulder to shoulder spilling out their guts to me. To behold selfishness for what it truly is places this ugly trait in the possession of every single living soul, but we cannot deny ourselves all the time.
Today was one of those me days, but after my scrimmages were won, that oh so familiar guilt wandered out of the woodwork. I love the times when there is nothing to feel. It is better to be happy than to feel happy, or to be alive rather than feel alive. Why must we complicate every little thing we come into contact with? It seems that society is obsessed with details, even if those details are a falsity created to please (or displease) the masses. On a good day none of this matters because the world seems to shine when seen through smiling eyes, but these same eyes have been hypnotized, and with the drop of a hat, like the sound of a snap, they will see precisely what they have been told to see.
Carrying a Heavy Burden on my Shoulders
May 15, 2000 (1:30 am)
Strong accusations have been made and I am not sure how to handle this situation. I am finding it hard to find what never needed to be found before. My mind has matured since those younger days – something I never thought would happen. Maybe my love is habitual, and after having been introduced to a problematic situation, maybe it is time to evolve. At thirteen I never thought about “long-run” consequences that might come to a surface in the future, but here we are at the threshold of one of those consequences.
There are some things that I feel I may never speak aloud. At this point, I have never even written those secrets down, nor will I ever. I can’t. For myself, for him, for her, for them, I can’t. What I really want to do is play ignorant which is unusual for my personality. But what you don’t understand is that most people would rather not hear the truth no matter how much they think they would. We no longer live within a circle, and I feel I know more strangers now than I do friends. Some secrets, true secrets, are secrets for a reason.
Letter to a Life Long Friend,
This Thursday you will be traveling west away from the big city that you hate so much. I guess it really is eye for an eye. So, I tell you that I think you’re running away, but of course your words deny mine. In the past I have confessed to my journals about my fear of being left behind. This fear contributes to any and all aspects of my life, but in this case it is physical. I’m staying behind with the big city while you will be traveling towards my destination. I guess it doesn’t matter anymore. Well, I’ve learned that I can’t change people, but you changed me for better or for worse. At this point in my life I am at a love/hate relationship with you. I never thought it would be like this. Maybe I can work through it in my head like I have always done in the past, or maybe the past is too much for me to handle. I think you know where I’m coming from and I know you know where I’ve been. I’m giving myself time to come to terms. I guess I should have never grown up, huh?
Yours Truly
Mona Lisa’s Revenge
June 1, 2000 (12:00 am)
A reversal of the poles has left my feet grounded when they should be walking on the sky. I see that look in her eyes that tells me she knows, but I cannot be sure for there is much that I myself did not know. Together we have lived in an insane world, and at the end of another frayed end, I have come to realize a cycle that we keep recycling.
He is said to be guilty of the “Mona Lisa Disease.” Some cannot find sexual pleasure unless it is sinful, out of the ordinary, or just plain sick. She told me that sometimes she would wake up in the middle of the night and find him sitting down by her bed watching her sleep. She said she could see “that look” in his eye before he made excuses like he was just looking for his cigarettes before dismissing himself from the room. I am still coming to terms with the “dreaded past,” but I know what I will never do. There is an unspoken bond that lies between us, and with this bond we have taken an unspoken oath of silence.
Updated
June 2, 2000 (2:26 am)
I am having another one of those artistic blocks. For the last six months my mind has been deeply involved in academics. I made three “A’s” and one “B” for the spring semester which ain’t too bad, but my GPA is still only at 2.9 because of that one bad semester. You know the one, everybody has one. My journal writings have been sparse but then there hasn’t really been anything worth writing about.
It has been a full year since my last excursion outside the boundaries of the dreadfully big Lone Star State. Did I tell you about these rich bastards I attend college with? They take monthly trips to Hawaii! These kids are eighteen at the most. Wait, I think I did mention that. So far, the year 2000 kinda sucks. I have no money to do anything because I quit my job for school. Now, school is my life yet I still have no idea what or where I’m working towards. I’m taking Photography I and Drawing I this fall semester so hopefully I will be inspired again.
Ozone Warning
June 3, 2000 (2:26 am)
Outside, the thick muggy air is strangling any kind of life that tries to breathe. The trees have a slight droop, but it is the stillness that makes them look sick. I spent the day inside, but the potency of this unfiltered air reeked through the cracks of my harbor.
My reluctance to go, see or do has been holding me back in more ways than one. Procrastination has me staying in bed until two or three in the afternoon, and even when I am up I might as well be asleep. I think I’ve been smoking too much pot.
Somewhere between recovering and relapsing we walk amongst each other with objective stares and gestures. There appears to be no “real truth” here for it is only a matter of one individual’s opinion. It seems that we shall forever be biding our time on the road to recovery.
Zoning
June 4, 2000 (2:32 am)
The stars appear to be passing me by somewhere between here and there. I am laying low in the backseat looking out the back window trying to keep up with the Milky Way. Radio frequencies throw us out of bounds but the grooves in the road keep a constant rhythm hypnotizing my mood. The driver in the front seat is miles away from me until her window cracks and the flick of a Bic breaks my elusive trance. I join her for a cigarette but few words are spoken as she too has drifted away into the depths of our midnight highway.
Aging
So now that you’re in your twenties you either have a full-time job (maybe two) or you’re a full-time student. If you’re doing both than you are, without a doubt, an over-achiever. As of now, thirty is the due date, but if a career or an opportunity hasn’t popped up by then, give yourself another ten years.
I Have a Degree in Bullshit
June 6, 2000
I don’t know what I’m doing. The only reason I went back to school was because I didn’t want to work anymore. The summer seems to be dragging by and it’s not even July yet. My self-set goals keep getting pushed back and now I’m beginning to wonder if they even exist anymore. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. The want and the need to leave home to do what I want to do, be who I want to be, go where I want to go, and see what I want to see are there but I just can’t find the drive. I have been sucked deep into the depths of security where life becomes meaningless and drone. Every day it’s the same thing, the same worries, the same reactions, until sleep dismisses me and I’m able to escape to a different life. But even dreams have become reoccurring.
I still don’t know if I give a shit about college but as a precaution to feeling like a full-fledged slacker, I go. I don’t know if I’m suffering from depression, or laziness, or if I’ve just lost direction for a moment. Maybe my problem is that I just don’t know how to go out there and get what I want. This is another one of those nights spent locked away in my room smoking cigarette after cigarette while pondering the obstacles in my path. I have been hiding from the sun and neglecting the spirits of the beach.
June 8, 2000 (11:46 pm)
There is nothing worse than being at the climax of a self-induced pity party and having someone tell you about all those people out there who are so much less fortunate than yourself, and to be thankful for what you have. Of course you already know this bit of information, and you know they’re right, but being reminded never seems to help the situation. In fact, it only makes matters worse for now you’re not only depressed, but you’ve also got this terrible feeling of guilt resting on your shoulders. Tomorrow morning I will, for a second time, be taking the math part of the TASP test. I failed it the first time and I give myself a 50/50 chance of passing it this time. It just doesn’t seem important.
A Trip to the Menil
June 19, 2000 (3:35 am)
20th Century sculptures mock the Catholic religion with undertones of an unknown artist’s painful fall from grace. One such figure sits before me dressed like a high priest with a monkey on his lap and a book in his left hand. The title of the book reads “On the Origin of Species” a piece of work I am familiar with written by Charles Darwin himself. The priest is hunched over in his chair as if he were in a great deal of physical pain. His clothing was tattered and torn and drooped over his decrepit body, but it was his face that most disturbed me. Pain and anguish saturated his features. His mouth was open letting his jaw hang heavily in the still air of the museum. The wrinkles covering his face cut deep and his eyes were focused downward squinting to see. The priest was surely knocking on death’s door, but it was not his condition that troubled him. The monkey seated in his lap looked halfway decayed much the like priest did himself. His left hand clutched the book of Darwin closed while he sat waiting.
In Remembrance of the Houston Post
June 30, 2000
Is this really how you want your days to be remembered? The day doesn’t even start until about three in the afternoon, and then another two hours are spent watching TV on the couch. Nightfall creeps up shortly after and this time is spent smoking weed and fucking around on the computer until an undying craving for food takes over and directs the body towards the kitchen. Time for another cigarette. Time to smoke some more weed. Maybe take a shower; maybe not.
Here’s My Card
Three days and three nights and here I am where I was. Looking inside again to see who’s acting up, and all this time I thought it you. But the hour is as late as it is early for my tomorrow is your today and predictions of a week-long hazardous ozone has me indoors squinting from the glare of the July sun. Would it be okay for me to sleep my life away forgetting about the growing collection of rolled up newspapers on my driveway? Grass that was once green is growing back brown.
So this is Where He Found Them
July 8, 2000
The sound produced after incoming planes landed reminded me of Stephen King’s movie The Langoliers. I’m not sure what the exact scientific explanation is for this phenomena, but it sounds much like wind rattling through paper. There’s this place where you can go next to the airport to watch the planes come in. It’s a big open field surrounded by a forest in the near distance. If you’ve seen the movie than you know what I’m talking about, if you haven’t, it’s not a big deal, just go rent it. Each time I heard it I looked up to the sky expecting to see something, but there is nothing there. It only happens after a jumbo jet has landed or a plane of equal volume. The sound comes in a wave traveling through the invisible air, gaining strength the closer it gets. Sometimes whirlwinds of dirt also form, which is also a fascinating phenomenon to me. I’ve sat out there for hours before, just sitting on the hood of my car watching the lights in the distance get closer, waiting for the arrival of the langoliers.
Check Your Vitals
July 4, 2000
Two words: Big Springs. Jaren and I left Thursday morning at 4:30am from Houston expecting to travel straight through to Tucumcari, New Mexico for his family reunion. Just three hours into the trip, somewhere along the outskirts of Ft. Worth, our 86’ Lincoln began to overheat in the driveway of the bank we had stopped at. Smoke was coming out from under the hood, and when we got out of the car to see what was wrong, we saw a massive amount of antifreeze leaking down the sidewalk. There was a garage about five miles down the road so we chanced burning up the engine and took the car there.
We got to Ft. Worth at about nine and we didn’t make it out of there until around three. Thirty minutes after being back on the road, the car starts to overheat again and we are forced to pull over a second time. Stranded under a bridge in some podunk town called Adina, we sweltered in the hot Texas sun, pissed off, tired, and wondering what we were going to do. We sat there for a little over an hour waiting for the car to cool so we could look under the hood and see what had happened.
