Blog For Free!
Archives
Home
2005 February
2005 January
2004 December
2004 November
2004 October
2004 September
2004 August
2004 July
2004 June
2004 May
2004 April
My Links
Kendy's Grey happiness
Mad Process's Love Shack
Ana's Little Spot
tBlog
My Profile
Send tMail
My tFriends
My Images
Sponsored
Blog
|
| Kareoke |
| 10.31.04 (12:53 am) [edit] |
So...
It's been kind of a long week. I haven't written much since we last... you know... yeah.
According to the plan, I wasn't supposed to break down for another month or so. Shows what I know. In order to counteract the obvious depressions that I've been witnessing, I had settled on Kareoke. Everynight. In a bar.
Woohoo. Man, I still hate country.
Just an update. I'm sleepy.
--Avarice
[i]No, I didn't call you a freak. No, I didn't. I didn't! Wait... what do you mean 'freak'?[/i]
|
|
|
| |
| Follow Up |
| 10.26.04 (12:56 pm) [edit] |
You wake up at 11. You could still put in four solid hours at work. God knows you need this money. Do it, you think.
You wake up at 12. You wake up at three. You wake up at six. You wake up at 11. Something here is familiar. You wake up at one, and decide to get up.
The morning after is a lot like watching an old movie. You already know what's going to happen, so you look for the little things. The things you didn't quite catch the first time. Easter eggs in your own life, if you will.
You wake up at 4:15. Work ended fourty-five minutes ago. You decide to go back to sleep.
Your memories when you drink are chaotic and untimed, so you end up recalling them by drink. Drink 1 was whiskey and coke. Beatboxing out by the car, under the carport. Drink 2 was a cheep southern comfort 100 proof rip off, diluted with coke. She came home. We gave us beer.
You wake up at 1:33. Work hasn't ended. You pull yourself up and drag yourself to the shower. Hot water and soap can't wash away this kind of dirt. Even the unforgiving bristles of the fingernail brush only feel like bite marks.
Drink 3 was a cheep beer. Coors light, for anyone keeping up. Same scene, different drink. Drink 4 was wiskey, soho and coke. Drink 5 was another Coors. I fell. I was dragged to my room.
Self inspection is a bitch. Nothing feels right, the morning after, and the only thing you can think of is how wrong that looks, or how crooked that is. A bite mark here, a bruise there. You're too white, or shorter than the day before. It sounds crazy, but everything's wrong.
On the way up to my room, gravity shifted. I fell, hard. I hit the banister with the force of a small explosion. That's going to leave bruise.
You wake up. It's 3:03. And all you can think is "When am I going to wake up for real?"
--Avarice
|
|
|
| |
| A sign |
| 10.26.04 (2:05 am) [edit] |
Let me explain myself before I explain the situation.
I am alone. I am sad. I am lost. My love is gone in a state where she awaits her soon to be husband to raise her soon to be child. Everything is going her way. This is how it should have been for her. In this respect, I am happy for her.
It is nearly four. In two hours, I need to get up and go to work.
I am wearing a jacket. A gift from my assailant. This is my life. She's in love with me. I couldn't have a worse taste for her than anyone else in the world.
There's vomit in the bathroom and on the porch. This is what my poison does to my friends.
My cheek still tingles where she bit it. I clenched in pain. She thought I was playing when I told her to get of me and bit her. She bit me. I feel like some sort of sick rape victim.
I was taken advantage of in a situation I put myself into. Am I to blame or her? I was too far drunk to hold myself accountable. Even now, the memories of the night are only highlighted by the bite on my cheek. I pray it leaves a mark. I hope I have to face it for the rest of my life.
My roomate decided that he was going to jack off in front of our neighbor as she tried to nurse me back to conciousness. These are the things you always hear about and never see. I'm sorry you had to even hear about them.
She listened to me. She leaned in. I was hers for the kill.
Let it be known that you can't kill what's dead.
I'll write more after I've slept and I'm not so drunk.
--Avarice
[i]Anyone can say they're above this all, but it takes my pain away.
