secret post

This is a secret post. But I am trying to do away with secrets. To me, they are a symptom of loneliness, inhibition; isolation, sadness. Although they are intriguing and demand attention. I will do away with them: one by one.

So I ripped the left knee of my jeans. Now my leg is cold. Isn't that crap?

Also, this is big news, I started reading Wonder Boys by Michael Chabon and The Path to the Spider's Nest by Italo Calvino. Calvino's prose is amazing to read. I can't imagine writing as gracefully as that, and it's a translation. So it's not even as good as it could be. Chabon is also amazing. I can't imagine being as graceful as him either. But with Calvino it seems natural and almost divine. Chabon's writing seems to be the hard labor of years, but nonetheless amazing. Here's what you won't believe: I'm going to start The DaVinci Code tomorrow. I really want a good story that drags you in quickly. And when I found out that Audrey Tautou is going to be in the movie, and that I will definitely have to see that, I then realized I better read the book first.

I feel very frustrated about writing. I have a strong desire to write. As if I am being pushed from behind by some unknowing muse. She wants me to write but she won't give me any good material. I keep thinking of things to write about and feelings I want to convey but when I start typing it's all too difficult.

So, I'm frustrated.

Tonight, no one is coming over; a strange sunday. But I guess it just means everyone hates me. So that's ok. I watched "The Constant Gardener". Very well done. We (Teresa, Em and I) watched "Me and You and Everyone We Know." Now we are watching "Vanity Fair." I'm hoping Reese Witherspoon gets naked. And you think I'm joking. And if you don't, well, I am joking - come on.

Have fun whatever you're doing. Fags.


Look, I'm kidding.

People are over. People, all right. That's all I can say. I have things to say, just a little, but not right now - tomorrow, I guess. I will tell you what I am reading for example. And about my jeans (their ripped, but forget I said anything)

bruisin for a cruisin

The show went really well last night. The You were a fun time as usual. The Rewinds were really good and tight. Definite and obvious Strokes influence. Not a good choice in bands to be influenced by, considering the Strokes aren't the most original band out there. But hey. Its like covering "Stand by Me" by Lennon, which I wouldn't mind doing. But a cover of a cover? C'est le vie. Cogito ergo sum. Pizza.

Did you ever eat a Salmon burger? They're great!

Now to finish "War of the Worlds". The suspense is killing me!

Who's excited? I am. Who's nervous? Me too. And I have a little secret: I want to watch National Treasure. So I probably will. But I'm not elitist - neither is Beth. I hope all of you are coming to the show. I don't want to hear any excuses about work or sleep. None.

Thanks to whoever broke our window - you pretty much ruined everything.

Lots to do today. That sentence has a natural rythym to it. I like rythym. If you know what I mean. *elbow nudge* (what do I mean?)

I'm going to get a breakfast sangwhich.

Here is a phrase I do not like: "Half-past a monkey's ass." Here's another phrase I do not like: "Shits and Giggles." Beth hates it too. She told me. She told me other stuff too.

Last night was fun:
Vegetable Lasagna
Music
Guiness
Sleeping bag time

I need a book to read.

I finished Gatsby tonight. "TONIGHT! HAIL HAIL!" It was a very impressive read. I couldn't imagine writing like that, such graceful and rich prose. He just throws out these sentences that you could cut. Know what I mean?

I was thinking again, as I often do these days, about writing. I tend to think it is a problem that I want to be a writer and not want to simply write. But lots of people have jobs because they want to have those jobs, not because they want to ___fill in the blank with whatever you actually do at your job____. No one says I want to get together lesson plans and write on the chalkboard. No, they say I want to be a Teacher. (Incidentally, my idea of what a Teacher does is entirely ill-advised, but allow me a few unabashed generalities. Thank you). No one says I want to count money and do planograms and kill myself. No, they say, I want to be an Assistant Manager at CVS. Wait, no one says that! HA!

If you know what I'm talking about then you are smart. And we should go out sometime and discuss about being smart. And discuss about some other thing, too.

Maybe I should stop saying to myself, "But I don't write, how can I be a writer?" And start saying, "I want to be a writer," and act accordingly. What a great life. For example, take F. Scott Fitzgerald. He was an alcoholic whose masterpiece was a failure in his lifetime, whose wife was hospitalized for insanity and ended up dying in a hospital-fire, whose daughter, or son?, was orphaned off due to poor parenting, who had to write crap short stories to survive. And then there's Hemingway, who shot himself, with a shotgun, in the face. And then there's Dr. Seuss: died eating yellow flummoxes in Flummox. Tough life. Where can I sign up?

Let's face it, I can't even blog everyday. How am I going to write? I need to get another job, like a librarian. But they have to pay $60,000. I've decided that's my basic-necessity-income. I just, well, demand it. And I won't go to school, that's tedious and boring. So I need to know someone, or, preferably, sleep my way to the top. Sleeping My Way to the Top of the Library Sciences, by Jason R. P. Rosemeyer. Sounds sexy. Sounds like money bags and sandwiches. That will be my magnum opus, I guess. Well, at least until I write my second novel. My third will fail, of course.