Back in Ft. Worth the mechanic replaced the thermostat, but told us that the car still had two more leaks. Thinking that he was just trying to rip us off, we disregarded his warning. After the car cooled off a tad bit, we pulled into the nearest gas station where we would remain for the next two and a half hours. There was actually no shade to park in this time. I sat in the car dowsing myself with cold water while Jaren made phone call after phone call coming up dry on all ends. The sign up ahead of us faithfully displayed the time and temperature outside fluctuating between 109 degrees to 111. We sat stranded, waiting for the car to cool down once again so we could take it to another nearby garage, probably the only one in town. Three vultures circled around in the sky above and I actually cracked a joke about them waiting for us. A few rain clouds began to form and I found myself trying to mentally pursue, or subliminally send messages to Mother Nature herself to let down her guard and invite the tears to flow. She wasn’t cooperating.
It was now 5:30 and the garage, we were told, closed at six. With the temperature gauge still riding high, and a cavalry nowhere in sight, we finally decided to take it to the garage and ask them if they could at least look at it and tell us what was wrong. Given bad directions from the locals, we located the garage down some dirt road ten minutes before closing. After telling two mechanics our situation, they told us that they were about to close and don’t open back up until Monday. Where do people get the saying “good ole’ southern hospitality” anyway? Feeling quite rejected, I went back to the car while Jaren continued to talk to them and convince them into at least glancing under the hood. I sat on the back of the car feeling like we had just stepped foot into the beginning of some horror movie – two city folks stranded because of car trouble in some backwoods town until Monday. What kind of things went on here?
My ponderings were suddenly interrupted by a bolt of lightning that struck so close I could hear popping and fizzling. I swear to you, I think it hit maybe about three feet away from me. I high-tailed it into the passenger’s seat expecting more bolts to follow, but they didn’t. What did follow was a downpour of cold, refreshing rain. It was the fat kind that soaks you after only a few drops. Immediately I jumped out of the car and just stood there with my arms outstretched laughing as five other people came running out to their cars to roll up their windows. I felt like twirling around in circles and dancing, but about that time, Jaren came walking out to the car with a friend of one of the mechanics. The three of us were the only ones still standing outside in the rain, and while I said my thank-you to Mother Nature, Jaren and this other guy were looking under the hood.
“You don’t got no water in it,” he said.
“What? But we just got it out of the shop, surely they put water in it.”
“Nope.” They didn’t, and after pouring two gallons of water in it, the temperature gauge went way back down to normal. We decided to spend the night in Big Springs because we were too tired to keep going. The three and a half hour trip to Big Springs was hard enough as it was.
I had been up for 24 hours so when we finally did hit Big Springs, I was actually happy to see it. That was yesterday. Today, I hate this place as much as I always have. I was awaken at eight this morning by Jaren so we could get an early start and it is now midnight and we’re still in Big Springs. This morning when we woke up and went to the car we noticed that it was still leaking antifreeze. Turns out the water pump needs to be replaced, and because of the curse of any small town, no garage is open on the weekend. Jaren went down to buy the part and is still trying to install it this very minute. We missed the family reunion but we are still planning on driving up to Santa Fe ASAP, which is the only reason I came on this trip in the first freakin’ place.
Them are Mountains in Those Clouds
July 15, 2000
I’m up in the mountains in Santa Fe praying that my tent doesn’t collapse and fly away. We decided to camp out for the night at the Chatooga Indian Reservation campground. It is absolutely amazing up here. There truly is nothing like watching a thunderstorm roll in from the mountains. Jaren is asleep in the car but I decided to tough it out in the tent. The rain has let up but the wind and lightning have yet to die down. I’m going on thirty-five hours without sleep, and amazingly enough, I am still not ready for bed. Being up here uninhibited, braving the weather is too exhilarating for me to just ignore and give in to wasting my time sleeping.
In about fifteen more minutes, the landscape will become pitch black with no light from the moon or stars as they are hidden behind stormy weather. This is the perfect time to smoke a joint when I am left alone on a night like this, in the mountains of New Mexico no less, with nothing else to do but write. I’m using an old beer can left behind by the last campers as an ashtray. There’s a haze of smoke in the beam of my flashlight, and upon gazing into it, I noticed the wonderful setting the beam of light has made for shadow puppets.
Abandon Ship
July 16, 2000
As you might have guessed, we finally got the car started and as soon as we did, we left for New Mexico at 4:30 in the morning. I’m seeing a pattern. Last night, just as I was about to doze off, the tent collapsed on me. An extremely bad wind storm blew in and I found myself panicking, trying to find the flap on the tent so I could make my escape. I spent the rest of the night in the backseat of the car exhausted from trying to save the tent my friend loaned me from getting blown off the top of the mountain. I cursed myself for tying the knots as tight as I did. The wind kept blowing my shirt up over my head making the task that much harder. I think the Indians called this type of storm up in the mountains in this season a monsoon.
Today we traveled through Albuquerque, and I went to the university to pick up info about transferring, tuition, degrees, etc. It is a beautiful campus, and like any university, there was the main drag where all the shops are. This campus is off a street called Central. I have noticed that most college towns tend to be a bit trendy, and driving down Central I noticed that it was not excluded, but for some reason it wasn’t a turn off. Granted, VW vans were in abundance, I think I counted at least twenty, but I have to admit I found it rather appealing. Actually, in all honesty, I love this place. The atmosphere seems inviting, and all the locals that I came into contact with were extremely nice people. I wonder if they know how lucky they are.
Greener Pastures
July 17, 2000
If you’re looking for seclusion for your camping pleasure, Red Canyon is the place to be. It is two hours outside of Albuquerque and about 8,000 ft up in the wooded mountains. This was my first time to camp out in a forest, and I must admit, I was wishing for at least one nearby neighbor. The moon was full as my traveling pal and I sat in the cold mountain air discussing what to do if approached by a wild animal. If it’s a bear, don’t stare it in the eyes, and talk softly. If it’s a cougar, do look it in the eyes and use a backpack, sleeping bag, or something big to hold above your head. If it’s a pack of wolves you’re screwed.
After we downed a few beers, we developed enough courage, even going so far as to leaving our flashlight behind, to find a place to piss. I feel like I can do anything out in the wilderness. Life doesn’t seem as intimidating giving me insight with the knowledge that I can conquer anything life hands me. I was talking with one of the locals at a convenience store in a small town called Mountain Air gathering camping supplies, and she asked me what I was doing in New Mexico. I simply replied that I just love it out here, and she looked at me as if I had just told her that I was an alien from Mars. “Why?” she asked with cynicism, disbelief and mockery in her voice. I asked her if she had ever been to Houston.
Quiet Time
July 18, 2000
The campfire has me in a trance. I am keeping a watchful eye out for the resident bear that likes to raid the dumpsters for an easy meal. The stars are not as abundant as usual, because of cloud coverage, as usual. Of all the places I’ve been to in New Mexico, Ruidoso is still my favorite. On occasion, my miracle fire turns on me, throwing sparks in my face and smoldering smoke in my eyes. Driving into Ruidoso, I recognized the mountains that lay ahead, and the mountains remembered me as well. To put it bluntly, I knew I was home. I was listening to the radio earlier and the DJ was talking about how some people work two to three jobs just to live here. I don’t blame them.
The sound of a bear’s cry is bellowing in the nearby distance. It is a very distinct sound, and although I would love to catch sight of him, there’s another part of me half tempted to go sit in the car. The temperature outside is on a steady decline as my body begins to shiver, but this is exactly what I wanted. Back in Houston, it is probably about 90 degrees outside at this time of night, while it is about fifty degrees here. The bear’s cry is fading off into the distance and my fire is burning its last log. Something is walking around my tent and I’m cursing myself for carelessly setting my flashlight down without remembering where I put it. A masked creature is circling around my camp, totally non-threatened by my presence. He is eating morsels of food around the picnic table which worries me because the dumpsters were empty the last time I checked, but as far as fear goes, walking around Houston vulnerable to getting raped, mugged, and murdered seems to be more of a threat to me than wild animals. On the other hand, there is nothing worse than a hungry bear.
It is quiet time at the West Lake campgrounds, and although the place is pretty well-populated tonight, my fire is the only one still burning. I have written more in the past four days than I have in the past three months. It would be too much of an understatement to say I am having a wonderful time. Despite annoyances that seem to pop up on a daily basis, I am on top of the world both mentally and physically.
Pondering in Ponderosa
July 19, 2000
The land here is ever-changing. In the shade I am searching for the sun, and in the sun I am searching for the shade. A cool breeze was blowing off the lake while my friend sat patiently waiting for the trout to bite. Tomorrow we shall be heading home, and as always, we are talking and planning for a way to call this place home. We decided to get a hotel room tonight, and I must admit, I’m enjoying just sitting back and watching TV under a roof. It was fifty dollars for a two bedroom cabin for one night. Not too shabby considering it’s the same price for a room at Motel 6. There’s no air conditioner in the cabin, not because they’re cheap, you just don’t really need one out here. My skin is pink from sitting in the sun by the lake which is what I was trying to accomplish. My suitcase is filled with various types of rocks and minerals I picked up along the way.
Besides taking home memories, there is always that need to bring back just a little more, or as much as possible. I am trying not to think about tomorrow, and as the television continues to hold my undivided attention, I can feel my eyes become heavy. This is the last night, make it last as long as possible. Programs like The Simpsons, where the town of Springfield trips on peyote in the episode, South Park, a special biography on River Phoenix, and a RHCP concert on MTV have been passing the time away, but damn, that’s some good TV watching.
Jaren went to the casino, and if things go right, our trip might not have to come to an end, but that’s a real slim chance. From open plains, to endless plateaus, to rolling hills, to jagged mountains, I find that my hunger for more geologic knowledge is too intense to be ignored, but then again, that’s a whole lot of school. Oh yeah, by the way, I chickened out last night and ended up sleeping in the car instead of the tent once again. I don’t know if it was the joint that made me paranoid or if my imagination was working overtime, but I finally gave in to fear. Like I said, I’m happy to be under a roof tonight but the wilderness does not have me conquered. A week on the road has annihilated my writer’s block, and as reality lies just around the corner, I must pump myself up for sweltering heat and planted feet. This is where the trail ends, but I am holding it all in and putting that last breath of fresh mountain air on reserve until my lungs can no longer stand it.
