listening to the songs 'tiny dancer' (ben folds version specifically) and 'penny lane' on repeat forever and ever and ever...until i instinctively start a rousing chorus of 'tiny dancer' after every meloncholy moment. and i sing 'penny lane' anytime i take out my camera.
...yes that's it. excellent. i'll classically condition myself to associate happiness and rising above depression with the song tiny dancer...
the other song, well, i'll have to think about it.
Friday, June 26, 2009
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
clean up
Today I (this next part could be in either th past or present tense, as it's still the middle of the day and i'm still performing this task) went through a lot of different notes and books from the past few years. In the process of cleaning out my room, I need to articulately sort through every folder notebook and scarp of paper with as much precision and efficiency as possible.
But I've realized that I do not want to get rid of most of my work. All of it is important to me, it's all close to my heart. These notes are the product of the last four years; more, even. I can't just toss it all (and even if i did, I'd have to do some big brilliant licking and slurping all encompasing all consuming fire. it'd be ceremonious and ritual and beautiful and memorable. if i can't hold on to my notes for their memories, i should at least hold on to my memory of their destruction).
...
Why is it so hard for me to throw away all this paper? It's like I live in my memories--memories that weren't so entirely happy. I mean, now, retrospectively, they're all happy. I had a pretty good childhood, and I'm going places...But i remember times then when I felt I was living life unfufilled, i was wasting away, and i was terribly unhappy and empty and melancholy...but thinking about it all now, i wasn't, it wasn't. Maybe i'm too optimistic, maybe I can make the best of a situation. Knowing who I am as a person, my strengths and my many many limitations, I feel like I've had a great 12 years of schooling, a great 18 years of life.
And I tack that happiness onto my past.
I can't let go of my past.
But I've realized that I do not want to get rid of most of my work. All of it is important to me, it's all close to my heart. These notes are the product of the last four years; more, even. I can't just toss it all (and even if i did, I'd have to do some big brilliant licking and slurping all encompasing all consuming fire. it'd be ceremonious and ritual and beautiful and memorable. if i can't hold on to my notes for their memories, i should at least hold on to my memory of their destruction).
...
Why is it so hard for me to throw away all this paper? It's like I live in my memories--memories that weren't so entirely happy. I mean, now, retrospectively, they're all happy. I had a pretty good childhood, and I'm going places...But i remember times then when I felt I was living life unfufilled, i was wasting away, and i was terribly unhappy and empty and melancholy...but thinking about it all now, i wasn't, it wasn't. Maybe i'm too optimistic, maybe I can make the best of a situation. Knowing who I am as a person, my strengths and my many many limitations, I feel like I've had a great 12 years of schooling, a great 18 years of life.
And I tack that happiness onto my past.
I can't let go of my past.
"The trick to forgetting the big picture is to look at everything close-up. The shortcut to closing a door is to bury yourself in details."
life is so much more interesting through the lens of a camera.
not just any camera lens, but that of penny lane, my new camera...
...which reminds me i forgot to turn in my blockbuster movie (almost famous), oh shit.
whoiam: i'm interested in being interesting. i'm fascinated by controversy, death, depression, insanity, and lobotomy. i drool over disease, melt over maladies. I contemplate philosophies and theologies and meanings. I study manipulation, psychology, and the underworld of pop culture; cult reads, cult movies, cult rituals; sex drugs violence drinking betrayl fire destruction disparity injustice infamity superfluities strange diction magic satan my hair originality.
"All God does is watch us and kill us when we get boring. We must never, ever be boring."
Invisible Monsters, Chuck Palahniuk
But that means I'm a sham. I'm not actually interesting myself, it's just an interest. My obsession is interest. But even worse, that's what I do. I be interested in, i be fascinated, i drool, i melt, i observe, i watch, i be complascent, i take notes. I'm like one of those people who enjoy listening to rap music to such an extent that I learn the moves and the words and the beats, but I never achieve any sort of rap star status myself. Like a fan. I'll never be Kanye West, I'll just listen and sing and dance to his songs. I'm a fan of being interesting. I'll just observe and watch and take notes on what is interesting. I'll never be interesting.
"The best way to waste your life is by taking notes. The easiest way to avoid living is to just watch."
Lullaby, Chuck Palahniuk
story of my life.
not just any camera lens, but that of penny lane, my new camera...
