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Oh, writing. How I miss the sweet comfort of your solitary point of view, processing intangible emotions into sentences that will never be affected by my fickle, biased memory.
It's been nearly six months of straight, no vacation at all work. The last half of which was done mostly by myself, sitting in front of a computer 80 hours a week on average, cranking away on some stupid half hour commercial you and I and no one in their right mind would ever see. But, through all this, we find meaning. People are in actuality exactly the same stupid, vacant assholes they accuse one another of being. They have no idea whether or not what they feel is actually, honestly what they want or what they should/have inadvertantly convinced themselves they/or find it most convenient to/ want. There are no real or pure emotions, everything is muddled with hidden selfishness/social conditioning/unspoken biological grocery lists. Hence, we aim to converse with our gut, hoping it can understand us and what we want more honestly. But alas, the gut is reckless, tends to favor immediate gratification and worst of all, puts you in the unfortunate position of not really having any verbal justifications to share with those who would want them.
Case in point: How many of our parents work jobs they absoutely hate going to? I mean everybody hates their job, but assuming our parents have had enough time to position themselves above neccessity just long enough to start working towards something truly satisfying, even if it is a plan to get rich, why haven't they? Why do middle-class people deal with ridiculous shit every day just to "get by" even if they are clearly getting by with a reasonable amount of success? Why is almost nobody self-actualized? Is the responsibility of making a choice that spans the full spectrum of possibilities instead of the immediate one too much for people?
But.... whooo. Aside from all that nonsense, I hate my job, have hated it for a long time, sold my soul and the better parts of my life to it and in the end hate the money for keeping me here as long as I've been. I've squandered pretty much all of the at least $10,000 I've made in the past few months on total bullshit just to make up for sitting in a room every day of the week, editing shit for rich ass people who suck at their jobs. I'm happy for the opportunity, happy for stupid shit I've bought and happy that I know what it feels like to be able to pay whatever stupid amount it takes to fulfill any minute desire to overpay for something slightly better than what I'm used to. But fuck that shit, it's a prison and it only feeds itself.
Did I mention that it made me a far shittier conversation subject too?
I got fired on purpose finally (because it makes you more money than quitting) and I am truly apeshit about it. Who knows what I'll do now? Maybe finish those scripts rotting away on the bottom of my hard drive? Maybe play that XBOX 360 for longer than it takes for two rounds of Geometry Wars?
The CD's pretty great, not a masterpiece by any stretch, but still occasionally very brilliant. But isn't that the best fucking album cover you've ever seen? I just can't stop looking at it.Outlook: APESHIT Zeitgeist: The Flaming Lips - It Overtakes Me/The Stars Are So Big... |
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7 Songs to bind them...
Animal Collective - Grass
Rogue Wave - 10:1
Tom Vek - C-C (You Set The Fire in Me)
Spank Rock - Rick Rubin
Midlake - Roscoe
Gnarls Barkley - Crazy
Ariel Pink's Haunted Graffiti - Strange Fires
And since only the universal tags have hit me, I'll only re-state one.
Work sucks soooo bad. I'm really trying my hardest to get fired, all the while getting paid the exact same thing to do a whole lot less.
COACHELLA!!!! Woooo!Zeitgeist: Katamari Damacy - The Moon and The Prince |
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The numbers are figured out! Look at Fenway Park (home of the long-maligned Red Sox).
....
Okay, that's fake, those aren't the real numbers. But as long as we're speculating, here:
.....
But seriously folks, Gator Growl is upon us and I hope to dear God no one forget their patience, cause this one's gonna be hard to pull off as is. We've the materials on our hands to make for the dopest and most timely 3-day party any of us could want, so let's not be stoner ass kids and make shit happen.
I'd like to thank our gracious G-Ville hosts, Nath and Mike, Nancy and Robertico for their overabundant hospitality before they undoubtedly realize just how many fucking people they've invited to their respective households. So everyone, cell phones at the ready, let it commence.
And now back to my regularly scheduled brainwashing porn editing.
