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| It could be worse |
| 11.30.04 (5:23 pm) [edit] |
Well, Thxgvng came and went. I'd be lying if I said that I wasn't sad on the day, and that would just be pointless as I did commendeer my cousin's computer to write my heart. Besides, I've gotten to the point that I have almost no secrets anyway. Between my audience here and the lovable Lunchbox, there is nothing inside me that is 100% hidden from the world.
Besides, there's my music, isn't there?
I finally plugged in my guitar and played. The first in about three days. It was hard. Don't believe me? Hide a smoker's cigs for a couple of days. I was on par with that. I'm sleep deprived and hungry, but these things come second to my jade master. My uncle scoffed when he learned that my emerald goddess is worth (monitarily) three times as much as my car is. He just doesn't understand.
Life is a game of priorities.
I tried to explain this to a fellow named Travis once. It was insanely difficult, as (towards the end of our friendship) I never spoke with him when he wasn't drunk. It's hard to explain reason to people when they are under the influence of something that makes them believe that every song relates to their current situation [i]exactly[/i]. But none the less, I tried.
He had said that he wanted to be a rockstar with me one day. I said that he'd have to learn to play guitar over a twelve year old level (not in those words, but in the nice, reserved words you use when talking to drunks and small children). He said that it just wouldn't come to him like it did me. This didn't bother me, I've heard it many a' time. What angered me is what he said next: [i]"It doesn't come [/i]naturally[i] to me like it does you."[/i]
Naturally? There is nothing natural about moving digits on strings until the soft pink flesh gives way and your blood flows down your arm in a steady stream. There's nothing natual about continuing as if nothing had happened.
Now, when I said that he was drunk everytime I talked to him, you must note that we spoke at least once a day. He was drunk everyday.
No, I explained. This "gift" never came "naturally". There was nothing natural about the process that led me to writing songs that can even get the ever-doubtful Lunchbox to say "Wow. That was amazing." It wasn't a gift. It wasn't handed down. I spent most of my late teens in my room for hours after school, not talking to girls on the phone, not playing video games (though I do enjoy an unhealthy amount currently, more on that later), not planning on slashing my wrists, not climbing out the window to go to a party... in fact, I didn't go to a party my whole time in high school. That's not to say I was unpopular. Everyone knew me, and I had the occasional rival, but for the most part people in school weren't bad to me. Some were, but so what? It's life.
I didn't spend the time in my room setting up games of D&D, playing with toy cars, or carving my name in the walls. Hell I wasn't even in there doing my homework. For four years straight, I was playing an old acoustic of my dad's. Or a shitty, low model electric that had to be repaired every other day. And an amp that sounded like it was blown even though it was brand new.
My extra money never went towards things I could have used. I had a job at Dairy Queen once. I walked two miles to get to work. Everyday. Rain, hale, sun, didn't matter. I took that money and bought a bass guitar that stares at me lovingly even as I write this.
Once I worked 17 hour days as Emergency Responce Aid, serving food to firefighters and paramedics when they were way out in the wilderness. I did that for two weeks, turned around and used that money to buy a guitar amp that wouldn't sound like shit when I struck a chord.
There was this one time I sold my body to the government leaving me with a permanent disability. As a bonus to the enlistment, I got $3,350. I took that money and bought my green queen (she was actually $3000).
I sacrificed a lot to be where I am. I became introverted, and socially awkward from not spending more than my seven hour required public school with people other than my brother. My first running car was bought earlier this year, at the age of 21. I didn't drink because I couldn't afford it. That's not to say this isn't without reason.
Life is a game of priorities. Look at Bill Gates. The man who changed how the world operated. Probably the most indirectly influentual man of the modern world, possibly the richest man in history. This man at one time spent [i]every waking moment working on computers[/i]. Look at him now, though. The man can do anything he wants. Anything. God Bless America, for this reason if none other.
In time, I'll gain more and more of my freedom as time passes. As the music I bled to write and gave up months off my life spreads like a disease to the ears of the world, infecting soul after soul. Do I mind what I've given up? Hell no. When the rewards come, they will be more beautiful than anything I could have taken prematurely.
