Wireless Connection

I've already forgotten what seemed so important. I suppose the environment plays a role. Every year has added a decade. Peerless works both ways. I suppose I will find the time to eulogize my adolescent fixations. They will be hobbies. I am no different than every other person who does much for little and keeps the passion close. Like keeping the warmth in a blanket when it's snowing. The warmth leaves, the passion follows. I know this, but I cannot follow it. Like some morality tale punishment, I move in slow motion towards something I want but cannot accept. It's not pointless; it's Pointillism, I am just too short sided to see it. Maybe one day I can take all the advice from the ghosts of voicemails past and do it a fucking solid. This whole noseless visage is wearing thin. People stop caring about missing the point and the silence picks up the slack.

(Laundry) List

I wonder if they will remember me spoiling them. Indulging their little faces with the dim echo of rules and regulations in the back of my mind. The library, our picnics, the those late night slumber parties during the summer of Meatballs, later called feetballs. Tickle tickle feet eating funny faces, funny phases of changing names and silly voices. The fear of being forgotten not enough to stop from living unrehearsed. If I die young(ish) like I hope, I want them to remember all the rules I helped them break and the muffins they helped me bake.

The laundry. For some reason I really enjoy the laundry. How through the years of roommates, I have seen all kinds of clothes. It's a strange way to be a part of someone's life.

I Know Why the Wires Buzz (The Screens Glow)

Nature Shows Us How

It's in the air and in the wires. It's in the blood and starting fires. Falling on old patterns like romantics in love. Or on swords. Sounds of natural war time all lights and glass rattling. The light in the darkness and the shadows evaporating like the newly formed puddles. The build up of heat and release made manifest on the window pane.

"Something to Talk About" is more than an eponymous song from Bonnie Raitt. It sums up the very nature of a water cooler on fire, the primitive internet utility of mass human communication with a purpose. If one's thoughts are diametrically inclined: we are a culture of costumes and quotes, uniforms and theme songs. We are a nation united by hype and disillusioned by inevitable conclusions. We seek the middle and we seek it hard.

The buzz begins with the insiders. We predict, we permutate, we anticipate. And then we fall. We fall into sweeps, scandals and the sweet rush of adjective assembly that tells us what we like. We respond. And if the vibrations are just right, we connect. That ever-elusive combination of mawkishness and insight traversing battlefields of pop culture fallout, current music, and self-awareness. The pre-emptive fears of cancellation, settling and early syndication.

The slow rise pop, like the titular pronunciation favored in the Mid-West, bubbles and inevitably falls flat. But those first fresh sips fill us with a collective joy of camaraderie of culture, ease of understanding.

It's Been _______ Years since my last

I don't go to Church. I suppose I should add, anymore, to indicate there was a time when I did. And as such, I have been to a confessional and find the internet to be an appropriate substitute. A nice jumping off point for the things we hardly admit to ourselves, much less the anonymous void. Why some people make you want them in your lives and others leave you questioning all the decisions you have failed to make.

The kids make me want to weigh every word, and try to prevent hurting their feelings by anger or carelessness. They are sweet and funny and help balance the scales of inadequacy I feel like hanging myself from. I wish I didnt need them to remind me. I wish I could be better without scores of books and songs and films and tv shows that ended prematurely.

Reset.

Read a book to stay awake (with broken glasses)

Whether it be a needle or a trigger, enjoy your 45. I have a hard time writing. Not actually writing, but focusing on a project. I doubt very highly it is ADD or some other shit written on a file in a school in a state I no longer reside in. I have a hard time sleeping. I have a hard time being an adult. Things havent changed much, I feel like I am standing still as the world spins around me. Names, faces, phone numbers orbiting around me (there's a joke to me made). I had a line earlier about the brutality of something, probably humanity and a phantom lasting the length of a song, a cigarette, an errand. This fog of bi-location, which may not be limited to St. Ignatius is making it hard to see clearly.

I think of you often. I have things I meant to give to you, or you left with me, or that reminds me of you. I feel like I am standing between a tectonic plates and being pulled slowly in opposite directions. I dont know what to do and I am avoiding panic by avoiding solutions. It isnt working (there's a joke there). Writing the jokes for an empty stage.

I have read 12 books in three weeks. I go to the library quite frequently. I have a Pell grant and I havent applied to schools. I am finally actually broke. I think I still have a ways to go until I hit rock bottom. My sister was telling me some things my mom said about my dad and they sounded a lot like me. Not surprisingly, I didnt take it well. Most people I know are not doing well right now. It's hard sitting it out as it were.

I dont know why I find phone sex so funny. Or dating in general. I have been on more dates in VA than probably my whole life. The more I meet people, the more I want to be alone. I am trying to do something with my attitude, but this heat is not helping me be productive.

That's enough.

The song rules. The sentimentality sucks.

My nephew is blown away by commercials. He doesn't like the news. He was smiling and banging his knee and clapping during Glee. All in all, a good day.

Huxleyesque mining of pregnant teenagers hormones sold as designer drugs. Every night before I go to bed to some show that I am half listening to, I think about a subject and expound. I literally collapse in the details. It starts like an amusement park ride. Tonight watching Glee, after a day of The People vs Larry Flynt, Whatever Works (Lucier and Cortney's movie for sure), and Wild at Heart, I have OD'ed on panemotional sweetness. Sharp lines and the ties that connect and sometimes garrote us all to each other. The shadows cast from the hanging dead... and birthday cake commercials inciting gleeful toddlers. That's me.

I'm super excited about any possible job I might get. This week has been much pounding of the proverbial pavement. And... this crap.

New TV shows on Fox.
Eclipse soundtrack.

So I toast you all: To vacations that occupy a lunch break, the mawkish and the mockable we hold dear.

Little Less than Drunk

I take society's rules and fuck them just like I will you after some moderately priced white wine at Applebee's. I'll take you there and wow you about sports only seen on ESPN3 and quote the more obscure Will Ferrell oeuvre. Some people search for that spark, well baby I'm the Chicago Fire, shrouded in mystery and out of control for a while. Just call me Trailer Park and Ride.

Saying that you are mourning yourself, your life, your decisions, seems almost like a ridiculous summary of a derivative film at this point. The polarity of death and life; a meaningful life outside of financial responsibility and on to the more tenuous and ambiguous nature of good or spiritual depth begins to seem like a folie a deux between a person and their fictional creator. To say you are only close to someone when you are hundreds of miles away lends a certain adolescent romance to our rapidly expanding remembrance of things distorted. And I dont know what else to expect from myself, a mere spectator in a deteriorating locale, the lone tourist in a burning building. A sense of urgency has never been a virtue of mine. I let things marinate until I am ready to discard or immolate them. The people I care about seem further and further away on this fanciful desert island of correspondence. This life of mere adequacy peppered with the unstable and the unattainable serves for a skewed road map to a destination I am not sure I want to visit, let alone surpass. I just want something to fill the years instead of quicksand and bursts of clarity before a stupor takes over and I forget everything I used to want.