Wednesday, May 20, 2009
congested
congested with stress, fear, doubt...and mucous, in my head, can't even hear out of one ear, like I was onboard a plane, flying from Chicago to New York...nothing is clearing me up, took another Sudafed. did not know that ephedrine is used to treat asthma over the counter. can't focus. have to write more for a paper. need to GET ON IT. might have to leave the house to do more, it's hard. it's not the last minute, not yet. I could stay up all night if i wanted to, but I don't want to. that would be uncomfortable. I just need to write, write out the bones and dust and debris. and then clean it all up later! and maybe shut off the internet connection as well
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
The poor
I shuffled around in my seat a bit as the guest speaker began.
-Habits of the poor began in personality, as characteristics that have been socialized from peers or parents.
-One who has a habit of putting off what he could do today until tomorrow may be one who is poor.
-Avoidance of bothers, even the most incessant, rather than seeking a solution or starting with action can be a sign as well. Let me give you an example. A friend of yours, someone whom you associate with often has a chronic cough and hacks up mucous on a regular basis. He smokes or has asthma, has something that makes it more complicated for him, and it bothers you until you tell him that you're concerned for his health. He acknowledges your concern sincerely, and you politely ask him why he won't see a doctor for this problem. If the first thing out of his mouth is an excuse, in spite of a problem he'd plainly love to be without, it is a symptom of a poor personality. If the man has no answer or does not know, he needs help.
-Habits of the poor began in personality, as characteristics that have been socialized from peers or parents.
-One who has a habit of putting off what he could do today until tomorrow may be one who is poor.
-Avoidance of bothers, even the most incessant, rather than seeking a solution or starting with action can be a sign as well. Let me give you an example. A friend of yours, someone whom you associate with often has a chronic cough and hacks up mucous on a regular basis. He smokes or has asthma, has something that makes it more complicated for him, and it bothers you until you tell him that you're concerned for his health. He acknowledges your concern sincerely, and you politely ask him why he won't see a doctor for this problem. If the first thing out of his mouth is an excuse, in spite of a problem he'd plainly love to be without, it is a symptom of a poor personality. If the man has no answer or does not know, he needs help.
Sunday, May 10, 2009
awkward
i bailed on a date so my friend invited me to have dinner at his mom's house (gay i know) and I was on the fence because it was uncertain if his father was going to be there (who is apparently crazy and verbally abusive and talks shit about me even though he's never met me)
and we hear that he wasn't going so i decide that i'm down
and i'm making small-talk with his hilarious Mexican mother ignoring these little kids who want to play tennis or some shit and all of a sudden the door bursts open and a mountain of a man appears
im courteous and shake his hand even though he is terrifying and continue talking to Meximom who's making some enchiladas. while i hear scarydad yelling at my friend outside about "lying" even though it's about menial text message semantics so I pretend not to hear and i just keep talking to her
then she makes me a plate and i leave it on the counter. scarydad gets a plate, i stand around awkwardly and he sits at a table inside. he's the only one at the table and i vow not to sit next to him alone because i have no idea what the fuck to say. i could see my friend outside on the phone, probably trying to forget the conversation he just had with his dad.
little kids running around tell me to sit outside and i accept the offer because i had a reason not to sit next to scarydad as he scarfs down his enchiladas. i sit outside alone talking to the little kids and start eating and they're of course wonderful. but it wasn't about the food now was it? scarydad and my friend end up at the table with another younger brother. i make forced smalltalk with scarydad about some jetskis he says he's gonna buy and ends up making an example out of my friend.
and we hear that he wasn't going so i decide that i'm down
and i'm making small-talk with his hilarious Mexican mother ignoring these little kids who want to play tennis or some shit and all of a sudden the door bursts open and a mountain of a man appears
im courteous and shake his hand even though he is terrifying and continue talking to Meximom who's making some enchiladas. while i hear scarydad yelling at my friend outside about "lying" even though it's about menial text message semantics so I pretend not to hear and i just keep talking to her
then she makes me a plate and i leave it on the counter. scarydad gets a plate, i stand around awkwardly and he sits at a table inside. he's the only one at the table and i vow not to sit next to him alone because i have no idea what the fuck to say. i could see my friend outside on the phone, probably trying to forget the conversation he just had with his dad.
little kids running around tell me to sit outside and i accept the offer because i had a reason not to sit next to scarydad as he scarfs down his enchiladas. i sit outside alone talking to the little kids and start eating and they're of course wonderful. but it wasn't about the food now was it? scarydad and my friend end up at the table with another younger brother. i make forced smalltalk with scarydad about some jetskis he says he's gonna buy and ends up making an example out of my friend.