-- The Drugs and Me --
Stay with me
You're the one I need
You make the hardest things
Seem easy
Keep my heart
Somewhere drugs don't go
Where sunshine slows
Always keep me close
If only you could see
The stranger next to me
You promise you promise that you're done
But I can't tell you from the drugs
Don't let go
We'll dig great big hole
Down an endless hole
We'll both go
You're so blind
You can't save me this time
Hope comes from inside
And I feel so low tonight
If only you could see
The stranger next to me
You promise you promise that you're done
But I can't tell you from the drugs
I wish that you could see
The face in front of me
You're sorry, you swear it, you're done
But I can't tell you from the drugs
I need your hands to pull me up
Take the wheep out from me
take me so far
Keep my heart
Somewhere drugs don't go
Where the sunshine slows
Always keep me close
If only you could see
The stranger next to me
You promise you promise that you're done
But I can't tell you from the drugs
I wish that you could see
The face in front of me
You're sorry, you swear it, you're done
But I can't tell you from the drugs
--[/i]
[/i]
|
|
|
| |
| Thinking that I deserve this. |
| 10.24.04 (6:30 am) [edit] |
It's amazing how much a couple of drinks can put things in to perspective. I don't like to think ill of anyone or anything.
I'm becoming a drunk.
If this isn't where you wanted your life to go, have a drink.
It wasn't hard to get back here. I really wanted to leave this behind and lock the door and never look back, and at the time, it was easy. I had the perfect reason.
But, long story short, here I am. Pygmailion of sorts. I am neither here nor there, neither Hawaiian nor Oregonian (nor Virginian), young nor old, ready to settle nor ready to conquer. Having a place to belong is a comforting position to be in. I wish you were here.
I thought I'd do a lot of things, when all of this unraveled, and I never thought that I'd turn back to the drink. But dammit, here I am. Blame it on the kareoke. Blame it on the girl. Fuck, blame it on the awkwardness of the modern job system. Whatever. Just don't blame me.
The taste of pennies fill my mouth. I am getting used to it, I say. Yeah, right. That is so close to sounding convincing. I might have fooled an old woman. Surely, I should not be forced to deal with it.
I learned to deal with gravity, I say. I'll learn to live alone.
Someone once said that these are the trials that God puts before us. That the reward will be that much sweeter. It's almost like the "seeing the whole spectrum before falling in love with the color green" thing.
Fuck green. It's an awful color anyways. It's times like this, that I really hate Him. As I type this, I feel as if God Himself is stabbing my chest. But I do, Lord. Right now, I really fucking hate you.
Rain beats upon my roof, as would mad hounds, ready to enter and kill me. I lie awake and listen to the random pitterpatter until it makes sense. It is in these moments that I believe that maybe God is listening to the rain too.
It sounds like crowds of people asking, "Are you happy what you're doing?"
--Avarice
[i]I was off to drink you away[/i]
|
|
|
| |
| Blog |
| 10.22.04 (5:09 am) [edit] |
The smell of alcohol and cigarettes lingers on my coat as I wait here for a hope of some way to explain the night's events. My hands feel cold, as if the blood stopped pumping some time ago, and I'm just moving due to some confused form of rigor mortus.
"What, exactly, did you do?" my mind thinks. It's clearly been out since I left, and now it thinks that it can come back and start asking questions and making demands, as if I've done something wrong. I can't recall doing anything illegal in any sense.
But clearly, my mind has been out since I left.
The begining starts a few days ago, though the time passed as seconds, as it does. When I met her, I was hoping she could help me forget things. Forget people. You see, women have the uncanny ability to make me forget my regrets. They make me feel clean.
I was using her. To make me clean.
This isn't my "type of girl", by any means. White blonde, cute, but married, soon to be divorced and remarried, leaving. Of all the latter is the worst, but I was using her. To make me clean. Her cousin says that I should try and make things work. No, I don't want love.
Love is stained glass. Beautiful to look at, but too brittle to truely enjoy. Unless enjoyment to you is setting it on the counter for everyone to see. I couldn't do that. It's too inefficent. But you, oh, you. I could see you doing it. I can't. Love is for the careful and spotless. I bleed too much to do anything useful with it.
It's nights like this that I wish we never met.
I had her. God, you should have seen me. She asked if there was some place we could go, and I immediately considered a thousand possibilities. I said no. I walked away.
If sometimes you wish you could turn back the fucking clock just, say, nine months, more than anything else in your whole fucked up, drama filled life, then this toast is to you. Have a drink.
God knows I need one.