... Oh, and real quick now, if anyone has BitTorrent or is willing to download Azureus (google the word if you don't have it), download this dope ass album right now: Wolf Parade - Apologies to the Queen Mary (http://www.torrentspy.com/download.asp?id=398762)
It's a little Modest Mousy, but they'll be walkin around in gold-plated diapers before long.Zeitgeist: My Morning Jacket - It Beats 4U |
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Sep. 18th, 2005 @ 11:21 am
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Esos Japoneses son de pinga:
This is how you will control the latest Nintendo console. The
video is even crazier.
http://media.cube.ign.com/articles/651/651334/vids_1.htmlZeitgeist: Boards of Canada - Oscar See Through Red Eye |
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Aug. 19th, 2005 @ 08:09 pm
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If you need the addy, call me (Elly) or Carlos up, or just leave a comment.. <3 |
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A conversation from Steven Soderberg's Schizopolis
Fletcher Munson: Hello!
Neighbor: Hello.
Fletcher Munson: How are you?
Neighbor: Fine.
Fletcher Munson: Is your wife coming over tonight? Because her big ass always leaves me satisfied.
Neighbor: Nice of you to mention her. She enjoys sex with you much more than she does with me.
Fletcher Munson: I'm sure she says that to all the men in the neighborhood.
Neighbor: You may be right about that one.
Fletcher Munson: I'll see you later.
Neighbor: Okay.
Apr. 18th, 2005 @ 08:05 pm
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| » - it's constantly evolving and gaining complexity. |
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So it ends, my teenage years. I'm fucking 20 today.
Meaning of life equation circa- post age 19:
Fade in
INT. ELEVATOR
Carlos walks into a very wide, mirror-walled elevator. It's packed but not cramped, thanks to the nicely spaced out school-desks with strange orange velvet upholstry lined up on the two sides of the elevator, a good 10 feet apart. There are three people in the desks. Kurt Vonnegut, looking old as shit and happy as fuck, wit oozing from his wandering eyes. Yosemite Sam, dressed like Wille Nelson and smoking a fatty. And Brian Cox, but as the dad from Spike Lee's The 25th Hour.
Carlos sits on the surprising comfortable chair in front of Sam, engrossed in his ganja and clouded with smoke. To his right, Kurt nods an eyebrow and waves.
The elevator now starts to ascend and moments later, Brian Cox, irish-dad from brooklyn-ing it up, noisily gets out of his chair and slowly trudges his way towards Carlos, stopping right before his desk, in a cloud of Sam's smoke.
Brian Cox
You make your own party, fool.
Fade out.
I pulled a Carla/Cindy and almost got roped Monday. My smoking buddies from drawing class saw me walking up stairs to class, an hour late, and yelled at me from the parking lot to go join them in their cannibus-laden endeavor. I follow suit and hop in the car, now headed to our usual spot, the Kendall Campus Parking Garage. I felt bad, because for some reason that only god knows, I left my usual supplies and bud at home, so they'd have to smoke me out. We park and smoke a few bowls, when I looked in the mirror and saw the motherfucking law.
He pulled up to the car, I quickly lit a grit, but to no avail, as he asks us for our id's and if we'd "finished smoking all the weed yet."
We mumbled no, but given our soon to be confiscated smoking equipment, slowly admitted our guilt, but assured him that we had in fact "finished smoking all the weed." A total lie, but enough to give us hope.
The driver and I were asked to go outside and we recieved through bodily searches that included not only old favorites like "spreading my legs", "getting patted down" and "checking of the area inbetween my balls and thighs," but also featured new expert-cop techniques like the "cocktap", the "obvious wedgie" and the "checking the area in between my balls and thighs again."
Asked to sit aside while the other kids were being pulled out one by one from the backseat and receiving far less awkward searches, I hoped the kid who had the weed hid it well. The cop searched them up, happily found nothing and proceeded to search the shit out of the car.
Growing tired of not knowing when it was coming, I ask the kids from the backseat where the hell the weed is. My friend Hanna, girlfriend of the possessor of the substance, points at her significant other, wearing an inappropriately exaggerated grin and whispers:
"While they were searching you, he ate it. All of it*"
* - being about 90 dollars worth of weed.
So he found nothing and they just took our pieces. Well not mine, because they were at home, because my karma loves me too, Juan.
Stories without morals are my favorite.
Apr. 6th, 2005 @ 02:51 am
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| » (No Subject) |
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http://www.google.com.au/googlegulp/index.html
Probably the April Fool's joke I enjoyed the most. The FAQ being probably the funniest part.
Sin City disappointed me. Beautifully realized as a comic book adaptation and even magnificently well directed at times, I still can't help but dismiss the film as just 'cool.' And while it's not inaccurate to say that Robert Rodriguez has the biggest pair of cinematic balls going around these days (more violent than the first half of Kill Bill, even), I still think he's inferior to all of his peers in that whole 'stylish, dark indie mavericks from the south' scene.
