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[16 Jul 2008|05:02am] |
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abilliondeadbabiescantbewrong.blogspot.com
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| damn. |
[12 Feb 2008|04:44am] |
"It looks like Bukowski exploded in here."
I turned to the blasted open door with that expectant nonchalance that always needs to be written into scripts, where Dana was removing her purple knitted scarf. My response was words on my end, but just a crack of dry throat to her. The reference, I suspected, was to the overflowing ash trays and the empty beers and the strewn clothes and books--though I never took Bukowski for much of a reader, to be completely honest. Peeling myself from my laptop, I grabbed a glass from the dresser and headed for the fridge pretending not to remember that the only thing inside was far-past-due milk and the cardboard comfort of day-old Chinese.
When I finally got back to the bedroom with a cup of tap water, she was sucking clothes up off the floor into magnetized arms.
"I'd appreciate if you'd not pigeonhole me like that, miss." I added the "miss" to cloak the sincerity of it. I get Kerouac a lot, too. Always from people who've never read my nor any of the aforementioned's work. It's offensive in the same way as being told you look like some shitty band's lead singer. "They're figureheads, ya know? The writers for readers who don't like to read."
"Whatever," she deflected, lifting a clink-clanking trash bag toward the door.
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[03 Nov 2007|02:58am] |
"This is not funny shit," I say. And then all I can think to say is, "depraved." And everyone sort of chuckles, and I want to snap them all in two.
"He's dead, you stupid fucks."
And everyone sort of chuckles, again.
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| yup... |
[01 Nov 2007|10:50pm] |
Rhubarb's out of season, and anyway...I've been wildly unsociable the past few days. Nothing sounds worthwhile except sleeping and reading.
The main characters in practically all novels (at least all good ones), are either extraordinarily rich or poor. What's up with that? Nothing interesting ever happened to an insurance salesman? Or a middle manager?
Oh...yeah. Nevermind.
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| new rule: meaningless details have been fictionalized, mostly for literary cohesion. |
[31 Oct 2007|05:24am] |
It's 2:30 in the morning and I've just turned off the a/c. No matter how wintry the weather gets, Scott leaves it on full blast. I think he's trying to teach me a lesson.
The cold is just too much for me, so I head to the bathroom and let the shower water run for a few minutes to clear out the ice water. The lights flicker in and out Hitchcock-style and I crouch, fetal and naked at the far corner, letting the water redden me in pin-prick blotches. There's a plastic and shameless cornice at the top of the shower where lies a crushed beer can--an homage to a time when drinking in the shower before work wasn't what most of my friends and family now call a "problem," but the solution to the rambling boredom of existence.
This week'll be busy, which is unusual. Generally, my activities include reading and sleeping, but already this week I've taken a 2-day holiday in Cleveland to visit Devin who was only in town from Costa Rica for a week. He's practically a professional traveler, but Cystic Fibrosis--and the unavoidable hospital stays that come with it--keep him at least partially tethered to Northeast Ohio.
Poor kid.
I'm still planning my escape.
While up there, we met a few friends at an urban hipster costume party. No, seriously. I thought these things only existed in Jay Mcinerny novels. Some sort of factory turned party house and a whole bunch of bored art students from various local colleges. A projector shot obscure video collages onto a sheet on the wall and the djs wore gorilla masks and jumpsuits. Anyway...total dud.
Most of the rest of my trip was spent walking the streets alone, taking pictures of graffiti and jotting romantic observations. I also bought a bottle of acai juice and a pack of Dunhill Internationals. The best souvenirs are impermanent.
Tomorrow's Halloween, and Hey Sandy's playing a show up in Akron. Seven bucks. Five if you wear a costume. You haven't lived until you've ignored the irony involved in trying to look too cool to dance while wearing a Mexican wrestling mask. I've only agreed to go because of the costume requirement. I kind of flaked out on an internship at the venue a while back and the thought of catching up with the tattooed bar maiden genuinely makes me nervous.
Saturday's Mathias's birthday party. Might be nice. I haven't seen him except in passing for a while.
And on Sunday there's a pie bake-off. I'm trying to scrape together the money for some strawberries and rhubarb. We'll see how that goes.
I've been writing again. Good shit, too. Or at least I think. Let me know if you want to critique.
I can't say whether I'm happy or just living any more.
I DO know, though, that I've got cold sore snake bites at the moment.
(Who the fuck needs piercings?)