...which reminds me i forgot to turn in my blockbuster movie (almost famous), oh shit.
whoiam: i'm interested in being interesting. i'm fascinated by controversy, death, depression, insanity, and lobotomy. i drool over disease, melt over maladies. I contemplate philosophies and theologies and meanings. I study manipulation, psychology, and the underworld of pop culture; cult reads, cult movies, cult rituals; sex drugs violence drinking betrayl fire destruction disparity injustice infamity superfluities strange diction magic satan my hair originality.
"All God does is watch us and kill us when we get boring. We must never, ever be boring."
Invisible Monsters, Chuck Palahniuk
But that means I'm a sham. I'm not actually interesting myself, it's just an interest. My obsession is interest. But even worse, that's what I do. I be interested in, i be fascinated, i drool, i melt, i observe, i watch, i be complascent, i take notes. I'm like one of those people who enjoy listening to rap music to such an extent that I learn the moves and the words and the beats, but I never achieve any sort of rap star status myself. Like a fan. I'll never be Kanye West, I'll just listen and sing and dance to his songs. I'm a fan of being interesting. I'll just observe and watch and take notes on what is interesting. I'll never be interesting.
"The best way to waste your life is by taking notes. The easiest way to avoid living is to just watch."
Lullaby, Chuck Palahniuk
story of my life.
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
i...can't do something i know i'll regret.
i don't want that.
i can't do that.
i wont.
it's not me.
and i don't know how to tell you.
so...i'm sorry but, no more.
you have to understand, stranger.
i'm sorry, but i just have to be me.
bye.
i can't do that.
i wont.
it's not me.
and i don't know how to tell you.
so...i'm sorry but, no more.
you have to understand, stranger.
i'm sorry, but i just have to be me.
bye.
Friday, June 12, 2009
Be inbetween the inn between the bees.
I feel like I need to write a new facebook note soon...
because then I can utilize social facilitation to the fullest. Everyone sees facebook. Everyone. People I love, people I like, people I dislike, people I wish I talked to, people I admire, people I idolize, people I stare at, people I masturbate to, people I crush on, people I talk to once in a blue moon, people that pop into my head, people who are symbols, people who mean nothing, people who mean the world to me.
Thus, I write in an inexplicably and inescapably higher diction and syntax. I'm a different--a better person. I enjoy the attention, the recognition.
But most of all I enjoy the sense of self accomplishment.
I recently read my last facebook note 'hair 1: tick', and it was on the edge of beautiful.
it rested inbetween a golden statue of a hippo and the mona lisa.
right on the verge of meaningful art, recogniziable, appreciatible art.
(just thought of this: Be inbetween the inn between the bees.)
but there seems to be a condition for such a facebook note to occur. Indeed, a condition of unpropotiante conditions. Or not really/that wasn't a word/idkstfu.
I feel I need to, once again, experience an event of insiginificant proportions.
A glance from someone who looks like someone, but isnt.
A pencil that I found on the floor.
A dance that I did for no reason.
I need something small so that I can make it something big. I need something small so I can make it something symbolic. I need a symbol to represent the universal emotions and appeal inside me, all the feelings that this host contains. life and death and truth and beauty. I need an event a person or an objec to be my symbol.
My symbol of--what? I don't know.
But I know I need it...
Or maybe I don't.
Maybe I need a big event.
A fight.
A love.
A death.
Maybe I need something big to make it mean something small. I need something big so I can make it mean nothing. Everything means nothing.
What are you living for?
Why do you exist?
Who are you?
Oh, and to the newcomers out there...
ahem, I mean...
Dear New Readers,
I know you're out there. I know you've read one of these posts.
And I just wanted you to know I know.
You stimulate my curiostity. You stimulate my imagination.
You stimulate my special brand of magic.
(STIMULATION STIMULATION STIMULATION)
Thus, I thank you.
Really
Actually
In fact
I am so thankful, that I dedicate this blog, and all the rest of them, to you.
Whenever I refer to 'you', I mean you, reader.
Whenever I guesture to my audience or ask a question or call you a name, it's not rhetorical:
I'm talking to you.
I'm imagining you. I'm thinking of you. A sillohetted frame, an androgenous blob, a metamorphic spirit, a formless figure.
This is all you, reader. You will recieve very many nicnmames, let me tell you.
(I do this not only because I feel so so so grateful for your attention [if i still in fact recieve it: (god) if you're out there, give me a sign] but also because i feel it'll (communication to my audience, to you) will affect my social facilitation. in a good way, hopefully, but we can't get ahead of ourselves here.)
