Monday, September 23, 2013

What a Shitty Title This Is

Anymore now it seems the only time I post on my blog is to rant about my life and give a general update of what's going on. I suppose it isn't a bad thing, unless you Readers say otherwise, but most of the time I'm not sure what to write about on here. The majority of my writing as of late has been committed to the following in order of most time spent on each: fiction, lyrics, and poetry. Though I started this blog mostly to feature my poetry, recently it has taken a backseat to other things.

For one, I still struggle to stay on schedule as far as getting up at a decent hour and going to bed at a decent hour. As of now, I cannot depend on my body to know when to wake up. I may set multiple alarms and for one reason or another I have a tendency to sleep through them. However, the alarm where Sergeant James Doakes shouts  "Surprise, Motherfucker!" at me (Dexter reference) has had the highest success rate of them all. Plus, I get to wake up laughing.

Also, I've been a sad, pathetic, unemployed person since last November. Damn, almost a year. My time at Gallup really freaked me out and caused my severe reluctance for employment. I remember soon after quitting Gallup I entered the denial phase and believed I'd make a decent living selling kuchens and other baked goods and selling things on Craigslist and such. Yikes, that didn't happen. But, after months and months of living in the failure-laden squalor of post-employment defeat, I am employed again. It's like reincarnation. Quitting a job equals death. Reemployment equals new life. After being reincarnated as dog vomit and working at Gallup, I willingly chose a 10 month death until now I've been reincarnated as a host at Old Chicago. Ta-daaaaaaa. Magic.

Aside from starting a new job, I've been semi-hard at work planning out my novel. No, I've never written one. Fiction writing itself has been a new endeavor for me just in the past year or so. I've written two short stories and started a couple other projects that haven't come to fruition yet. Anyways, November is National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) and I figured "What the hell, why not?" After all, if I'm ever going to be successful and make a living as a writer or musician or actor or director or anything in that realm, might as well start now. I've always felt that writing is my strongest natural ability and will be the medium to break me into the world of media stuffs. So here I am planning a novel. I didn't think I'd be seriously attempting this for another few years, but like I said, "What the hell, why not?"

I came up with this novel idea over a year ago when Addison, Bayle, and I were working on their senior class play night. The three of us collaborated together, wrote/edited/directed our original play Flight Club. It was one of the most fulfilling experiences of my life so far. During one of our off topic moments I said something about "What if a serial killer came clean about a bunch of murders to a priest during a Catholic confessional?" Then we continued talking about things like "Would the priest be bound by church ethics to keep it a secret and forgive the killer?" Questions like that inspired me to start planning my story, A Garden in the Desert (tentative name).

After settling in the fictional town of Paraiso, New Mexico, Jackson Elliot covers the confessional booth of the local parish for his priest friend who has to attend to a family emergency in another town. While tending to the booth and unethically forgiving sins, Jackson listens to the confession of a killer who admits to many murders. *ominous music*

So that's a brief look into the plot which I've been developing and agonizing over for the past month or so. Fortunately I decided to start planning for NaNoWriMo at a decent time rather than a week before November begins. Anyways, enough about my novel. I don't wanna be one of those people that talk about their novel or screenplay all the time. I'm a bit arrogant and fairly self-absorbed by nature and those are things in my life I want to decrease. I want to do what I love because I love it, not so I can look cool and shit. Bleh. They say you're supposed to tell people that you're writing a novel during NaNoWriMo so that you have at least the motivation of looking lame in front of friends and family if you don't go through with it. Well, here I am, saying that November 1st begins my journey into the realm of novel writing.

Write now in life, planning for the novel and playing guitar and doing training at work are the main things I do other than sleep/eat/potty.

EXCEPT FOR BREAKING BAD. If you are reading this and have not yet watched Breaking Bad and have respect/love for incredible writing/acting/storyline etc, you must watch Breaking Bad. This is more than an opinion, it is a fact: Breaking Bad is one of, if not the best TV series out there. Ah, I could go on and on about it, but this blog post has come to a close. Hopefully more will come in the near future. I definitely plan to blog about my experiences and progress during NaNoWriMo.