It just didn't come natually, that's all.
--Avarice
[i]On the outside he looks calm and ready.[/i]
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| As all things do |
| 11.27.04 (5:27 pm) [edit] |
The end of a vacation is a sad thing. Not because you have to end your fun, because, let's face it, if you want to have fun you can pretty much find it anywhere. It's because you once again return to the encombering chains of responsibility. It's a little too much, I might say, being shoved directly back into the "real world" after even a short week of being care free and joyous.
I think the severity of what it was could be summed up by the status of my apartment when I came home. Realize this is both descriptive non-fiction as well as a metaphore of the transition.
When you walk into the house, the very first thing you notice is the smell. It's you. Of course it's you. But it's also something else, which is slightly more dominant. Something foreign. Your fingers fell along the bumpy plaster of the drywall as you remind yourself where the lightswitch was. This is the part where you hold your breath for a half second and hope that everything was how you remembered it. The "it" you want to come back to. Your anchor, hopefully sitting there, all polished and chrome.
The anchor is never how you remember it. Remember that.
Memory is easily jogged in deglamored, especially when light is dawned. In that moment you hold your breath, you can almost see the light from the 80 watt bulb roll across the room, illuminating chores, both old and new. The living room is a mess, which isn't quite how you remember it, but as you stand in the middle of the room, the reflecting light mocks you, it's very existance proof enough.
Dishes. Why do we never remember dishes?
So, instead of taking a nap, like you planned, like you would have done a short twenty-four ago, you instead bend at the knees into a crouch, extend a hand and grab the first of many pieces of paper or random rubbish that is on the carpet. Instead of having a drink and a piece of fudge, you immerse your arms elbow-deep into greasy water and grasp the first dish of the evening.
And all the while you feel disillusioned. You feel worn. And above all, you feel silly for thinking that there wasn't something waiting for you in the dark.
Ah well. I've got some chores to do, some food to eat, some kararoking to sing and some sleeping to sleep.
--Avarice
[i]We all fall down like toy soldiers[/i]
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| Tonight |
| 11.25.04 (6:43 pm) [edit] |
God dammit, I miss you tonight.
I surely hope that this won't be an ongoing problem with holidays. I can understand, really I can. Holidays are days that we wish to spend with those we love. I think we can see the problem with our... situation? Is situation the right word? Probably not. Fading dream is probably a better descriptor.
Thanksgiving was a good, maybe even great day here with the extended family. Long gone are the dramas of the Thanksgivings past where my mother-figure would scream at my dad and storm out of the house. Thanksgivings past where we'd have a six-pound turkey on the table, accompanied by only instant mashed potatos and canned green beans.
Yes, today was a huge improvement from those past, but I am still lonely. I still miss you.
I wish you could hear my music. The newer songs shine a spotlight in the dark that was my (or anyone else's) doubts. Even Lunchbox couldn't help but say "Wow."
The world may be mine, but I am still yours.
--Avarice
[i]I won't always love what I'll never have.[/i]
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| Road worn. |
| 11.23.04 (9:41 pm) [edit] |
The trip here wasn't exactly a fun one. Actually, I feel kinda like I've decieved you in some way. It was not fun at all. It was horrible.
My dad has worked on Camaros his entire life, so when the Outlett Mobile was being a pain in the ass last week, I took a small bit of comfort knowing that if I could get down to his place (roughly 270 miles, maybe more), he would look at it and fix it in a matter of moments, probably mumbling the whole time about how he couldn't believe that he of all people could raise a child so mechanically declined. Of course, he wouldn't know the half of it.
Knowing that my front tires were much more worn than my back tires (Lunchbox had a problem driving in the fog before I aquired my favorite pain-in-the-ass), I went ahead rotating the tires and messing with my starter. As an electronics tech, I feel kind of lame for not realizing what the problem with the starter was, and without getting all technical, I'll mention why in a bit, but I felt even more lame the morning after I'd posted the "Starter Post" and rotated the tires, and jingled the starter a little. Everything felt in good condition. I should have driven it a bit.