Friday, March 13, 2009
asdf
The thought of his father pushed itself into C's consciousness for a moment, but he was quick to suppress it. They had a pleasant discussion that morning but the call he received before noon shredded his attempts at creating stability in his relationship. He briefly recalled the conversation...
- C! Where's the [brand of shotgun]?
- I put it right back after I finished cleaning it.
- Well, it's not there. Did you decide to show it off to one of your dumb ass friends or something, who shouldn't have been there in the first place? Did it make you feel cool showing off a gun that you don't even own?
- No, dad, no one came over. If it's not where I left it, then I don't know where it is.
- You are a fucking bastard son. *click*
-----
This father has committed acts of charity in the past, but he is a victim of his harsh mood swings. He'll wake up his son to start a fight over a menial issue, accusing him, tempting him, but his son is only living in that hell-hole house with the other messed up children so that he can do his work at the local college. I can't tell this, I have to show this.
________
Dorian walked through the park, perhaps for therapeutic reasons, or for the exercise. He tried to take in every sight, every smell as best he could but the experience just wasn't living up to his expectations.
"This is what normal people do when they want to relax, isn't it?" he thought to himself. The images remained. The still lake to the northwest - the habitat for the hundreds of ducks that roamed 'round it - stood still. The multitudes of trees that seemed to simply "be", were; and the thin dirt path that appeared to be made for cyclists encircling the park, hugged the lake, and stayed clear of the boundaries, for two of them were busy streets for cars and the construction of said path yearned to remain within the grass and trees to give the illusion that one was further from society than he really was.
As the sun went down, Dorian's steps became more cautious, as most mens' did at twilight. Around the lake he went this time again, observing the patrons - families with small children whose excitement for merely being within what they assumed was nature, overbearing. One man laid in the shade of a treebush, bags surrounding him, hat brim over brow with eyes shut.
Dorian felt that his tension wouldn't unwind, no matter how many steps, the walking meditation he practiced did little to soothe him. Looking up only inspired himself to check his watch, but he instructed himself to avoid that time unless he had an appointment. Today was a day of mental health, recovery, and relaxation.
At least when he thought about what Henry told him. The words pulled themselves over whatever feelings were created by the images of the park.
"You're going too quick, Dorian. I'm looking at your face and see newly-found creases under your eyes accentuating the bags. Or perhaps the bags accentuate the creases. I noticed the creases first because the bags form when you don't follow your prescribed sleep regimen.
to be reworked, continued...a study
- C! Where's the [brand of shotgun]?
- I put it right back after I finished cleaning it.
- Well, it's not there. Did you decide to show it off to one of your dumb ass friends or something, who shouldn't have been there in the first place? Did it make you feel cool showing off a gun that you don't even own?
- No, dad, no one came over. If it's not where I left it, then I don't know where it is.
- You are a fucking bastard son. *click*
-----
This father has committed acts of charity in the past, but he is a victim of his harsh mood swings. He'll wake up his son to start a fight over a menial issue, accusing him, tempting him, but his son is only living in that hell-hole house with the other messed up children so that he can do his work at the local college. I can't tell this, I have to show this.
________
Dorian walked through the park, perhaps for therapeutic reasons, or for the exercise. He tried to take in every sight, every smell as best he could but the experience just wasn't living up to his expectations.
"This is what normal people do when they want to relax, isn't it?" he thought to himself. The images remained. The still lake to the northwest - the habitat for the hundreds of ducks that roamed 'round it - stood still. The multitudes of trees that seemed to simply "be", were; and the thin dirt path that appeared to be made for cyclists encircling the park, hugged the lake, and stayed clear of the boundaries, for two of them were busy streets for cars and the construction of said path yearned to remain within the grass and trees to give the illusion that one was further from society than he really was.
As the sun went down, Dorian's steps became more cautious, as most mens' did at twilight. Around the lake he went this time again, observing the patrons - families with small children whose excitement for merely being within what they assumed was nature, overbearing. One man laid in the shade of a treebush, bags surrounding him, hat brim over brow with eyes shut.
