file-mucking

So I'm still looking through some old papers, random notes and such. Here are some of them, dated and all that good shit.



Sunday, April 11, 2004, 10:51:34 PM

I always wanted to write a book. I figured, it’s what smart people do, right? It’s what people with a vision do. Papers litter my room with phrases like Ten Dozen Eggs in a Frying Pan. For me, like most people, it has always been a problem of filling up the canvas. Me wanting to write something worthy of being read is similar to saying “I’m not a very funny person, so I’ll do comedy.” So I sit in bed at night, as my comforter suffocates the fan of my laptop, facing this computer I have named My Manifestation of Power. I don’t have a story to tell. In fact, my own story, while bland enough, is better than anything I can think up. In fact, I’m a fucked up story. I’m a depressed kid feeling old, stretched and thin. So maybe I’ll just stick to rambling on as I do in my life.




Tuesday, April 20, 2004, 11:51:20 PM

I guess life really loops around. If I look back at all that has happened to me in the last few years, I start to see a cycle of starting and quitting. Starting one thing means my redemption, and by quitting and starting another thing, I save myself again. I wonder if one thing will stop leading to another, and if it will just stop and trail off… So I’m at the edge of a new beginning; the crest, the drop off, the ledge, the new chapter. This last one failed almost as miserably as the one before, minus the fact that this one really didn’t leave me better off in any way whatsoever. The scary part is wondering how I’m going to fuck this next one up.

(*Oooh, ooh! I did fuck it up, sure enough!*)




ednesday, April 21, 2004, 3:33:46 PM

Stavo pensando che forse voglio tornare a italia. Senza bimba mia, sono libero vedere il mondo di nuovo. Pero', avere sei mesi o piu' in italia senza soldi... non so. Non posso lavorare con una vista di studenti. Perche voglio parlare in un modo piu' giusto. Anche' mi manchio il cafe'. Il cafe qua e' quasi...quasi merda. Ha cultivato in Oregon, e porco dio, fa schiffo! Anche la pasta qui, MINCHIA, anche la pasta fa schiffo... le schiffezze, sono belle in america.

Ma ho una picola problemma che non so come diffusarlo... c'e' una donna al bar (si chiama bellatazza, pero' il cafe fa schiffo...interesante. Non quasi vicino un cafe in italia...) che e' quasi bella (quasi), ma suo sorriso e' assolutimente magnifica, anche sua voce. Comunque, lei e' molto simpatica e filice con me, molto molto gentila... non so come si chiama, ma ho paura chiederla perche' di cosa successo con mia ex, Kayla. Ho paura che non posso essere interesante per piu' di due ore. E fa male che successo, e non voglio sentire come sento addesso.

Ho trovato che mio amico Brian e' un frocco. Okay, va bene, non importa (?). Ma poco giorni fa, ho trovato che anche (non di sicuro, pero'...) Tim, l'altro amico che ho in questa citta di merda, e' un frocco! Che cazzo?!? Loro, insieme... no, no, no! Scusami, ma dai! Senti, vi dico questo: C'e' molto gayness in giro. Dove sono gli ragazzi normale? DOVE?!?! Devo chiedervi, perche tutti di mie amici sono gay qua. Dimmi perche'! Devo trovare qualcosa mettere nel culo bloccare un questi due cazzi. No, scherzo, ma essere onesto, a me non piace questo fatto: tutto di mie amici sono frocci e lesbiche. Ick...

Allora, non chiedermi perche' vi scrivo in italiano quando lo scrivo in un modo brutto e verimente non giusto... ok, e' perche' ho parlato bene, ma e' facile dimenticare una lingua, e perche di quello devo trovare imprare italiano di nuovo. E' echola, mia lettera brutta.
E basta. Stop. Fina. Vaddo via. Ciao.


E vaffanculo alla francese. E gli inglese. E... americani anche (si, l'ho detto. Vaffancullo a mie campagnoli).

*This has some of the worst grammar I've seen! Was I drunk?!?!?!*




Created: Thursday, February 05, 2004, 12:55:11 AM
Modified: Sunday, April 11, 2004, 10:51:11 PM

Do you ever feel you could tear at the walls of reality? Does that fabric almost feel loose, like all around you is a … mask? I feel like the very air is about to fall into pieces, or dissolve. I feel a burning sensation like I will fall out of a hammock of some sort, a hammock of existence. Everything is almost a …coffee stain on what is behind the stage. True reality.
I have felt it for years. I can remember the feeling when I was a child. They called them mild panic attacks. If I closed my eyes things would bulge and grow, fold, disappear. If I opened them it was worse. My body temperature would rise, I would sweat. Sounds grew loud and echoing, like they didn’t bounce off the walls of the room correctly. I felt afraid, out of control, insignificant and vulnerable. But it wasn’t just a childhood feeling. They still come. They are more profound, and less frightfully bearing. However they are still her. All that is needed is a spark, or a match to burn down the curtains. I know it is there; not an alternate place, but what’s really there.