I will go insane, On Alcohol and Fame, Live my life in vain, Squander! Squander!

I will also write poetry. No just kidding, I'm not gay! But I guess my fourth will be the real kicker. It will get mixed reviews. One columnist describing it as "Sappy drivel from a faux novelist whose unoriginal themes are couched in generalities to make even (some author I will have never heard of) wince." Another, however, writes, "A gem! Goddammit, he's done it! The Great American Novel to end all American Novels. Period!" But this review will stick out like a stick in the sticky mud. Only after I'm dead, which will involve either alcohol, a ruined marriage, a shotgun or all of them or something else, will my talent be recognized. And it will be that fourth novel, the 'mature novel', that will do it. Sure they will go back to the first three, esp. the first two, but its the last, the work that no one got at the time, that will earn me a place in the Library of America.

But that's the thing about writing. Who is ever noticed before they die? Ok, Hemingway. (Shotgun). Salinger (woods). Hmm. Maybe some recent example are promising: Safran Foer, I guess. But he's different. He started writing early.

Now that I've gone this far and over-analyzed beyond excuse I must stop.

share

I read some things I'd like to share. But now I forget them. I am reading The Great Gatsby. I liked when Tom Buchannan broke his mistress' nose. That came out of nowhere. no where. now here. words are nuts. I read this very strange and original story by Murakami called "Shinagawa Monkey". I highly recommend this story. It involves a girl who cannot seem to remember her name and a talking monkey that steals them. And not written in a sci-fi kind-of way. I know what you're thinking and you're wrong - you would like this story. I also read an interview of Oliver Sacks, who wrote Awakenings. Which is a great movie, by the way. He is this neurologist turned novelist who writes about people in the extremes - as in people who are catatonic or deaf or blind. I'm not sure if 'extreme' is the best word. Some of the things I remembered: A blind mechanic, who was very good at what he did, received an operation at about age 40 for sight. But he couldn't make any sense of what he saw. His tactile vision did not line up with this actual vision. Well, not that tactile vision is not actual vision - I just don't know the word for it. So he couldn't be a mechanic anymore and ended up killing himself. The other thing I read about was this autistic woman who called herself an 'Anthropologist on Mars'. Autistic people have a very hard time relating to people on a very basic level, a level that your average person takes for granted. But she still craved warmth and connection. So she created a hug machine that applied pressure all around her when she was feeling lonely, or whatever it is she felt she lacked. I'm not sure if she'd say lonely. But it is a very vivid and sad image. So I thought I'd share it. There's something nice about it too. And I'm not really sure why called herself an Anthropologist on Mars - maybe because she felt so different from everyone else? That's the easy answer, I guess.

That's more or less what I wanted to share. I've been really strange lately. Pretty depressed and irritable. But it comes in cycles.

I have a strong desire to write stories, but I have no motivation to start because I have nothing to say. And I do not like what I have written. So I will not write anything and I will die in a pile of crap.

Happy Valentines Day!

I've been out. Soon to return.

math

O sleepy day. There's nothing I'd rather do today than lie around (lay around?) and watch movies. Eat junk. What do girls call that? A period? Yeah I have that. Having no money is the worst feeling. And the thing is Em and I are ok - we have food here and all, its just this mental thing. Security really. I don't feel safe if I have no money. Let's put it this way, Em and I have x amount of money with x + 1 amount of bills. Get it? James does.

At the same time, I also feel motivated. I feel like cleaning up and writing a story. It's weird. I want to lay around and also clean up. I guess I could be nuts and do both. Anyway, I also want to read. But the books I'm reading aren't too interesting just yet. But I have hope that they will turn around. Plus I havent been able to focus too well on what I am reading.

I don't know what today will bring but Teresa is here and I should hang out.

Off to, guess where? Last night I played drums. We have a new song entitled "new song." All of our songs have been called that at one point. After practice we went to the Sharp Edge. I got a New Castle and a Guiness, to the envy of Mike. But he wasn't there. Joel, Nathan, Beth, Megan, Mia, Vin, and Emily were. Then Emily and Beth decked the town with sings of Worthless. falala... But they were nice enough to take me home before they got too into it. I read for a bit and fell alseep. And again, so I'm told, when Emily came home, crawled in bed and tried to cuddle I flinched and turned away. Why am I so weird? I wish I was just nice. Just be nice. But anyway now I must be going to guess where. I will be there tomorrow too, bright and early.

I scream from the top of my lungs: What's Goin' On?!

Yesterday was such a dazy day. Not lazy because Em and I cleaned and cooked. But I think both of us fell into these trance states at times, where you just stare off at nothing and think about the same. And I was in my sleeping bag for most of the night. And Beth came over and we all fell asleep, at least Beth and I. I'm not sure if Em did. I still feel tired too. Overall it was just a daze, hence dazy. And also Daisy from Chick Fil-A came by and whistled us a few tunes. I enjoyed her version of "What's goin' on?" by the Four Non Blondes the most.

The only person I know of who reads this that may be up right now is Kim. And that's it. And if you were up at 6:30, and you happen to read this, make yourself known.