Dorian felt that his tension wouldn't unwind, no matter how many steps, the walking meditation he practiced did little to soothe him. Looking up only inspired himself to check his watch, but he instructed himself to avoid that time unless he had an appointment. Today was a day of mental health, recovery, and relaxation.
At least when he thought about what Henry told him. The words pulled themselves over whatever feelings were created by the images of the park.
"You're going too quick, Dorian. I'm looking at your face and see newly-found creases under your eyes accentuating the bags. Or perhaps the bags accentuate the creases. I noticed the creases first because the bags form when you don't follow your prescribed sleep regimen.
to be reworked, continued...a study
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
don't want to lose this writing about Paris.
I did this a while ago and had it edited. I'm still very happy with it. I'm posting it here.
But one thing about Peter Szitas that was so prominent, yet ambiguous was his lack of any exotic cultural traits. A man of Hungarian descent, yet born and raised in the outskirts of Stockholm, raised on items of American culture and the popular media. He had no accent at all, he could have been living in the San Fernando Valley all his life and his Swedish tongue was so difficult to discern like a king snakes rattle from a corner of a crowded room, which would appear only at every other while and one wouldn’t raise any a thought or pondering moment about it.
He had been working as a bouncer he told me but I forget what motives brought him to Paris. Perhaps they were enrichment or just for leisure, reasons somewhat like mine, but we both understood that while we were unsure of an exact reason to be here – perhaps looking for something or just wanting to have some fun – we were here and we were gonna make the most of our time in this foreign city of exploration with childish wonder.
Who cared what the cynics said? When we took chances to say crude or offend there was no harm in good fun laughing off the absurdities of “Cabinetes Automatique” and weird lights in the redlightdistrict Pigalle and most days ended with us failing to find a GOOD AND CHEAP bar (had to be both we insisted on it) and disappointed but sometimes they ended with us buying our own liquor or beers from the local grocers and playing cards with our suitemates so it really didn’t matter what the cynics said in the end.
And every day ended in the end because we were a featherplume’s drift away from vagabonds and because when hostels run out you gotta find couches but we had the security of Lucky Youth on our side. Every day ended in a makeshift bed, whether a cot or converted couch in our fanciful hostel’d apartmentsuite and without regard to the hours of sleep we got we woke up with the vigor of Norse berserkers in the heat of battle but we lived for peace between common men, at least here we did. And no matter what, each day was a new beginning of a silly comic strip about toilet humor and mistranslations, there were no bounds or cares just disturbances of confusion sitting on a scale of droll and jest but I say we as a collective because I spent time with a number of other hostelmates but it wasn’t until my second week with suitemates that I discovered something and I think it was Peter who contributed and made me realize this the most: It didn’t matter nothing mattered just our joy and we were here to make the most of our time in this strange metropolis of images and sounds.
While I thought I had fun chasing museums by myself and taking pictures of art, I didn’t realize it until the second week it’s the journey that matters most. And while we weren’t really going anywhere, only residing back at the lodging to eat a meal or rest, we were going everywhere. And sometimes I got lost by myself going in circles failing to read the map correctly I always had a destination: le métro. It was so easy watching and squeezing into it but I chatted with patrons only sometimes and I felt more toward looking about sometimes in demure and primed myself to be affectedly modest as some folks stared at the American heart seared into my wrist. And it felt so nice to be the foreigner and not the local for once.
thank you
But one thing about Peter Szitas that was so prominent, yet ambiguous was his lack of any exotic cultural traits. A man of Hungarian descent, yet born and raised in the outskirts of Stockholm, raised on items of American culture and the popular media. He had no accent at all, he could have been living in the San Fernando Valley all his life and his Swedish tongue was so difficult to discern like a king snakes rattle from a corner of a crowded room, which would appear only at every other while and one wouldn’t raise any a thought or pondering moment about it.
He had been working as a bouncer he told me but I forget what motives brought him to Paris. Perhaps they were enrichment or just for leisure, reasons somewhat like mine, but we both understood that while we were unsure of an exact reason to be here – perhaps looking for something or just wanting to have some fun – we were here and we were gonna make the most of our time in this foreign city of exploration with childish wonder.
Who cared what the cynics said? When we took chances to say crude or offend there was no harm in good fun laughing off the absurdities of “Cabinetes Automatique” and weird lights in the redlightdistrict Pigalle and most days ended with us failing to find a GOOD AND CHEAP bar (had to be both we insisted on it) and disappointed but sometimes they ended with us buying our own liquor or beers from the local grocers and playing cards with our suitemates so it really didn’t matter what the cynics said in the end.
