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[06 Apr 2009|11:20pm] |
Yo, some nights we got so drunk
Its like we missed the feeling
Of a never ending headache
And a spinning ceiling
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[03 Sep 2008|08:59pm] |
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This Steppenwolf of ours has always been aware of at least the Faustian two-fold nature within him. He has discovered that the one-fold of the body is not inhabited by a one-fold of the soul, and that at best he is only at the beginning of a long pilgrimage toward this ideal harmony. He would like either to overcome the wolf and become wholly man or to renounce mankind and at last to live wholly a wolf's life. It may be presumed that he has never carefully watched a real wolf. Had he done so he would have seen, perhaps, that even animals are not undivided in spirit. With them, too, the well-knit beauty of the body hides a being of manifold states and strivings. The wolf too, has his abysses. The wolf, too, suffers. No, back to nature is a false track that leads nowhere but to suffering and despair. Harry can never turn back again and become wholly wolf, and could he do so he would find that even the wolf is not of primeval simplicity, but already a creature of manifold complexity. Even the wolf has two, and more than two, souls in his wolf breast, and he who desires to be a wolf falls into the same forgetfulness as the man who sings: "If I could be a child once more!" He who sentimentally sings of blessed childhood is thinking of the return to nature and innocence and the origin of things, and has quite forgotten that these blessed children are beset with conflict and complexities and capable of all suffering.
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[05 May 2008|02:19pm] |
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"Power without love is reckless and abusive, and love without power is sentimental and anemic. Power at its best is love implementing the demands of justice, and justice at its best is power correcting everything that stands against love."
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[16 Sep 2007|10:41pm] |
The first time we met he probably called me toots. Or maybe he didn’t. I can’t remember. Taking shots and shaking at the kitchen table, probably. Standing in the driveway or staggering down the plank or teetering across the bridge in the backyard. Sitting on the railing with a bottle or a cigarette. I can’t remember what we talked about, can’t remember what we ever talk about or how we meet or why we get along really, or even if we do.
It’s 6:40 in the morning and I haven’t slept in what feel like days. Has been days probably.
“Racking lines at 6:40am makes you feel like superman. Bolivian goddess. Hold on let me play that song for you again…”
“I am the conscience clear…in pain or ecstasy and…”
She was distracted. We all get distracted. Blonde hair ratty in the back and a short dress and a little too much sparkling makeup. But focused on the card between her fingers, chopping at the mirror on the floor of the bedroom, singing the same part of the same song over and over again. Pausing to fumble with something.
“In pain or ecstasy and…”
We all get caught up in the details and miss the obvious.
“Yo mama whats your name”
Walking down the street in the morning dark is like being the only person alive. The shadows move and the crows are the only birds awake and you can see the trash on the street in the half glow. Kind of sober, but only in the way the daylight exposes reality. The dark and the fog and the vodka create a filter the hides the ugly and covers everything in magic. Until morning. Dirty, red cups littering the ugly streets. The house hot and humid and stinking of beer and the slime on the floor and the thousands of little white and yellow cigarette butts littering the plank between the houses. Half smoked and stuck between the cracks, in the washed out garden, under the succulents and strewn across the driveway, even the living room. Broken bottles on the tile floor, puddles under the table.
Because really, what does it matter?
We usually reconvene in the backyard. The last people alive, bonded over mutual sleeplessness. Too many drugs and too much adrenaline. Shaking in the morning damp. The depressants don’t even bring us down any more. Floating a hundred feet above the ocean at 6:40 in the morning. The sky grey in the dawn, waves crashing against the cliff, nursing a cigarette and pretending to understand one another until the comedown is too much and it’s time to lie in bed alone. Stumbling down the stairs, wandering back down the street in the dawn, it’s always the same. Eyes wide open, staring at the cracks in the ceiling, waiting wishing for something more. Something bigger. Something that means anything.
We’re really just strangers with a chemical bond after all, afraid of sober contact. Afraid of being ourselves because it’s been too long and we probably don’t know anymore... I know I couldn't tell you.
And now I have cigarette burns on my hands and bruises on my legs and bags under my eyes. Chapped lips and sore teeth and a nose full of shit. Knuckles covered in cuts and fingernails dirty, painted two different colors. Makeup smeared. Feet black and cut from the glass and slime.
“I really just don’t want to sleep alone tonight” she said.
It’s amazing how easy it is to feel alone surrounded by so many people. So many close friends, so many acquaintances, so many strangers. Sometimes I feel like I’m the only person in the world.
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[07 May 2007|11:50pm] |
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"I want to stay as close to the edge as I can without going over. Out on the edge you see all kinds of things you can't see from the center."
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[03 May 2007|12:31pm] |
Give me the biggest fucking shot of disastrous ass-backwards triple X 1000 proof shit in a glass.
Better get the whole bottle.
Better yet I'll get water. I don't drink.
I'm not waving. I'm drowning.
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