--Avarice
|
|
|
| |
| Damn you Ticketmaster |
| 10.21.04 (1:41 am) [edit] |
Okay, I'm only giving myself 20 minutes. Then shower, sleep, work, repeat. Yes, I know that rhymed. That's why I'm in the music business.
Don't worry, kiddies, I've got a couple of good topics tonight. I'm sure I'll run over the allotted time, and then I will be doomed to sleepiness. But I degress.
Quite possibly the biggest impact that any one thing has done in my recent life would have to be the pregnancy of Night. Like I normally do, I'm going to stay away from this one, but the SECOND biggest thing would have to be Leezard's recent exile from his home.
Being the friend that I am, I will not disclose the reasons to his moving, but none the less, I am worried about the guy. I keep thinking Lunchbox is gonna end up sleeping in his car. Being a homo or hobo or whatever it is when you don't have a place to live. Or is it wino? :P
If your best friend is going through hard times, have a drink for them, and then take your mandatory shot.
This may be a really good thing for him, though. I've been doing a lot of thought on the parallel between suffering and creative genious.
Oh God, I'm going to get really dorky about this, so you might as well get another drink. I know I am.
It's known that most creative and brilliant artists/writers/composers of history were all sorts of messed up. For instance, Motzart was autistic. Think about that. Chances are, you know one or two autistic people. Like my brother, for instance. If you don't know what autism is, it's the nice, PC way of saying retarded. Now think of the one person you have in your mind right now writing anything amazingly beautiful. It's hard to do.
It's hard to think that my brother has an art gallery and that people are buying his work. It's insane to see suck creativity stem from what seemed like a tragically lost cause.
It happens a lot. Van Gogh was insane. A crazy loon. The man cut off his own ear. His paintings go for hundreds of thousands.
Even in contemporary art, the best of the best are those who come from wrecked homes, poverty or worse. And I don't mean this stupid "Art's only art if it's ironic and witty." Taking pictures of roadkill in 50 states isn't art. It's an asshole with too much money. A wise man once said that in order to know how to feel, you must feel all things. "You can't possibly know what is green if all you've seen is green," he'd say. "You must know the whole spectrum before you can realize how beautiful the color green really is."
Food for thought, I suppose. I need to stay away from political discussions. It's already 10:45.
Rar.
--Avarice
[i]No, God is spelled WAAAAY differently than Avarice. I'd like to point out the absence of the letters G, O, and D from the word.[/i]
|
|
|
| |
| Breathing |
| 10.13.04 (7:16 pm) [edit] |
Quiet contemplation gets you nowhere. Keep that in mind.
Actually, no form of thinking gets you anywhere. Thinking is the father of hindsight. If you think about it, you're likely to miss it. So what's the point of thinking anymore? Do this, do that. Afraid of consequences? Don't think about them. Surely, this mindstate would have changed my life dramatically.
Of course, I'd probably be in jail, too.
There are the most hilarious children behind me talking about pig heads and magical appearing sticks. I have no idea if they're talking about a dream or a game. It's a safe bet to assume that they're talking about a game. Kids don't have the same imagination anymore. Or maybe they never did. Perhaps I was one of the lucky ones.
Everyone should be born poor. At least then they'd have a reason to attempt success.
Great things are born of suffering.
Keep that in mind, too.
--Avarice
[i]Life is like playing the violin in public and learning the instrument as one goes on.
-- Weathered --
I am weathered.
I am torn.
My face is leathered.
My hands are worn.
My eyes are heavy.
My feet but lead.
I ought not be standing
I ought be dead
Ought I be something?
Ought I be more?
Lest I am mistaken
I've danced this one before
Forever dancing
Forever spinning
Forever falling
Like begining
Forever triping
Forever draining
Forever hoping
Never gaining
Forever spun
Into one day
Weathering, wearing
Until I lay
Action! I call
As a director might
Silently hoping
That I'll get it right
That before I am through
And finish this run
I can look back
Smile
And feel like I've won
--[/i]
|
|
|
| |
| 3000 |
| 10.12.04 (7:48 pm) [edit] |
I just passed 3000 views. I'm not sure how to feel about this.
I have no real bad news today. I'm just chillin. I spent five hours cleaning yesterday. My living room and kitchen were clean. The drinker roommate and his drinker friend came home, made some comment about how all I do is play video games, and then proceeded to make my kitchen and living rooms a mess. Needless to say, bottles flew out the door when I came home today.