Coasting Across the State Line Losing an Hour
July 20, 2000
I guess I’ll just keep writing until I get it all out. We’re back in Big Springs taking a breather before driving that last nine hours into Houston. Looking back at the past five days, I still haven’t found the right way to express my experiences. Sometimes writing isn’t enough. I would like to be able to put it into music, or a painted canvas, or some magnificent sculpture. What would we do without art? I’m listening to REM’s “Don’t go back to Rockville” and relating to every single lyric Michael Stipe sings, changing “Rockville” to “Houston” as I sing along. There is nothing worse than the end of a vacation, but what have I been vacationing from?
I was thinking about going back to my old job at A2D Technologies, but who knows if I’ll find the courage to actually pick up the phone. They told me I always had a job there but I have to remind myself that I quit for a reason. Nonetheless, my savings are running low and financial aid doesn’t even cover all my books. Ah, it has already begun. Gotta get some money, go back to school, get my shit published, do something with my life, but none of this matters when you’re 8,000 ft high camping out under the stars and the full moon in an isolated forest watching the world fly by in an angry rush. People are cursing and honking their horns because some asshole is blocking the intersection and they’re forced to sit still at a green light hoping to get to the bank on time to deposit a check that has already been spent. The highway who was once my friend shows me his other side which points to the east, and from where I am sitting, it is downhill from here on out.
Seek Shelter in a Cave
July 26, 2000
The sunlight is very bright during the daytime. Outside, the grass has been burnt to a crisp, and for the time being, it has been made illegal to give it water. Yes, I am now certain that I have returned, but unlike the old Lindsay, I am keeping my head in the clouded mountaintops even though, technically, I am below sea level. The worst thing you can do when you’ve just returned home from vacation is check the mail, but eventually it is a dirty deed that must be dealt with. My financial aid for the fall semester came in, kind of, at least the letter arrived stating that I have no financial aid. Apparently I make too much money at the job I don’t have to receive a Pell Grant, but since it goes by my earnings last year I got denied. Arrrggghhhh!!#..!!!#!!!! The system makes absolutely no sense to me. Last semester I at least got $500 from financial aid, and that was after I had just quit my job of two years.
While I was in the mountains I noticed a cave that was hidden deep in the blanket of trees that covered the steep mountainside, and although I attempted hiking my way up to get a better view, the terrain was much too rugged for my foam sandals, but I shall carry the knowledge of its existence with me like an exploited secret. At times when the world seems to spin out of control I can look to the cave for reassurance that there is more to life than aggravated annoyances, irritating irony, and outdated road blocks. Until we meet again I am making the best of my time by taking walks with a friend in the nearby park, or staying poolside while the sun relentlessly continues to bake my now golden shell.
Keepin’ It Real
Countless phrases of useless information wreak havoc while leaking gibberish out of every single pore. These seven-lettered words crammed into half a sentence sound much more sophisticated than they actually are. It is easy to make something sound good but the finished material will be complete shit if there is no meaning behind it. This is something we must all watch for while keeping in mind that just because we don’t understand it does not mean that there is nothing to understand.
Chain Smokers Union
July 27, 2000
In the background a weeping willow weeps while three Frenchmen duck underwater timing themselves with a silver waterproof wristwatch.
They painted the green house white. In a sequence of ascending squares, most tend to descend into oblivion. The sounded warning of an up and coming train goes unnoticed as locals continue on across the tracks. Maybe it’s not so bad, and what a way to spend the day all gathered together with nothing to say. There is a philosophy shared here that deduces morality into non-existent, and cheats the concept of time by ignoring it. It is a chain-smokers union conveniently furnished and paid for by a landlord who charges nothing for rent.
Another afternoon spent watching Tony Hawk take a beating over and over again while the cloud of smoke thickens covering the room in whole.
Verses August 6, 2000 I keep having dreams about California. It’s not a big deal, some other weird stuff is going on, it’s just in California. I’ll find myself thinking “hey, I’m in California.” I guess they’re not dreams about California, they’re just dreams in California… “I can’t believe it’s not my body.” (Fabio) “Where is the nearest store of convenience?” "Reaching"
And still she dreams of more pleasant things like tropical beaches where man hardly reaches, and trips to the moon in a hot air balloon, or seeing her face grace the media place, but a year is now five and now barely alive, she waits for her fifteen minutes of fame to arrive.
As the night drew to a close, two intoxicated twenty-something trailer trash white chicks continued table dancing, shaking their asses and losing their balance as I continued wishing for one of them to fall.
Shortage of Toe Tags
August 7, 2000
Shouldn’t we be doing something else besides smoking the day away keeping our eyes glued to the television occasionally commenting on this or that? But there isn’t anything to be done, and so they sit, and here I watch getting pulled into the essence of life in a little town we like to call Bay Shitty.
Nine times out of ten I think you are wrong, but that is only because I know you so well. I hate myself when I’m like this although I’m too stubborn to change and too petty to let it go. My patience has lost its virtue and my virtue has lost patience, but what else is there to do but take it in stride and follow it through for I know that you sometimes hate me too.
Shielded by a canopy of trees I lay in my hammock with pen in hand waiting for nature to work her magic. My social security number has been erased from my head making room for more important things.
Another day repeated; another repeated day. Another day repeated; another repeated day. Another day repeated; another repeated day. Another day repeated; another repeated day. Another day repeated; another repeated day. Another day repeated; another repeated day. Another day repeated; another repeated day. Another day repeated; another repeated day. Another day repeated; another repeated day. Another day repeated; another repeated day. Another day repeated; another repeated day. Another day repeated; another repeated day. Another day repeated; another repeated day. Another day repeated; another repeated day. Another day repeated; another repeated day. Another day repeated; another repeated day. Another day repeated; another repeated day. Another day repeated; another repeated day. Another day repeated; another repeated day. Another day repeated; another repeated day. Another day repeated; another repeated day. Another day repeated; another repeated day.
Monsters of Pop
August 10, 2000
“Shit sells these days…”
Maybe someday I’ll find what I need to begin the rest of my life. I have been looking to scholars for guidance and I have not lost hope, I am just slowly losing patience. There is always that fear of waiting too long or maybe I’m already too late. Countless numbers of beautiful verses flow in and out of my mind never to return for soon I shall forget even thinking them into existence. I have heard many complain about how they have suffered enough and that their ship will soon come in, but can’t they see from so many before that it is a phantom ship to begin with?
With dusk upon I wandered on tilting my head up towards the hidden sky that came in spurts through crowded treetops. The landscape ahead was on a steady incline as I kept hiking to the top I knew I could never reach, but just a little further and then I’ll turn around.
Local fast food restaurants are not only selling double cheeseburgers with a biggie fry and coke, but they’re also selling underage sex.
Every generation like the generation before falls victim to boy bands that are created by some big record company, and barely legal porn stars that spend the rest of their career denying having breast implants at the ripe old age of seventeen. We must stop these carnivores of mainstream entertainment from spreading this disease to our children.
The New Kids on the Block have been on sale for the past ten years but they have yet to realize that they have already been sold and resold to the new New Kids on the Block. Tiffany can still be seen frequenting the malls but the crowds all seem to ignore her now. Color Me Bad are now colored in plaid trying to find a day job, and Debbie Gibson is lost in her own eyes trying to find an identity.
Backyard Tanning Salon
August 17, 2000
I need to brush my teeth but outside the sky is imitating the ocean and wild vines are growing steadily across a wooden, rotting fence right before my squinted eyes. Once again, the summer is coming to a close but seasons are a rare thing here so it doesn’t really matter. Today, the sun has no clouds to hide behind, so where will it go when it feels the need to seek shelter in the shade?
One of my favorite memories takes hold of my thoughts as if to persuade me into returning and repeating what has already been experienced. It was my closest friend and myself camped out on the beach on a cloudy spring night. We sat around the fire telling ghost stories of some truth, and drinking spirits that almost always seem more pleasing to the taste buds on the beach. With the windows to the car rolled down, we continued listening to U2’s Joshua Tree on the cassette player over and over again. I tell ya, that is the perfect album for a night under the stars, it just fits. Every now and then I can still catch a cool breeze blowing in from distant peaks that lay thousands of miles away from me now.
With the return of John Frusciante there is no stopping the peppers. They have been through hell and back bringing with them their newest album which is indeed a masterpiece. They ended their show with the classic Iggy Pop song Search and Destroy which I really digged. I highly recommend catching this band live, I had been wanting to for the past ten years.
Jayme’s First Home
August 18, 2000
Signs of heavy traffic remain indented in fairly new carpet that will not hold out long by the looks of it. The smell of burning plastic has me trapped indoors staring out a window at strangled trees and burnt to a crisp grass that has fallen victim to intense heat. Inside, the air is no better as the permanent cloud of smoke gains strength every ten minutes. Across the way a door is being opened and closed, opened and closed, opened and closed until the sound of overly enthusiastic chatter is shut off by one last closing of the door. Upstairs, someone is vacuuming, a chore they do quite often, sometimes even going to the extremes of doing it on a daily basis. At around seven o’clock every evening the same man comes riding up on his purple bicycle and digs through the green dumpster at the end of the street for aluminum cans. The sound of small children can still be heard splashing around in a 5ft deep pool that is infested with winged ants and pine needles. Signs of heavy traffic remain indented in the carpet, but I am having a difficult time recognizing the footprints.
Getting back into the swing of things, I force myself to start taking myself serious when I set goals and make promises. It is those good days that I live for, and on these such days, I am able to witness my overlooked potential of fulfilling any dream I’ve ever dreamed, or remember dreaming anyhow. Looking at the majority of the world it is easy to lose sight and give up, but then, most people don’t ever try. On a bad day, knowledge is unaccounted for as obstacles become road blocks and triumphs from the past are criticized.
August 21, 2000
I want out. Down those tracks and into the woods a tired tale of a tortuous murder is told over and over again by spirits who are stuck here just as I am. Up past this red light is where I attended my best friend’s funeral. This is the bridge we used to sit under and smoke cigarettes. Those three white crosses over on the corner are for some cheerleaders I attended high school with. Down that street is the trailer park where almost half of my old friends now live. I used to work right across from that trailer park which is right across the street from a landfill that smells of rotten eggs and sugar. There’s my old house where I used to contemplate thoughts of suicide brought on by teenage angst. Five minutes down the road is where my first true love used to live, but he too moved to the trailer park and contacted spinal meningitis through drug use.