I am not talking about a Hollywood matrix, or a heaven and hell…though it most certainly feels like that. But it’s coming closer, whatever it is, heaven or hell, matrix or madness.
And then I lose it. Light ceases to cast shadows into the broken cracks-- it’s just part of the spectrum that my eyes can see. The part that we can sense.


MAN, SHAVED HEAD AND FACE WAKES UP, STARTLED. HE IS WEARING A WHITE UNDERSHIRT, AND WHITE BRIEFS. HE HAS TWELVE RUBBER BANDS AROUND HIS LEFT WRIST. ROOM IS LIGHT FROM AN OPEN WINDOW. THE WHITE CURTAINS ARE LIGHTLY BLOWING IN THE BREEZE. THERE IS NO FERNISHING, JUST A GLASS OF WATER BY THE SIDE OF HIS MATRES (WHICH IS A DOUBLE, ON THE GROUND). He leans up on his right elbow, looks around and takes a deep breath. His eyes are wide open, and then he blinks a few times. He gets up quickly and closes the window. He puts on some brown leather shoes, worn and old. He doesn’t tie the laces, but continues to walk into the next room. There is a table full of notebooks, papers, Lighting a cigarette he sloppily walks over to his door and looks out the peep hole. Nobody.


I wonder if we are born without the eyes to see true reality? And those who feel that something is wrong, or something is missing dismiss it for some chemical combination in the brain, or some anomaly, abnormality, some glitch. The thing is that there is more light than we can sense, so what makes us know we have all the dimensions? Then we take something…Prozac, Wellbeutren, Zoloft…some kind of pill. And it’s gone. Lost.




Friday, January 30, 2004, 11:00:19 PM / Wednesday, April 14, 2004, 7:41:12 PM

The world is a very strange place that I really can’t figure out. It is like taking uppers and downers at the same time, making a swampy mess of emotions that plague my every waking day. Somehow drugs, alcohol, cigarettes and my depressive tendencies make it more of a ride of ups and downs. Shades of gray seem much more bright set against black than they do against white, and that is how my life works. I submerge myself in a dark pool of loneliness and pain, only to re-emerge for a breath of life-giving air. In these moments the wonders of existence go beyond the unfathomable space outside of it. I feel wondrous joy. However I am a self destructive creature bent on seeing myself drown. And change is something that comes not for all, if any, without decisive, driven force. Whether or not I can summon this courage to make those steps is something I cannot foresee. But I am home, and it all fits together at a crossroad. Maybe knowledge of which path to take is not important, but what brought me to it in the first point. Through that maybe I can find out where my compass points. Maybe I can save my dieing soul, and force goodness out of something that is so cold, so damaged, and absolutely self loathing.

Salvaging good in yourself is almost impossible in this age. Even the living gods are constantly tempted by human nature. It is less powered people such as myself that find temptation impossible to deny…impossible to face. We let ourselves be ‘free’. Instead we are lost in a stew of fear and loneliness. This loneliness is my reality. It wakes me in the morning and beats me to sleep. The few that make me smile are so far out of daily reach that it’s impractical to even rely on them, though they’re all I have worth continuing for. One of my greatest qualms is one of them in particular will leave me… and if she does, she will destroy me. She will crush me into a dead nothingness.

I love her. It really scares me shitless. I’m just a kid. I’ve never felt this way about a girl before. I’m just a fucking kid. I’m not supposed to be into someone as much as I am with her. She cures my every pain, dries my tears, calms my shaking hands, settles my worst fears, and brings the most intense warmth and joy to my heart and dare I say soul. It is a goodness I can’t explain, and a completeness I don’t understand.




Wednesday, April 21, 2004, 2:51:18 PM

"I could kill my brother and steal his identity."
A brief pause.
"I should kill my brother and steal his identity."
A long drag of a cigaretter.
"After all..."
Another pause. Exhailes while finishing statement.
"I could get away with it."
"You're crazy. I'm going to leave you and your madness to go to the bathroom."

*An interesting idea that I thought I could use in a book.*


Well, those are some of the old documents I kept. Only three more folders to weed through...