Reader,
Audience,
Person,
Lover,
Liar,
my own person God,
Thank you and
please sit back, buckle up, and enjoy the ride.
because then I can utilize social facilitation to the fullest. Everyone sees facebook. Everyone. People I love, people I like, people I dislike, people I wish I talked to, people I admire, people I idolize, people I stare at, people I masturbate to, people I crush on, people I talk to once in a blue moon, people that pop into my head, people who are symbols, people who mean nothing, people who mean the world to me.
Thus, I write in an inexplicably and inescapably higher diction and syntax. I'm a different--a better person. I enjoy the attention, the recognition.
But most of all I enjoy the sense of self accomplishment.
I recently read my last facebook note 'hair 1: tick', and it was on the edge of beautiful.
it rested inbetween a golden statue of a hippo and the mona lisa.
right on the verge of meaningful art, recogniziable, appreciatible art.
is what i tell myself.
(just thought of this: Be inbetween the inn between the bees.)
but there seems to be a condition for such a facebook note to occur. Indeed, a condition of unpropotiante conditions. Or not really/that wasn't a word/idkstfu.
I feel I need to, once again, experience an event of insiginificant proportions.
A glance from someone who looks like someone, but isnt.
A pencil that I found on the floor.
A dance that I did for no reason.
I need something small so that I can make it something big. I need something small so I can make it something symbolic. I need a symbol to represent the universal emotions and appeal inside me, all the feelings that this host contains. life and death and truth and beauty. I need an event a person or an objec to be my symbol.
My symbol of--what? I don't know.
But I know I need it...
Or maybe I don't.
Maybe I need a big event.
A fight.
A love.
A death.
Maybe I need something big to make it mean something small. I need something big so I can make it mean nothing. Everything means nothing.
What are you living for?
Why do you exist?
Who are you?
is what I ask myself.
Oh, and to the newcomers out there...
ahem, I mean...
Dear New Readers,
I know you're out there. I know you've read one of these posts.
And I just wanted you to know I know.
You stimulate my curiostity. You stimulate my imagination.
You stimulate my special brand of magic.
(STIMULATION STIMULATION STIMULATION)
Thus, I thank you.
Really
Actually
In fact
I am so thankful, that I dedicate this blog, and all the rest of them, to you.
Whenever I refer to 'you', I mean you, reader.
Whenever I guesture to my audience or ask a question or call you a name, it's not rhetorical:
I'm talking to you.
I'm imagining you. I'm thinking of you. A sillohetted frame, an androgenous blob, a metamorphic spirit, a formless figure.
This is all you, reader. You will recieve very many nicnmames, let me tell you.
(I do this not only because I feel so so so grateful for your attention [if i still in fact recieve it: (god) if you're out there, give me a sign] but also because i feel it'll (communication to my audience, to you) will affect my social facilitation. in a good way, hopefully, but we can't get ahead of ourselves here.)
Now what I tell myself is what I tell you.
SO.Reader,
Audience,
Person,
Lover,
Liar,
my own person God,
Thank you and
please sit back, buckle up, and enjoy the ride.
Sincerely with love and a cherry on top,
Adam Powers
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
i don't even know what to title this one.
i wish i had some strange little gimmick or catchphrase or punchline that could be the least bit indicitive of my personality, while also being clever, funny, interesting, and universal.
oh well, that's just the aboriginal sin of adam.
so there's a reason i don't know what to title this blog, post, blog entry, update, whatever--.
that reason is i'm in some sort of mood. a pissy one, a whiney one (but not unjustified), a lost one, a depressed one, and confused one, an angry one, and dazed one, a meaningless one: a mood that is the combination of every bad emotion there is, crumpled into a ball that has been tossed into a waste basket of identical balls which are then picked up by a garbage truck, taken to a landfill of. more terrible emotion balls. The landfill is then covered in skin, hair, plaid shorts, an orange shirt, and fitted with a disgruntled look to befit the fractionist of fractions of what's going on inside.
and that's just the begining of it.
there's the scope of the situation.
i wonder if wondering about the situation will help it. i'm writing and asking if writing about the feelings will settle the feelings. i'm thinking and pondering and molding my mind around this emotion, trying to ensnare the beast with thought and logic.
