Almost as if to illuminate my miserable inability to achieve closure and the new beginnings which follow, I find myself prefixing an unhealthy number of sentences with "and" or "so."
Just food for thought.
I'll let you chew on that for a moment.
Okay.
There isn't a whole hell of a lot to report, truth be told, sans the boring rehash of the goings-on in my life. But I guess that there are worse things. This past weekend was largely pleasant and Eric's visit was most welcome, as was the assurance that the past six months or so haven't been the product of my growing maddness therein. It was fun to decline responsibility for a night- just saturate and let come what may. I don't get to do that often. And probably for good reason. We went to New York and that always manages to put me someplace magical for a while. The lights and sounds and people. It's the second greatest city on Earth. Second, of course, to London... which is only so great because I've never been there. And until I do it will continue to simply be the flawless depiction of class and zeal that I've scrawled -nay- haphazardly fingerpainted on the canvas of my mind.
There are so many places I've never been.
And then there's this thing I do with isolated lines. You know, when I'm saying something that I think is significant, worldly, quotable, or wise. Is it really as effective in accentuating a thought as I think it is?
Is it?
Or perhaps it's just useful in creating a tempo, pauses and moments implying their passage, in the piece. Are we having a conversation, dear reader? A depressingly one-sided conversation? Have I effectively made it so that my monologuing is compelling and theatrical?
I'm probably pretty unbearable to read or even talk to when I'm being cynical. Whatevs. This morning I had math class, another 90 minutes piled atop a mountain of time wasted trying fruitlessly to learn how to think in numbers. I'm a mathematical lost cause. Maybe when I die they'll observe my brain to find some rare tumor only present in the grey matter of those weirdos who'd rather write an essay than do long division. Okay, maybe a slight exaggeration. I'm actually pretty fucking good at long division.
Afterwards I opted not to go back to sleep in hopes of limiting my hours as an insomniac - a stupid decision considering that tonight is 24 night and I don't have class tomorrow. So I could theoretically stay up as late as I want, watching movies or something equally useless. So once again my good intentions are trumped and my eyelids are getting heavy. It's not even 1pm yet. I think I'm hypersomniac.
Or a hypochondiac. Hm.
Bomb the blogosphere,
Mike
PS. I can't figure out if I should capitalize "blogosphere". I suppose it is a proper noun. Fuck.
Monday, January 29, 2007
Sunday, January 21, 2007
Everyone sells out
So lately I've been in between dreams, scheming and seeing nothing through. Running around in circles and wondering why the scenery isn't changing. Shit goes wrong and shit goes right but in the long run they're really nothing more than potholes in the long road to the middle. My aspirations to mediocrity.
I've been occupying my time doing things with the purpose of making the hands tick by faster. I've accomplished damn near nothing. I am unmotivated. I am uninspired. I am utterly utterly unoriginal.
"I like too many things and get all confused and hung-up running from one falling star to another till I drop. This is the night, what it does to you. I had nothing to offer anybody except my own confusion."
Jack Kerouac was never wrong about anything.
My creative writing course is going to be a lot more difficult than I had originally expected and it seems that this whole semester is going to be one big failure after another. Everything I've written since the first meeting of the class is complete and total garbage, melodramatic slobber that drips from the page like kisses wet with tears. Utter. Emo. Shit. I'm trying too hard. That's really what it is. I want so badly to scribe something enlightening and... fuckin'... important that I'm selling out in the worst of ways. I'm trying to write good poetry. I'm trying to produce something utterly synthetic and sell it as philosophy. I'm a fucking scenester. I hate people like me.
In between writing stanzas better suited for boys with feathered hair and girl's jeans than the intellectual elite I'm ignoring my other work and trying to subscribe to a work-out regiment. So I'm trying to look better before swimsuit season. Fucking sellout.
And as sick as I am of the whole "Waahh, I'm upper middle class white with feelings and no one understands them" mentality, I can't help relate. It's this cancerous feeling of not belonging in the pit of my stomach.
Where's my golden girl?
"The only people for me are the mad ones. The ones who are mad to love, mad to talk, mad to be saved; the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow Roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars."
