everything is/nothing is

i stood in the middle of a street with snow coming down and snow on the ground and everything is white and cold and i dont know this town and i am standing there drunk and at the end of the street, way far down, almost out of sight, i see five black long and skinny fingers stretching out like shadows over all living things. there was no body and no really hand and no really shape, just deaths black bony fingers touching everything.

a couple hours/days later i was in the same place in the same town still drunk but i was inside and there was new skin all over me. it felt good so i didnt stop it but i knew what the skin looked like on the other side. there wasnt blood and muscle there, just empty lines drawn in pencil. i couldnt say a whole lot and faces that from the tall and ugly past kept staring at me from the other side of the bedroom. they didnt judge me because they knew they didnt have to. i already knew.

a couple hours/years later i run back outside to see if the fingers of death/truth are still spreading out over our humble country side, but this time its just shadows of people walking home from bars. i bummed a cigarette off one of them that walked by. he gave one to me and i asked for a light as well. he pulled out a lighter and flicked it and pushed it towards my face by i grabbed it out of his hand and told him that i light my own cigarettes, thank you very much. i light it and give him back the lighter and he looks at me like i am an asshole and walks away. sorry dude i got my rules, ya know?

when you go through things and grow up and see through the other side of the tunnel, events that would of been a life impacting soulful happening are just another weekend, another thing that happened. when are really young and artful/stupid you try to make everything out to be like the movie garden state. every time you stand out in the rain or kiss a new girl or run across the street drunk or whatever idiot fucking thing you do, you make it something important, a big golden bookmark on your journey to make your life a wes anderson movie.

then you see past it. all of these things turn into nothing but what they are. you just standing in the fucking rain getting wet. that girl you kissed, well, big deal, everyone kisses everyone else. and your lucky you didnt get run the fuck over. these moments are big golden nothings, statues of you being a moron. you see other younger people running free and living their own indie movie and you are standing there smoking a bummed cigarette with rage and hate in your eyes and bitterness in your blood, who is the problem? well its them, duh, it is so them. i dont want it. i want it killed.

the weekend is over and your friends are gone and you are alone and fucking up. good job.

in the morning a cloud unease and doubt was grey and hanging over the city like a solemn ghost of judgement. there were a few people in the city that saw it but most people were too hung over and in love or alone to pay attention. but i saw the motherfucker. i saw it and i knew what it meant. time to leave. bad things are coming and no one knows about it and even if you sat down and tried to let them in they would look at you like you are just some crazy melodramatic freak. so i say i want them to burn. fuck em. they should of known better. they should of not followed zach braff. all they would of had to of done is look up, or look down their street. it was all there, and it was big and visible.

i wont feel sorry for them. in fact, i hope that i get a few seconds before the fingers take me, i hope i get a few seconds to watch all of the stupid ass drones get theirs before i get mine. that would be the perfect finale for me. i want to see them all get it. and dont get me wrong, i will get it too. i will get it worse then most, but if i can just make sure that everyone was a fucking accessory after the fact.















but there are sweet things out there. sweet innocent people and ideas that are untainted by the misery and anchors that keep me floating at the bottom of the deep blue. they work hard and do good and they dont lie and they dont fuck people over. they like good art and they like good people. my bitter side would call them naive because they are not bathing and dining in the misery buffet that i call the truth, but who is winning that battle? who goes to sleep at night without a problem?

the good is out there and i hate to admit it. no matter what happens, these people are quiet in their dignity. they dont do anything to make a point or to look like a good person. they are what the are the same way i am what i am.

so is that the fight? is that what there is to defend? they dont need it, there is not fight for them. wake up and do what you have to do, keep moving a couple paces on the board even though you dont know what you are doing, keep moving and treat people good and try to carve something out of the fat chunk that is this bitch of a life, crave something good and successful for them selves. there is no fight. its love and moving forward. idiots or the good guys? the enemy or the answer?

die and get done with it. live and get done with it.

music from a crazy, heartfelt, and bloody weekend

it was a blood soaked bodily fluid overflowing hectic mess of a life and a weekend, maybe the past 5 or six days. but as always there was a musical something flowing out through the ears and the souls of every body involved. here is the soundtrackn to the stories i will never write or tell:

battery:



someday you will die and somehow somethings gonna steal your carbon:



i will stay if you let me stay, and ill roam if you say roam, but i wont go far away, because your my only home:



go off to sleep in the sunshine, dont wanna see the day when its dieing:



color the era, film is historical:



more dread and drunk tales of hopelessness to come.

I am a failure and everything i do is trite and cheap

i am doomed to fail as a writer.

i am ok with this, and this is not a fact that makes me depressed. the idea of success and art and art and commerce and competition between art school students and all of that shit makes me sick. people write whole fucking books and shit about the subjective nature of art and the definition and what it means and what it doesn't mean. to me it always made sense. art is something somebody creates to express themselves. if it is honest and there is truth behind their medium then that is considered 'good' and thats what attracts me to it. pretty easy. i can tell when someone is full of shit. i can tell when someone is trying to hard. i can tell when someone is being a pretentious asshole who is just throwing words or images down with no real meaning or thought behind them.

i guess that is a pretty broad way of looking at things but it works for me. i dont feel a need to defend anything i like. i trust my tastes. out of all of the chaos and despair i feel on any given fucking day about any given fucking thing at least i know what a good song is. i know what a well written movie or a well written television show is. art makes me happier then anything. its a selfish thing.

kind of like writing. i love writing. i fucking love it. its what i am pretty good at. and i really dont give a shit who reads it. i am writing for myself and me and also I and maybe me as well. thats it.

but a tiny part of me wants people to read it and just experience the whole crazy trip i am trying to take. and that is why i am doomed to fail as a writer.

books and the written word itself are about dead. maybe not dead but they are certainly out of fashion. look at this stupid new fucking stupid ass thing called the IPAD. you can read books off it!!!! books!!! you know what else you can read books on? fucking books! and instead of paying 600 dollars for a big clunky thing that you can read books on, how about you go down to the fucking library, sign up for a godamn library card, and see how much that cost you. ill give you a hint. nothing. it will cost you nothing.

but our mindset and culture is about the quickest. every one has fucking ADD. i read an article about how the internet has changed the way major label artists write songs. they make the first 30 seconds the most interesting and catchy because they know people click through songs after hearing like five seconds worth. now dont get me wrong, major labels are the fucking problem in the first place, but that kind of thinking is so prevalent among EVERYBODY. i cant imagine what the kids think about bands like Pink Floyd nowadays. the first seven and a half minutes of Shine on You Crazy Diamond has no words! what the hell is this shit? i hate kids.

what i am saying is i cant hand out the shit i do on facebook. i cant fucking put it on a digital mix cd and hand it out. even people i know and admire, shit, they dont have fucking time to read through the stuff i do. i write long fractured narratives that either build on themselves and require you to pay attention, or i write long rambling fractured narratives that dont build to anything and dont explain shit.

one time when i was young i went to a therapist, and this guy was a fucking idiot. i would just make shit up to him and lie to him and ate it all up. i was probably about 13 or 14. anyway this guy talked to my mother and told her that he thought i had ADD. my mom shook her head in disbelief and asked "is there anything that is like, the opposite of ADD?"

my point is that the things i have to express and write are things that are not going to sell easy. i am not bitching. i really dont care. i am just pointing out the fact that this site and everything i do is me screaming at a brick wall.

and i blame it all on the hip hop and the lady gagas! godamn kids!

(a little credit to bright eyes for the title. i never steal shit without admitting) it!