The following morning (the day I was heading to my dad's), I started the engine, and it sounded [i]nice[/i]. I was so proud. Unfortunatly, when I put the lovable car in reverse, the car wouldn't move. It felt like the tires were rubbing against the wheelwells, and that would not do. I hopped out and did a physical inspection (it was far too early in the morning to actually see), and finding nothing, I walked to work.
Work happened.
I got off work early, intent on figuring out what exactly I had done. It wasn't until I was consulting my long time friend and part time avatar, Brentasaurus, that I realized what was wrong.
"Are the tires wider in the back," he asked.
"Oh." I replied. Long pause. "Duh. Gotta go, later."
Yes. I put the wrong tires on the front. In my defense, most modern cars have one tire size for the whole car, allowing the superior rotation methods of diagonally changing the tires, but in the late '70's and most of the '80's, most American cars (especially sports cars) were fitted with different sized tires (in both diameter and width) to emulate the feel of a muscle car. Amazing what a little history can teach us.
As I was fixing my tire situation though, an act of God happened. I cut my hand on one of the front tires. I thank the Lord nightly for that cut, which most likely saved my life and at the least saved me a rediculous amount of money. The front driver side tire had worn so much that the steel belt was coming through. I would not have made it to Medford. That tire was going to blow.
$25 later, disaster adverted.
Anyway, I headed south, stopping at a friends once, and getting gas in another town. The car completely died at the gas station (still a safe 150 miles from my dad's place), but luckily I got underneath the car and jumbled the wiring until the car started.
I looked down at my pants with distain. There, due to the thick coating of grease on my fingers, were oily smudge marks. Dammit. There goes a great pair of pants. I drove for some time, touching nothing with my fingers, assured that whatever I did would turn to dark goo, like some twisted revision of the tale of King Midas. Seriously. My nose itched for some 80 miles before it would be scratched, after I made it to a truck stop and had scrubbed the hell out of my hands. Welcome to the life of the compusively obsessed.
About ten miles from the truck stop (and 63 miles from my greying mechanic), my car began to act funny. Well, not funny. At least, not ha ha funny. The power began to cut out. On the road. Going 70mph. Frightening, to say the least. I stopped at the truck stop and called my brother (after washing my hands and scratching my nose). His best advice: Make it to the next town, and I'll come get you, we'll work on it the next morning. Fair enough. With little faith in the car, I headed towards the next town. I didn't make it far. Two miles from the truck stop, the lights cut out. It's amazing I didn't wreck. I stopped and walked back to call my brother.
Now, I don't blame my brother. At all. He works horrible hours, and when I called, he had fallen asleep. It happens. That did nothing to sweeten my mood though as I trodded back to my seemingly useless metal box to attempt a night's sleep and hope that the family had sent out a search unit to get me.
After a good twenty minutes trying to sleep, I realized that it's really difficult to sleep next to a highway where cars are going by you so fast that you can feel their inertia shake your car. All you can do is pray that no one is drunk and/or stupid and/or hits you.
So, I got out and did the only thing my sleepless body could do. I jacked up my car and tried to figure out the problem. Long story shorter, the thing, the one thing that made my stupid car die, was a loose nut. That's it. Thanks to my adrenaline filled body, I tightened it the tightest fingertight humanly possible, and scurried out of there before the next semi could come and rock my car off it's jack and kill me.
The damned beast started and drove all the way to Medford as if it was just off the dealer's showroom floor.
Later, my father would confirm that a loose nut on the solenoid is a horrible thing for a Camaro, but I wouldn't hear this for another half hour, noting the grease stains on a good pair of jeans and my favorite shirt, plotting the minute when I'd burn both of them in the name of cleanliness (which is close to Godliness, I hear), and nevously hoping that I'd make it long enough to do so.
Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go burn some grease.