You know you've hit a new plateau of lameness when you snag quotes from your facebook profile to convey tone in your blog - which incidently has an RSS feed with facebook and loads all blog entries into the page's "notes" section.
Christ.
Bomb the blogosphere,
Mike
In honor of High Fidelity:
My Top 5...
Pump-Up Songs
5. "Invalid Litter Dept." by At the Drive-In (tie)
5. "Post Script" by Finch (tie)
4. "Timberwolves of New Jersey" by Taking Back Sunday
3. "Amphetamine" by Everclear
2. "Let's Go" by Trick Daddy ft. Lil Jon and Twista
1. "Victoria's Secret" by Sonata Arctica (don't knock it 'til you try it)
Honorable Mention:
"Fight Club Theme" by Nine Inch Nails
"Theme Song of a New Brunswick Basement Show" by Lifetime
I've been occupying my time doing things with the purpose of making the hands tick by faster. I've accomplished damn near nothing. I am unmotivated. I am uninspired. I am utterly utterly unoriginal.
"I like too many things and get all confused and hung-up running from one falling star to another till I drop. This is the night, what it does to you. I had nothing to offer anybody except my own confusion."
Jack Kerouac was never wrong about anything.
My creative writing course is going to be a lot more difficult than I had originally expected and it seems that this whole semester is going to be one big failure after another. Everything I've written since the first meeting of the class is complete and total garbage, melodramatic slobber that drips from the page like kisses wet with tears. Utter. Emo. Shit. I'm trying too hard. That's really what it is. I want so badly to scribe something enlightening and... fuckin'... important that I'm selling out in the worst of ways. I'm trying to write good poetry. I'm trying to produce something utterly synthetic and sell it as philosophy. I'm a fucking scenester. I hate people like me.
In between writing stanzas better suited for boys with feathered hair and girl's jeans than the intellectual elite I'm ignoring my other work and trying to subscribe to a work-out regiment. So I'm trying to look better before swimsuit season. Fucking sellout.
And as sick as I am of the whole "Waahh, I'm upper middle class white with feelings and no one understands them" mentality, I can't help relate. It's this cancerous feeling of not belonging in the pit of my stomach.
Where's my golden girl?
"The only people for me are the mad ones. The ones who are mad to love, mad to talk, mad to be saved; the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow Roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars."
You know you've hit a new plateau of lameness when you snag quotes from your facebook profile to convey tone in your blog - which incidently has an RSS feed with facebook and loads all blog entries into the page's "notes" section.
Christ.
Bomb the blogosphere,
Mike
In honor of High Fidelity:
My Top 5...
Pump-Up Songs
5. "Invalid Litter Dept." by At the Drive-In (tie)
5. "Post Script" by Finch (tie)
4. "Timberwolves of New Jersey" by Taking Back Sunday
3. "Amphetamine" by Everclear
2. "Let's Go" by Trick Daddy ft. Lil Jon and Twista
1. "Victoria's Secret" by Sonata Arctica (don't knock it 'til you try it)
Honorable Mention:
"Fight Club Theme" by Nine Inch Nails
"Theme Song of a New Brunswick Basement Show" by Lifetime
Thursday, January 11, 2007
"Always ten feet tall"
So winter break, in all its ups and downs, draws to a close as friends trickle down the Parkway or some other more interstate superhighway and I find myself whiling away the evening hours alone... again.
Such is the end of anything though, I suppose. But I'm beginning to really believe it's true that it's better to burn out than it is to fade away. At least then you don't have to worry about the weekends spent in limbo... in fumbling preparation for closure. It's just, poof, concluded. I guess that's not the way the world works though. And what kind of mixtape would my life be without transitional sequences, right? right.
Everyone is all "God, I can't wait to get back to RU!" or "Man, my homies at Harvard must be missin' my gangsta ass." Even facebook statuses proclaim a longing for Universities missed and friends missing. Brittney is MiSsIn hEr RaMaPoOo gUrLeEz! lol!!1 <333
Christ.
Everyone.
Everyone.
Everyone... and yet the funny thing about it is how easy it is for me to get comfortable. With people, with places, with habits, with whatever. But I'm thinking that when you get rooted so easily, constant upheavals... constant instances of uprootedness weaken your grip. Weaken my grip.