Coachella's coming and I can't help but feel as if it will define the course of my life for the subsequent summer months. And even if it doesn't, I'll still have memories of The Arcade Fire, MIA, Bloc Party, Black Star, Wilco and the current stars of my 'current music' spotlight to rely on to make me feel better. I know we're going to Vegas but since I'm thinking that lawlessness is likely the best vacation characteristic to work with, perhaps a Mexican day trip could significantly increase the all important sin quotient of the trip.
School is as entertaining and stimulating as I could've hoped for, but my lack of actual work completed in terms of personal projects nullifies any purpose my measly 7 credits of Art and Film classes entitle me to have. But hey, at least I came back, and I'm pretty sure I want to keep doing this. Still though, I'm Carlos, and I think running away to a foriegn country for sake of it is as good a reason as any.
Boy, am I addicted to cigarettes. I swore to god it was merely an entertaining vice to toy with for a long time, but it's been about six months, and I'm as hardcore about it as i've ever been. Accepting it, however, was not without it's rewards. It's fun to experiment with just how strong a hold on your mind a substance can really have. How many excuses can I really make for my smelly, smoky behavior without realizing that I just crave nicotine? Or to Chicken and the Egg it up, is an addiction that much more of one when you realize it for what it is and allow it to dance it's stupidly entertaining dance on your cognitive activities forthwith, without reason.
Cases to speak of:
1. I'm in my car: "Traffic sucks, a cigarette will take my mind off things and help me enjoy the ride." (No it wont, it'll just numb me a little, a feeling that may or may not help the situation at hand)
2. "I'm high, let me get higher by smoking a few cigs" (Yes and no, if you space it out right, one or two can extend my feeling of awe and silent disorientation for a little while, but not much)
3. "I'm at a club, let me chain smoke so as to not have to worry about entertaining myself." (Well, I guess, but what a lame, high-maintenence vice. The drinking I will surely have a problem with at some point in my life would really suit this environment a lot more. It's a lot less selfish.)
Come to think of it, here's what my actions say to people:
Drinking - "Hey look at me be an asshole, just for you. Well not really for you, but does it matter? It's funny, right? The chances of me doing this and being an entertaining person to have around you are pretty high. I care about you, really. No, I'm not just saying that. And really, does it even matter?"
Smoking (cigs) - "If you'll excuse me gentlemen, I'm going to slowly and in a cool manner do something that will have absolutely no positive effects on the world around me. Not only will I risk smelling like crap and getting a cancer extra value meal for a short-lived, none too potent high, I'm letting you and everyone else within a 7 foot radius in on the party. Ah, standing outside the circle I see? Well I just so happen to have twenty of these cylindrical chambers of wonder on me and I've yet to buy a pack that I haven't shared. Don't see the need? It doesn't matter, somebody else will."
Smoking (buddha) - "Dude... My standards for entertainment are SO low right now"
I totally smoked like 4 cigarettes writing this
Apr. 2nd, 2005 @ 04:45 pm
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| » (No Subject) |
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Proving once again that arrogant people have a higher success rate than intelligent ones...
UNFUCKINGBELIEVEABLE.
Somewhere in England, Thom Yorke has split his wrists.
If God wrote a letter to evangelical christians that explains that he does not mind this rationalizing thing and he doesn't recommend being so scared of change and paranoid of each other. Jesus would not have hung out with Pat Robertson or anyone of those dicks. None of the apostles were dicks. They were all pretty chill. As was Jesus, really. I bet you if he found out one of his homies wanted to marry his boyfriend or whatever, he would've been cool with that.
Also, I bet you that people who hung around Jesus didn't sing and have TV networks talking about how great the guy is. He would've been totally creeped out by that.
I bet you when Jesus played any ancient games with anyone, he didn't ask for handicap or a better chance of winning because, if he was great, there was a bigger chance that they would be great. Jesus took shit like anyone else man. He was no soft ass bitch.
Oh man, did you hear that Alaska legalized weed?
Damn yo,
God.
Hoping Judge Reinquist lives four more years,
Carlos.
Nov. 3rd, 2004 @ 03:41 am
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| » El lo arregla todo con 'sorry' |
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Too many things to say.
Nights like tonight just aren't supposed to happen outside of movies. People in our situations just don't end up at the same place in the same situation. People never talk things out. A denouement isn't something that regular people get. I'm not supposed to be given endings to stories I could never finish writing. It just seems too fair. Too simple.
