Journal:
-------------------------------------------Mood: Thanks, humans.
Ok. So I turned a slightly revised version of that shit in today. Fat lot of help you guys were.
No, seriously, thanks for actually having any response at all. I forgot to even see whether there was a response. I just got internet re-installed at my house (which took forever to actually get working) and I was too busy frantically revising to remember. It still sucks, but not as much. When I'm done with it I'll post it up here.
Anyways.... school is good. Going out tomorrow with a friend I haven't seen in a while. Jam session Friday. I've wasted a lot of time today on the internet.
How's life?
Oh
And here's some shit I wrote while trying to not hate myself:
Wally sat in his defensive chair, guarding a piece of dirt that was crumbling through his hands. I reached for it but he drew back, clutching it tighter and causing even more erosion.
He vomited. Fish swam around his ears.
The waiter was approaching.
More coffee sir?
He said yes. It was the only response he could think of.
He turned towards me and whispered something unintelligible.
I had begun to suspect that someone was pulling Wally's strings.
It was possible. Wally was drinking obscene amounts
of poisonously strong coffee. He tends to do that
when he get nervous.
My instinct told me that it would be best to act on my instincts,
but I couldn't remember if I had a good opinion of my instincts or not,
or what my thoughts were on my ability to judge myself,
but rationally, I suppose, they must be very poor.
I was at a crossroads. A train was passing.
I whispered loudly,
Wally! Do you have a good opinion of my instincts?
Wally leaned back in his chair and put his hand under his chin.
I think it's time I showed you something, he said.
Wally, I said. We've already had this conversation.
So be it. He put on his stiff lips and sulked for a while. I let him be.
I noticed the train was going to Vermont.
Are we going to Vermont? I asked. Wally knew about my fear of Vermont.
Fuck you, said Wally.
Wally! I said, surprised. You're twelve years old!
I'm thirty now, James. He sighed. He sounded tired.
Better get a move on, then.
Don't be flippant.
I think that's the wrong word, I said, but I couldn't find the right one. They went floating by me like a school of mackerel, and I was so dazzled by the liquid sun reflecting off their scales like camera flashes from a stadium crowd or precious jewels at a gallery that, not being much of a jeweler, I couldn't decide which one was the most valuable or even choose a favorite before they were gone. So was the train. I saw Wally waving from the caboose. My instinct was to stare at him from the edge of the tracks with one hand raised. I went with it. I checked my watch as soon as he was out of range, just in case it held some vital information, but no such luck.
The smell of Juniper
wafting like spilled perfume from
her easy chair, scratchy,
dark-blanketed and
cancerous. The mirrored walls
kept showing someone
who wasn't there, and
the daughter figure, prodigal now,
wept against the scene like a museum exhibit,
an Agnostic penitent at the Wailing Wall,
crying over something that didn't happen
to anyone she knew.
The window open.
The vine that keeps growing
around her hair,
a halo or
crown of thorns, whichever
she could guilt you
into believing.
Officers in these kinds of stories
don't really have a face,
just partialities and an air
of mystery, which in this case
smells a lot like gin being poured
over old furniture
and house plants
decomposing.
My membrane is too thick, he said.
you're fucking crazy! I said.
seek help! get yourself fixed!
you'll feel better, I swear!
...Created 2008-09-04 03:01:16 [ View Past Journals ] [ View as Blog ] |
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