Elipses imply uncertainty. Almost always.
As often, at least, as they imply a presence of the unspoken.
Just pause to add your own intentions. Right here.
...
Feel better? Neither you nor I, dear reader, will ever be able to, respectively, read between those dots. So fuck 'em. Fuck 'em all.
Oh, home. Which house is yours?
Bomb the blogosphere,
Mike
...
Such is the end of anything though, I suppose. But I'm beginning to really believe it's true that it's better to burn out than it is to fade away. At least then you don't have to worry about the weekends spent in limbo... in fumbling preparation for closure. It's just, poof, concluded. I guess that's not the way the world works though. And what kind of mixtape would my life be without transitional sequences, right? right.
Everyone is all "God, I can't wait to get back to RU!" or "Man, my homies at Harvard must be missin' my gangsta ass." Even facebook statuses proclaim a longing for Universities missed and friends missing. Brittney is MiSsIn hEr RaMaPoOo gUrLeEz! lol!!1 <333
Christ.
Everyone.
Everyone.
Everyone... and yet the funny thing about it is how easy it is for me to get comfortable. With people, with places, with habits, with whatever. But I'm thinking that when you get rooted so easily, constant upheavals... constant instances of uprootedness weaken your grip. Weaken my grip.
Elipses imply uncertainty. Almost always.
As often, at least, as they imply a presence of the unspoken.
Just pause to add your own intentions. Right here.
...
Feel better? Neither you nor I, dear reader, will ever be able to, respectively, read between those dots. So fuck 'em. Fuck 'em all.
Oh, home. Which house is yours?
Bomb the blogosphere,
Mike
...
Monday, January 01, 2007
"So this is the new year"
And, really, I don't feel any different.
So this is the new year.
And I don't feel any different.
The clanking of crystal
Explosions off in the distance.
It's truly been one hell of year. I pretty much did all of the obligatory recapping in my last entry, detailing friendships made and friendships kept. I talked about my classes and about my friends. Nothing much has really changed since then except that I learned just how right I was about everyone. Winter break shared with old friends has been less a breath of fresh air than a desperate gasp. I don't know if it's healthy to cling to the accostomed to with such ferocity - and I know even less if I'm even going to let it bother me.
Granted, I miss my friends from college too. It's two different worlds really. And I was never terribly good at juggling.
So this is the new year
And I have no resolutions
For self-assigned penance
For problems with easy solutions.
But this isn't about last year. This isn't about Bava house parties or Harvard or Europe or Prom or Graduation or Summer of '06 or my first semester away from home. This isn't about mistakes made or questionable decision making. This isn't nostalgia and this certainly isn't about regret.
"We are nowhere and it's now."
And what really matter in these first hours of 2007 is the twelve empty pages of calendar days ahead. It's impossible to tell where I'll be in 365 days. I couldn't tell you now if i'll be enrolled in Ramapo or Rutgers. I couldn't tell you if I'll be single or in a relationship or madly in love. I couldn't tell you now if I'll still be making music in the wee hours of the night, seeking solace in the satisfaction of independent accomplishment. I don't know if I'll be drunk or sober, stoned or sitting by the window, dreaming. Maybe in a year I won't be listening to Death Cab or Bright Eyes. Maybe I will be. I couldn't tell you now what will have unfolded or changed or fallen apart or been built. I couldn't tell you. All I really know is that in 365 days I'll be here, typing about how I don't feel any different. But I will be.
So everybody put your best suit or dress on
Let's make believe that we are wealthy for just this once
Lighting firecrackers off on the front lawn
As thirty dialogues bleed into one.
New Years resolutions are for people who need some empty promise to motivate them in rectifying something about themselves that they or their partner find troublesome.
This year, I do not resolve to lose weight. I do not resolve to go to the gym more or to do extra crunches to trim baggage off because I'm supposed to want to. I do not resolve to make more of an effort to talk to girls or to be friendly to everyone. I'm probably not going to join a club. I don't promise that this time next year I'll be self-crafted out of stone. I have neither an iron will nor a shallow heart. I don't resolve to lay off the liquor or stay off cigarettes. I won't allow myself to be governed by anything like it.