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| an e-mail to my mom. |
[24 Apr 2007|12:36am] |
i'm hoping this marks the turn of a corner. some of it's unnecessary to post, but whatever.
thanks. for some reason, a lot of people have been trying to convince me, today, that things'll look up. apparently i'm more transparent than i know.
oh...and i guess i AM going to prom? bob flaked out on ana or something and she needed a date.
but don't worry about it. i'm borrowing a suit from justin and the tickets aren't too expensive.
i'll be sure to get pictures or something for you.
yeah. stop by tomorrow if you've got time. i can never guess whether my alarm will wake me or not...and you can bring the application then if you remember.
no. i forgot all about the announcements. i'll write it somewhere. and i'm sure the 27th will be fine.
i got an e-mail from that lady about the foreign exchange thing. i really think it's legitimate (without sounding terribly naive). i sure hope so.
work was actually pretty good today. i started talking to people and the day went much faster and resembled hell much less. i even traded the kid on grill a milkshake for a free sandwich.
it's weird. all the sacrificing my ideals i'm doing. taking a shitty job working for a corporation that doesn't give a shit about me or its customers, following through with school just to please whomever. and i know it's just a temporary thing until i can get a few bucks in the bank and finally get myself out of this rut. but i wonder how many dishwashers and secretaries have lived their whole lives saying that...and died with their "better futures" circled in red on a calendar hidden in their bedside drawer.
one of the few moments i was awake in mr. mercer's class last year, he said one of the most horrifying things i'd ever heard. he was talking about how adulthood is just a series of sacrifices, and--though very little he's said has ever resonated very memorably with me--i can still remember this word for word. he said, "it's hard to be revolutionary when you've got so much responsibility."
here's to shirking responsibility, i guess.
i love you too. i know things aren't going well for you either. and i wish i could be entirely self-sufficient for you. thank you for all of the sacrifices you've made for me. i know you didn't think i'd appreciate them for years to come...but i always have. it's been hard to be unselfish for a while though. i hope you understand.
i'll see you tomorrow i guess. which will be today once you've read this (actually--it's today right now).
i talked to max today about how--even if there's no such thing as fate, at least probability dictates that the good will eventually balance out the bad--at least approximately.
so i guess everyone's right. things really will look up soon.
i love you,
josh
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| hi? |
[06 Feb 2007|04:24pm] |
“I never asked for this,” he whispered, picking at the dirt under his fingernail. “My life. My love. My location. My misfortunes. All handed to me by the invisible proprietors of hard luck.” He wanted to write, but didn't know how. Actually, he did. Knew better than David Sedaris and Nick Hornby and whomever else was selling book rights in Hollywood for more than he'd ever see. But there was no piece of paper that said he knew how. No English Master's from the University of Iowa's writer workshop. Not even a community college bachelor's. So his writings never left his back pocket notebook. The one on which he painted that gray and black and white winter scene, Cleveland's desolate backdrop from October to March, to remind him, as the first page reiterated, “this may not be what you asked for—but it's what you got, kid.”
i'm under house arrest until my birthday. that's pretty cool.
if i self-published a book (meaning...printed it off of my computer) would you buy it?
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[29 Aug 2006|09:03pm] |
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mood |
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relieved. |
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| [ |
music |
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joanna newsome-the fray |
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i'm fine. three misdemeanors. don't worry about it.
alex schaffner, i'm told, is fine. tori says she's concious and out of the hospital, but i can't get her number to call and check.
school tomorrow. i've got no new clothes nor any school supplies.
i'll post some writings soon. i've got a couple just eating up pages in my journal.
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| I WANT SOME MOTHER-FUCKING COMMENTS ON THIS ONE! |
[13 Aug 2006|12:10am] |
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music |
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jeff mangum-gardenhead |
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i just nearly had an existential crisis.
i'd been feeling kind of badly about myself because, over the course of this summer, i've made some decisions that could and surely have been interpreted as questionable...decisions for which i disregarded logic and gave into instinct. so earlier this evening, i wrote this gigantic, jumbled mess of an essay about how logic should be the basis for all of our decisions regarding morality, because as far as i've ever observed, the universe is built on a very logical set of rules...and these rules leave no room for any tangible examples of romance ...and i opened up some file that i'd typed onto my computer a few months ago to quote it and to talk about how i am now coming to the realization that i was wrong...and then i read it...and realized i wasn't. it was an explanation of why i drink, and here it is:
"I finally overcame my head. It's been my goal for the longest time. It's why I drink—to return to instinct. To disregard my second thoughts and allow myself to melt into the moment, to kill away the human and unveil the homo sapiens—the instinctual being, the being whose mind is merely a receptacle, a kaleidoscopic camera whose organic obstructions make the scenes all the more comely. It took such a long time to explain it—the motives behind my inebriation. And there it was all along. With alcohol, I dive from the moral plateau upon which we humans have so proudly stood for as long as any of us can recall, into the selfish, competitive realm of my instinct, exchanging my attempted comprehensions of the past and future for our ever-fleeting present, which is all that is indisputably real."
