12-17-08

The cold may be sapping my energy. The hum of machines may be silencing the thoughts I know are somewhere in my brain. Writing on parchment is so slow, can't usually read what I wrote, and I left all my romance on the bank of the river on the sunniest day. During our meal at work, the subject was death, and someone reasserted that yes if all the other cancers don't grow out of control and smother my organs or if my heart doesn't become so clogged that it explodes then I'll be getting prostate cancer, and when I get older, I have a doctor's finger or shiny probe up my rectum to look forward to. The gals gotta worry about their tits falling off. Celine said something like," I know death isn't something to worry about since worrying about death is so normal," and yeah I don't want to live afraid of dying. All this urgency to make a name, leave something for the world to remember me by is just from the fear of our inevitable demise, and if it's inevitable then fuck it, I'll focus my concern on my trivial meanderings through fantasy and unreality, return occasionally to make a little money in order to keep the landlord off my back, and let death surprise me. Maybe I'll be ready for. Maybe I'll be so bored of life that I only thing left to do is to die.
Or maybe I'll be trip down the stairs and break my neck, the snap so loud it wakes a girl that slept through her alarm, and due to my death she makes it to work on time, and wonders why the police were outside her apartment, but all that is forgotten as she sits down at her desk, and finds compliments adorning her important work. Haunting would be fun. Could death give me the ghost-life that I aspire to, a "life" as an invisible floating brain, observing objectively, possessing both a dearth and a bounty of knowledge and anti-knowledge, prepared to state what is right and wrong. No more human body to sate, no more food to eat and shit to shit, no more refuse to clean up, only mind, my sole responsibility to get lost in thought, create worlds, travel the universe, and come back just in time to freak the shit out of those girls.

12-14-08

First show last night, came home afterwards, thought about writing a reflection, but I was too intoxicated to write, and relatively wordless, overwhelmed with aching yearning. Last year I experimented with getting drunk by myself to write, but to pretty fruitless results. I guess the Bukowski and Hemingway method isn't for everyone.
I feel good about the show, and I sure had fun. Many friends sharing the night, drunken debauchery, probably shouldn’t have driven, but no one’s life was in danger. I drove slow. Amazing how I blanked on so many lyrics, barfed some inane syllables instead, the whole thing's on video tape, and I'm going to feel so insecure watching it. Vibe was good within the band, made a little loot, directly into the band fund. We all want to tour, record an album, sure make some t-shirts, I really don't give much of a fuck. Maybe we'll be marketable. Is there a market for spastic slop? My parents came, my dad so nervous about being in the big city at night, seedy types do congregate outside that bar. A couple of years ago I caught some older, bearded guys smoking crack in the alley, and another guy in a band we were playing with that night smoked some with them. I laughed how he snuck off, trying to hide what he was going to do, like we didn’t know. He played a sweet set that night.
I love performing live. The music puts me in such a trance. I'm not thinking, sometimes it really feels as if I am possessed. The lights are so bright, and shining right in my face, I can't see anything. I like to close my eyes. Sharing the energy of the eyes upon me. I'm even energized by those that turn their backs, for I can only see anything for about a half a second, until I spasm again, yeah it's thrilling up there, can't wait to work on some new shit. We thought about practicing today, and I was all for it, but my roommate and our drummer, didn't feel up to it, and I was totally okay with that. It's nice to not think about music for a day, sometimes a week's even better, I don't think I could go a month.
Didn't do much of anything, ate a burrito, bought some coffee filters, and indulged in the expensive coffee I bought, while I watched a football game with my roommate. I have a general disgust for the marketing profession, for I see marketing as using the emotions and insecurities of the audience against them in order for them to spend their money. D. Boon said it best," let the products sell themselves." I became especially agitated when they played the same Toyota commercial five times in less than ten minutes. If we have to sit through that shit, then at least give us some variety, don't be lazy. I don't know what I think is more pathetic retarded, anti-intellectual, sexist American commercials, or the deeper, more provocative British ones? At work they're showing the British Advertisement Awards, and I feel some shame for the people that worked on those commercials. If you're gonna make art, make art, not a commercial.

12-13-08

I awoke today craving coffee, and to my dismay I had forgotten to buy filters last night. There was a dirty one in the coffee maker from the day before so I rinsed it off, filled it up, and made myself a pretty swell pot. The taste in my mouth upon awakening was horrendous, decaying bile, the contents of my stomach crept up my esophagus and mildewed, spores of stink. I believe most people have this problem. It's called "morning breath," and it's a pain in the rump because I wake up next to my girlfriend with a penis on full alert, but my breath is solely a barer of disgust, not romance. Yes, the bathroom is close, and I could scrub all that nastiness away, but I feel I cannot be too abrupt. I cannot show what I want too lucidly. I must let us slip into romance and out of our underwear naturally, with little outward force. Why I like things to progress this way I do not know.
My band is playing their first show tonight, and I don't feel that we're prepared, but I sure do want to play. Have some beers, maybe a shot or two of whisky, then I'll relate to the world, tell them how troubled I am. My ego on display for everyone to see, hell I wonder if anyone will peruse these ramblings. This blog is likened to a stage. I'm not looking to build some lasting legacy. There's already too many people from the past that have said and sung everything that needs to be said and sung much more eloquently, skillfully, beautifully, and intensely, than what I have churned out. I do these things to pass the time, and have fun, keep the demons of ennui at bay. That is all.

