30/11/05
Maybe if I stopped thinking so much I'd have a coherent thought. I guess there is no incumbent tentacle-demon in my colon. Just a lot of hypertension and ancient stool blocking up my bowels.
Woo.
|
Woo.
|
24/11/05
23/11/05
Fix me
Fix my head
Fix me please I don't wanna be dead
Tonight will be the last ever "Black Wednesday with System Shit and friends." It was fun while it lasted, and I'm surprised that it lasted so long, and with such relative success. I guess the novelty of a drunken crustpunk band hosting an open mic never quite wore off. There is a fixed lineup for tonight, so don't bother showing up with guitars or drumsticks, but I urge all of you in Hali to come out nonetheless. It should be a pretty wild time.
Now that I will no longer be performing a weekly service for which I am paid in beer, I have faced myself with the prospect of walking the walk and not just talking the talk when it comes to changing my goddamned life for the better. I don't know exactly where along the line I became this ridiculous bitter, troubled cliche, but it's gotta go. I turned 30 in July, and all I can picture is what a pathetic parody of a person I'll be at 40 if I keep living like some misguided teenage outcast. It's gotta go. I need to get back to the drawing board. It's scary, because I've never really been a person with "goals" or "initiative." I've always just pretty much gone where life has taken me -and in many ways I have been incredibly fortunate in doing so- but now it's time for me to start taking the lead, I think. I know there is more to life than this, and I want some before I wake up one day and I'm old and fat and wrinkly and emphysemic and still going out every Saturday to flog away on a guitar for a group of people whose median age is less than half my own. I refuse to ever become a caricature of myself, and it feels as if now is a pivotal time in my life if I ever want to make avoiding this a reality.
I began growing a beard last week. I look like a total uggo with a beard, but my face has always really hated me shaving it, and with winter coming it seems like a sensible thing to do. In anticipation of taking the necessary steps to stop being such a fuckup, I'm thinking that this winter I will hibernate. I AM going to quit smoking, and I may even just have to quit my job as well to make that work. I don't know yet. Regardless of that, I forsee a period of time when it will probably be best for me to stay out of public scenarios. For the good of all of us. This beard thing has, in a weird way, become some kind of physical symbol of this coming hibernation. A good luck charm, maybe. A physical representation of psychic change. And perhaps in Spring -to mix metaphors- I will emerge from my beard-coccoon a beautiful new butterfly! Christ, I can't believe I just wrote that.
Anyway, I'm thinking this will be a pretty good opportunity for me to finally start watching movies again. I have a lot of catching up to do. I'm gonna need a movie buddy that's not gonna want to kill me for being the inevitable weirdo jerk that I'm bound to be at times, and Meghan, I'm looking straight at you. I might need a gym buddy too.
Oh, and:
I promise you that these shows are going to kick asses into outer space. I am absolutely serious.
Someday
I'll feel no pain
Someday
I won't have a brain
They'll take away the part that hurts
And let the rest remain
|
Fix my head
Fix me please I don't wanna be dead
Tonight will be the last ever "Black Wednesday with System Shit and friends." It was fun while it lasted, and I'm surprised that it lasted so long, and with such relative success. I guess the novelty of a drunken crustpunk band hosting an open mic never quite wore off. There is a fixed lineup for tonight, so don't bother showing up with guitars or drumsticks, but I urge all of you in Hali to come out nonetheless. It should be a pretty wild time.
Now that I will no longer be performing a weekly service for which I am paid in beer, I have faced myself with the prospect of walking the walk and not just talking the talk when it comes to changing my goddamned life for the better. I don't know exactly where along the line I became this ridiculous bitter, troubled cliche, but it's gotta go. I turned 30 in July, and all I can picture is what a pathetic parody of a person I'll be at 40 if I keep living like some misguided teenage outcast. It's gotta go. I need to get back to the drawing board. It's scary, because I've never really been a person with "goals" or "initiative." I've always just pretty much gone where life has taken me -and in many ways I have been incredibly fortunate in doing so- but now it's time for me to start taking the lead, I think. I know there is more to life than this, and I want some before I wake up one day and I'm old and fat and wrinkly and emphysemic and still going out every Saturday to flog away on a guitar for a group of people whose median age is less than half my own. I refuse to ever become a caricature of myself, and it feels as if now is a pivotal time in my life if I ever want to make avoiding this a reality.
