30.11.10

corner pieces.

currently reading the new kings of nonfiction. it's full of wonderful stuff; i'm a bit sad that i will have to return it to the library.

now is time to start writing essays, probably.
themes and ideas i've been kicking around:
showers. (they're so solitary; those hotel commercials where they advertised good ideas from their showers; tobias funke's tears)
the "me" generation. (the internet has provided us with ways to connect to the rest of the world, and yet our biggest worry is how we look in our profile picture; formspring; blogs)
lighthouses. (something about teenagerdom in west michigan; collectors)
the rendezvous and other "family restaurants." (why are family restaurants always filled with teenagers and never with families?)
my family. (this one is complicated and difficult to navigate; it probably will be put on hold)
the student loan crisis. (nearly all of my friends and i are going to be trapped in debt; sadly, i don't currently have the contacts or experience of an investigative journalist)
my brother. (a smaller subsection of my family; i've been learning more about his life lately and it's pretty interesting to say the least)
my father. (again, a smaller section, possibly easier to deal with than the whole; harder to deal with than many other things)
healthcare. (i've been writing an essay in my head for months/years now explaining why universal healthcare is the most christian idea in existence, and questioning why it's mostly "christians" who are against it)

there are more things i could write about, probably. i'm just now learning how to see things differently, how to approach things differently, in order to write about them properly.
thank god for reading.

25.11.10

baa baa black sheep

my family is downstairs watching football, talking about sports and black friday shopping.
i am in my bedroom, charging my phone, wishing i could stay up here and read.

i love them, i do, i just really like alone time and quiet and conversations about things that aren't sports. but all good books are about misfits and outcasts. not that i don't fit in...i don't know. i just feel different than them, some days. and i am.

they just don't really like public radio or good music or reading the kinds of books i read or anything.

also, all i wanted to do this thanksgiving was talk about how sad the beginning of our country is, but i know better than that.




blah blah blah. i should be spending time with my family. my current mantra is "when you are somewhere, be there," so i should be here, with my family, spending time with them. not sitting in my room alone. no more being anti-social!

23.11.10

pat on the back

i had a dream where i explained to someone why i'm happy with myself.

thanks, subconscious, for reminding me.

16.11.10

all dolled up

i need somebody to teach me how to dress myself properly.

15.11.10

preemptive

i've got to start making lists of pros and cons of places to live again.
graduation is haunting me.

minneapolis is cold with long winters, but i know people here, which means work.
chicago is where i wanted to go to college, close to my family, and might contain my best friend, but i don't want to just follow.
new york is the city with everything, but i could easily get lost in the fray, and it scares me.
milwaukee is sitting in the midwest, unexplored, closer to michigan but still cold.
detroit is not an option.
colorado is beautiful and active, but so far from places i could play.
california is far but warm, full of different cities and places to pick.
canada has healthcare. ...toronto?


these winter, blues, man. these winter blues.
and these decisions. things are hard and there are a lot of places.

14.11.10

bears, beets, birthdays, etc



this picture makes me laugh and also cry a little bit.



edit.

birthday run-down.

waking up too early (unhappy). texting the family (they're glad i'm around). bookstore (unsuccessful in terms of purchasing, successful in terms of wasting time and holding books). ihop (little boy singing "baby," and then telling me about his spiderman shirt). mall of america (the microsoft store is a bizarre land). grocery shopping (sample day). library (dad called). cookie-baking (so much sugar). friends, movies, youtube videos, the game of things (much better). not studying or doing homework (back to feeling nervous, strange, and a bit unhappy).

[what am i supposed to do with myself?]

13.11.10

loops and hurdles

i'm on the verge of a new decade. twenty years isn't too long in the grand scheme of human lifespans (and is but half a second in the span of human existence, and less than that in the span of the existence of existence).

i spent my last day as a teenager working, going to the library, and sitting around my apartment. it's a saturday night. i am drinking hot chocolate and reading about how to undo writer's block. i'd rather read "the new kings of nonfiction" or "a mind of its own: a cultural history of the penis" or "siddartha" or any of the other things i checked out today, but i know this is good for me. i know that reading without writing is like drinking without peeing; it'll all get stored up and then i'll wet myself in public and cry. not to mention the kidney failure and various other implications. so, piss i must.

the reason i'm not writing is procrastination. i make everything an excuse not to write—and i make writing an excuse not to do other things. it's pathological. currently, i'm writing here instead of writing songs, or cleaning, or reading that book on writer's block.

the other reason i'm not writing is because writing is a way to deal with things, and i just don't want to lately. this is dumb. but looking at oneself and one's life and all of the inherent madness is difficult. it always is. but it needs to be done, sooner or later. (i'm just making it later out of fear of some sort.)

i suppose i'm also not writing out of a lack of confidence. there are so many writers in the world; how do i suspect to join their ranks? not just songwriters, but nonfiction writers and novelists and journalists and essayists. i want to be one of those. but it seems that there are so many of them—who am i to compete? who am i to do anything, really? and why pick writing, out of all of the things i could do, when there are obviously many other options with less competition? it's difficult.

music is rough. words are rough. i hope to be part time next semester so i can spend more time working on my craft and making money and less time feeling stressed about not writing and not making money.

this blog is just here to prove to myself that i can still put words together, i think. i know it never really had an audience beside the occasional lurker and the ever-present spambots. but that's a good thing. less pressure. i don't have to write for anyone but myself.




the public library has books on smallpox, politics, poverty, and poetry. i want to live there. maybe i should've gotten a degree in library science and lived a quiet, sensible life, just reading everything and doing nothing.

but i can't do that, now.

9.11.10

i am a secret.

i am a piece of paper under a chair leg, slowly becoming a part of the carpet.

8.11.10

shut up, shut up, shut up.

i keep getting spam comments on old entries of this blog. i'm not sure how to make it stop. are there key words that bots are trawling for?

whatever the case may be, they'd better stop soon.

7.11.10

reduce, reuse, recycle.

who are you to say
that i have to stay
here

who am i to go
i didn't know


i grew these wings but i fell to the sea
i tried to swim but sank to the deep
the feathers are heavy and i am not strong
they pulled me back out and said i was wrong


who are you to stay
that i have to stay
here

who am i to go
i didn't know



(working on lyrics;
rewriting, rewriting, rewriting.
learning to lower my standards for rough drafts.)

a thousand times yes

i've gotta stop doing shit like this.

(i've gotta stop thinking too much.)

3.11.10

please don't.

it would be nice if relationships started a few years in,
so we could immediately know best friends,
and have prepackaged remember whens.

distraction

i only write when i am supposed to be doing other things, and when i am supposed to be writing i start doing other things. this must mean something.

how much do i really care about this?
a lot, when i am allowed to separate myself from it.




there is a nervousness in my belly that i haven't felt in years. i don't know how to eat, lately. i am channeling characters from books and remembering how it feels to stand on bridges.



(why can't i just interact with people on my own terms?)


i have nothing to show for any of this.