Life is not supposed to be relatively easy to deal with.
I'd be hard pressed to write characters with as much ridiculous righteousness as everyone displayed tonight. We actually cared about being fair and good and making sure everyone got on okay.
I cared enough to be decidedly negative to someone. Even though I've let every other reason to do this earlier pass me by. Even if I'd be very happy to have my old friend come back from Gainesville.
These are decisions I don't normally make. I live in an idealistic wonderland where I can make any goddamn thing OK. I usually don't believe in a wrong without an explanation.
Now I'm not going to compare myself to my long literary rival, Iago, but I'm just going to say that I think I misunderstood him because I was incapable of seeing arrogance as a measure of self destruction.
I don't want to stay mad at him, I just want to learn to actually draw that line I could never draw as a kid. My Stepdad and my childhood best friend were both people I loved who never had any ounce of respect for me. And instead of fighting back, I would act like I had too much pride and I didn't give a shit. Fuck that. That gets you nowhere and it gains you no fucking respect.
Fuck this kid, I'm mad.
I am not willing to negotiate that at the moment.
I'm going to be like Danny Mejia and your going to be Moises or Ryan.
I'm not going to not try to see you, because I don't want to to be devisive and I don't want to further myself from my friends. I'm not going to be uncomfortable when I see you.
I think you did some fucked up shit that I'm not going to pretend to be ready to deal with. Even if other people can justify your actions, I know how much ill will you must've held to do what you did and i'm not about to accept that from a friend.
I like my girlfriend a whole lot by the way, she's funny and pretty. She makes me happy and makes being with her ridiculously fun.
I think it's safe to say that we're pretty happy together.
Aug. 7th, 2004 @ 05:21 am
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| » That's why people who are better at math are actually much stupider than us. |
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Things are good. Really, really good. I'm more at peace with the part of myself that causes the least strife and most focus than I've ever been. Lately, I've been losing the ability to escape to the past or the future, they both seem ridiculously fake and I just find myself needing to rest there less and less. I feel like the truest embodiment of what I can be and in many ways my wicked deeds have somehow achieved a ludicrous, but effective balance. I feel as if everyone and everything I surround myself with is either worthy of my time, body and soul or will at the very least teach me enough about life to embrace it without question (godless individuals really have nothing else to live for, anyway.) The story of my life feels like a story worth telling, and I think I feel myself more comfortable with my identity than ever.
Am I still indulgent? Do the Rolling Stones really think that 10 to 15 years of hits and 40 or so of hedonism and early aging are worth 85 dollars a pop? Apparently so.
But these are folks (my friends that is, not Mick and Keith) whom I'd gladly and unquestionably stare demise in the face for, and I'm beginning to think they know that. How can I be selfish and yet incredibly loyal? Simple. I'm too young to believe in cruelty and too twisted to understand what being offended and offending someone is actually like. In my world, everyone is worth putting time and love into, even my punk ass. I know I'll make someone's life better for having had me in the long run, always. And in a moment where I feel most like T.J. from Recess, and I think no one has a reason to direct negativity towards me at all, I'm willing to challenge all forms of fate, karma, circle logic, superstring theories and such that would have me falling harder than I expect to.
Within the truest realization, or essentially the most highly evolved version of the self, doubt is long obsolete.
But then again, if that were to be ever reached, so would be purpose. Everything that is bit by bit derived from the collective source of basic, instinctual needs and is explained and made the most useful through layers upon layers of self communication will always essentially reach a point where it is the additive inverse of what it actually is, and therefore cancels itself out.
Our fate is to become walking contradictions? Apparently so.
I've avoided quoting this film for years, but I can't hide any longer: On a long enough timeline, the survival rate for everyone turns to zero.
Who the fuck forgot to pass along the word that Modest Mouse were as important as they really are? The Moon and Antarctica and Good News for People Who Love Bad News are in themselves such original, beautiful, maps of human concious thought that perhaps it's best to believe them as the most simple evolution of the John Lennon school of musical expression. They really are that good, I'm not fucking kidding.