I got off work early and went for a drive. Met with a nice lady and called an old friend. Worked to resolve a matter.
If it seems like I'm uninterested, have a drink.
For some reason, I am completely bored with today, but not in the six year old whiny voice bored. Just quiet contemplation. Like, "Yeah, I did that. What's next?" I don't feel anything that I need to get off my chest. At least not on public domain. I have one matter that really doesn't call for closure, but I would like to have settled. One of these days, she and I will talk about it and that will be the end of it. I think.
So, yeah. That's it. I feel a little wonderstruck and the lights in the library are a little beautiful right now.
Today's forcast is slight dillusion with chances of obsessive rage. I really wish he wouldn't have said that shit about how I only play video games after I spent five hours cleaning. That was uncalled for.
Still, I'm not angry or anything. Just quiet contemplation. No, I am not on drugs. No, I did not have sex. Maybe I've reached some strange middle-ground nirvana. I feel like perhaps I'm a tad shy towards myself. Maybe that's it.
I'm dressed all nice. Night would approve.
Sorry, I'm completely out of thought. Or rather, I can't keep on one topic. I keep thinking that if I just type some random thoughts, something will form, but no. I'm in my own personal nirvana.
I think I should milk this for what it's worth.
--Avarice
[i]If they're against us, we call them terrorists. If we're neutral towards them, we call then guerillas. If they're with us, we call them Freedom Fighters. Still, they are one and the same.
-- Pain --
I don't feel the way I've ever felt
I know
I'm gonna smile and not get worried
I try but it shows
Anyone can make what I have built
And better now
Anyone can find the same white pills
That takes my pain away
It's a lie
A kiss with open eyes
And she's not beathing back
Anything but bother me
(It takes my pain away)
Nevermind
These are horrid times
And oh, oh, oh
I can't let it bother me
I never thought I'd walk away from you
But I did
But it's a false sense of accomplishment
Everytime I quit
Anyone can see my every flaw
It isn't hard
Anyone can say they're above this all
But it takes my pain away
It's a lie
A kiss with open eyes
And she's not beathing back
Anything but bother me
(It takes my pain away)
Nevermind
These are horrid times
And oh, oh, oh
I can't let it bother me
I can't let it bother me
It takes my pain away
--[/i]
|
|
|
| |
| Spit |
| 10.05.04 (7:37 pm) [edit] |
...
...
...
That has been the extent of my glorious week. It's amazing... my demeanor has completely spun and did a 360. The ever chatty, loud and obnoxious has become quiet and calm.
The forcast for today is solumn sobriety with patches of increased frustration.
So, here I am at point zero again, looking for someway to jump-start myself, because though I've played the "silent and strong" card before, it really doesn't suit me.
I started writing again. I've gained additions in my books and in my songbook. For those of you who didn't know, I stopped writing entirely for a couple of weeks. About the time my interweb was abolished, actually. I was so tired of writing the same bullshit over and over again, the "I Miss You"'s and the "I Need Yous"'s and that stupid bs that probably gotten me sick in the first place.
I had planned on my literature drought to continue for another few months, but, as luck would have it, i was called and asked to go down to southern Oregon this weekend. Which means that they're going to want to hear a song. Which is not good, because I was happy with my drought.
None the less, I have a new song and two new chapters in one of my books and one in the other.
If you really didn't want to go home, have a drink.
If you're going to anyway, have another.
Everytime you get told that you have such talent and you could make it if you'd just "get out there and do it", drink two.
Looks like I need to stock up.
-- Avarice
[i]Lost inspiration. Panic on the rise.
-- As of Yet --
Repraise
Replay
All the things
That make you gold
Remake
Refrain
Anything
To make you gold
Come now, I don't need to lie
I was not
On your side
But it's your right, look away
Instead of change
You propagate
No thanks,
I have a voice
It's your concern
Not my concern
Repay
Anything
You can use
To make you whole
Repraise
Replay
Anything
To make you gold
Come now, I've no need to lie
I was not
the one who ran
When everyone could see your face
Instead of change
Propagate
If you were me I would think
That I was far past my prime
If you've not made it by now
Maybe you were never meant to..
This will end, he says
No thanks,
I have a voice
It's your concern
Not my concern
--
|
|
|
| |
|
|