I bid thee farewell for now,


Wednesday, August 28, 2013


He wakes up with the notion that today will be wasted. Last night’s party has worn off but the disillusionment lingers. Buzz buzz, the alarm sounds again and he slaps at it. Third time’s a charm. He’s out of bed. Body and mind try to focus but the waking static hasn’t departed and his legs are weak. In the bathroom, he beholds a face he thought he’d forgotten but there it is. Scruffy and unkept. Teaming with wonder but currently cursed with a foggy consciousness. The toilet flushes. The shower sprays, then stops. As he dries his body, he resumes ceaseless worrying. The sands of time have rounded out his belly and gouged holes in his confidence.
He sits at the desk and turns on the computer. Hopes of inspiration fill his being as coffee fills his stomach. But the longer he sits and stares, the more he realizes that the day is doomed to be unproductive. He sends out signal flares and switches the lighthouse on but nothing enters the bay. His vacant mind and idle hands consume him.
He opens the desk drawer and looks at the cigarettes. He knows they’re bad but he keeps them around anyway. His hands fumble with trinkets and odds and ends. Bottle caps and a poker chip bring to mind distant memories. He picks up the green object. A three-month sobriety chip. It is not his. It belonged to his father. Though the sobriety was ages ago, he keeps it because something about it is important. He keeps it to remember that there were three good months. Maybe the months were before he was born, but they existed.
He sits at his desk, wondering about everything and nothing all at once. He worries and worries and just wishes it was autumn. Autumn will not make him complete. But for now he needs to believe in it. Just for now. If a man believes in nothing, then he will stare into the nothing wondering how nothing can be such a thing. And the nothing will reach into him, consuming what it can, until the man himself is the nothing.

Tuesday, July 30, 2013

The Struggle and the Turn-Around

It's been a rocky road, but I think the path is finally smoothing out a bit. For the past year or two my life has been a shit storm of school and work, even though I've managed to severely underachieve in each category. I guess that's sort of the way I've done most things since high school.

In grade school, I got good grades because most everything came naturally and wasn't all that difficult. This stayed true up until about my sophomore year in high school when I started to lose control of things. Since then, my work ethic, academic accomplishments, and life in general have suffered and it was sort of a mystery.

I've had trouble focusing for as long as I can remember, but in the second year of high school I went and saw a professional to see if I had ADD. She showed me a list of 10 things people with ADD tend to do and I scored 9/10. I'm a pretty mellow person when it comes to physical activity, but inside my mind it is a different story. It has always been like I'm thinking about a million things all at once with all these thoughts racing in my mind. In high school, it meant that I couldn't keep track of the teacher's lecturing or teaching of math homework. Then in college, it resulted in social anxiety bad enough that it made me start skipping classes and staying home and not doing homework. The thoughts were always racing and out of control and never honed in on doing the work.

Having a job at Gallup added to the stress and anxiety. Day after day I tried to conquer the thoughts running around and keeping me from peace, but to no avail. Some days I experienced miniature breakdowns and eventually I stopped going to work and had to quit because of the stress. I spent more and more time volunteering at the CVA play which was therapeutic to me.

Even after quitting Gallup in November, my grades suffered. Despite having an academic counselor, I couldn't stay organized. Something was awry. It seemed to be that my depression that was ruling my life and was causing my issues, but after counseling and several antidepressants, results still seemed inconclusive.

It was my mother that believed I was ADD the most. I doubted if I was, but knew that there was something definitely preventing me from succeeding academically and in life. Finally we saw a psychiatrist that recommended a small dosage of Vyvanse, an ADHD med.

A normal person's mind has a certain level of stimulation and allows them to focus and stay on task. Evidently, an ADD person's mind lacks the regular amount of stimulation and thus reaches out to other things to fill that stimulant void. Thus the racing thoughts in some or hyperactivity in others. At least, that's how I understand it.

I've been on it for almost a month and the change in mood and focus and anxiety is unbelievable. I was always hesitant to ask for ADD medication because of the stigmas about it. So many non-ADD kids take meds like Adderal or Ritalin to over stimulate their minds. It allows them to stay awake more, focus better, and at times causes euphoria. In an ADD person, the stimulant boosts their lacking stimulation so that they get to a normal level and can think clearly. I've found that it slows down my thoughts so I can organize them. There aren't as many racing thoughts which used to cause so much anxiety. I feel more present while in a group of people discussing things. Thus far, it seems like this Vyvanse is really the ticket for me, but only time will tell.

Saturday, July 6, 2013

Lady Dracula

Here's a poem I wrote months ago which ended up inspiring me to write a short story about a guy imprisoned by a female vampire. No worries, they don't fall in love.

Lady Dracula,
Your love is like murder in my veins
There’s a seething fire in my heart
It ignited the day your teeth met my throat
And infected me with tender loving poison
This servitude is the apex of my mortal existence
You are the wind in the trees
  the shadow stitched to my heels
  the creaking kink in my back
  the tub full of blood
  the flickering candle
  the whisper from the basement
I walk to your coffin in a trance
we lay in an immortal dance
I am stoned with absolute adoration
        drunk with undying devotion

I traded freedom for love
  daylight for blood


What if happiness is a lost cause?
What if my hopes yield nothing?
What if I’m pissing in the wind?
What if everything is bullshit in the end?