--Avarice
[i]On sleepless roads the sleepless go.[/i]
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| Rusted memories |
| 11.22.04 (2:15 pm) [edit] |
Brookings, Oregon is a coastal town whose population consists of either athletes or drug addicts is also the home of my grandmother and grandfather. It's also the home of a little piece of contentment.
Grandmother had known that I was going to be here Sunday, although I'm sure she forgot, because as I came up to the refurnished door to the house my grandfather built, I realized that it had a new lock on it. I knew it was locked before I touched it.
The problem with memories is that you can never tell which ones are real, and which ones your mind made up to cover some horrible ones. Sort of an artist repainting sections to cover mistakes. The mistakes are still there, only they are much harder to see.
Having not been here in three years, I traced the perimeter of the house. The wood was worn, as the wood on oceanside houses get. The lawn was overgrown. Some windows had been replaced. A tool shed, once a very distinct memory, now only a patch of long crabgrass. The painting repainted.
The "front" door, which should definately be reassessed and renamed, as it's the one that no one uses unless someone is bar-b-queing or putting the dogs in the kennel, was also locked. The once brass lock was chipped from years of keys inserted, and rusted where the brass coating had fallen away.
Locked out of my happiest memories, I becamed determined to become a criminal. I stalked the walls, shoving my fingers into the cracks of every window, which, to be honest, didn't take long at all. Most of the windows are tall picture windows, mostly facing the ocean, the others were mostly newer, self locking portholes, but a few were the kind that required either conscious intent or an act of God to lock them. God appearentally wasn't busy that day: all the windows stood locked.
Then, finally, hope.
I stood staring down into an old crate that is commonly used to store soon-to-be returned soda cans. There, near the bottom, rested a worn keychain with rusted keys.
Here I am. At the coast. I'll be writing of the turkey day and the Outlett Mobile, and the crazy adventure that it was for me to get down to southern Oregon with that damned car (no offence, Leezard), and maybe about Lunchbox's unborn child. But right now, I have to go do something that I haven't been able to do since I left the islands some time ago. The most calming and renewing experience ever.
I'm going to go watch the ocean.
--Avarice
[i]The first star you see may not be a star at all.[/i]
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| Stupid Car |
| 11.17.04 (6:54 pm) [edit] |
Cars. Sheesh. Can't live with 'em, can't get to work without them.
I really wish you all could see me now. Two weeks ago, this would have been a serious problem. I would have bitched and moaned and so on and so forth, because trust me, this does suck. But still, I am wearing a Mona Lisa Smile (no, not the damned movie) and my eyes are playfully dancing around the room.
I haven't drank since Kareoke. No, I haven't drank since my fifth of Jack, but it's because of kareoke. Okay, let me rephrase that; I haven't drank [i]heavily[/i] since that night. I think I've had maybe a Flaming Dr. Pepper since then. Off-topic.
So, since the Leezard sold me what we lovingly refer to as "that stupid piece of shit"... just kidding, it's the "Outlett Mobile", long story, maybe I'll write about it later. Perhaps next week. Anyway, since then, and asuredly before that, the starter was going out, as starters on older cars do, and I had to replace it, as owners of older cars do. I'd been putting it off for some time, but the day after the Kareoke-ness, I went and bought one. The first time, I installed it wrong. Well, let me spoil the ending for you, both times I installed it wrong, but the first time was a physical problem; I hadn't bolted the starter propperly, causing the bolt to fall after starting (at least it started!) and causing the teeth on the solenoid to grind against the flywheel.
Auto class! Okay, so the starter spins the flywheel that is in your engine that gets the damned thing going. Along with the spark from the spark plug, the gas ignites, causing the cylinders to pump in your engine, which lets in more gas and can then repeat without the use of the starter, at least that's how I understand it. Then again, it's easier for me, a radio technician to think that antennas work by way of invisible aliens.
So, thinking that I maybe messed up my new starter, I got back underneath and reinstalled the bolt and everything seemed good. Alas, I was wrong. By some silly twist of fate, in bolting that bolt, I have somehow grounded my battery. Explaination: the electrical power that starts my starter, which starts my car, is taking a different route to the core of the earth than to my starter.