In other news, I've just listened to The Velvet Underground and Nico about twelve times in a row and I've come to the conclusion that the Velvets are not overrated among their peers, but somehow tragically missed out on what it was about the late sixties and early seventies that allowed so many of its artists to so effortlessly achieve the most timeless reflections of modern civilization to date. Dylan, Lennon, Hendrix, Wilson, Page and Plant, Drake, Davis, Pop, Kubrick, Fellini, Vonnegut, much younger versions of Richards and Jagger, and ironically enough even Warhol, seem to have understood the fates and history of their world in an outrageously accurate fashion. It seems only right to assume that Lou Reed's grandest achievement was to meticulously tip toe the line of brilliant art and never step across it. This is why the Velvets will never die, waging war in the mind of every asshole to ever wear ridiculously huge headphones, armed with their kind of artillery, one would feel that when they eventually cross this line and it would be the most orgasmic release of sexual tension in history. But alas, they've not the ability to hide a yawn in "A Day In the Life", nor the power to make ridiculously accessible the chaos of "Bitches Brew", nor the chutzpah to regurgitate consumerism and associative beauty as a slightly different shade of a Campbell's soup can, nor the steady hand to depict "A Clockwork Orange" as a benchmark in subtlety, while manifesting it within the most completely character dependent emotional plotline and through the eyes of what is without a doubt the most cartoonish protagonist ever. And it is their undeniable fate and immortal claim to fame that outside the mind of Julian Casablancas, who himself claims every ounce of brilliance to his Velvet jealousy, to achieve the archetypical demise reserved for only the most mythological of heroes.
David Lynch however, just sucks.
May. 25th, 2004 @ 10:08 am
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| » I am susceptible to flattery |
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"The addiction of duplicities.
As bit by bit it starts the need to just let go"
- The Cure "Disintegration"
"They don't love you like I love you"
- Yeah Yeah Yeahs "Maps"
"My thoughts are misguided and a little naive"
-Radiohead "Myxomatosis"
"Amarrame y muerdame.
Llevate con tigo mis heridas"
- Cafe Tacuba - Avientame"
"I drug your ghost across the country and we plotted out my death. In every city, memories would whisper, here is where you rest."
- Bright Eyes "The Calendar Hung Itself"
"The Universe will have its way"
- The Flaming Lips "In The Morning of The Magicians"
"I'm not your friend. I never was"
- The Strokes "Automatic Stop"
"I always thought that if I held you tightly, you would always love me like you did back then.
What was I thinking when I let you back in? I am trying to break your heart."
- Wilco "I Am Trying To Break Your Heart"
"But your memory is here.
And I'd like it to stay.
Warm light, on a winter's day."
- The Shins "Pink Bullets"
My iPod is my best friend. Well, not really
"QuikZilvr9 - No
QuikZilvr9 - I can't hate you
QuikZilvr9 - You complete me"
- Luis Mejia
But it's a close second.
A good day it has been, and I don't intend to forget. Stories forged, images captured, personalites understood, subtleties embraced, glories achieved, sand swallowed, night air consumed, equilibrium met. It wont last long, and the ghost of my want will shoot me down soon enough, but for now, let's pretend I'm too quick for him.
The night beckons and I have but a fool's choice to make.
May. 14th, 2004 @ 01:29 am
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| » Llevate con tigo mis heridas... |
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Logic stands
You couldn't meet a man
Who's from the future.
But logic broke
As he appeared he spoke
About the future
"We're not gonna make it"
He explained how the end will come
You and me were never meant to be
Part of the future
All we have is now
All we've ever had is now
(The Flaming Lips - All We Have Is Now)
If feels like an elephant is pounding on my chest. My breathing is difficult and the burn in my speak is hard to ignore. No more smoking, not for a little while at least.
It's sad to imagine how fragile everything that is holding me up actually is. I'm starting to realize how far a man can support himself when nothing is going his way. This isn't to say I'm sad, I just feel like I could be doing much more with myself.
But again, in the wake of emptiness and confusion, sadness can feel right too. It's good to know that small things can really bring you down. It makes everything that much more real and dangerous.
Also, I've decided that I'm leaving this summer. I don't know how yet, but I'm spending two to three weeks by myself somewhere far. Not to make myself a man or anything, just to properly learn to be a stoic. My place among the philosopher-kings of yore needs to be forged somehow.
Anybody else feel like they're doing it all wrong? Or at least think that things need to change soon?
May. 9th, 2004 @ 12:49 pm
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| » As life gets longer, awful feels softer. |
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Call it a side effect of way too much marijuana, a partial discovery of the self, an embracing of incoming adulthood, or whatever you like, but the future looks bright and I don't think I've ever been happier to be me.