And every day ended in the end because we were a featherplume’s drift away from vagabonds and because when hostels run out you gotta find couches but we had the security of Lucky Youth on our side. Every day ended in a makeshift bed, whether a cot or converted couch in our fanciful hostel’d apartmentsuite and without regard to the hours of sleep we got we woke up with the vigor of Norse berserkers in the heat of battle but we lived for peace between common men, at least here we did. And no matter what, each day was a new beginning of a silly comic strip about toilet humor and mistranslations, there were no bounds or cares just disturbances of confusion sitting on a scale of droll and jest but I say we as a collective because I spent time with a number of other hostelmates but it wasn’t until my second week with suitemates that I discovered something and I think it was Peter who contributed and made me realize this the most: It didn’t matter nothing mattered just our joy and we were here to make the most of our time in this strange metropolis of images and sounds.
While I thought I had fun chasing museums by myself and taking pictures of art, I didn’t realize it until the second week it’s the journey that matters most. And while we weren’t really going anywhere, only residing back at the lodging to eat a meal or rest, we were going everywhere. And sometimes I got lost by myself going in circles failing to read the map correctly I always had a destination: le métro. It was so easy watching and squeezing into it but I chatted with patrons only sometimes and I felt more toward looking about sometimes in demure and primed myself to be affectedly modest as some folks stared at the American heart seared into my wrist. And it felt so nice to be the foreigner and not the local for once.
thank you
xanax and coffee
xanax and coffee
xanax and coffee
the gravity pulling's so strong, the hot air holding up the parachute frivolous
but the gravity feels essential, i have so much and paid so little nothing for it
no one knows who marcus nagelberg really is,
at least not yet,
and I hope they don't find out
sitting in a hole, waiting for a rope
but i've got to work my way building footwells up
to better stick my rubber souls
this is not a poem, just thinking calculated, simplified
I do not want to write poetry. I have done it before. But it seems so...socially unacceptable
the mentor would say, "why should you care?" i'd say image is everything.
private, public, it really does matter. he'd say, "do what makes you feel better, and ignore the naysayers." i'd say, "i'm already coping"
i'm over psychotherapy.
i loved the guy to death, and he worked with famous people, I felt so pampered in his cozy little lounge. But benefits died and money felt tight. I paid for a few when I could. When I had all that money. The money didn't matter when I had a lot of it but it means so much when there's less of it and many more options
xanax and coffee
the gravity pulling's so strong, the hot air holding up the parachute frivolous
but the gravity feels essential, i have so much and paid so little nothing for it
no one knows who marcus nagelberg really is,
at least not yet,
and I hope they don't find out
sitting in a hole, waiting for a rope
but i've got to work my way building footwells up
to better stick my rubber souls
this is not a poem, just thinking calculated, simplified
I do not want to write poetry. I have done it before. But it seems so...socially unacceptable
the mentor would say, "why should you care?" i'd say image is everything.
private, public, it really does matter. he'd say, "do what makes you feel better, and ignore the naysayers." i'd say, "i'm already coping"
i'm over psychotherapy.
i loved the guy to death, and he worked with famous people, I felt so pampered in his cozy little lounge. But benefits died and money felt tight. I paid for a few when I could. When I had all that money. The money didn't matter when I had a lot of it but it means so much when there's less of it and many more options
Saturday, February 28, 2009
Why is 0.25mg of alprazolam enough to make me a little bit confused? I can't trust myself with this...I need to focus, it's so early I was so tired, the cappuchino is too sweet, I'm in a photoshop class, helping a midle-aged woman who i'm slightly attracted too, i'm conflicted. Today is the last day to apply to my safe-school, I hope I can do this, I need to give them my high school transcripts, that's gonna be a bitch. I can't believe I waited so lnog. I can't jeopardize this, I'm overanalyzing my life right now, thsi would be my only way out of here, for me, my quest my journey, now there are other options but it's hard to get down to business, nto that i'm lazy, i forget to apprehend myself in my lethargy and sloth. Have not been able to assert myself enough to claim alone time for research and management of my university progress. I am dissapointed in myself but not all is lost. I can still apply to evergreen before the end of the night. Transcripts...this week, somehow. Fuck, high school shit. I don't want to be judged as I was then. but there is no other option, closure closed to be continued
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