This poses a great problem, as I was going to drive south on Friday. Oh, Lunchbox, if you read this, call my house. It's kinda important. Remember I work.
So, yes, this is dampening news. Oh well. Cars can be fixed. I just need to figure out how. SO, ENTER THE BLOG COMMUNITY: If you know what exactly is going on here, please let me know. It's driving me insane.
K. Thx. Bai.
--Avarice
[i]It's all in the hips.
-- Nightsongs --
It's times like these I learn
To appreciate
All in all
There's something in the air
That reminds me of the city
In the fall
So shut the window tight
I don't want this to get out
Don't we all?
If I had to I'd admit
I'd say how I've been proud
All along
But not
Tonight
No not
Tonight
How'd it come to this?
You said you were a bore
Some time ago
It's times like this I learn
That I'm meant for so much more
Oh, I know
"He was all curled up,
He was tucked into a ball"
She said
So I guess I've lost the reasons
To go back there after all
Tell me
You know what I mean
Tell me
You understand something
And keep your eyes
Far away from me
I can't help it, I'll fall back into them
Have I told you how I
Am so damned sorry
I can't help it, I'll fall right back in them
So keep your eyes
Far away from me
I can't help it, I'll fall back into them
Have I told you yet that I
I am so damned sorry
I can't help it, I have a right to fall back
Can you tell me what I want to hear?
Please don't make it more than I can bare
Cause I am lying in my living room
And I am still right here
Can you tell me what I need to hear?
And please don't make it more than I can bare
Can you tell me that we're beautiful
She said... Oh God, she said so many things
(this is your song. yours. no one can take this from you. i'm going to be so much more than this, and when i do, i will play this and remember you. this is your song. this is your song. this is your song. my night song.)
--[/i]
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| Changing Pace |
| 11.12.04 (10:05 pm) [edit] |
I figured out what ails me.
Not that I want to delve in to it too deeply, as I'm currently on the most amazing natural high of my life (more on that later), I must note that social acceptance is what I crave. Even love, a concept that I've long since buried, feeling as though it were my constant antagonist, can't consistantly elevate me to the state of euphoria that I am in now. Anastacia has promised that her entry will sadden me, so I promise not to read it until I am done here.
I must say, when I started singing kareoke, I didn't expect it to turn like this. I had sung my first kareoke song when I still lived in the land of lais and sugar due to the poking and prodding of a friend. I had reluctantly agreed, knowing full well that I have a horrible case of stage fright. This fright caused me to muffle my singing a little, close my eyes and hardly move. Even when we won that and went to the finals (this was a contest, by the way), I had to hold my eyes open, and I barely moved a muscle.
Oddly enough (and surely thanks to that friend), we won the contest. That's where I got my DVD player, just so you know.
When I had come to Oregon, the rumblings of starting a musical group had become too loud to ignore. I got together with Fish and Leezard and we started to work on songs, but I still had stage fright. Enter Project Kareoke. It started simple enough: I picked up a copy of Kareoke Revolution, a game that judges how well you sing. After I felt confident in that, I moved to the local bars.
As you know, I won $100 on Halloween weekend.
Still, I was horribly awkward infront of people. Their eyes seemed to drill holes in my throat and the air gushed out before it could pass completely through my voice box.
Recently, I had a really bad night. I don't really want to get into what a fifth of Jack Daniel's can do to a man. Just know that I was still drunk when I went to work the next morning, and even more so hollowed out and bitter than I had been previously. I confided in an old friend that I was wearing thin, and that my faith was breaking. I confided that I felt I had nothing to offer.
He didn't try to encourage me. He just said "You are either down for the count, or making a comeback. Which one is it, because I don't know."
I left tonight at nine. Three songs, I swore to myself. Just three. I opted to do one I'd been eyeing for a long time, one that I'd always loved, and the first kareoke song I ever sang. It wasn't until the man before me sang that I started to get worried. I wanted a drink. Badly. This man was insane. I shouldn't have to follow him. No one should. Excuse me, miss? Can I get a double on the rocks, please? Wait, no. I need to know if I'm of any value.