thought i doubt that i really see the emotion as an enemy, as an etheral, shadowy beast, bringing upon apocali after apocali; no, i'm sure that instead i'll just feed the monster and let it grow and mutate and destroy, yet at the same time i'll tame it's wild ways fod my own purposes. for art.
so why not, instead of going over and over going over and over going over and over what i'm writing about--opposed to actually writing it (WHAT A SURPRISE)--I just write? I'll go over various topics of the day, and see what i feel about each one, see what steps i took to reach this height. let's see.
so...first topic...
destruction
fire, pirates, dinosaurs, irony, words, the culling song, the grimorie, thunder, lightening, storms, twirling twisters, death, wish, god, the judas cow, pleasure, necrophelia.
destruction
why do i revel in destruction? why do i talk about destruction and death and even gross things like disease and severed limbs, with such admiration, such interest?
on one hand, i feel that everything else has become so inane that death and destruction, the ultimate end to it all, the extremes of which society reveres as disgusting and awful, are the only interesting factors left in the equation.
on one hand, maybe i don't know what things normal people talk about.
on one hand, maybe i don't know how to talk to people, but on another, maybe that doesn't have so much to do with this topic as it does with another.
[interlude: i want to talk to someone right now. anyone. everyone. but no one is worthy. no one wants to know, but even more so no one would understand. you don't understand me.]
on one hand, maybe i exalt destruction because that's my way of accepting it. i can't cope with such an unfair world, where the young are slaughtered, where just by living we destroy so much in the world, where just by living, we are slated to our own destruction. maybe i'm coping with the inevitable. maybe death won't feel so bad because i'll find it interesting. imagine that, imagine my face, happy with mental gluttony, at a funeral where ravens roam through the graveyard flooded with ordinary funeral music, or speeches, or something. or maybe i'm not a psycho, maybe i haven't really encountered such a loss, such a destruction, and maybe i really don't want to.
on one hand, maybe it's just something i'm fascinated by, and there's really no other reason behind it.
what would i do if i knew the culling song? would i kill people like carl streater did? the sound-aholics, the silence-ophobics? do i have an enemy? a victim?
sometimes i feel i would. something about power corrupts
karl marx says that we justify killing our victims to the point that they become the enemy.
--what am i saying? 'our victims'? what who am i how do i crazy fool stupid saying?--
what if i had a death note? would i create my own new world order?
sometimes i feel i would, just to have a life experience, to have a life as interesting as light's on death note.
dulce et decorum est pro patria mori
memento mori
enough. next topic
who i am.
adam, adam powers, berger, the first man, the first second sinner, of the earth, of the city, with power, kooky, intellectual, crazy, queer, quiet, introvert fighting to be an extrovert, social anxiety, closed, analytical, uptight, hurt, offended, human, alien, psycho, or just human. but different. but conflicted.
i feel as if i were someone else then everything would be easier. i wish i could just wear a mask and fall into the personality and live that life.
see, if i were a serial killer, or a psycho, everything would be easy. i would know my purpose in life, i would understand what i wanted and what i needed to do, i would know how i needed to act, what i would talk about.
but i'm no insane wacko murderer. i don't know who i am, so i don't know how to be, or what to expect, or what to be, or who i am, or what i want, or what to say, or who to say it to, or how to say it.
How do i say what i mean?
FUCK, I don't even know what i mean!?
i'm so completely fucked.
i don't know anything.
and i have no one to help me.
and this feeling, i can tell myself, will go away by morning, when i go to sleep.
"everything will be alright"
but when i wake up, everything isn't alright.
i wish i were an insomniac. i would have stoires to tell then. i would be up all night doing wild things, things i don't do now. and i would think wild things and have so much time, so much more fleeting time.
i wish i were a serial killer. i would have a life experience were i a serial killer. i would have accomplished something in my life, i would have used my mind for a purpose, and would know that purpose. and i would tell such wonderful stories.
i wish i were more opposed in life. i would be in a lower situation, everything would be harder, but i would fight back, and i would have such good stories.
why am i so quick to turn everything into a memory?
why can't i just live?
i first started going to youth first texas, my gay youth group, so that i can prove i can survive.
i started going to prove that i will thrive in college.
i started going so that i could know that i can exist as an individual with people i didn't know, people i was getting to know.
i wanted to know that i could be funny and interesting and amazing and an individual, a personality, a character, and different and special and loveable and wonderful and human but different and smart and wise and kooky and crazy and creative
to people who didn't know me, to people i wasn't comfortable with.
i needed to see that i can be me, whoever that is.
julie wanted to know why i didn't want her coming, well--that's it.
and it seems like i proved nothing.
so i guess i'll just drown in college...
i don't even know where i am at the moment.
no one is listening.
why does this come as a surprise when i don't say anything?
no one cares
because i don't tell anyone
i don't let anyone care
don't even give em the chance.
why can't i say what i mean?
