i'm feeling like i've already lost a lot of friends. those high school kids could have been the best i'll find. for some reason i'm looking forward to life after school because of the people i might work with. i don't know why i'd feel that way but it's true. i think it's still based in the bermuda-dive idea. those people seem like fun.
i'll watch shows like scrubs that make doctoring seem like fun... i guess they also make it difficult. if only it was really that way in real life, maybe i'd be tempted to do more. i could still take the mcats, although i feel like i'm behind in almost every facet of getting accepted into a medical school. i'm not prepared to spend an entire semester wasting away studying for that damn test. my grades are fine at a great institution but everyone with better scores than mine still complains about them. the same people who have been working in the health field for years, who have connections everywhere... i've got nothing. i'm a perfectly capable, perfectly wonderful guy. that will get me nowhere. a band. i think i want to be in a band. that's maybe the most far fetched idea of all.
i get lonely every now and then. seriously depressingly down. just the need for another person. any sort of serious connection that validates you as a human being. one person is nothing. that's the definition of failure. the human race cares not about you. any reason to feel truly loved. somehow i can't get past the limitations i set... as well as the fact that i'm not being any little bit proactive in the matter. i have no idea how. no clue.
i hope the poem i posted was enjoyed by someone. i know it wasn't. i know nobody's seen it. i need to figure out some way to post all this on my old blog and block everyone from wake from seeing it. i criticized snow patrol today for being lazy lyricists. it's true. if you're poetic at all, you won't put the wrong em-PHA-sis on the wrong syl-LA-ble unless you really want to. they just don't give a shit. throw in random words just to make your lines work. words in the wrong places so they sound terribly wrong. you know, if you'd just try a little bit harder, put a little effort into it, you could write gold songs that actually deserve to be heard. oh well. lazy bastards.
i don't know if i've mentioned it lately at all but i love the decemberists. love them. love you colin. really just the crane wife album. but seriously, i love you colin meloy. that's where i want to be. touring with the decemberists. that's a life. i could die having been a bitch doctor without ever "making it" or i could do something i love but have no idea how to begin at. i guess it will end up being the latter... hooray.
i guess it begins with finding my people. the ones who don't make me sick of them so quickly. who are ok with the fact that i am who i am.
who i am.
who i am.
Saturday, October 20, 2007
Thursday, October 18, 2007
the alchemy between us
late night dark room lovely
i wish i could write music. be in a band. have some camaraderie like that. someday i think i will. i feel like my skill set dictates i could be a serviceable bassist if not a rhythm guitar. someday. i get so sick of somedays.
we spoke in bible today of ecclesiastes. i'd never read it before... any part of the bible, really. before this class anyway. well, the gist of ecclesiastes is that we could die at any time and that we should find what we really enjoy in life and throw ourselves into it completely. and i thought of being 32 and having worked at the hospital for years and still not be making any money. i mean money isn't something to judge a life by but it is a path to enjoying other things. i just can't see, right now, enjoying waking up every morning to go be a bitch to authority. it kind of buried that idea for me. leaning more and more towards working somewhere fun and doing something i enjoy. what that is... i'm not quite sure of yet. maybe i'll hike the AT someday. takes money though. as does opening a pizza shop or a coffee place that serves alcohol and plays music.
i can see myself in my coffee shop in some big, interesting city. i'm sitting behind the counter playing electric guitar through this little amp when somebody walks up. they don't know what they want so i play a little while they decide. i want to be that guy, i guess, sometimes. you know, if you walk into a coffee place and the owner is there playing guitar behind the counter... that's somewhere you'd want to stay. where there's local art on the walls and the music is coming from the guy's computer. this isn't starbucks. i want that to work. i need capital somehow.
i'm a writer for a british motorcycle magazine. i take photographs for a living. i document the real world, one way or another. a photojournalist. untrained. i don't have this little layer of flab around my stomach.
every time i close my eyes, it gets harder to open them.
a couple days ago, in basic lab safety training - read, "two hour powerpoint lecture" - nobody was paying attention. well, the two kids beside me were whispering and got bitched at pretty badly by the speaker. i didn't even look at them. i wasn't paying attention either. i scratched a sonnet on the inside of my folder. if i'd had another hour, i might have finished it. it's still about 6 lines short but whatever... i changed the last two this morning anyway. i'm trying to get over the idea that i can't edit anything i write because then it's not the same anymore. not the same paragraph. not the same pome. not the original, what came out. anyway, here are the first ten lines:
a year before we meet on Baker street
you left my coffee cold and freezing wind
that time i told you we should just be friends
the leaves were not so red on Baker street
the corner shop is now a pizza place
all robot art and nineties indie rock
still sit outside until they close the park
the winter breezes and my burning face
i heard that you were doing pretty well
from deep within my knock-down drag-out days
..........................................................................................
it hurt enough to think i had to stay
to wait so you could find me when you fell
the trees are still the same on Baker street
dead leaves in whistling breezes spin around
two small hot chocolates and a displaced town
it's warming up a bit on Baker street
it's not even about anybody in particular. the last 6 lines i just wrote right now. i hope they work. the last two lines before the break used to be "i heard you lived your life, i had a cage / a fool-proof metal jacket down inside / you left for home the day the music died." the last line was going to have something to do with a stage. returning to a smaller stage. something like that... felt too much like a rebel hippie thing, though. i don't know. it's done.