That snuck up on me quite well.
You were right, Elly. This fucking song is brilliant, I love Modest Mouse as much as anybody else, but I think this is the single song of theirs that makes me the happiest to listen to.
May. 7th, 2004 @ 12:56 pm
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| » (No Subject) |
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In response to all the Black Mamba vs. whoever nonsense that's been going around these days, I present the most puzzling challenge of them all.
The Battle of the Yellow Jumpsuits:
Black Mamba vs. April O' Neil
And come to think about it, there's a striking resemblance between the Kill Bill and Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles mythology. Except for the lack of the all important Bill character, I think it bears worth noting.
The Bride just straight up jacked the jumpsuit from April.
Pai Mei and Splinter are the exact same character.
The turtles are totally the assassination squad:
Donatello was totally Vernita Green. Or at least they shared a skin tone and fondness for purple accessories.
Leonardo and O-Ren Ishii are both fairly level-headed, at least among killers, and both prefer to use Katanas.
Michaelangelo's party guy attitude and resourcefulness make him and Budd interchangeable.
And Rafael and Elle, with their bad attitude, sourness towards leadership, and willingness to take the cheap shot, are pretty much the same fucking character.
(Yes, I'm also aware that they are generally spoofing the same
Genre, but still)
I used up all of my Nerd Juice supply for the month of May to come up with that one.
May. 3rd, 2004 @ 01:54 pm
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| » I am freakin' out... man. |
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Oh shit run!
Oh shit run!
Oh shit run thru the ghetto
They will hear you
Mornin bell tolls at home
Rings loud back where I come from
Calls me back
Often times i would hope and pray
Then faith came my way
Oh shit run! oh...
It's what appears to me it's what appears to me
Oh shit run! oh...
It's what appears to me it's what appears to me
Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh
My Morning Jacket - Run Thru
It's usually in the things you take for granted that you find your flaws. Perhaps that's too simple a lesson of life to even discuss, but in a world where social efficiency is the most success defining quality, and few godless excuses can be made for our existence outside of manifest destiny, it might be best to assume the pace of life is much too fast for such discoveries to be a part of our emotional itineraries.
I am more than multitudes, as I do not merely exist on different levels. No, I am a game of chess; my duplicity plays games of skill of with itself.
To give excuses would be to anthropomorphise myself into a wall.
I've been listening to that song, which I highly reccommend by the way, for quite some time. I've always introduced it to people as a song where the lead singer, usually a man known for his ability to introspect and beautify, succums to the strength of panic and accessibility. Today, as I was admiring the versatility of My Morning Jacket's creative guitar and percussion work, I realized something new. This song is not about being overcome by any emotion. He is not fighting or threatening anyone.
It's almost schizophrenic in its declarations of hate and homelessness and faith.
He is not speaking to anyone he will speak to again, and yet he is speaking to himself.
Jim James (lead singer of My Morning Jacket) is dying in 'Run Thru.' He is not finding excuses for his existence or faults. He is not sorry his faith did not compel him to become a better individual. He is merely experiencing his life again, one last time, in the emotions that never became him. Opportunities to change and become one with his desires and yearnings have run out. And in his acoustic hell, he has found himself as no comfort for his emptiness.
Modern civilization, in the case of the social phenomenon I was speaking about earlier, has epitomized merely being as the only reason needed to justify consumption of vitality. When Jim James lay dying, merely being was not enough. He run out of places to run and existence to thank. His desires and curiosities have not found solace in the euphoria of becoming one with his the ground that birthed him whole.
We are destined to die alone.
Apr. 28th, 2004 @ 09:03 pm
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| » The farmhouse is burning down. |
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Teacher: Would you please diagnose this patient, professor Borg?
Borg: But, this patient is dead.
I'm not entirely sure what effect marijuana has on me, and why I've kept it around me so often in the past few weeks.
It helps me obtain better personal reactions to certain complex ethical and emotional problems. It helps me not question myself so often. It makes me realize my love for certain friendships I hold dear. In other words, it helps me with things I should be able to do well without it.
No, that's a lie. There is a lot more to it. The drug holds a certain piece of my heart but I don't know why. It comforts me in it's cloudy, gray embrace. It reminds me that I can also be overwhelmed by emotion. I like knowing that I'm hiding a weak individual somewhere in my skin.
That might be a lie, too.