FUCK, why can't i say anything?
i guess this topic system didn't really work.
organization is just a time waster.
not even i will understand this in the morning, i won't want to. but it won't matter. it'll just be another day to build up the same feelings, and come to similar conclusions and wonder in vicious, monstrous circles.
i can't be succinct because there's so much to say. there's so much left unsaid, there's so much i haven't said. so i have to be wordy and verbose and pity-pleading and desperate and nihilistic.
it's all one fucking justification after another.
next topic...
the end.
oh well, that's just the aboriginal sin of adam.
so there's a reason i don't know what to title this blog, post, blog entry, update, whatever--.
that reason is i'm in some sort of mood. a pissy one, a whiney one (but not unjustified), a lost one, a depressed one, and confused one, an angry one, and dazed one, a meaningless one: a mood that is the combination of every bad emotion there is, crumpled into a ball that has been tossed into a waste basket of identical balls which are then picked up by a garbage truck, taken to a landfill of. more terrible emotion balls. The landfill is then covered in skin, hair, plaid shorts, an orange shirt, and fitted with a disgruntled look to befit the fractionist of fractions of what's going on inside.
and that's just the begining of it.
there's the scope of the situation.
i wonder if wondering about the situation will help it. i'm writing and asking if writing about the feelings will settle the feelings. i'm thinking and pondering and molding my mind around this emotion, trying to ensnare the beast with thought and logic.
thought i doubt that i really see the emotion as an enemy, as an etheral, shadowy beast, bringing upon apocali after apocali; no, i'm sure that instead i'll just feed the monster and let it grow and mutate and destroy, yet at the same time i'll tame it's wild ways fod my own purposes. for art.
so why not, instead of going over and over going over and over going over and over what i'm writing about--opposed to actually writing it (WHAT A SURPRISE)--I just write? I'll go over various topics of the day, and see what i feel about each one, see what steps i took to reach this height. let's see.
so...first topic...
destruction
fire, pirates, dinosaurs, irony, words, the culling song, the grimorie, thunder, lightening, storms, twirling twisters, death, wish, god, the judas cow, pleasure, necrophelia.
destruction
why do i revel in destruction? why do i talk about destruction and death and even gross things like disease and severed limbs, with such admiration, such interest?
on one hand, i feel that everything else has become so inane that death and destruction, the ultimate end to it all, the extremes of which society reveres as disgusting and awful, are the only interesting factors left in the equation.
on one hand, maybe i don't know what things normal people talk about.
on one hand, maybe i don't know how to talk to people, but on another, maybe that doesn't have so much to do with this topic as it does with another.
[interlude: i want to talk to someone right now. anyone. everyone. but no one is worthy. no one wants to know, but even more so no one would understand. you don't understand me.]
on one hand, maybe i exalt destruction because that's my way of accepting it. i can't cope with such an unfair world, where the young are slaughtered, where just by living we destroy so much in the world, where just by living, we are slated to our own destruction. maybe i'm coping with the inevitable. maybe death won't feel so bad because i'll find it interesting. imagine that, imagine my face, happy with mental gluttony, at a funeral where ravens roam through the graveyard flooded with ordinary funeral music, or speeches, or something. or maybe i'm not a psycho, maybe i haven't really encountered such a loss, such a destruction, and maybe i really don't want to.
on one hand, maybe it's just something i'm fascinated by, and there's really no other reason behind it.
what would i do if i knew the culling song? would i kill people like carl streater did? the sound-aholics, the silence-ophobics? do i have an enemy? a victim?
sometimes i feel i would. something about power corrupts
karl marx says that we justify killing our victims to the point that they become the enemy.