12-12-08

Two in the morning, got some dark hours still ahead, sleep until noon, but at least there's no work for me tomorrow. Worked today, another boring shift, which is ideal, no drama at work is a godsend. I cater parties, parties costing thousands of dollars, and I shine the silverware and set out the plates for unforgettable nights. I put up with a lot of bitching and demands from red lips flapping, but their words are dressed in the tightest fitting dollar bills, and I need those bills to make rent this month so I better smile, bow, and tend to whatever was requested of me. Serving is humbling, feeling like someone's slave has some perks, gives me energy to conspire, fuel for the never moving engine of disillusionment. I'll shit out pages of tirades, and feel some pride for how I spent my time away from work. Fortunately, the grub is good, and I endorse gluttony and grease, shoving dripping spoonfuls of rich lobster bisque, my fork heavy from slabs of Kobe beef marinated in truffles and wash it down with some decadent lemon crème in a buttery, flaky pastry. Yeah, struggle sure is difficult, seriously I'm seething and berating myself as I consume these creations. There's these two punked out guys that do all the dishes, lots of piercings, pissing out diatribes on the inevitable collapse of society, and how their laughs will silence their coughs as fires engulf the ideas that secretly and possibly subconsciously they never wanted to give these ideas skin. Not even the fervent anarchist can predict how they will react to a true revolution incensed and ever-growing. How they heap their plates with that butter soaked shit is truly a wonder to behold. With each bite they smile with how they're sticking it to the man, and I suppose that where ever one can take back a little freedom while on the job, no how seemingly insignificant, then that's a good thing.
I'm mischievous at work. I love to fuck with upper management, oh so subtly, nothing too destructive, but small things to demean their authority, show them that they have no impunity. I'll express my frustration through little measures of vandalism, and do I feel any remorse for impeding a stress-free work day for them? No, not in the slightest. One of the managers looks exactly like a younger Colonel Sanders, and ironically, he told me one day after a heavy admonishment for not keeping the other servers quiet while the guests prayed over their steaks, he told me, in a show of camaraderie, a healing after the harsh motivational speech, that his favorite food was fried chicken, and then he waddled off, his suit coat much too large, and his stumps for legs not moving fast enough for the pace of the business world. He's such an unlikable man, snide comments out the corners of his mouth, I can see it in his eyes that he does not want to talk to me, and the silence is excruciating, as we ride the elevator together, all the way to the top, and I realize how he has never asked me any questions about myself, yet I keep prying, keep presenting my open, jovial nature, covering up my vast condemnation for how he treats the staff. My way of getting back at him is by putting odd things into his mailbox, a broken light, crusts of bread, boogers I pull out my nose, an old keyboard, soiled napkins, handfuls of steak, the stuff I sweep up off the pantry floor, ah what fun I have, he empties the mailbox and I fill it right back up, and I'm waiting for the email alerting us with his displeasure. Whatever I can do to get some relief.

Reasons

I returned home from work. My roommate is seething, stewing shutting me and the rest of the world out. I hope he's creating something brilliant, something that will tear me from this unapproved path, unapproved by my parents, by God? A revolutionary idea he's stretched his skin over, skin so ready, collagen primed and racing, no stretch marks or blemishes, an idea honed ready to present to the world. He's erected his own kingdom, and I used to till his fields and honor my vassalage, but now, perhaps for eternity, he's keeping me out. Our egos collided. Our ideas clashed. How can we both express our genius? What should rule emotion or thought?
I have decided to start blogging, in the hopes to propel my writing output which has staggered as of late, for the sole reason of my indecision of whether to attempt another piece of fiction or write about my own life, even though I feel it’s so boring and uneventful. Yet I know there's something to say about it, something interesting, how am I observing my day? My girlfriend says," how can you ever hope to be a writer when all you do is sit at home." I admit that this is a valid point, the agonizing conundrum of the creative individual, from where should one derive their greatest pleasure, from creating art or living? I could sit around all day, scrape the bottom of my bowels and pull the cleverness and wit out stinking and fuming with laughs and long, drawn out sighs, but one day I'd realize that the stomach is empty, the inspiration has run dry, and I despondently pray to the great mind for the seed, knowing that the lives walking, skipping, and sprinting outside my window are full of anecdotes and fucked up situations, a bounty for any aspiring writer.
My girlfriend’s father is an inspiring man, a literature professor that despises his job, a hungry mind that is always on the prowl for enlightening experience, but as I was showering in preparation for a long shift a thought struck me strongly. He goes on epic sojourns to exotic locales. He walked across Spain, spent a summer in the Australian outback, and he wrote profusely about it, but I've never read anything he's written about his normal life, and that's the one I want to hear about. I want his lucid observations and reflections about being stuck in traffic, the obnoxious, pretentious hecklers in his classes, the heartache from his now lesbian ex-wife, the thoughts he has while riding his bike through town, I want to know what he's thinking about during his rigors, fulfilling the obligations one is forced to fulfill, lest you be incarcerated or infirmed. This thought motivated me to start my own blog, where I will be writing about my life.