i wish i could write music. be in a band. have some camaraderie like that. someday i think i will. i feel like my skill set dictates i could be a serviceable bassist if not a rhythm guitar. someday. i get so sick of somedays.
we spoke in bible today of ecclesiastes. i'd never read it before... any part of the bible, really. before this class anyway. well, the gist of ecclesiastes is that we could die at any time and that we should find what we really enjoy in life and throw ourselves into it completely. and i thought of being 32 and having worked at the hospital for years and still not be making any money. i mean money isn't something to judge a life by but it is a path to enjoying other things. i just can't see, right now, enjoying waking up every morning to go be a bitch to authority. it kind of buried that idea for me. leaning more and more towards working somewhere fun and doing something i enjoy. what that is... i'm not quite sure of yet. maybe i'll hike the AT someday. takes money though. as does opening a pizza shop or a coffee place that serves alcohol and plays music.
i can see myself in my coffee shop in some big, interesting city. i'm sitting behind the counter playing electric guitar through this little amp when somebody walks up. they don't know what they want so i play a little while they decide. i want to be that guy, i guess, sometimes. you know, if you walk into a coffee place and the owner is there playing guitar behind the counter... that's somewhere you'd want to stay. where there's local art on the walls and the music is coming from the guy's computer. this isn't starbucks. i want that to work. i need capital somehow.
i'm a writer for a british motorcycle magazine. i take photographs for a living. i document the real world, one way or another. a photojournalist. untrained. i don't have this little layer of flab around my stomach.
every time i close my eyes, it gets harder to open them.
a couple days ago, in basic lab safety training - read, "two hour powerpoint lecture" - nobody was paying attention. well, the two kids beside me were whispering and got bitched at pretty badly by the speaker. i didn't even look at them. i wasn't paying attention either. i scratched a sonnet on the inside of my folder. if i'd had another hour, i might have finished it. it's still about 6 lines short but whatever... i changed the last two this morning anyway. i'm trying to get over the idea that i can't edit anything i write because then it's not the same anymore. not the same paragraph. not the same pome. not the original, what came out. anyway, here are the first ten lines:
a year before we meet on Baker street
you left my coffee cold and freezing wind
that time i told you we should just be friends
the leaves were not so red on Baker street
the corner shop is now a pizza place
all robot art and nineties indie rock
still sit outside until they close the park
the winter breezes and my burning face
i heard that you were doing pretty well
from deep within my knock-down drag-out days
..........................................................................................
it hurt enough to think i had to stay
to wait so you could find me when you fell
the trees are still the same on Baker street
dead leaves in whistling breezes spin around
two small hot chocolates and a displaced town
it's warming up a bit on Baker street
it's not even about anybody in particular. the last 6 lines i just wrote right now. i hope they work. the last two lines before the break used to be "i heard you lived your life, i had a cage / a fool-proof metal jacket down inside / you left for home the day the music died." the last line was going to have something to do with a stage. returning to a smaller stage. something like that... felt too much like a rebel hippie thing, though. i don't know. it's done.
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
time to get away
i'm sitting out in the hazy sunshine with a brand new pen on reynolda's patio. studying. right. i have an exam in 90 minutes. that's plenty of time. i like this pen. there's a disrespectful group of middle school-looking kids below me on a tour. Large and Random. look to be inner-city, mostly black... but there's one chubby white kid with a mohawk and big white southpole shirt. he doesn't count. this one black kid has on a tan button shirt and matching plaid shorts, all the same design. the short sleeves goes down to his elbows. the shorts end at his ankles. looks like a little clown. uh oh. another group of similar aged kids just entered the pation. i hope there's a streetfight, west-side story style.
there are 18 people walking across the mag quad on sidewalks right now, only 2 are walking on the grass. i'm watching for little kids dancing, for people walking in step with my music - "time to get away" ~ LCD Soundsystem
it's a little too quick a beat for walking.
i really just want a gun. the mag quad is framed in trees with four sidewalks crossing it parallel down its length. every now and then, someone will appear on one side and walk straight across to the other, only to disappear again. there's maybe 6-8 people on some quieter times. they look like little moving targets. feels like a video game. one that you'd sell to kids to make them aspiring mercenaries. everyone's an innocent civilian.
i can hear the thrum of an airplane over "side with the seeds." i'm and out of clouds. makes you wonder if it's really there or not.
makes you wonder, you know?
there are 18 people walking across the mag quad on sidewalks right now, only 2 are walking on the grass. i'm watching for little kids dancing, for people walking in step with my music - "time to get away" ~ LCD Soundsystem
it's a little too quick a beat for walking.
i really just want a gun. the mag quad is framed in trees with four sidewalks crossing it parallel down its length. every now and then, someone will appear on one side and walk straight across to the other, only to disappear again. there's maybe 6-8 people on some quieter times. they look like little moving targets. feels like a video game. one that you'd sell to kids to make them aspiring mercenaries. everyone's an innocent civilian.
i can hear the thrum of an airplane over "side with the seeds." i'm and out of clouds. makes you wonder if it's really there or not.
makes you wonder, you know?
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