What if revolutions are just earth’s cycles?
What if today’s freedoms are just fancy jail cells?
What if these questions permeate the lies?
What if the answers bring down the sky?

Why is the straw of truth in a needle-stack?
Have I become a spider?
Do I entangle those meant to fly?
Where is my purpose before I die?

Are you a friend?
Would you forgive me?
If I buried you tonight?
If I couldn’t give up this fight?

What if happiness is a lost cause?
What if our hopes yield nothing?
What if we’re pissing in the wind?
What if everything is bullshit in the end?

Monday, July 1, 2013


Oh Muse,
Your body is a statuesque masterpiece
Your spirit sings a sweet song
You are a living work of art
Oh Addiction,
Your eyes are two pills.
I lust after the analgesic sleep
That your bittersweet opium brings.
Oh Mistress,
I writhe in agony as if ablaze.
You’ve sunk a lure in my ribcage.
I am entangled in your web.
Oh Goddess,
My words wither in your presence,
I crave your fleeting attention,
But love not myself.

Oh Shangri-La,
You are the unobtainable.
The asymptote of my desires.
I am an endlessly curving line.


Being creative is more than just being weird and coming up with lots of ideas.

Actually, that's basically it.

Eh... but it's not.

This person has a decent article on creativity and all the different facets and such. Of course I couldn't/didn't read it all cuz I'm way out of focus. I've had my morning three or so cups of coffee and have moved to iced tea and juice. Often I say how I feel like I'm riding a creative high where thoughts flow abundant like my coffee and are as radiant as the sun which I hate so much. Perhaps I should say that thoughts and ideas fall all around me like rain. That'd be better.

But seriously, shit, when these extreme moments come when I'm hyped about a new discovery, the brain goes wiiiiild. And by nature, I am not a wild, crazy, energetic person. Okay, perhaps crazy. But not energetic, unless there are many ideas flowing.

These highs happen whilst playing guitar with (or without) my band buddy Riley. When our voices and guitars come together in just the right way, damn, I get excited. It's awesome. Right now I'm riding upward on a high from a new twist to put in a short story I'm writing. Hopefully I'll be able to put it up here when I'm done with it. Sometimes highs come strictly from caffeine and I'm just bouncing off the walls of my mind for no reason. But usually there is some sort of creative-something happening.

This next article speaks briefly about creativity in the workplace and how sometimes some of the crankiest employees are the most creative. Surprise-surprise: Creativity often spawns from sadness. It crawls out from the bowels of darkness and depression. Anyone who follows this blog regularly knows that's true. This is why soooooo many famous artists, musicians, and writers have been known to be afflicted with mental illness. The lows give way to productive highs and it all goes in a circle.

Geez, I started typing this and I'm already tired of writing. Bout time to move on to something else. The other thing that's been a recent difficulty is my focus. It feels like it's waning even further and getting worse. Bleh. Reading is becoming more difficult, which is why I only skimmed the articles I linked you to previously. Anyways, I'm done for now.


Sunday, June 23, 2013

Environmental Evils

My uncle suffers from S.A.D. (seasonal affective disorder) where he experiences extra depression in the winter months. I believe I have the opposite. Summer months are awful and have been for years now. The heat and humidity are relentless. Fans are my friends as is water. Summertime exterminates coffee and I hate it for that. I hate it for the increased temperature and decreased clothing. I hate wearing what I wear. Shorts and non-plaid related items. Misery.

Summer means outdoor labor and tornados and hot nights and it makes blankets obsolete, and dammit, I like blankets. Summer makes me sweat which makes me self conscious which makes me sad which makes me hate summer all the more. I might not shake my fist at God, but I do shake it at summer. Summer is a bitch. Actually, summer probably isn't a woman at all. It's probably a guy. An annoying guy that insists on always being present when you don't want him there. Thus the humidity of course. It's always wrapping itself around you when you just want it to go the hell away. Summer walks into your house when you don't want it to. Yes, summer is a guy. Autumn is a deep, intellectual woman and winter is a passionate, impulsive woman and spring is a shy, book-worm woman.

Summer is a dude. And not a Matt Bomer or a Ryan Gosling. Summer is a Danny DeVito or a Steve Buscemi.

My room is a dungeon. I do not blame my mother for this fact, it just is what it is. There are spiders and bugs and all sorts of terrible shit that climbs in from outside and resides in my room. Truly, it is a dungeon with monsters and all. Recently they've been coming in through little cracks around my window which, on the outside of the house is a window well. I can see spiders and other bugs perched right outside and I hate it so much. It makes me feel like little Amelia Pond in Doctor Who who discovers a large crack on the wall of her room which turns out to be a tear in time and space. Now I just need the Mad Man in the blue box to come and take me away.