Strange days are surrounding me now. I feel sonambulant and driven and I seem incapable of righting a wrong. No one around me has expressed any kind of happiness in a long time. Everyone is losing the layers of wonder and curiosity they so meticulously cemented into their personalities as kids. Is that what growing up is? Forgetting complex goals and methods of happiness in exchange for paranoia, possiveness and simple pleasures?
I went to a wedding yesterday. My cousin Evelio married his high school sweetheart after a five year relationship. He's twenty two, I believe. She's twenty one. At his age, he's getting his BS this semester, is the manager of a mortgage firm, is a partner in a real estate developing business and has many clients who won't do a thing without consulting him. He drives a Jaguar. He's been paying all of his own bills since he was 16. To sum it up, the kid has his shit together like few people I've ever met. His wife, the lovely Jenny, is a smart, pretty girl. She sweeter than anyone could ask for really. Yesterday, they seemed quite taken with each other and my cousin didn't seem to be questioning himself at all. He was getting bound to a girl for life and he looked like he never second guessed it at all. At the ceremony's most emotional points, they even had me welling up a little.
But the kicker is here, I've never known any emotions like those they displayed yesterday. I could relate more to the guy who snapped and killed someone than the guy who married his first real girlfriend. Hence, I felt terrible for him. I wondered why he chose to make a decision whose only real defining quality is that it really can't be unmade. Who in god's earth would bind themselves to anything in such a powerful manner. It seems unwise and naive. Of course you're going to change. Of course there will be times that you'll fall out of love for her.
A relationship can be a beautiful thing, but it's the need to make a commitment with blood and money that I don't relate to. From my unseasoned point of view, a commitment like that is reminiscent of communism, wonderful in theory but self-serving and limiting in the end.
This being said, I'm pretty damn sure I'll end up married before I expect it. Hell, some fortune teller lady once told my mother I would marry only once and be with that woman till my timely demise.
Revolver was great this week. Inebriation + twenty six people + indie rock + terrible, terrible dancing on our behalf = the most fun I've ever had at that place.
Free Cat Power show tonight? Don't mind if I do.
Apr. 25th, 2004 @ 05:02 pm
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| » You, madam, are addressing a man, who is in fact quiet... and yet, not quiet. |
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(I think that in order to better communicate myself, I'll just start whining now)
Vice was just weird. I mean it was better than I'd expected in terms of organization and people, but I just didn't have that much fun. I also couldn't stop dancing like a jackass for some reason. My body was feeling the music a little more than I was if you can understand what that would equate to. But on a positive note, Soho Lounge has never been as picturesque as it was then. Colors, smoke and eyeliner in every dank corner, masses crowding a tiny room and dancing as if they had to convince somebody they were having fun. It was magnificent. Before we left, I just sat by the speaker, losing my hearing and finding more and more interesting things I wanted to put in a movie. I even imagined where my protagonist would walk through and who he'd speak with. As for what they would tell him, that's a lake I need a red-bull inspired bout of insanity to wade through.
The Ladykillers is retarded. But very very funny. Funny in that bizarre but not totally absurdist kind of way. Oh, Cohen brothers.
If you'll excuse me, I have go remind my family members that they don't really like me all that much. Instead, they think I'm handsome and arty and give me the benefit of the doubt. Besides, it's the kids nobody understands that end up with all the money.
Apr. 11th, 2004 @ 01:19 pm
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| » I used to know why. |
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What am I becoming? Why has this week felt more important to me than anything has in months? I've never felt my surroundings so obsolete.
There is gold hidden in the ground
I've lost most of my of truth and reality. I haven't spoken in months. Some part of me hi-jacked my voice and began speaking to everyone as if what I said mattered. It didn't.
Give us love in the time that we have
I've known no beauty outside of a snowy March evening in Times Square, a dream-like 2 in the morning at a small coffee shop with blue walls in Greenwich Village, and an early morning walk onto the Subway where I would leave my sense of wonder. I don't know why I felt alive in New York. I don't know why didn't feel it before then. And I don't know why it didn't follow me home.
Every road takes his father from home
I'm sorry to those I've hurt and will continue to hurt. I have to regain control of myself. Maybe I can do something I can be proud of. I'm tired of being scared of loneliness. I've run away from me for too long.
I'll suceed.
I'll be big.
I'll step on no one's feet.
Not even mine.
(I haven't posted in months, how else did you expect me to return?)
(I'm 19 now, too)
Apr. 10th, 2004 @ 10:31 pm
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miseducation's journal