--what am i saying? 'our victims'? what who am i how do i crazy fool stupid saying?--
what if i had a death note? would i create my own new world order?
sometimes i feel i would, just to have a life experience, to have a life as interesting as light's on death note.
dulce et decorum est pro patria mori
memento mori
enough. next topic
who i am.
adam, adam powers, berger, the first man, the first second sinner, of the earth, of the city, with power, kooky, intellectual, crazy, queer, quiet, introvert fighting to be an extrovert, social anxiety, closed, analytical, uptight, hurt, offended, human, alien, psycho, or just human. but different. but conflicted.
i feel as if i were someone else then everything would be easier. i wish i could just wear a mask and fall into the personality and live that life.
see, if i were a serial killer, or a psycho, everything would be easy. i would know my purpose in life, i would understand what i wanted and what i needed to do, i would know how i needed to act, what i would talk about.
but i'm no insane wacko murderer. i don't know who i am, so i don't know how to be, or what to expect, or what to be, or who i am, or what i want, or what to say, or who to say it to, or how to say it.
How do i say what i mean?
FUCK, I don't even know what i mean!?
i'm so completely fucked.
i don't know anything.
and i have no one to help me.
and this feeling, i can tell myself, will go away by morning, when i go to sleep.
"everything will be alright"
but when i wake up, everything isn't alright.
i wish i were an insomniac. i would have stoires to tell then. i would be up all night doing wild things, things i don't do now. and i would think wild things and have so much time, so much more fleeting time.
i wish i were a serial killer. i would have a life experience were i a serial killer. i would have accomplished something in my life, i would have used my mind for a purpose, and would know that purpose. and i would tell such wonderful stories.
i wish i were more opposed in life. i would be in a lower situation, everything would be harder, but i would fight back, and i would have such good stories.
why am i so quick to turn everything into a memory?
why can't i just live?
i first started going to youth first texas, my gay youth group, so that i can prove i can survive.
i started going to prove that i will thrive in college.
i started going so that i could know that i can exist as an individual with people i didn't know, people i was getting to know.
i wanted to know that i could be funny and interesting and amazing and an individual, a personality, a character, and different and special and loveable and wonderful and human but different and smart and wise and kooky and crazy and creative
to people who didn't know me, to people i wasn't comfortable with.
i needed to see that i can be me, whoever that is.
julie wanted to know why i didn't want her coming, well--that's it.
and it seems like i proved nothing.
so i guess i'll just drown in college...
i don't even know where i am at the moment.
no one is listening.
why does this come as a surprise when i don't say anything?
no one cares
because i don't tell anyone
i don't let anyone care
don't even give em the chance.
why can't i say what i mean?
FUCK, why can't i say anything?
i guess this topic system didn't really work.
organization is just a time waster.
not even i will understand this in the morning, i won't want to. but it won't matter. it'll just be another day to build up the same feelings, and come to similar conclusions and wonder in vicious, monstrous circles.
i can't be succinct because there's so much to say. there's so much left unsaid, there's so much i haven't said. so i have to be wordy and verbose and pity-pleading and desperate and nihilistic.
it's all one fucking justification after another.
next topic...
the end.
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
social facilitation
it's important to have an audience. my best work is done when i know someone is watching, when i'm preparing a piece to show the world--for a competition (whether self contrived or not), a showing, or a comparison. whether it's on facebook, or it's an assignment, or it's a blog that i only have one person reading. maybe the more people watching the better it gets?
this concept is troubling.
can i make/write/create something for myself? or for the sake of it?
well, sure i can. it just won't be very good.
in psychology it's call 'social facilitation.' when you perform something you're good at, something you've mastered, in front of people, it increases your skill and confidence at the task; however, if you've not mastered the task, then your skill and confidence decrease rapidly.
scientifically proven.
so if i write something that is read by everyone, if i make the biggest scene, then...
___
"the summer is all in bloom
the summer is ending soon"
this concept is troubling.
can i make/write/create something for myself? or for the sake of it?
well, sure i can. it just won't be very good.
in psychology it's call 'social facilitation.' when you perform something you're good at, something you've mastered, in front of people, it increases your skill and confidence at the task; however, if you've not mastered the task, then your skill and confidence decrease rapidly.
scientifically proven.
so if i write something that is read by everyone, if i make the biggest scene, then...