On the outskirts of town there is a river where the body parts of an old friend were thrown after a drug deal gone bad. By my current house there is an oversized, always crowded Super Kmart that once possessed a forest of pine trees three years earlier. This is the same house I lived in when my best friend called the night before she died and I was out of town. Past the Super K is the mall I used to frequent every Saturday night at age fourteen looking for the love of my life to show face that night. They have since put down carpeting in the mall, banned smoking, and put in a 24 screen cinema that attracts people from all sides of Houston. Traffic is now always backed up and I have since banned myself from the mall. The tracks off 1st street I used to walk down searching for pastures of shrooms are the same tracks that lead to the two snake pits where a 14 year old girl was thrown in and left for dead by two other friends of mine. These are the same pits that were used as punishment for slaves. There is also a graveyard nearby where those slaves are buried.
Vanishing Point
September 10, 2000
Know thyself…
Outside the night air is astonishingly cool for the early days of September. Five days ago I decided on a whim to quit smoking, reducing my nicotine intake to three cigarettes a day. At 10pm I just finished my second one and I cannot tell you how sinfully fulfilling it tasted. Each time I exhaled I looked down to see how much was left, savoring each drag until the butt started burning my lips. My breathing capability had become limited but after only two days of cutting down from a pack, my lungs remarkably gained strength making it that much easier to pick up a cigarette. On campus, at the start of my smoking boycott, I was truly amazed at the number of smokers that surrounded me. Non-smokers were a minority and instead of feeling compelled to light up with the influence of the majority, I found it easier to go without thereby aiding my quest for individualism…
The stars are at their brightest when the air is at its coolest. My favorite time of the year is upon as my body regains energy that was lost to the draining sun. Involved in another semester, I catch myself drifting through a life that has taken on the shape of a square and I’m drawing bored in all four corners. Attempting to accomplish the biggest accomplishment of my life yet falling short when the minute’s long.
At home, cooped up in my favorite room mingling with the familiarity of security, I graciously remember how vulnerable I really was camped out in the feeding grounds of the great outdoors. It always amazes me at how foreign and distant a memory can become, almost as if it had never actually taken place. But I was there, up in the mountains of New Mexico, fulfilling the relentless urge that shall always exist within myself, aching to experience the uncertainty and freedom of the natural world. It is hard for me to bring the night to a close when thoughts keep beckoning me from unknown factories malfunctioning in my mind.
To Professor Gargamel
October 25, 2000
It is reassuring to know that I have not become unaffected by adversity. I would hate to think that I already lost intensity in my early twenties. Raw emotions are vital when pursuing a career in the arts. Whether positive or negative, these sensations are brought on by inspiration and invited into existence at will. Without such sentiments, meaning is unattainable and the creation of art is useless. To place a grade on perfection is arbitrary; perfection can metamorphose itself into a decorated collage of mistakes and mishaps making room for improvement. Perfection is contaminated when taken a step further, yet contamination can be used as medicine for flaws gently creeping towards their perfection.
Chasing My Tail Again
November 5, 2000
Uninspired. Across the country temperatures are dropping but I’m still waiting for a cold front to freshen the air. My eyes are shifting gears again as they begin to look instead of see. I question my capabilities and label myself a coward when compared to triumphs accomplished by others. But I must not “cut myself short” for I have done more than some and as much as others. I am tired of bitching about this and that. I am annoyed with conversations ending with the uneducated, habitual “whatever.” Drowsy cold medication continues stealing my energy that was already running low. My impatience only worsens the situation yet I cannot control this insatiable need for rediscovery. If I could just find that window of opportunity I’ve heard so much about I would be on my way to that life I have envisioned. I am getting to know myself all over again and I am aware that it won’t be the last – it is a lifelong chore.
The Dreaded Middle
November 12, 2000
Will today be the best day of my life? Unfortunately, the answer is most likely “no.” Because I look forward to a bright future possessing beauty and contentment all in one, it is difficult for me to believe that the predictable tomorrow will be the best day of my life. A person can live their whole life without experiencing that perfect day. Maybe they wouldn’t recognize it, or perhaps their expectations were too high. If you could live each day as if it were the last day of your life, would you even know where to begin? As the truth is always boring, it is sufficient to assume that tomorrow will be much like today. Of course, there are exceptions to this reality and it is with this group that I wish to belong. On a whole, life is nothing but a routine, but I would like to behold diversity in my daily regime. I feel I am letting my days go to waste, and although I know tomorrow will bring little change, I take it for granted as if I were immortal. Advice that is not worth giving: if you don’t like it, change it.
Drummer Boy
November 16, 2000
I could have looked at you all night…
Like nothing I’ve ever known, this ten year obsession has settled in for a lifetime. Miles ahead down a divided highway, the lost city of California entertains a million nameless faces. You were there, or so I’m led to believe, fighting for that popular dream that attracts so many. If our paths did cross again would you recognize my face, and could I be so bold as to make my desires known? I think back from now and then to crowded hallways that wreaked havoc on my adolescence, but you were always somewhere in the middle standing beautifully still. Anticipated bus rides home with you in the back and me three rows ahead wondering if you were casting a stare in my direction. Now years in between, I’ve seen you on occasion, and even managed to strike up a conversation where my tongue used to fall numb. Perhaps we never meet again, and my one and only chance at true love has passed me by without ever having been used and abused. I guess I really don’t think you would have been good for me anyhow.
Altitude Sickness
December 15, 2000
I feel as though I threw you away. Up in the clouds on a clear night with the brilliantly bright full moon providing us with the opportunity to save our batteries, I felt compelled to step across the boundary and say aloud for the first time the words I never had the courage to speak. She talked to him and I talked to her and he talked to them, but the source for my truth was you. I feel as though you can’t look me in the eye ever since I spoke my mind in the red canyons that July with only the whispering of the pines to disrupt our private line. I wish I had the ability, I wish I had the ability, I wish I had the ability to run.
Do you know what this reminds me of?
I’ve never liked attending family functions because I never really feel a part of the family. Creeping across the room, giving hugs to complete strangers and playing bible games that will expose my religious ignorance leaves my stomach in knots, or maybe it was the cheese. Everybody else’s house is so much better than mine. Their kids behave and their dogs obey. Their floors are swept and their windows clean, their gardens in bloom and their neighbors all wave. I’m glad to be back home, but the electricity is out and the flame from the candle is dimly flickering my only source of light.
Do you know what this reminds me of?
When my mood weighs more than my body, I prescribe myself music, yet among silence I sit resorting to the next best thing: writing. I’ve been neglecting this book for one excuse or another, but tonight, I think I’m ready to talk about something, or nothing, or this…
(There are voices in the other room, I recognize from who is whom, but do not join, I’m impolite, for talk is slow in candlelight).
Here’s a topic that has been over discussed, but in the presence of absence a closing statement is arbitrary for this is one of those conversations that can really have no conclusion. If it were possible to drive back up to that highest peak for the first time again and experience the feelings of fear, exhilaration, and tranquility that almost got us killed, perhaps we would have taken another road. It is true what they say about the future being a gradual occurrence, and most of the time it goes by unnoticed.
I sometimes find it difficult to look you in the eye now for I know where we have been and I’m still denying that this is where we have ended up. Never did I think the day would come when you declined the chance to come along with me and dabble in the simplest form of perfection, but there I was back in that wonderful state with her natural beauty smiling at me from all directions wondering if you had ever existed at all. The rest of the psychotic world is pronounced foreign in the tucked away creases of an uninhibited goldmine. Get a grip. Remove yourself from the community portrait. Find the ability to run, or walk, or skip, or crawl, but whatever you do, don’t get sucked in.
Tonight, the air outside is cooler than my summer stay in the mountains, which is actually saying a lot for this city whose blueprint is Hell. This reminds me exactly of the time we almost found a way out.
Obsessive-Compulsive Personalities
December 24, 2000
I have been sifting through possibilities, exploited dreams, and rich ambitions, but I have yet to come to a definite decision. My life must not be completely ruled by one or the other; somehow these activities must come together as one.
Change is life and life is change, and all in all we remain the same. And so it’s back this gentle groove, and so I move to the beat again, but as it’s been a century since, I’ve lost what I need to dispense.
Moving again with gentle grace dripping from you limbs, you glide away further into oblivion. Familiar oblivion. Any happening in life can be made ironic. You might say life itself is ironic, but then, that wouldn’t be your style.
Had it of been at a different place at a different time, do you think you would have met me in the middle?
I woke up this evening to find myself asleep at the wheel. Miraculously, I managed to drive around in circles instead of slamming into a pine.
I describe this year as being better than bad but not as good as great. I do think it was a wise decision to return to college, but what next? What in the world am I working towards? Am I really even working towards anything?
Without the luxury of music I might possibly be in a straitjacket. If my eyes were never able to see again, the music my ears could still witness would surely be enough.
When confronted with disappointment I have the dangerous tendency to “go off the deep end.” I build things up in my head only to be slapped in the face by practicality. Still, I never seem to learn, for much to my delight, there is a part of me that will never quit dreaming.
Midnight High December 25, 2000 This is where we need to be but who is we if there's just me? Standing by I saw you sway into the sea by moonlight way but did I try to catch your eye just walking by your midnight high It has been said somewhere in time that spirits chime in mountain pines. Beneath a cloud of feathered rain with prismed light I spoke again but the air was thin as I breathed it in I stumbled my worries away. This is where my soul is free, but what is free if there's just me? Release a sigh, I think back to a day with a breeze breezing by in a seemingly way, but as I untie the knot in my sky I'm dreaming of midnight high. It has been read in some one's line that souls will rhyme in heaven's shrine. Above a cloud of haloed remains with shielded sight I strained again, but this place I've been when I looked within I humored my wishes to stay.
Gone Journaling
December 25, 2000
Now I know what journal writing is for. If a cause is needed at all, or some sort of explanation for directionless chatter and worldly ideas, than let it be for the sake of maintaining an identity, but most of all, sanity. I suspect I have been “letting myself go” for I am forgetting how to be or when to see – the point has been abandoned again. Yes, there hasn’t been anything worth writing about, but another view reveals the truth of a million brilliant verses conjured up from nothing out of the ordinary. I love making excuses for myself. Without the guide of a pen, I am not able to justify or even recognize the reasons for my ways. I have mutated into a drone where self-absorbed days are required for survival and the theory of natural selection is robbed of its authenticity.