The Doctor inspecting the crack

I've never liked bugs, but I think I've been developing a minor phobia or something. Sometimes I think I feel them on me or I find myself watching the floor more carefully than I should. It's terrible. I taped a bunch of tin foil over the window area so they wouldn't come into my room, but now I can hear them moving or something against the foil. I slept three nights upstairs in the living room because of the little noises. It might just be the wind, but they have a hold of my brain. Ugh. I guess I need to get some Raid and spray the holes in my room to keep all the evil bastards out.

Anyways, I don't know what else I was planning to say here, but that about sums it up. Fuck summer. Yay. The end.


Friday, May 10, 2013

The Sleep Struggle

Sometimes I find myself wondering about the intricate parts of sleep and why so many of us have a routine we follow. Not everyone follows a pattern, necessarily, but then there are some, like me, that have strict parameters that have to be met in order to slip into sweet unconsciousness.
As a kid, I always fell asleep listening to Bible stories on tape. At some point, I added a fan to my routine. This was probably because of my boat bed, which was elevated in my room high enough to make an area underneath for a desk. Since heat rises, and I’ve always run a higher temp, the fan became incorporated in the nightly schedule. The fan and Bible stories were both sources of white noise, which I also found useful when studying. People with short attention spans benefit from having music playing while studying or working because it supposedly cancels out the wild parts of the brain that are running all over the place and not staying focused. So it was with sleep.
I’ve never been able to sleep in dark rooms, light had to be present somehow. Often I left the bathroom light on across the hall and left the bathroom door open a little bit. I still do this in my bedroom and also leave a dim lamp turned on as well as a string of Christmas lights that hang on my wall.
Time went on and eventually my nightly needs increased and I resorted to taking sleep aids, which I still am quite reliant on. Despite having light piano music playing, a fan blowing on me, and dim lights on, thoughts and feelings and uneasiness still found their way into my mind, causing restlessness and insomnia. Slowly but surely, my body realized that food helped the sleeping process happen easier too. At least, that’s what my mind believes and craves while I try to fall asleep. Dairy is the key to my nocturnal needs and I’m learning more and more about the addictiveness of it. It’s insane how addictive dairy is and most of us don’t realize it probably.
Why am I saying all this? Because it is 5:30 am in Jackson Hole, Wyoming where I am with some friends. Despite being up all night, I find myself feeling suddenly not tired. The setting is wrong. The lighting and fanning and noise and everything doesn’t jive with my brain. However, the pills (which are basically Benedryl) will take effect soon and soothe my soul to sleep.
When you’re a night owl, you develop frequent frights of the night even though it is what you know and is normal. The constant struggle for peace in bed is one that I hope to resolve in the near future. Oh geez it’s a sad situation.

Monday, April 1, 2013

Seal of Approval

Kevin Spacey is Frank Underwood in Netflix's "House of Cards" series. He plays a cold congressman who knows the difference between money and power. As he puts it, "Money is the McMansion in Sarasota that starts falling apart after 10 years. Power is the old stone building that stands for centuries."

In spite of his rock solid resolve and two-faced tactics, Frank does good things sometimes. His new and inexperienced bodyguard makes a grave mistake in an episode and is thus fired and removed from the task force he was a part of. He begs Frank to speak to his captain on his behalf and Frank turns him down at first.

Later in the episode, however, he makes the call to the captain anyway and his bodyguard returns to his service. Frank explains how important actions like that are. They cost him nothing. All they are are words, and they meant the world to Meechum (his bodyguard).

I've been trying to leave behind the self-pity and engage in self-examination. In doing so, I realize that my communication skills are wounded and severely lacking. I've been trying to learn to speak my mind to peoples' face and express what I feel without the crutch of writing it all down and having them read it. Writing feelings out are important, but they can be a cop out too. Speaking words out loud do a hell of a lot more, at least for me. Sometimes when I try and open up verbally, my voice shakes and I just feel like crying because I'm not used to manning up and using my mouth to say difficult things.

So I'm resolving to not be afraid to admit things to people's faces or to tell them they're full of shit. The tables would be turned because usually I'm the one being told I'm full of it, which is true indeed. In addition to being straightforward with people about my shortcomings or theirs, I find that it's mutually beneficial to speak my mind about positive things in people. Whether that be complimenting them on what they're wearing or affirming their natural abilities or just asking how their day has been, it makes them feel important, and it allows me to become closer to them.