___
"the summer is all in bloom
the summer is ending soon"
Sunday, June 7, 2009
white houses
in my heart it's the five of us
katie
julie
rebecca
holly
adam
we were all in love, and we all got hurt
katie
julie
rebecca
holly
adam
we were all in love, and we all got hurt
Saturday, June 6, 2009
you don't need to get your armor (or 'arm up')
i'm not sure how to say anything i want to.
and it's only because i want to whine and bitch and be annoying
yet at the same time i want to berate myself and bash myself and beat myself into submission for feeling this way
for thinking this is so important.
but love is important...
pitiful, pitiful, pitiful.
i collect the summation of stares and glances and turn them upside down all around to be as significant as i want to, and in the end they equal nothing.
(just a few saints, being turned into the sea.)/ohmax.
when will it be my turn?
do i really have to wait and hold out and hope so long?
...why am i so selfish...?
but tomorrow's graduation, it's no time to think about boys and their silly ways. no! i
must throw off all such carnal desires and think about the past and future.
that's what tomorrow is about, all we've been through and all we're going to
one of those planned moments to not exist as an actual moment in time one can live in, but to exist on a continuum of personal film reels that spread forward and back(ward).
there is no present moment
just a sugar coated past and a melancholically hopeful future--to be realists (is to be cynics), is to say that by looking at our shitty past, there really isn't any way to have any glimmer of hope for the future...
but it really wasn't all that bad.
i think the only reason i got through it all was because of friends. without friends, i really would have had a shitty school life.
thank you friends. i love you, in each of your respective moments and eras. and now, right now, the past and the future, at this moment, forever and always. (but not at the present--as no present exists).
tomorrow's a day that doesn't really exist on the calendar. we won't feel it go by, we'll just feel.
(just have to be annoying one last time; despite whatever nostalgic and universal ambience i've created)
11:11 fairy, hear me:
...i wish for a boy,
somebody to love.
and it's only because i want to whine and bitch and be annoying
yet at the same time i want to berate myself and bash myself and beat myself into submission for feeling this way
for thinking this is so important.
but love is important...
pitiful, pitiful, pitiful.
i collect the summation of stares and glances and turn them upside down all around to be as significant as i want to, and in the end they equal nothing.
(just a few saints, being turned into the sea.)/ohmax.
when will it be my turn?
do i really have to wait and hold out and hope so long?
...why am i so selfish...?
but tomorrow's graduation, it's no time to think about boys and their silly ways. no! i
must throw off all such carnal desires and think about the past and future.
that's what tomorrow is about, all we've been through and all we're going to
one of those planned moments to not exist as an actual moment in time one can live in, but to exist on a continuum of personal film reels that spread forward and back(ward).
there is no present moment
just a sugar coated past and a melancholically hopeful future--to be realists (is to be cynics), is to say that by looking at our shitty past, there really isn't any way to have any glimmer of hope for the future...
but it really wasn't all that bad.
i think the only reason i got through it all was because of friends. without friends, i really would have had a shitty school life.
thank you friends. i love you, in each of your respective moments and eras. and now, right now, the past and the future, at this moment, forever and always. (but not at the present--as no present exists).
tomorrow's a day that doesn't really exist on the calendar. we won't feel it go by, we'll just feel.
(just have to be annoying one last time; despite whatever nostalgic and universal ambience i've created)
11:11 fairy, hear me:
...i wish for a boy,
somebody to love.
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
i just saw a show about cats
do you ever make eyes with some guy and you feel some sort of strange spark, like you would be good with the guy--but at the same time you're too inhibited/society is too against any notion to go and talk to him?
i feel like a silly girl talking about this. for even touching on things that touch on things like love at first sight, or shared moments and thoughts, connections in a second, being inside/out with a person in a scene that lasts however long we keep gaze...
it's depressing, in a melancholy sort of way; because you know that you'd never have the audacity or the strength, nor would this society entertain any such notion to go up to talk to him... so you just continue your everday life and remember the eyes and the face and the percieved truth and the moment as a memory. antoher unfulfilled desire, another inhibited want.
silly silly girl.
but what about you
are you filling your days with happiness and summery goodness?
i feel like a silly girl talking about this. for even touching on things that touch on things like love at first sight, or shared moments and thoughts, connections in a second, being inside/out with a person in a scene that lasts however long we keep gaze...
it's depressing, in a melancholy sort of way; because you know that you'd never have the audacity or the strength, nor would this society entertain any such notion to go up to talk to him... so you just continue your everday life and remember the eyes and the face and the percieved truth and the moment as a memory. antoher unfulfilled desire, another inhibited want.
silly silly girl.
but what about you
are you filling your days with happiness and summery goodness?
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