Jane Doe’s Return from the Dead
December 26, 2000
There’s a girl I used to know who killed herself a few weeks ago…or so I thought. It turns out that Beth’s suicide was nothing but a vicious rumor. I saw her younger sister on campus while standing in the lunch line, and she flat out asked me “did you hear about my sister?” I say “yes,” tell her how sorry I am, and that was the whole of our conversation. A few days later I bumped into her again (not literally) and she begins complaining about her decision to let Beth stay with her. Apparently, Beth stole her wallet and her car and is now back out on the streets selling her ass for crack.
It was very strange for me to sit there and listen to Stephanie rant and rave about her “crack-whore sister” whom had already been pronounced dead by a good part of the circle. The news of Beth’s suicide affected me more deeply than I would have imagined, but finding out that she is still alive didn’t seem to raise my spirits as one might think. At that moment, I suspect I probably gained another scaly layer of calloused skin, resistant and unaffected to any and all painful or rough surfaces. I wonder if Beth even knows of her rumored death. Probably not.
Coming from Somewhere
December 30, 2000
These pleasant faces I used to be among, but in the course of a year my surroundings are sparse with these faces looking strange as strange can be, I listen to a foreign tongue.
There is something that needed to be said, but as we hibernate alone and separated in our individual caves, it is as easy to forget as it is to remember. I believe that everything happens for a reason just as I believe that clichés are clichés for a reason. The assiduous search for a different and original expression can lure one towards the wrong direction until the point is lost in a crowded and obscene array of misused words. I do not possess the ability to step back and see with borrowed eyes the reality surrounding me; the reality I so often choose to ignore.
Recovering from the Bubbles
December 31, 2000
Still restless. A thousand nights reveal to me where the years have gone. I am looking to myself for change but it is much too convenient to wait until tomorrow for results. My current lifestyle has led to laziness, and the path I see myself tracing leads to an association of a mediocre and meaningless existence I am very much against.
Not long ago I knew exactly what I wanted to do, and be, and see, but my anticipations have expanded to diverse and new fields that I now find myself overloaded and confused in limbo. Being an adult forces one to depend on their own instincts just the way nature intended, but I cannot distinguish between far-fetched fantasies and realistic realities. My natural instinct is sometimes difficult to recognize when I have been branded along with the rest of the cattle, but then again, this prevents an over-enthusiastic ego from gaining strength. I have the tendency to judge beyond the reach of my knowledge, and being that my most hated trait is hypocrisy, I practice the art of thinking before speaking. I shall achieve my boundaries.
Here We Go Again
January 1, 2001
I, like the rest of the world, am too concerned with myself to even begin to contribute to the well-being of my species. In the back of my head I agree that some forms of life are not as important as others. Our race is over-populated, and so I approve of abortion as well as the death sentence for deserving prisoners. I admit that I have become desensitized to the importance of human life, but I know only what I have been subjected to. Fortunately, I confess to a certain amount of undisturbed faith I have put on reserve for myself, confirming my position in a higher state.
Tomorrow will be a good day to stay home and dis-concern myself with life-changing decisions. Before I am able to conquer the world, I must be sure that body and mind are in tip-top shape. I have allowed myself to fall victim to routine security and mind-numbing addictions that have been known to interfere with temporary opportunities. The time in which I have lived supplies me with an adequate balance of appreciation and aggravation that forces me to denounce what is avoidable and demand what is desired.
Waiting for the Energizer Bunny
January 2, 2001
I have grown lazy at my young age, but instead of gaining weight I seem to lose more. It is very cold out tonight, just as it was last night, and the night before. The winter I had been hoping for came through for me, but I am already beginning to feel the fear of the summer. I have quit dreaming for a while due to monotones of redundancy corrupting my quest for discovery.
A heated bed with scented candles surrounding the view which hides in the smoke from a burning bud – why would I want to leave? But after I’ve been where I’ve been in the past, it is not possible to ignore what I know exists. There is a vision I have of a life for me, it’s nothing extraordinary except for the scenery. I must be by the mountains near the beach and an active sea, but I’ve been to California and I don’t think it’s for me. I was thinking maybe Washington, though I’ve never traveled that far north, it seems I might enjoy the atmosphere.
“I don’t know where I’m coming from…”
Man vs Nature vs Man
January 12, 2001
Efforts to prevent the cutting down of acres and acres of age old pines seems futile. How can we win when our opponent is money?
So our Bayou city was rated the number one most polluted city in America, let’s build another stadium instead of a different means for transportation.
When dwarfed by the grasp of the relentless yet intoxicating wilderness, one must remember that the odds will always be against you, and getting struck by lightning is, indeed, quite a common occurrence.
I used to believe it true that nobody cares about anything except themselves, and while I still believe this to be true, it is also worthy to note that bribery may be a blessing from God.
In a weak and feeble state, I perceive nature as being cut throat and unfair. Where vanity exists in human beings, our natural environment is also guilty of the seven deadly sins.
In Good Company
February 19, 2001
I am forgetting how to be myself. I talk, but words are next to impossible to find and dialogue sounds as if I’ve been smoking myself stupid for the past five years, which I have. There is much that I would like to accomplish in this lifetime, but doubt now plagues my confidence like those relentless half-wits who just keep hanging around until their pointless chatter, ignorant remarks, and feathery cheap shots inevitably begin to soak through. I hate to hate myself, but it is an easy thing to do when a five hour day finds me back in bed pining over insignificant injustices. My life is a collage of contradictive clichés and mediocre talents much too common to be considered “exceptional.”
The other night I looked to the sky just in time to see the falling of a dying star. I remember thinking how lucky I was to have caught such a glimpse, just on chance, but my friend remained completely oblivious. I know I am a legend to myself, but what are the permanent effects of such behavior? My problem is not to be confused with vanity for I do not feel that I am God’s gift to Earth, rather, I believe that there is a certain “greatness” contained within myself possessing the capability of providing unrealistic happiness. Unrealistic is right, for common sense informs me that most of society’s population is feeding itself the very same bullshit. How long till I reach that point where so many others have conformed to meet the requirements of stability and security? Maybe I should prefer feeding myself bullshit instead of weakening to compressive stress and breaking due to brittle conditions. On a seemingly cloudless day, where the Bayou City air disguises itself as oxygen, I can see the top of every skyscraper as they pass me by only to come up behind.
Blackbird
April 25, 2001
I had my life figured out until my decision to return to college opened up one too many doors. I love the academics, but now I am holding art and literature in one hand and science in the other, cursing the task of picking a major. A few months ago I did something I never thought I would do and applied for a scholarship in Environmental Sciences. My geology professor nominated me, which was the biggest honor of my college career, and so I submitted my application to the Morris K. Udall Foundation with only a 3.3 GPA. Today, I just received by mail my “we are regretfully sorry” letter, but bad news really does travel with good news, for I was also informed today that Yellowstone accepted my application. A few months ago, about the same time I applied for the scholarship, Gwen and I decided to try to get a job at Yellowstone National Park this summer. We’ll be working in the laundry department earning $7 an hour with $70 being taken out each month for living expenses. We’ll be at the north entrance which is located in Montana – New Territory.
My friend and I will be taking a car and I think I’m probably looking more forward to the drive up there than actually living in the mountains for three months. To tell the truth, I am extremely nervous about the work we will be doing. During my job interview over the phone, I was asked if lifting 70 pounds posed as a problem for me, and naturally, I said “no.” I weigh no more than 85 pounds. The job calls for pressing, steaming, folding, washing, drying – more than 20 million loads of laundry will have been done by the end of the summer.
Gwen and I will be rooming together in a one bedroom cabin equipped with a stove, small refrigerator, bathroom, dresser, and two twin beds. I am a woman of much needed privacy; this will take some getting used to. Plus, there is still the slim chance that there is a third roommate but we will have no way of knowing until arrival day. Another fear I have is the slim chance of taking a drug test. The only thing I do is smoke weed, and most likely they won’t drug test, but there’s always that possibility when starting a new job. I’m sure everything will be fine.
During the day when my thoughts drift to Yellowstone I can feel the giddiness, the excitement, the drunkenness well up in my stomach, but at night these emotions turn to sadness, fear, and dread. Above all, I know that this is something I must do. This will be my longest time to spend away from my mother’s roof – at 23, it is probably due time. It is good to know I will not be alone, and although the fear of the unknown has a firm grasp on my psyche, this is one of those moments I have been waiting for.
"You were only waiting for this moment to arrive."
Losing It
May 1, 2001
Through a narrow path with resonated walls I can know myself more vividly and scrape away the excess waste I have stored up in seeping jars. I must use what I can of my stash in supply for the settling with morning stalls the eager but listless victim of a leading generation that got lost behind the boomers. There hasn’t been a day gone by that I haven’t felt the need to bite, or chew, or smoke, or grind, or stretch, or sigh: these nervous and anxious habits stem from the need to be entertained, or in some way, pacified. And each time I stop to realize how much and how little has changed, I yearn for the “good ole days” that seem so far away. What a cheesy sentence. It sounds like something I would have written when I was twelve.
Lost It
May 5, 2001
There’s something I’m looking for but I’m not sure what it is yet. There is much that I am still not able to say, not because I don’t know how to say it, I just don’t know what it is I should say. My creativity and ability to appreciate the minutes of my days is lacking and too often I find myself drifting from conversations and coming up short for words when I do try to participate. Going to Yellowstone is probably the best thing that has ever happened to me, but I must accept the fact that there is a part of me that is reluctant to leave. Journal after journal I have complained about living in Houston, I have dreamed and written verse after verse about traveling and living in the mountains. Security has a firm grip on my hand, and although I used to walk with him side by side, I now find myself pulling away. Yes, I have indeed lost something, and still unable to pinpoint the exact recovery I am searching for, I feel certain there is more than one recovery to be made. I once believed in the course and aspirations I laid out for myself, but broadening my horizon and interaction among fellow strugglers has left me with feelings of inadequacy and inferiority.
Butterflies
May 6, 2001
I am in a southern slum where it is perfectly normal to avoid moving forward and totally acceptable to mimic the rhythms of previous generations. I am in the habit of following negative patterns of thought that must have been passed down to me through prevailing genes. There is much love to be found all around me and without this gift I would be another statistic whose story would be sold to HBO for one of those First Look: America Undercover programs. I feel I owe more than I can give but no one is expecting a return payment. How did I become so lucky?