I began growing a beard last week. I look like a total uggo with a beard, but my face has always really hated me shaving it, and with winter coming it seems like a sensible thing to do. In anticipation of taking the necessary steps to stop being such a fuckup, I'm thinking that this winter I will hibernate. I AM going to quit smoking, and I may even just have to quit my job as well to make that work. I don't know yet. Regardless of that, I forsee a period of time when it will probably be best for me to stay out of public scenarios. For the good of all of us. This beard thing has, in a weird way, become some kind of physical symbol of this coming hibernation. A good luck charm, maybe. A physical representation of psychic change. And perhaps in Spring -to mix metaphors- I will emerge from my beard-coccoon a beautiful new butterfly! Christ, I can't believe I just wrote that.
Anyway, I'm thinking this will be a pretty good opportunity for me to finally start watching movies again. I have a lot of catching up to do. I'm gonna need a movie buddy that's not gonna want to kill me for being the inevitable weirdo jerk that I'm bound to be at times, and Meghan, I'm looking straight at you. I might need a gym buddy too.
Oh, and:
I promise you that these shows are going to kick asses into outer space. I am absolutely serious.
Someday
I'll feel no pain
Someday
I won't have a brain
They'll take away the part that hurts
And let the rest remain
|
14/11/05
My Fear was once a hollow, senseless fear. It lived intangibly without reason or meaning in parts of my being that I could never quite isolate. I was not continuously aware of its presence, but I struggled to pin it down at those times when it made itself known. It often proved elusive.
What I did not know was that, in trying to corner my Fear, I was unwittingly giving it direction. I pushed it deep down into the pit of my gut, and there it festered and sat and grew. I don't know how long I was pregnant with my Fear because I was unaware of its gestation. But I do now know that one day my Fear, with its newfound corporeality, sprouted forth what I can only imagine to be thousands of tiny malignant tendrils throughout my nervous system, exerting its first, final, true justification as arbiter of my soul. Now I am nothing more than an avatar for my Fear. I can feel it down there at all times now, diamond-hard, pushing up on my lungs and distending my belly until I look like some poor short-of-breath starving Ethiopian child. I've taken lately to trying to shit my Fear out -it's definitely somewhere in my upper colon- but I think it senses this and is releasing chemicals in my stool to make my ass burn in reprimand. My only hope at this point is that someday there will be surgery for this. The title of this journal has never seemed more apt.
Immaculate conception is rape.
|
What I did not know was that, in trying to corner my Fear, I was unwittingly giving it direction. I pushed it deep down into the pit of my gut, and there it festered and sat and grew. I don't know how long I was pregnant with my Fear because I was unaware of its gestation. But I do now know that one day my Fear, with its newfound corporeality, sprouted forth what I can only imagine to be thousands of tiny malignant tendrils throughout my nervous system, exerting its first, final, true justification as arbiter of my soul. Now I am nothing more than an avatar for my Fear. I can feel it down there at all times now, diamond-hard, pushing up on my lungs and distending my belly until I look like some poor short-of-breath starving Ethiopian child. I've taken lately to trying to shit my Fear out -it's definitely somewhere in my upper colon- but I think it senses this and is releasing chemicals in my stool to make my ass burn in reprimand. My only hope at this point is that someday there will be surgery for this. The title of this journal has never seemed more apt.
Immaculate conception is rape.
|
06/11/05
Y'know how people always talk about things being a "can of worms"?
Fuck cans. Picture an industrial-size garbage bag with a little slit in its side. How do I take that shit out to the curb without getting these fucking stupid worms everywhere?
|
Fuck cans. Picture an industrial-size garbage bag with a little slit in its side. How do I take that shit out to the curb without getting these fucking stupid worms everywhere?
|