They say that talk is cheap and that actions speak louder than words, but holy hell, when someone gives you a genuine compliment out of the blue, it feels really good. I don't always know how to react to compliments. I usually am not sure what to do or say or anything, but deep down it feels good. People need to hear positive words. Since I grew up being showered with compliments, it's strange to think that some people rarely hear any sort of verbal reinforcement. I can think of a few people I'm friends with that most likely don't have their talents affirmed. Maybe you can too. If so, try and open your mind up to the idea of complimenting often and honestly.

I think there's a sort of stigma we associate with complimenting, especially if it's to the opposite gender. When a guy tells a girl that he thinks she looks pretty or that her dress is beautiful, she might think "Ermagerd, he wants to put it in meeeee... ewww..." And that may be true. Us guys are horndogs sometimes. However, I hope that you won't let society's stupid stigmas keep you from giving out compliments when you want to.

Regardless, I'm pretty sure everyone has been complimented by someone at some point in their life. Just think about how that positive reinforcement made you feel. Most likely it made you feel a little happy and warm and fuzzy inside. After remembering that feeling, hold onto it, go forth, and give out compliments.

                                                            ***Seal of Approval***


Tuesday, March 26, 2013

A Fragment

This is just a fragment of a piece I started working on this morning. Maybe I'll leave it like this. I have too many unfinished projects sitting on my desktop. Bleh. But here is this.

You knew the free spirit in me
Before his adolescent incarceration
We saw him peek from behind the bars,
Timid at first, but alive.
And his smile was still there,
As was the hope,
And the childish dreams
That made me who I once was.

Monday, March 4, 2013

Imagine There's a Title Here

Sometimes I lose myself so deep in self pity that I forget to daydream and really let my mind off its leash. Often it escapes at the wrong times and it gets me into trouble. Today though, after I'd showered and dressed myself, I just laid back down on my bed and stared at the ceiling. After awhile I closed my eyes and let my mind spontaneously create. I think if people did that on a regular basis, they'd really discover things about themselves.

When I close myself and just don't try to think about anything, my mind takes off on a million different random things. I see faces and places and ideas. Sometimes there are terrifying faces or monsters. Sometimes I imagine going on trips or I invent new lands. Sometimes lyrics or words will come to mind and just flow around connecting randomly. Sometimes they make sense, but mostly they don't. And it's okay.

I'm not super surprised when I lay in bed and try to sleep and suddenly gruesome images appear in my mind. I know that I've filled it with a lot of smut, but I forget what's in my brain. Laying there day dreaming and letting my brain free-roam helps me realize what's hiding there under the surface. What baffles me at times is that I recall being haunted by grotesque dreaming and out of control thoughts as a young child. And I hadn't ingested loads of violence and gore and whatnot back then. My parents kept us well guarded against that for years. But *shrug* who knows.

I think everyone is capable of daydreaming and imagining things, but some people come by it more naturally than others. I also think that it can be smashed out of people and lost if they allow it to be.

Anyways, I got pretty distracted writing this and I've forgotten where I was going with it......

What do you guys like to daydream about? Leave it in the comments section below!


Friday, March 1, 2013


Another week has passed. It is Friday and I yam writing and FaceBooking and playing games a little too. I'm at my newest haunt and drinking lots of Diet Pepsi, which is hands down one of the worst sodas of all time. However, I squeeze lemons into it to make it delicious.

I'm worried Luke will disown me as a brother because I've switched to drinking so much cola and black coffee. In our younger years, it was all Mountain Dew and lots of creamer in our coffee. I must remind him that I am twenty years old and must begin growing up, even though I don't plan on truly growing up. God forbid I ever lay aside certain aspects of my youth.

For example: I think farts will always be funny. Chocolate will always be made better by adding more chocolate on top. Video games will always be my sexy mistress with whom I spend late nights when I'm taking a break from writing. I will always be aroused by flames and explosives. I will probably always be afraid of the dark and spiders and whatnot.

Though these childish things will likely follow me the rest of my life into an early grave, there are other things that should be left in the past. Such as: my frequent slothfulness, my procrastination, my worrying, my comparing myself to others, and basically everything that keeps me from succeeding.

I'm plagued by thoughts of dropping out of school and haunted by Hobo Josh Marshall from the future. When crunch time comes and shit's hitting the fan, I wither under the pressure. Blah blah blah. You've heard all about this a million times, pumpkins. What I keep wishing is that I'll have some instantaneous change. Like a 180 flip and suddenly I'd be an achieving student, a punctual employee, a reliable friend, a devoted son, and a more empathetic human being. But that'd be too easy and a pretty lame story, right?