In this bed I have slept half of my life away, and now that childhood has passed me by, I lay in this same bed fighting off the pressures of regret and nostalgia. I still feel like I am sixteen awaiting and anticipating my chance to experience life’s “firsts” and hoping I have what it takes to follow through with my dreams. Thoughts of the future blow my mind, and realizing that memories really do fade, I am reluctant to leave the present time I have become so familiar with. And maybe the only reason I keep writing is because the right words have yet to display themselves. Maybe I’m not who I think I am, and maybe I really have absolutely no idea what I want. I already miss that which I have yet to witness.
Turning Yellow
May 7, 2001
The taste has faded from my mouth, and with six years behind me of talking incessantly about traveling the states and living among mountains, it is no wonder my first reaction to the reality of this obsession would be cold feet.
I must go with nothing but positive vibes and the ability to reject any and all expectations. I must go with an open mind and turn any disappointment or harsh treatment into some sort of gain. I must make the most of the moment and reject tendencies to worry, dread, and procrastinate. I must extend the limits of my potential.
There exists a vast contrast in my personality which leads me to believe I am more complex than I had feared. I have experienced so little to have experienced so much. Have I learned anything?
Stop me before I start announcing redundant and obvious statements such as “this is the last time I’ll take a bath in this bathtub,” or “this is the last night to sleep in my bed,” or “this is the last time I’ll see these surroundings with these eyes,” or “this is the last day to live life as if there was no need for change.”
Tub Turbidities
May 8, 2001
It is sometimes difficult to acknowledge the difference between a dreamer and a madman.
There exists a popular way of life here that stifles my creativity and deadens the endings of my nerves.
The reality of my summer excursion has not yet revealed itself entirely, but when tomorrow fails to arrive, and today is marching through another repeated encore, I will already be on my way.
On a predictably sleepless night I follow the need to conduct page after page of emotional sentiments, anticipated happenings, and life-changing experiments.
I have proved to myself that dedication is a learned skill; the want to be exceptional clearly wreaks havoc on my well-being, but normality offers nothing for me except boredom.
Losing myself to find myself, falling victim to a tired cliché, realizing addiction is mobile, tearing down expectations: these are the elements of my current chemical make-up. Confidence has continued to hold up her side of the deal which has me building my own mountains to climb and eroding away land forming my own trails to follow.
I have plenty of things to say to friends and family back home, my letters are piling up since they have no way to be sent yet, but what do I have to say to myself? Each day I am settling in just a little more, but change is a difficult occurrence for me to accept and even harder for my life-long best friend – she despises this place. Some days are better than others, and others are worse than some. Despite efforts to disassemble expectations, I failed at the art of lying and now let-downs are tumbling out.
I hate not knowing what to expect.
Arrival
May 17, 2001
Nature holds no ugliness. The snowcaps, in what I perceive to be in the near distance, seem to glow with a silvery, metallic sheen that makes them look fake. They are nothing but paint on a canvas and if I run my hand across them, their existence will only smear…but the irrefutable and majestically ancient formations do truly exist now in my reality and it is literally a shock to the system. Sometimes I could care less when thoughts of home render me sick which is very much unlike me. I’m still giving myself time to adjust and take it in day by day. There is such a diverse amount of emotions I’m experiencing, but given my personality and tendency to be over-emotional, I’d say I’m doing a pretty good job. As of now, there is too much for me to take in and too little time to let it back out. I think I might be having the time of my life but it’s too soon to tell. One thing I can be sure of, my inspiration has regained consciousness and the ability to be able to express myself is a necessity for survival.
Temporary Loss of Focus
May 20, 2001
What the hell am I doing here? Everything I always thought I wanted is wrong. I look away from the mountains now as if their very being is the reason for my anguish. I have always preached about the insignificance of outside appearances, but if the love of my life is 100 pounds overweight and denied the loveliness of features lined with gold, I will most likely spend the rest of my shallow existence alone. But it’s not just that. June, July, half of August, the remainder of May: how many more days does that make? I knew I would become homesick, but there is nothing to compensate for miserable and intense conditions. There is nowhere to run when a smile can no longer be faked, nowhere to dream about when the stench of the city catches a downwind, nowhere to escape, nowhere to fantasize about when boredom leads to depression because I’m already there.
Joshua
May 21, 2001
My heart is heavy tonight but tears that fog the corners of my eyes are not for me. Last night I felt the world might be crashing in on me and I now know, without a doubt, that my sheltered and insignificant world has yet to merely fracture. I came to Yellowstone this summer strictly for the enjoyment and the fulfillment of Mother Nature at her best, but two-hour hikes up and down these painted trails do not compare to late night confessions and bonding I have experienced with complete strangers. Complete strangers to the eye anyhow, but somewhere, in some other time, I have known these people. I have shared, dreamed, cried, laughed, and loved these people since my first successful memory.
New Growth
May 23, 2001
I have found my place within myself. Meeting new people is something I thought I would never learn to love, but a week in a half in Yellowstone, living with three other roommates, has opened my eyes to the necessary need of communicating with strangers and getting along with them despite outrageous diversities. I have adjusted, and fully aware of the unavoidable emotional mood swings, I refuse to experience negativity as I regretfully have in the past. This is just a passing in time, and with little space of my own, I am forced into interaction, thus, losing my focus along the way. Some days I would like to blink my eyes and vanish these obstacles that rob me of privacy, but a long walk into the dreadfully small town of Gardiner, Montana helps to relieve my anxieties. I now reside in a dorm-like, century old building rightfully titled “The Bunk House.” Expectations are, once again, put to shame when the reality of an anticipated event, or, more to the point, a journey is not quite what I had intended.
I was told on the phone before I got up here that I would be living by the North Entrance of Yellowstone, and they weren’t kidding. I can see the brown arch that reads “For the Benefit and Enjoyment of the People” right outside my window. Snowcapped mountains can be seen in the near distance so bitching about my surroundings is not an option. However, Gwen and I thought it was just going to be the two of us in a small cabin tucked away in the vast forests of this active volcano, but that just isn’t the case. It almost feels like a commune, but we have rules that don’t apply to the normal, everyday hippie hut. No. Quiet time begins at 10pm, and every night at 10 on the dot, like clockwork, the Bunk House Nazi parades up and down the halls knocking on doors, breaking up any and all social gatherings. She sniffs out pot and incense. She watches for underage drinking, bans all candles, inspects rooms randomly – her name is Jo, and she has been my life-savior as well as my nightly nuisance.
My first living arrangements were quite intimidating: my boss was one of my roommates. Gwen and I were given the room key and told to go ahead and unpack our stuff and to make ourselves at home, but that just didn’t seem possible. Looking around at all the decorations, the cleanliness, the personals – we felt like intruders. Jo saw this reaction as I had a difficult time pushing back the frightful tears brought on by disappointment, intimidation, and a sickness for home sweet home. Two hours later she moved us into another room after having to kick some guy out of the room for us. Once again, I cried, touched by generosity. Nowadays, the whole quiet time patrol unit she practices every night is wearing a bit thin. At 24 years old (next month), I don’t enjoy being treated like a child, I mean, I know how to tell time. I can handle whatever is thrown at me, but when I receive my first real paycheck, I’m getting a hotel room.
"It's time I've had some time alone."
Salty Solutions
May 27, 2001
A few nights ago I was hanging out at this bar called The Blue Goose with some friends from the Bunk House and we witnessed the most bizarre way to take tequila shots. Two locals had poured salt on the backside of their hands, but instead of licking it and then taking a shot, they snorted it. They were older guys, probably in their 40s, and obviously nightly regulars at the Blue Goose, but their weird ritual didn’t stop with snorting salt. After taking the shot, they then proceeded to squirt lime juice into their eyes and promptly ordered another round.
Yup, night life in Gardiner is spent mostly at the surrounding bars that are all within walking distance of the Bunk House. A good deal of my coworkers are alcoholics, they probably won’t admit it, but I’ve watched them go home sick the next day at work because of hangovers. I will admit to my fair share of partying, but good God, not if I have to be at work at 7 the next morning. There is much to be said about my new way of life, but my writing has become lazy and I am still counting the days left in May. It feels as if the summer should be ending, not beginning.
Nose Bleed
May 28, 2001
Alone. I still catch myself wondering where this is going to take me and what my actual purpose is in subjecting myself to this type of puzzlement. I feel like I have fallen out of love with the love of my life. I am cursing my disposition of not being able to experience contentment even when the highest chain of mountains surround the bluest lake. I know where my faults lie, and it is within these boundaries that I must resist the compressive stress luring me to slip. It is an understatement to admit that this is not what I had in mind, and I suspect there is something missing; there is something I must have forgotten back home.
Today, while viewing the Grand Canyon of Yellowstone, I questioned my inner intentions. I questioned my spirit and dreadfully came to the realization that, as of now, I have no spirit. Lost somewhere in the grip of indecision and false pretenses, my God-given spirit must have retreated to a private resort reserved for the congregating of lost souls. Maybe I’m trying too hard; perhaps there is “something in the way.” Outside my rented window, the raging river continues to imitate the ocean while I fall victim to thoughts of my detested nest back home.
Identifying Age Old Specimens
May 29, 2001
These high elevations have my stomach in knots but yet I keep climbing, hoping to reach the top of an over-exaggerated mountain. Today I traveled to the heart of the caldera and felt the churning of molten lava just two miles below my feet, and it was among this intriguing evidence of ancient processes that I realized our own obvious insignificance must coincide with our ability to disrupt the simplest cycles just by exhaling a breath of air. Volcanic rocks cut by water majestically cascade downward forming jagged walls and possessing secret hiding places fit for the wisest of wildlife.
I am still not fully comfortable with new company, but I know what is good for me and the early days of summer are still awakening from their winter slumber. The smell of sulfur in the air is a scent I will most likely come to miss when my departure day does eventually arise. A foul odor indeed, but the spewing of sulfuric acid from the earth’s underground plumbing softens nervous tendencies I entertain when my mind is unable to be stimulated. It is all very confusing for me right now, but as I begin to settle in a little more each day, I can feel the excitement slowly fade while my most hated enemy, boredom, begins to surface.
