yesterday, i sorted a lot out. it was much needed.
i met nate, which was good. we chilled, mick had girl problems, we raced, i came home seven hours late. which wasn't so good. i got new shirts which was good. i realized i think dropping out would work out for me, which in many opnions is bad, in others not so. i realized how happy i could be not having to answer to my parents. which was amazing. i reinforced the fact that i love boston and i and i am staying here. which was good. i saw conor, which was good.
what's going on, i don't like it one bit, its old, and tiring, and i want to go to sleep, and wake up next year, i can graduate, and move out, and be on my own, it will be better than this, oh will it ever, shit.
i want to learn to sew, i can draw just not sew, i also need 900 more dollars for a camera that costs 900 dollars, shit.
cast list is tommorrow, i'm not worried about it, but, if i get pulled from this show, i'm no good, shit.
all i need is a new seamless, and i'm set, but, if i don't end up shooting this weekend, i will get bored, and lazy, i want to study art in college, but my parents won't fund it, shit.
another year has begun, and it's sad, because i forgot how unavoidably dull school can be. BUT if i am to have a good year i can't go on with this attitude so.
i leave for the woods in a few hours, but since i like the solidtude of being there, i am glad, so for those who i see and talk to everyday, i will be back sunday.
i also sort of got hit by a car the other day, and behind this cut is what happened, now, its gross, but since it amuses me, i will post the photos.
what i have of the new cursive album is amazing, and i can't stop listening, and thats two songs and an intro. and this song is good. real good.
Dorothy, I know you've had amazing dreams We can't go chasing down each golden street Each and every rainbow, each passion, each unattainable goal We're not in dreamland anymore
Dorothy, it seems you'll never understand This here land is everything we have Every sweat-stained collar, every dollar, every bent and bloodied spur We're not the kids that we once were We can't be the adults we want to be
Dreams are all you have, dreams have held you back Dreamers never live, only dream of it Dream cars, dream houses, dream jobs, dream spouses Dreams of tornadoes, cities of emerald
And I know we swore we'd make more of ourselves but this plot is literally our lot in life.
American dreams pollute our cities Our piece of the pie can't fill our bellies (More!) More square inches (More!) Picket fences (More!) Clothes on the line (More!) Naps at noontime More of our fair share More of our birthright More of what we're owed
Paid vacation (More!) Entertainment (More!) Compensation (More!) Gratuitous gratification
Dorothy, wake up, Dorothy, wake up Dorothy, wake up, it's time for work
if it makes you more interested in reading all this, i was very high when i wrote, i like to write, i like being high.
Ten AM, get up brush teeth, have a smoke, get in the car, drive. The sky is falling, the colors of the clouds run as they seem to disappear in the midst of the blowing trees, the smoke filters out the window, pollution? The passenger seat is empty, then, full, another car, the headlights sit next to me, and the driver sits in my backseat. The chilled breeze let though the window by the other car is damn near impossible to deal with. The clouds regain shape as the ground blurs itself. The headlights finally shut off in the other car, and an excruciating noise is emitted by a stopping car. People gather around the spectacle, black.
Light pollution, no stars, no people. Not such a spectacle. There is no movement below the hips, frankly, there never was, but this time, it is quite literal. The light pollution is getting to me. The blue glow of the monitor doesn’t help one bit. The monitor begins to turn to ash, the bed I am laying in begins to turn to grass, I need a smoke. The forest fires are killing trees, I can only imagine that is what the ashes are from, the kid drops the pipe, not quite cashed, and the leaves spark, he panics, runs, fire. I was never a fan of fire, I wouldn’t fancy melting. Seems a bit to gruesome of a way to go. Joan of Arc must have had it tough.
I lay in an empty field, waiting, for something, damn I wish I was more sure I knew what it was. This field is empty, goddamn vast too. There is nothing but this vastness, this emptiness. It must’ve been a good eight months since I’ve had a good fuck, it must’ve been a good eight months. She couldn’t stand the way I shook when I got anxious, she couldn’t listen to me bitch one more time about that light pollution, about how much modern music irritated me, about how much I despised cars, and Salinger. Next to me sits a pack of smokes and a playing card, I flip the card over and it is a nice one, one of those bicycle playing cards, three of clubs. As I sit down at the piano, in front of me reads Chopin’s Impromptu in C sharp minor, sonva bitch to play, try in sometime, call me if you want to hear a good I told you so.
No man has ever said anything worth writing down, it just makes it too permanent, far to permanent. I was never a fan of cars I said as I walked through the vastness. Finally I reach the door, I think it was what I was looking for, I didn’t actually know, always wishing I knew, always wishing I knew better, goddamn. Behind the door sits the city, the girl I was supposed to be with, a book I was supposed to write, shit, it really is a shame about cars.
Most people never understand, I never understood, she never understood, its quite simple actually, there is too much, far to much to ever process, information is a sonva bitch. She had dark hair, dark eyes, not quite arian, but pretty nonetheless. Hitler wouldn’t have gone for her, but then again, he had Eva. Stalin may have liked her, he would have killed her eventually, at the moment I wished Stalin would kill me, imagine, being a statistic in a history book, that would be nice. Writing always got to me, I would usually write about boys, how much they intrigued me, how the bothered, and how I was sure I was gay when I kissed one. Boys, goddamn boys.
I never took a liking to cars, motorcycles neither. They both were to much for me. When I was six I was supposed to get married, not arranged, parent wise, but I really wanted to, it was to a girl. We kissed behind the chalkboard, and no one saw us, I understood things then, now, its just nonsense.
I don’t think anyone ever taught me how to swim, I like swimming, I am dead I think, being dead is a strange feeling, I feel the same, but everything is vast, I can’t seem to get into that city where the girl I was supposed to marry lives, that’s disappointing, I wonder sometimes, if it wasn’t for cars, if I would have that studio, if I would be a famous writer, and fuck twenty eight year old girls, or if I would be an old drunk who masturbates far too much. I am pretty sure I could be an old drunk who fucks twenty eight year olds. If I wasn’t thinking so much I would grab a smoke, but thinking isn’t letting me do that now. I secretly feel bad for all of the people who died from smoking, and the people who spend their whole lives smoking and die unfortunately, life works out funny like that. I don’t even know which I would rather to be frank.
good