I guess it wasn't a bad story for Paul on his journey to slay Christians in Damascus. Boom, his life was changed just like that. Craziness. It happens, but usually not in such a dramatic instant way. I suppose living is about becoming a better, well rounded person. Though the only thing I can seem to get round is my stomach ^___^

Anyways, the good news is that striving and trying pays off eventually. "The only reason for time is so that everything doesn't happen at once." Einstein said that, evidently, and it's true. Life is linear. The place we're at right now isn't where we'll be in ten years. Holy hell if I was still a sophomore in college in ten years, geez. Let's not think about that.

ALSO, hopefully we have some people along the way to encourage us as we journey. Sometimes it's a musical artist that makes you happy. For me, it has been The Tallest Man on Earth. Some people hate on his voice, but whatever. I like it because the music is great, the lyrics are great, and my voice tends suck some serious ass, so I shan't judge (too much).

This is one of my favorites where he hops on the piano and plucks at the ol' heart strings.

In addition to motivational media, there are people closer to us that can turn a day around. For me, this week, it was an anonymous reader of my blog that gave me a new plaid shirt. I know I rant about loving plaid shirts so much, but it's true. They make me feel good. This one that I received cheered me right up and also brightened my wardrobe. I felt like Amy Adams in "Julie and Julia" where she receives cooking supplies while making a bunch of Julia Childs' recipes and blogging about it.

I'm usually not one to post pictures of myself, let alone post any really, but I found this to be a good occasion to do it anyway. And so here I am, wearing it. Ponderous on the surface. Happy underneath.

This blog post is dedicated to my anonymous pumpkin. You rock.


Sunday, February 17, 2013

Take My Hand

Oh and here's a poem I wrote for Valentine's day sort of and forgot to post. It probably needs some more work and restructuring and more thought and whatnot but here it is anyway.

Honey, take my hand
There’s a world out there
I think you should see
I want you to see it with me
Come see the fine things
Come hear how people sing
Come feel what tomorrow brings

Lady, just follow behind
There’s adventure out there
Places we can be
I want you there with me
Away from the evil things
Away from the sad things
Away from the stressful things
Trust my words because this time they’re true
We can create life and love, just me and you
Let’s sell our clothes and houses and cars
Let’s burn these drugged up streets and bars
Meet me in Paris, meet me in Rome
Wherever we are will be home
We’ll have chocolate and coffee and wine
I will be yours and you will be mine
We’ll lay on sun-warmed beach sand
Our journey awaits, but first, you must take my hand

Movie Mentality

I’ve always felt like I’m in a movie. Somewhere in my childhood my brain realized it couldn’t tell the difference between reality and fantasy and ever since, the two have both existed simultaneously within me. You know when you’re watching a story unfold on the big screen in the theatre you just get sucked in and nothing else matters. Life outside the building doesn’t mean anything because you’re vicariously experiencing someone else’s made-up life. You’re seeing how the characters act and you’re thinking with pride or shame about how much you’re just like them. You find yourself in the story and suddenly you’re just lost.
Whenever I finish a really good movie and I’m walking out of the theatre, I usually feel sad and I don’t want to talk to anyone because the daydream is over and the last two hours weren’t real. I didn’t slay a dragon or catch a serial killer or get the girl. But for those few moments I did and there’s some comfort in that.
People like to sit on their thrones and pass judgement on lowly folks who can’t get their heads out of the clouds. But they can go fuck themselves because life is miserable the way it is. Black and white and concrete and cycling, always cycling. Don’t you ever wish you could make that cycle stop? Even for a few minutes? Even if it meant lighting your psychiatrist’s office chair on fire while she stepped out of the room for a second? I thought about that once or twice. It would really change her day. And mine. For a bit.
I walk around always believing that something fabulous or horrific could happen at any moment and then I’d be right in the middle of a real life movie. Like a building collapses suddenly or zombies chase me (They would catch me because I’m very slow).
I over think everything a lot too. I attribute that to my movie mentality. Like I picture super ideal situations happening and they never do. Maybe I imagine I’ll be really brave or charming or funny and then when the event is over I realize I wasn’t any of that. It’s like I can’t help it because when I sit in anticipation of something happening, these scenarios play over and over. It’s crippling. It makes a lot of things difficult to ever really enjoy. I don’t have a hold of my mind in those situations especially when I’m really sad or anxious. I think that’s why I have trouble sleeping too. I just lay there and think about the future and hopes and fears and everything. Then I either get too excited or depressed to sleep. So it’s Benadryl to the rescue. It puts a dome over my volcanic thoughts so they don’t explode everywhere so much. Then I can sleep.
For awhile I forgot how much I enjoy reading. I still lose myself and find myself in movies, but I do the same in books. I got myself hooked on books again last semester. I’ve been trying to read classics and modern works too. I read Orwell’s 1984 and some Stephen King, and The Old Man and the Sea, and I just finished A Farewell to Arms which made me cry because it was so fucking sad in the end. Here Hemingway takes you on a marvelous journey with Lieutenant Henry and his army buddies and Catherine the English nurse he falls in love with, and brings it all to near perfection. My favorite part of the book is probably where he and Cat escape being arrested and wind up in Switzerland, free and together at last. She is pregnant and they live in the mountains with an amazing view of the valley and the mountains on the other side. They haven’t a care in the world except to be with one another and get ready for the baby’s arrival. Then the baby dies at the hospital and Catherine dies from hemorrhaging and Henry walks back to the hotel alone in the rain. The end. And I didn’t want it to happen, but I knew it had to be that way.
I don’t know why I write any of this shit but it beats the hell out of reading boring stuff for homework. It’s amazing how mentality can change from one day to the next with me. Last week, maybe at the beginning or the week before everything felt so optimistic and here we are today and it’s all gone. Everything is gone. Everything feels lost and pointless and useless and I always sleep too long and waste all my time. But what would I have done with that time anyway? Nothing worth anything most likely. And my time with my therapist is pointless too because he can’t understand anything I really mean because I don’t know how to say it unless I’m typing it out like I am now.
And it feels like there’s too much to figure out and not enough time in a lifetime to manage it. And I just wish I had more plaid shirts so I wouldn’t have to think about what to wear and if it would match. I don’t even know if I’ll post this on my blog or not. It’s pretty scatter brained and I don’t like editing my thoughts very much.I’ll just post it. I’m reading The Catcher in the Rye and I like it so far. I can find myself in the story and that’s what really matters.