If you're tense as fuck, don't have a drink. Not this time.
I went to the mic. They recently brought up a mic stand, which is nice. I hate singing without something to hold, guitar or stand. I clenched the metal stand, the air in my lungs heavy. [i]Please don't let them be too hard.[/i] The last guy, Tony, he was amazing. A-mazing. I'm a novice. "Do I really have to go after him?" I joked to the DJ. He and I are sorta passing friends, and he's heard me sing many times. He said, "Don't sweat it. You're good." Whatever, thanks. I leaned on the mic stand. I sang "The Red".
People cheered. I'm serious. I could have sworn that I did one of the most horrible renditions. Oh well, have a water. Round two. Tony was just as good, if not better this time. I took my mic back and informed him that he was doing "horrible things to my self-esteem." The music played. I sang Counting Crows' "Mr. Jones", quite possibly the first song I ever learned the lyrics too. The whole bar was applauding.
Someone even came up to me to shake my hand. He introduced himself. I traded glances with an attractive woman. Note that I'm a shy person. I don't like to make things happen directly. I'd rather let things go my way subtly. Off topic.
Round three. My final round. By this bout, I would have had at least six drinks. I was sober. This was very awkward. Tony was great. I took my mic. "This is my favorite, and last song for tonight. Would someone please come dance with me if I'm good?" It was a joke. I didn't expect anyone to come. Regardless, I sang with everything I am. I was spent after the three and a half minutes were up, but let me tell you, Jimmy Eat World would have been fucking impressed that someone could do their song that well. I don't mean to sound full of myself, but I was unrestrained, raw, perfect. There was no fear of making myself a fool.
Two thirds of the packed bar were crammed on the tiny dance floor when I was done. The whole damned place cheered when I was done. Talk about euphoric.
I walked up to that girl in my elevated state. "Hey," I said. "I've been wanting to come over here and talk to you since you got here, but by the time that I could get up enough gall to come over here, it's time for me to go. Can I call you sometime, maybe go get a cup of coffee?" She didn't really answer my question. She said she had a boyfriend or something. Either way, the answer was "I'm not giving you my digits." I smiled. I didn't even care. "That's cool. You're still hot. Later."
It's two hours after I walked out of there. I know that in four hours, I have to get up and go to work on a schedualled day off that I had reserved for recording some music. I am tired and beat, but I am still euphoric. I realized that this is what I want to do. For the rest of my life, so help me, I will do it.
Does it sound like my pep might be back? Fuck yeah, it is.
I can sing.
--Avarice
[i]That's cool, you're still hot. Later.
-- Still Standing --
Oh my God
Tell me what we've done
In our "harmless" fun
Tell me why you're standing still
Why's it always them or you?
Shove it down on the inside
No one can tell but you know
Tell me where we've gone
Tell me what you're looking for
Oh babe
What have you gotten into?
'Cause this is far too much for you
How is it you're standing still?
No one's left but you
Shove it down, pour and swallow, baby
No one's here to tell you "no"
Tell me where we've gone
Tell me what you're looking for
I may be on a limb
But I swear that it's not here
But go ahead, go ahead
Oh...
What matters is the maybes
What matters is the maybes
Tell me where we've gone
Tell me what you're looking for
I may be on a limb
But I swear that it's not here
But go ahead, go ahead
Go ahead
Go ahead
Go ahead
--
(written by meeeeeeeee)
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| A cold night for a long time |
| 11.08.04 (6:37 pm) [edit] |
Don't worry, dear. I didn't expect your call.
Not to say that I didn't wait for it. It was kinda like waiting for Santa on Christmas Eve. I sat with my milk and cookies, my best behavior planned, and when you didn't slide down my chimeny, I decided to play with the Santa orniments until I passed out, pretending you were really there.
Define sick.