You see...compositionally, the universe is completely logical...but the human psyche has the power to create and interpret beauty in a way that the rocks and the trees and the stars never can. our psychology, then, is where the romance lies...and just because there is no god does not mean there is no beauty.
Of course, there will never be a beautiful emotion in your head that can not be chalked up to the chemicals science has offered you...but don't let that demean it...because it won't be the chemicals you're thinking about...it'll be the steel-crested pupils or the dying orange sky or the way her body wraps itself around yours like a spiral staircase leading to nothing but more stairs.
-------
in other news: i'm entering my fortieth hour without sleep, and i was fairly convinced that i was having a mental breakdown earlier...but i think i was wrong...
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| lamelamelamelame |
[08 Aug 2006|11:59pm] |
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mood |
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awake... |
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music |
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Me and the Devil Blues-Robert Johnson |
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..and on the way home, we played a game. We opened all the car windows so book pages and chip bags floated like satellites and Wyatt sped through back roads as fast as his decrepit little car would take us. And max and I sat in the back with our eyes closed and put our faces directly into the rivers of air coming in through the windows, going 85, then 90, then a hundred. And if we cheated for a second, the rushing wind closed our eyes again for us. And the curves flew like knives from all directions and we didn't know where the next one would come from and when we finally didn't care, I think it was silently agreed that we were alive.
oh yeah...chicago was cool as shit. i did the following:
begged on the street for beer money
bartered innumerable times
danced like a fiend
helped brew beer
listened to stories
told stories
lived on a stranger's couch
got kissed by a 50-something afro-american woman i believe to have been a prostitute
gawked at things
...mostly girls
...and some architecture
...oh...and artwork
got showered in confetti
sweated my ass off
got showered in rain
bought jazz records
lost them
bought books
read them
ate chicago-style hot dogs and pizza
bought a virgin of guadalupe candle (finally)
had a garage sale
bought a painting
lived in wealth
lived in poverty
rolled my own cigarettes
met a girl who'd gone to lake cable
met a french girl
met some annoying girls
met some nice girls
met some nice boys too
saw edmond
did manual labor
saw some fucking amazing bands
saw some not-so-amazing bands
listened to jazz in millenium park
danced under falling water
fucking loved it.
i know there's more, but i'm in a fog right now.
last night, i had a very good conversation with jon boord. go figure.
today, i went to the rock and roll hall of fame with my father, step-mother, sister and sister's friend. it was grueling based on their affinity for making scenes, but there were 2 floors devoted to bob dylan. i got a robert johnson (yeah...the guy who sold his soul to the devil) cd and 45-to-33 1/3 inserts.
life is neat.
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[29 Jul 2006|03:22pm] |
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i leave for indianapolis some time late tonight.
i'm meeting wyatt there and driving with him back to chicago, where i will a.) stay with a stranger, thanks to the fabulous couchsurfing.com or b.) stay in a cheap cheap hostel until the 3rd, wandering the streets of chicago.
on the 4th, lollapalooza starts. i'm going to see:
day 1:
cursive
jeremy enigk
ryan adams
mates of state
iron and wine
death cab for cutie
my morning jacket
day 2:
rainer maria
feist
built to spill
calexico
sonic youth
the dresden dolls
the flaming lips
the new pornographers
kanye west
day 3:
nickel creek
the new amsterdams
the shins
matisyahu
of montreal
wilco
broken social scene
red hot chili peppers
pinch me?
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[22 Jul 2006|02:28am] |
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mood |
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a little tired |
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music |
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modest mouse live @ bumbershoot |
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this sort of thing had been kind of vexing me since about mid-march.
i'm not sure whether to be happy or depressed that i've come to the same conclusion as "the philosophers of old." on the one hand, it makes me feel like a relative intellect...but on the other, it feels like a waste of time to make any philosophical enquiry at all if it's already been made.
i don't know. ( here's the most pertinent paragraph )
and here's the whole text.
ps: if anyone's reading this and backtracking, my old one's a gentle slant
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