Stealing Privacy in the Bathtub
May 31, 2001
On one of my first adventures into the park I was lucky enough to see a grizzly bear and her two cubs trying to cross the road. Tourists lined the shoulders, and as we joined them, I felt guilty for adding to the already congested crowd. She was obviously a bit irritated at being made a spectacle, and as cars were still trying to travel the road after having already taken their picture, mama bear was literally turning around in circles trying to locate a safe passage. Nonetheless, I stood there in awe and in disbelief of what I was witnessing. For the first few seconds it felt like I was at home sitting on our soothing blue sofa (where I’ve spent so much of my adult life) watching the Discovery Channel, but I too snapped my pictures and added to the human cage surrounding her giving way to the likeness of a zoo. The rangers on site eventually were able to push back the traffic of tourists and clear a safe passage for the grizzly and her cubs to pass. Sometimes it really does feel like we are living in one gigantic national zoo where the cages are large enough to get lost in, but we are still unable to become uninhibited. We are still not free.
Native Navajos
June 3, 2001
Snow is replacing itself on top of overlapping mountains in the early days of June. Change is lurking about in the refreshingly clean Montana air, as if a different address in a foreign state was not enough to perfect my sensitive equilibrium, I instinctively zero in on an up and coming shift in the atmosphere’s hidden but well-known magnetic poles. I keep having dreams about my life back home, but friends I have made here in a short amount of time have yet to make their way into my nightly regime. Kindred spirits wander these ancient halls, and as I mingle with each and every one of them, I am not yet lost in the outskirts of Yellowstone’s exposed northern side. This is all very nice, but I have yet to do what I came here to do, and I have yet to see what I came here to see. Will I want to leave when my departure date arrives?
A Cure for Homesickness
June 3, 2001
So, Gwen and I just got back from hanging out at the Rusty Rail, one of the bars in Gardiner, and we met this guy who annoyed the shit out of us. It was one of those situations where he just said all the wrong things. You know, crap like, “it’s good to get away from all the niggers,” or, “I got fired from Yellowstone for possessing a gun,” or “Hey, you guys are from Houston too?” First, we find out that he’s from Texas, okay, I can handle that.
“Oh really, what part of Texas do you live in?”
“Houston.”
“Wow, what part of Houston?”
“The north side, in Conroe, around the Humble area.”
Noooo!!!
You would be surprised at the amount of people here from Texas; one of my favorite most recent friends is from Lubbock. He wasn’t actually born in Texas but he got there as fast as he could. Drew is one of those good ole boys but his hardships outweigh mine by a ton. Less than a year ago, his baby son was murdered by his emotionally unstable wife, and a few months before that, his best friend was killed in a car accident, and a couple of weeks before that, his sister was in a head-on collision with a drunk bus driver and was killed upon impact. At just 26 years old, Drew has lost the majority of both his family and friends. I think about Julie, and Christy, and Jeff, and Scott, and Jim O’Prye, but somehow these personally horrifying tragedies don’t compare to his. I am keeping a watchful eye on his well-being.
Bunk House Blues
June 4, 2001
With my standards set high, I will pass you all by until I'm standing alone in a cloud-ridden sky...
I often wonder how I am perceived and what unknown vibes might others pick up on of which I am not aware. Why do these sudden personality turnovers insist on presenting themselves in public? My emotions run thick, but as another intoxicatingly beautiful array of colorful prismatic light arches itself above the Mississippi of Yellowstone, I am able to experience happiness as intensely as I fall victim to sadness.
Bunk House Blues II
June 6, 2001
We have come for one uniting purpose that allows completely different breeds to learn the power of acceptance. There must be something missing in our lives and it is here that many drifters before us have found their unoccupied space and have found a lifelong love. In a pathetically old building, I sit behind thin walls hiding from a hundred other residents who hide themselves on the other side.
Most Likely to Succeed
June 9, 2001
Life in Yellowstone has so far been more of a social affair than the spiritual awakening brought on by nature’s art I had hoped to experience. But it’s okay, I enjoy the diversity and “unspoken bonds” practiced in this communal-type atmosphere. It has been quite a while since I last had this many friends. Or are they even friends yet? Perhaps I am confusing casual acquaintances with the sacred and scarce occurrence of friendship. Whatever the case may be, I am making a mental note not to get pulled in to a set clique. I am keeping myself available for all gatherings and trying not to make enemies with those few whom I could very easily reject.
Tomorrow I have the day off and I will be spending the free time with my closest friend up in the Grand Tetons. Frayed ends seem to be hemming themselves, and as the stitches begin coming together, I commend myself for making the right decision. Being out here is exactly what I needed. Despite my lack of privacy, unknown forbidden love, a shadowed social position, and a diminishing stash, I know that this is where I’m supposed to be. Sometimes I often wonder if I will ever go home for that might be a step back.
Considering Hair Extensions
June 11, 2001
Where life is lush and full of change, there also exists acres upon acres of burnt to a crisp sacrifices. I now truly understand the importance of death. Comparisons between five-fingered mammals and the simplest of plant life have me reeling in the wonders of evolution and the theory of advancement. My beloved sibling is absolutely correct, I am living in a “magnificent paradise” where much is still left to be discovered. I adore the atmosphere that is sparked by an overcast day in the mountains; clouds come together to form a pearl-like necklace around the torso of a snowcap and temperatures lower themselves in an attempt to persuade a winter-summer storm. My backyard has never possessed this kind of beauty, but there are sacrifices to be made and I am not yet sure which direction I will follow. At the end of “paradise” hill, Houston patiently waits in a land subsiding deeper below sea-level while I challenge my currently updated suspicions about retracing congested trails in the hike towards home. I don’t want to take a step back, but where else will I step when my summer contract expires?
Chasing Tea with the Locals
June 13, 2001
So, here I am but where are you? This morning I was awaken by a friend down the hall telling me to go look out my window. Accustomed surroundings were white-washed as I fell into a trance watching how gracefully snow floats through the air and I thanked Mother Nature for granting me my birthday wish. Irony follows me to foreign altitudes. Just as the Gardiner heat wreaks havoc on my desire for low temperatures, I am reminded of my ignorance towards this land and relieved to see my breath in the summer afternoon air.
My emotions run rampant every second of the day, and the harder I strive to become something I’m not, the more I appreciate who I really am. Sometimes it feels like I’m in a race against age, and while that may stand to be true, I can’t help but turn up my nose to limitations and expectations associated with insignificant numbers. These days it has been difficult to express the depth of my soul, but “here I am” making my way in an unknown world and surprising myself when confronted with exoticism, disgruntled discrepancy, and foreign yet familiar faces. Which one of these acres do you belong to, and how close am I to my final destination?
The Benefit of the Doubt
June 15, 2001
Premature lines are invading my already tarnished face. In the midst of America’s most treasured national park where the scenery is unbeatable, I discover myself to be experiencing more bad moments than good. When will I grow up? But the work is not worth the pay and time off is not enough to compensate for irritating company and aggravating management.
My roommate, Carrie, has become a pain in the ass and I regret the day I invited her to move in when she wasn’t getting along with her first roommates. I figured Gwen and I would be getting roomies eventually, and Carrie seemed like a really cool person, and she is, but living with someone can kill a would-be friendship. To put it bluntly, she is messy as hell. We resorted to hanging a sign by the kitchen sink that reads, “Please do the dishes after cooking,” but the girl must not be able to read, and that’s giving her the benefit of the doubt.
Release all that will erupt with a vengeance when there is no longer enough strength to prevent such destruction. "Take it in stride."
Nature’s Therapy
June 20, 2001
I don’t know where I’m at tonight. If I could let go of trained patterns and predictable tendencies, would that familiar face look back at me as a stranger? Moving towards change as if there were something to gain – I’m discovering exotic shades of face paint I must have hid from myself during adolescence.
As the summer continues to roll by, mountains of Montana are looking quite bare with little to no snow left to cover their peaks. Their true colors are exposed, and without a thick white blanket to accentuate their enormity and beauty, they are forced to remain planted, naked for the entire world to see.
I have cut my hair to where there was barely anything left, and then I grew it back out down to the middle of my back. I have changed the color so many times that my new roots are even confused. I wear makeup; I go without. Straight hair, curly hair, bohemian clothing, trendy clothing: I am a chameleon. Now, I have temporarily, or permanently, changed my location only to confirm my suppressed suspicions – negativity was not due to suffocating surroundings. Deep within myself exists a prominent malfunction that must be handled with extreme caution to avoid a meltdown. I am looking to the honesty of my green mountains for repairs.
Upon Reflection
June 28, 2001
I don’t recognize my actions or persona anymore. This is a segment of my life that will forever be glamorous when the moment has passed me by. The strenuous and ongoing task of persuading my shy and pensive spirit to overpower my mind from strange and destructive quirks has not been running smoothly. It is much more difficult to learn from the past than I had thought, but let’s not talk about the raging past yet.
My desire to be understood, to make a connection with someone other than myself, is a driving force in the course of my journey. Severe mood swings have been controlling my popularity, and although most of the residents I bunk with are nice people, I wish they would all just disappear. My addictions are running low as I forgot to take into account the fact that I would be here for three months. I am not yet relaxed and social discrepancies are starving my need to fulfill whatever it is I came here to do.
What did I come here to do? Fall in love, chase my dream, enjoy my youth, discover the world, gain insight and wisdom from living outside of my plastic bubble? The season is halfway over and I’m feeling unsuccessful in my quest. This weekend I will be camping out for the first time since I’ve been here. The mountains look depressingly different when you’re not on vacation; when taken with you is all that you usually leave behind. I hope to replenish my focus and gaze into that undulating vision I have been chasing since I mastered the gift of sight.
Somewhere in Pittsburgh
July 2, 2001
I’m being followed. The outskirts of Montana are no different from Houston’s city limits. I can’t seem to shed this extra weight I unknowingly packed with the rest of my belongings. It is quite clear to me that I take life way too seriously, but there is comfort in my sadness. Stranded in the early days of July, I find myself reduced to sitting at the bar by myself sipping on a potent Long Island Iced Tea made by my favorite bartender waiting for the chance to raid the juke box.
Lately, I have been trying too hard, and as I watch the rest of the world fall in love, find their way, and take faith in a dream, I drown myself deeper into a mental debt. I will keep hiking until the end of the trail comes into sight, but my habitual cleanliness has me slipping and falling on eroded, well-rounded river rocks. My multi-colored bruises are forcing me to slow down, but I think I’ll smoke another cigarette and try to make a dent in my $6 glass of soothing yet bitter medicine.