Sick is wasted time. All those moments I wish I did something, instead of hoping that something better would come of waiting. Let it be known: good things do not come to those who wait. Good things do not come to the honest, dependable, or the loyal. Truth. You want something, you have to be ruthless. You have to cut the throat of every motherfucker you can to get what you want, before you find yourself hoping that the next time you shave, it's your throat that gets cut. You have to lie, cheat and steal. Do what you must. Cheating gets it faster than any other method out there. Do what you must, but lose your beliefs in right and wrong, purity and filth, strengths and weaknesses. Even your worst weakness can be expoited to get what you want (can anyone say "Scalding Coffee Lawsuit"?).
Sick is hope. A wise man once said "Hope will be your greatest enemy, Av. Everytime you fall, you will want to rise and fight again, despite the worst of odds, if only to hope to win." But ultimately, the battle is futile. I've fought all I can, Sweety, but my enemy is a brick wall, and I've nothing but my hands. My knuckles are bloody, bruised and broken, and for some fucking reason, I keep winding up, in hopes that this is the final straw. This time the wall will crumble, I say. But, in truth, my hand hits the masonry with a wet thump, the sound normally reserved for flesh on flesh, and the wall stands tall, as if mocking the concept of me bringing it down.
Sick is human. Edit: Sick is the modern human. Once it was admirable to be strong, right and just. Now, these ideals are antiques. We rape, steal, fuck, fight, kill, maim, swear, become adultures, prey on weaker men, isolate, destroy, burn and cheat all of this for personal gain and all under the rationalization that this is who we are. This is who I am. This is what I'm supposed to do. Then why the fuck does it feel so wrong? Why, oh why can I not be like you, dear? What did I miss? How did I turn out with a self-sacrificing attitude? Honor? Wisdom? Depth? Courage? Stamina?
Some say these are my strongest traits. I feel they are my greatest flaws. With these, I can't stand by and watch a friend cheat on his girlfriend. I can't move in for a round of rebound sex. I can't steal what is rightfully mine. These are my ethics. My values at stake.
I seriously hate it.
--Avarice
[i]
-- Polaris --
I'll say it straight and plain
I know I've made mistakes
I've always been afraid
A thousand nights or more
I travel east and north
Please answer the door
Can you tell me?
You say that love goes anywhere
In your darkest time
It's just enough to know it's there
When you go, I'll let you be
But you're killing everything in me
Get down on your knees
Tell me what I need:
Something pretty
I feel that when I'm old
I'll look to you and know
The world was beautiful
Then you tell me...
You say that love goes anywhere
In your darkest time
It's just enough to know it's there
When you go, I'll let you be
But you're killing everything in me
I'm done
There's nothing left to show
I try but can't let go
Are you happy where you're standing still?
Do you really want the sugar pill?
I'll wake up tomorrow and I'll start
But tonight feels so hard
As the train approaches gare du nord
As I know your kiss remains employed
Am I only dreaming?
You say that love goes anywhere
In your darkest time
It's just enough to know it's there
When you go, I'll let you be
But you're killing everything in me
When you go, I'll let you be
But you're killing everything in me
--
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| Awkward enough |
| 11.05.04 (8:50 pm) [edit] |
Well, my week was going well.
If a love has ever asked you if you are doing drugs because your depressed, have a drink.
If you think I'm on drugs, have some asprin too.
Let's see, let's see. Wednesday night I took some time off from my consistant mind quandry and went out to see Jimmy Eat World here in Portland. What a show, what a show. The opening band was decent, though they weren't anything special. A Thorn For Every Heart... how emo of a name is that? Anyway, they played some songs and reminded me of Taking Back Sunday. Seriously. If the singer of Thorn is on, dude, you need to be yourself. Everything this man did was straight from every live video I've seen of TBS. The music was decent enough poetry punk, but I wasn't really in the mood for an Indie TBS coverband. Don't get me wrong, my head was-a bobbin', but I wasn't saddened when they left the stage.