Thursday, February 7, 2013

Dastardly, Bastardly Butterflies

We have today and tomorrow off of school for winter break. They give us this so that the non-Nebraskan kiddies can go home to their families out of state. For us Lincolnites, it's two extra days to dick around and sleep late. I decided to be responsible and not stay up too late last night, so I've been in  le coffee shop all day long.

I thought I'd get some work done on a short story I've been planning to write for Union's writing contest, and alas I once again face the horrors of a blank page. It's true that there is a certain frightening aspect to having a blank white screen in front of you and knowing what you want to say but being unsure how to say it or where to start.

I've been reading Ernest Hemingway and Stephen King and their writing makes me want to hide in a cave and choke on a stalagmite. As intimidating as another author's writing can be, I know I mustn't become discouraged. Instead, it is an opportunity to plunge into the unknown and see what comes of it. Ideas are easy. Painting them on paper is the problem.

Sometimes when I want to accomplish something but get too nervous about it, I cop out and do something less. Like right now, I could be word-spewing for my short story but instead I'm blogging. It's writing... but not the writing I want. Or if there's a song I want to learn to play, I'll clean my room. Useful... but not what I want to do.

These anxious inhibitions are common especially when I attempt fiction. Stories and creations dance through my mind, but upon reading them later, my stomach churns. It's the uncertainty, the grappling, the hatred for what I see on the page. Oh, such soothing strangulation writing is, dammit.

In other news, I think my geography teacher is stalking me because he came to my secret haven to have lunch and sat right next to me like we were buddies. I wish I didn't have to leave home to successfully get shit done but alas the brain works in mysterious ways.

This coming week I will begin helping Sharon (sp?) Swartz learn how to use her Mac. Evidently I've been recommended as a knowledgable Mac user so we'll see how it goes. Damn, I'm really avoiding this whole fiction writing thing if I'm telling you all about next weeks appointments aren't I?

I shall sign off. Wish me well in writing. My stomach is officially upset.


Thursday, January 31, 2013


Lyrics to a song I wrote last year and forgot to put up here.

If I could teach
Angels to fly, I’d
Strap wings to your back
Making you exactly
What you are in my mind

I don’t care about perfection
So why do I want an angel?
Well, remember Lucifer?
He was perfect until he wasn’t
So you’re fine for me

They might circle you like vultures
But I don’t think there’s anything dead in you

If I could teach
Birds to sing
I’m pretty sure that they’d
Be crying your name

And if I could tell
The sun to shine
I’d make it go away
So we could watch the rain

They might circle you like vultures
But I don’t think there’s anything dead in you
They might circle you like vultures
But I don’t think there’s anything dead in you
In you

This is the pedestal that I place you on
This is the rope that I hang myself with
This is the pedestal that I place you on
This is the rope that I hang myself with

They might circle you like vultures
But I don’t think there’s anything dead in you
In you

Monday, January 21, 2013

Confessions - The Hundredth Post

(This one's for Larissa, ever my dear sister, and she knows why.)