This year, I will sing whatever tunes is in my head and blaze whatever trail leads to where I want to be. I will keep my friends close and my enemies far far away. I will contribute to conversation in a lively and effervescent manner. I will laugh obnoxiously and, grinning, tell stories. I will play my guitar as loud as it'll go. And I might play out of key. I'll live. I'll be.
I wish the world was flat like the old days
Then I could travel just by folding a map
No more airplanes, or speedtrains, or freeways
There'd be no distance that can hold us back.
New Year's Eve is the most popular suicide night of the calendar year.
And we're all still here. We've got clean slates and another handful of weeks to accomplish and experience and to fall in love. We've got clear sailing. We've got blue skies 'til morning.
There'll be no distance that can hold us back.
Bomb the Blogosphere,
Mike
Lyric Credit "The New Year" by Death Cab for Cutie
So this is the new year.
And I don't feel any different.
The clanking of crystal
Explosions off in the distance.
It's truly been one hell of year. I pretty much did all of the obligatory recapping in my last entry, detailing friendships made and friendships kept. I talked about my classes and about my friends. Nothing much has really changed since then except that I learned just how right I was about everyone. Winter break shared with old friends has been less a breath of fresh air than a desperate gasp. I don't know if it's healthy to cling to the accostomed to with such ferocity - and I know even less if I'm even going to let it bother me.
Granted, I miss my friends from college too. It's two different worlds really. And I was never terribly good at juggling.
So this is the new year
And I have no resolutions
For self-assigned penance
For problems with easy solutions.
But this isn't about last year. This isn't about Bava house parties or Harvard or Europe or Prom or Graduation or Summer of '06 or my first semester away from home. This isn't about mistakes made or questionable decision making. This isn't nostalgia and this certainly isn't about regret.
"We are nowhere and it's now."
And what really matter in these first hours of 2007 is the twelve empty pages of calendar days ahead. It's impossible to tell where I'll be in 365 days. I couldn't tell you now if i'll be enrolled in Ramapo or Rutgers. I couldn't tell you if I'll be single or in a relationship or madly in love. I couldn't tell you now if I'll still be making music in the wee hours of the night, seeking solace in the satisfaction of independent accomplishment. I don't know if I'll be drunk or sober, stoned or sitting by the window, dreaming. Maybe in a year I won't be listening to Death Cab or Bright Eyes. Maybe I will be. I couldn't tell you now what will have unfolded or changed or fallen apart or been built. I couldn't tell you. All I really know is that in 365 days I'll be here, typing about how I don't feel any different. But I will be.
So everybody put your best suit or dress on
Let's make believe that we are wealthy for just this once
Lighting firecrackers off on the front lawn
As thirty dialogues bleed into one.
New Years resolutions are for people who need some empty promise to motivate them in rectifying something about themselves that they or their partner find troublesome.
This year, I do not resolve to lose weight. I do not resolve to go to the gym more or to do extra crunches to trim baggage off because I'm supposed to want to. I do not resolve to make more of an effort to talk to girls or to be friendly to everyone. I'm probably not going to join a club. I don't promise that this time next year I'll be self-crafted out of stone. I have neither an iron will nor a shallow heart. I don't resolve to lay off the liquor or stay off cigarettes. I won't allow myself to be governed by anything like it.
This year, I will sing whatever tunes is in my head and blaze whatever trail leads to where I want to be. I will keep my friends close and my enemies far far away. I will contribute to conversation in a lively and effervescent manner. I will laugh obnoxiously and, grinning, tell stories. I will play my guitar as loud as it'll go. And I might play out of key. I'll live. I'll be.
I wish the world was flat like the old days
Then I could travel just by folding a map
No more airplanes, or speedtrains, or freeways
There'd be no distance that can hold us back.
New Year's Eve is the most popular suicide night of the calendar year.
And we're all still here. We've got clean slates and another handful of weeks to accomplish and experience and to fall in love. We've got clear sailing. We've got blue skies 'til morning.
There'll be no distance that can hold us back.
Bomb the Blogosphere,
Mike
Lyric Credit "The New Year" by Death Cab for Cutie
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