One of the locals has played “Wild Horses” by the Stones, and I wonder if he noticed my mood or perhaps he has paid no mind. I have turned my back on the Bunk House and, trying to kill as much time as possible, I know that soon I must find a smile and present it like there is not a care to be had. I worry what may become of me in the future. Will I become another one of those bar maids who are too old to make a new start and too young to call it quits? The entourage has died down, and with only a month and a half left to come to a final decision, I know the answer will probably never surface.
Which Came First, the Birds or the Bees?
July 4, 2001
I haven’t had true feelings like this for anyone in quite a while. How do I act and what do I say? I want you to know every part of me, but where do I start, and will your reaction be the reaction I’m hoping for? Is it my time or could this be just another one of those “weird” encounters that leave me wondering if I was at fault for severed ties, or if they just lost interest and moved on because of my natural reluctance?
Night Hiking
July 6, 2001
Last night I hiked the Elephant Back Trail which is a two mile trek up a mountain that overlooks Yellowstone Lake once you hit the top. I was with six other people from the Bunk House and we had the most amazing time. Our goal was to capture the essence of a full moon reflecting off the massive body of water that often reminds me of my beloved ocean.
It was a somewhat cloudy night so we had to wait a good hour for the coverage to blow by. Lightning could be seen in the distance which helped relieve the anticipated headlining attraction, but I am always thankful for the opening act. When the orb was able to show face, I was blown away by how different, how closer and brighter and fuller the moon looks out here in the lush mountainous forests of Yellowstone National Park. The land is rich with specks of gold shimmering secretively in raging rivers and charred trees still possessing the life to knock when wind gains strength. I pondered all of these elements while gazing upon an unattached fragment of earth (as some believe), and I know without a doubt, that this is what I came here to do.
The hike back down was interesting. I kept tripping over rocks and roots, and producing annoyingly loud and stupid sounds to ward off hungry wildlife. The cuddly grizzly bear teaching her cubs in the green meadows that we witnessed on our ride up to the trail did not seem sweet and harmless to me anymore. We were in her territory now with no ranger or car to protect us. Night hiking is one of the most exhilarating experiences I have had thus far.
Becoming Anti-Hippie
July 6, 2001
We are the other group of people who don’t mind shopping at Walmart and washing our hair when needed. True, I have my complaints about the government of America, I smoke weed, hug trees, denounce fashion, and listen to politically charged music – there is a fine line between believing in a cause and jumping on the wagon without looking, understanding, and accepting the other side. An equilibrium must be acquired leaving no room for extremities. I am losing faith in the accuracy of my fellow pupils and realizing that the ones who regret to follow the indicating trends of an alternative movement are the ones who really know “where it’s at.”
Room 111 July 9, 2001 As I write this, downstairs sits a most beautiful and amazing soul whose very existence erases a troubled past, but I have already thrown him away.
Forgotten Intentions
July 10, 2001
The thought of never going home truly scares the shit out of me. “I’m not ready. I’ll never make it. I’m needed there, just one more year, give me just one more year.” What the hell man? Why is it so fucking hard to please myself? And I knew it would be like this, I knew I would let myself get sucked into that frame of mind and allow myself to “look back.” I am at another crossroad where it is tempting to just close my eyes and start walking.
Within a much anticipated letter containing a less favorable way of life, I found my forgotten intentions. In an attempt to disregard emotions, I rediscovered my buried treasure.
Standing Alone at the Base of a Mountain
July 12, 2001
If I could go the rest of the summer without seeing you, I would probably be able to forget and ignore these intense waves of infatuation that infest my summer get-a-away. Nothing will ever come of this, nothing will ever develop between us (I know this now), but your beautiful and kind face keeps popping up, and I feel that twinge of hopefulness surface teasing my already frantic emotions. I want you so bad, and would offer myself for the first time if you were ever supplied the chance. Instead, I act weird in your presence and fail to spark up a conversation when the opportunity presents itself. Why would you pick me anyway?
It scare me to think what you must think of me, but then again, it wouldn’t be your style to have a negative thought about anyone. And maybe I’ve built you up in my head, thereby, persuading myself to feel this strongly. You see, I’ve been here so many times before and have grown tired of subjecting myself to this type of emotional torture. We haven’t even made it to a friendship so why the hell should you occupy that place in my heart? Yes, my attraction for you runs quite deep, but lust is trivial and shallow which is why I can’t understand the role I have taken on. I sometimes forget how to be myself which is not so much an excuse as it is an explanation. What does it matter anyway? Time is not on our side (like it ever is) and I don’t have what it takes to follow you in a hike around the world. I once tried to follow you up a mountain and got left behind when my limit had been reached. It seems I have remained there ever since, left behind and out of breath. Fuck it, maybe we’ll meet again on your hike back down.
Closing in on the Dreaded Middle
July 12, 2001 (10:54pm)
Today you saw a mountain right outside your bedroom window. You sat on top of a volcano and smoked weed with two unique souls who have entered your life for a very short time only to never be seen again, but the seemingly insignificant days spent together will always exist as a pleasant memory.
Today you lifted up your head and realized that you actually do have your head in the clouds, and sea level, your home, is faithfully resting right below your feet.
Today you experienced emotions that have not been aggravated for quite a while and you remembered a part of life that did not vanish along with childhood.
Today you woke up before noon, ate a hardy breakfast, and accomplished all those little chores that always seem to pile up. You listened to fascinating stories from people around the globe and learned how the human race, human behavior, human emotions and reactions, individuals really don’t differ that drastically.
Today you witnessed the workings of our natural Earth and fully understood the theory of uniformitarianism. You exercised information stored in your brain that has never really been given the chance to be put to good use. You avoided taking a step back or standing in the same place and proceeded to move forward. Today you gained wisdom through living.
Remembering Who I Am
July 13, 2001
It looks as if I will be going home at the end of October. Will it be as though I never left, and will I be stuck there for another five years? My want and need to see the world is not as simple as I thought. “Change is nothing but a state of mind.”
Empty Dr. Pepper cans pollute our three person dorm room and I realize that I too, Miss Clean Freak, am contributing to the daily mess.
This is where I want to be when a permanent move transpires. I have grown quite fond of this place and honored to be considered a local.
A few doors down, Jason has just massacred half of our laundry team in a useless effort to scare the shit out of our beloved, JoAnn, the Bunk House Nazi.
My herb supply is dwindling and I must psyche myself up for going without if a relief cannot be acquired. Unfortunately, I have developed the habit of smoking pot whenever I write. The two go hand in hand.
And if I spend the rest of my life wandering around in a distant gaze still searching for my place, surely I will recognize my own footprints in front of me.
Fuck the Two-Bit
July 15, 2001
Find your way…
Sometimes the sight of you makes me want to cry. I try to speak but my brain can’t find words, my words can’t form a sentence, and my sentence can’t find a point. In your presence, I can see myself growing old alone. But I don’t want to fill another page with reasons why I can’t find love or restrictions I have placed on myself unknowingly. I want to perfect myself, not judge myself.
No more running the old mouth when irritation sets in, there are too many feelings at stake. No more comparing myself to others, for this tendency leaves room for vanity and self-hate. No more holding back when among unfamiliar company and becoming intimidated when confronted with a one-on-one conversation. No more caring about what people may think or what they might say if I choose to be myself. Amidst all the errors I present to myself, and all the negative bullshit I feed myself on a daily basis, I will find my way. And if I spend the rest of my life wandering around in a distant gaze still searching for my place, surely I will recognize my own footprints in front of me.
So, there you were making your way in my direction, but as you reached me, your words were disappointing, and I laughed inside at my naïve romanticism. Later, I saw you sitting alone outside and I passed up my moment of opportunity by acting as if I didn’t see you and walked away with my head down. This torture, this self-torture, is not healthy for me, but how in the world do I overcome and control that which I secretly enjoy? I will never allow myself to have what is desired because I wouldn’t know how to accept such a reality, yet I continue to crave my point of focus as if a chance existed…Yeah, as if a chance existed. Nevermind. I should have never tried.
My stream of consciousness has led me to another dead-end, I’m sorry, I lost the point. I guess what I’m trying to say is that the sight of you still makes me want to cry, but in a different light with different surroundings I realize what you are to me, and it has nothing to do with you at all. I will forever be trying to find my way, and as I am the most important person in my life, it scares me the way I treat myself. There was something I came here to find, and although I gave myself a three month extension, I know that my discovery will only be uncovered after I have returned home. I miss my solitude more than anything.
A Swift Kick in the Ass
July 18, 2001
How many times have I been here? This familiar mood settles in and I routinely follow through shutting off the world I used to be a part of. Yeah, “I stay away.” There is a part of me telling myself to “calm the fuck down and look how much worse it could be,” but I never seem to listen to that part of me. I am growing bored of this, but each time I try to conquer these dark tones of irrationality, I eventually come back for more. I have misplaced importance and misused the power of depth to an extent that leaves me no other option than to go back to the beginning. I have been holding my head much too high and partaking in actions I don’t necessarily agree with. But most of all, I have been taking my opportunities for granted and turning life experiences into negative interruptions. What the hell is wrong with me?
Today, I have made the decision to forget about that which causes me the most pain and concentrate on what is in my control and that which will bring me joy. I possess the unwanted talent of turning something unbelievably simple into a difficult and almost impossible task. Look at what you have, where you are, how you got here, and where you’re from. Focus, Dammit!
Keeping an Identity
July 21, 2001 (1:55am)
I see them talking and laughing and dancing while I sit in this corner wondering if they’re just like me. I show face as an effort to denounce my anti-social tendencies, but at the end of an uneventful night, I crawl back into my shell remembering why I like to stay hidden. They will keep dancing all night, even after the band has called it quits, but what is it that keeps them going? Alcohol helped for a little while, but after the beginning of the third hour I could no longer take part in this nowhere scene, but they kept on like robots malfunctioning in a vain attempt to rebel against their inevitable shutdown. It must be wonderful to live without a care in the world and answer to life only when it calls…I could never be one of them. My attention span is short, and I am in the habit of questioning the mainstream majority. I admit to a certain snootiness that I emit from my persona, but I have been in this very same corner one too many times. I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that they are not like me, but who would notice the difference anyway? I will keep striving to accomplish my quest for individuality.
“Take it in stride, remember where you’re from, and carry a big stick when stepping silently through the woods.”
The Apple and the birdcage 