The time has come once again to blog. Though my times on The Pumpkin Patch are few and far between these days, I think of it often. I just never know what to write.

But that's no excuse.

Because I never know what to write ever.

Even with the most detailed planning and plot lining and scheming and brainstorming. I never really know what to write until I write it. Lines and phrases come to mind throughout the day (in the most inopportune times of course) and they usually start me on some poem or lyrics or random jotting. Only after words come stumbling out of my mouth or pen like drunkards from a bar do I really know what I'll write.

And so today I write confessions, though they are more like revelations than anything.

First and foremost, I am very afraid. It isn't easy to admit, but I believe it to be true. I state this to begin with because I feel that this first point is tied to the things to come.

Second, I am infected with an overactive mind. Just typing that sentence sent my mind off somewhere else for a few minutes. I feel undisciplined, out of control, and thus less a person. Which leads to the next thing.

Third, low self esteem. I think this is related to the first point. Low esteem leads me to fear what others think, which is made worse by the second point. Vicious cycle, you see? Now I'm worrying that I've said these things with different words in previous blog posts. Probably.

The fourth point hit me like a bear's claw this past week. I feel like I'm better/superior than other people. WHAT THE HELL, I thought to myself. Alex hinted at this to me one time I think, but the reality didn't occur to me. This was especially confusing to me because of the third point. I keep trying to figure these things out and how everything is connected, but it tires me out and confuses me. So I'll take it to my therapist. Moving on...

Now stuff might get a bit random, but they are revelations/confessions nonetheless.

Fifth, I might just become an English professor. I don't talk to the Eternal Tenant in the sky enough, but He still whispers to me. Though it isn't what I want to do with the rest of my life, it's a start. They say that when you set out to be a writer, you have to prepare yourself to be poor. I'd agree with this, so I gotta find something I can make steady money with while I pursue my real career. Plus, as Mike Mennard told Addison's class awhile back... being a college professor is one of the easiest things ever. Unless you hate doing it, I suppose, but I don't think I will. I continue to learn to be prepared, organized, and motivated and hopefully will have a better handle on things by the time career time rolls around.

Sixth, I'm pretty sure I could wear plaid shirts every single day. Most of us have some kind of clothing or style that we feel most comfortable in. Some girls like really tight clothing and I give them my silent approval (heh heh). Some guys like sporting sportswear on a daily basis. But that isn't for me. For those that know me and see me on a regular basis, my clothing style of choice is....(on the count of three)...... PLAID. It's true. Plaid/flannel type shirts really excite me. I'm currently wearing one of my most favorite shirts that my dear mother got me for Christmas. Seriously, if I had my druthers, I'd find a ton of amazing long sleeved, button up, collared, moody plaid shirts and wear a new one every day. Of course it has to be unbuttoned a little at the top to reveal my white undershirt. And then the look is completed with darkish-blue or black jeans and Converse or some other shoe type.

Seventh, I prefer having coffee in sealed to-go containers rather than a mug even when sitting in a coffee shop. Maybe it's weird, but dammit, it stays warmer longer and I like to drink slowly sometimes. Especially in the Mill (whose coffee I'm no longer sure if I like anymore) where you have to pay for refills. But here at Braeda, it's free refills, so drinking from a mug doesn't bother me as much. ALSO, Braeda might be my new haven. In addition to their good coffee with free refills and decent environment, I think I run less a chance of seeing people I know here. I dunno about everyone else, but I need a place I can go and just not be around people I know. I need strangers. I need just enough familiarity, but not too much. These are the places I like to write. In the Mill and StarBucks, I can hardly ever go there without seeing a Union face. My usual haunts are now haunted. This leads into the next thing.

Eighth, I'm increasingly anti-social. There's a certain serendipity in solitude. Seriously. Some people can't be alone or in silence. I still don't do well with pure quiet (I love my music), but the lone-wolf status is routinely appealing. There are days I can't handle with being around people and dealing with their idiosyncrasies: the things that I love and hate about them. There are also days I'm invigorated and inspired by being with friends and company is welcome. And still other days, I'm torn between loneliness and reclusiveness. Can't be with people, can't be without them. So I sleep.

Well here they are, the ponderings, confessions, revelations, whatever you wish to call them. Regardless, I've taken up empty space on a page and accomplished something, even if it is just giving you a better idea of who I am. Words have flowed and that is important. So I shall leave you with a semi-relevant haiku I've been working on. I hope you've enjoyed the 100th post. Take care, pumpkins.


Blank empty pages
A youthful life unwritten
Troubling, the unknown