After Taking... er... Thorn... vacated the area, they were replaced with the 70's looking, although better sounding, Recover. I didn't really have much of a problem with these guys, except that their music bled together. I can't remember one song. Yeah, not too memorable. They DID come on with a bottle of wiskey and took swig shots during the set. And that every other song was ALSO named "Fuck Bush".
Oh, that reminds me. Congratulations, Mr. President. You weren't who I voted for, but I'm not a dick about it. May your next four years be more rewarding than the last.
Anyway, so yeah, Recover came and went. Fun. Finally, after way too late, Jimmy came on and rocked the house. I've always been a fan of the band, but wow. It was past my expectations. I ended up buying a vinal.
I seriously have no idea where I was going with this. I have some issues on my mind, and I don't really want to type them until they're fully matured. At least until I've figured out what I really want to say.
We'll see, I guess.
--Avarice
[i]I see no changes.[/i]
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| Jesus Christ, make it end |
| 11.02.04 (9:13 pm) [edit] |
Holy fuck, make it stop. My God-damned head is exploding.
Listen up, Rather. Listen up, Wolf. I am sick of this. I am a twenty-two year old, white man. I have a decent job building the navigational systems that go into your airplanes. I don't make an insane amount of money, so I am in debt. I don't get to fly often. I am physically wounded, emotionally damaged, spiritually nervous, and probably messed up on levels that they haven't even made up to teach in Harvard yet. I pass high school with moderate grades with notes like "Avarice could do so much better if he tried," or "Avvy has the ability to lead this class if only he had motivation." I have some college under my belt, but opted to join the Marine Corps after my nineteenth birthday and was trained in electronics theory and repair before getting retired on medical conditions earlier this year.
I am, in my opinion, an avarage American. And I am fucking sick of this.
How many fucking political analysts do you have stocked there? I'll tell you what, though. I seriously don't care. I know why I voted why I voted. I don't care who voted for who for what reasons. Cut the shit. Stop milking our lives for ratings. Just tell us. Person A has won Senate. Person B has won presidency.
I don't care that the areas with greatest job growth has voted for President Bush. I want to hear the final call. I don't care that in 2000, Al Gore won so and so state, and now Mr. Bush won it. Who cares?
In this frustration, I have opted to think that the presidency should be decided by more than the vote of the people. I think that in the big scheme of things, the vote is obviously failing. Where is Mr. Nader? Oh, sweet Jesus, let him take Ohio (as of this time, Ohio is still filled with the Floridians of 2000, and they can't count). I think that the vote should only count for, say, 40% of the election. You know what I want to see? I want to see if Mr. Bush could beat Kerry in a fight. Fist fight, mind you, fight club style. I want to see if Mr. Nader could host peaceful discussions between Isreal and Pakistan. I would like to see how well the canidates run their families and personal lives. I'd like to see how much they lie. I'd like to see them admit wrong. I'd like to see them not lie.
I'd like to see a lot. But you know what I don't want to see, Mr. Rather or Mr. Blitzer? I don't want to see your five million closet analysts. I just want the truth and the end result. Tell me what else is going on in the world. Tell me about the troops, our troops, my cousin, our family, in Iraq. Fuck, tell me about your dog, I don't care. But don't tell me for the twentieth time that Ohio is definately the key state. WE REALIZE THIS. THIS IS WHY WE'RE WAITING FOR THEM.
It occurs to me that this is just like professional wrestling. You see, every couple of years, whoever writes the "scripts" decides that no one has a memory span of longer than three months, so they reuse "story lines". So, when Steroid Joe drives a semi into the ambulance that supposedly holds Hulkin 80s Man, you can bet that you're not the first person to see this.
No, I don't watch anymore. Yes, for that reason.
So, please, someone, please tell me why this is looking so much like the 2000 election? Did all the people who lived in Florida four years ago move to Ohio so that we can relive this storylines?
WHO IS THE VINCE MCMAHON OF AMERICA??????
If you're tired of the election, have a drink. I'll see you tomorrow.
--Avarice
[i]My eyes have always been the worst of traitors.[/t]
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