For Those Whose Blogs I Used to Read

I smoked in the rain, under an awning, after I spent another day immersed in the sciences that have awed and befuddled me for four days. Sciences and massive institutions, like the National Institutes of Health or, better, our national government have forced upon me weird and immediate interpersonal realities.

I really wanted to write about why listening affectionately to The Hold Steady locked me into a form-fitting and helpless perspective. While I was under this awning, I thought about some things that I might say to people with whom I am familiar. I thought about experiences I have, mostly mundane, that I probably won't share with anyone. I monologized about some things that I haven't done and will probably never do but think would be cool. I came to a certain realization that I could only come up with these ideas by placing myself in some abstract future where I am able to talk affectionately about my current predicament as if it were the past. Of course, if I could claim a certain level of sincerity for the things that I do, I would be in no dream state. I would be acting. I would not be reminiscing about the present. The present that cannot actualize from this viewpoint. Paralysis, dog. "Hold steady" is not healthy to assume as action. The Hold Steady suggests inaction and nostalgia. I was 16 or 17 when How a Resurrection Really Feels really got to me. I assume their past-tense narration. Oh I inflate what I don't do, turning it around a couple times in my mind by assuming a peer's perspective. Can you see how this can end badly?

Gonna eat starbursts and watch Kids now.

:)

When a man appears the world bears down on him and breaks his back. There are always too many rotten pillars left standing, too much festering humanity for man to bloom. The superstructure is a lie and the foundation is a huge quaking fear. If at intervals of centuries there does appear a man with a desperate, hungy look in his eye, a man who would turn the world upside down in order to create a new race, the love that he brings to the world is turned to bile and he becomes a scourge. If now and then we encounter pages that explode, pages that wound and sear, that wring groans and tears and curses, know that they come from a man with his back up, a man whose only defenses left are his words and his words are always stronger than the lying, crushing weight of the world, stronger than all the racks and wheels which the cowardly invent to crush out the miracle of personality. If any man ever dared to translate all that is in his heart, to put down what is really his experienc,e what is truly his truth, I think then the world would go to smash, that it would be blown to smithereens and no god, no accident, no will could ever again assemble the pieces, the atoms, the indestructible elements that have gone to make up the world.
-Henry Miller

I want to take his place

Do you have a Hippy Johnny?

Ever go fishing and get your car stolen by a DJ and a mariachi singer? It kind of happens like this.

it's cramping my style, dog

No distinguishing the boys from the scene here.



I guess part of the reason I admire the Beastie Boys is their ability to switch up styles without bating critics. God they've had so many different yet defining styles. Somehow their evolution never meant selling out. They didn't just change their clothes but also their attitudes. Which makes the achievement that much more bewildering.
It's as if their audience has more respect for them than they have for themselves. They've gotten worse no doubt. I won't post any of their really recent stuff.

1999:



They certainly don't belong to much anymore. From a rooftop to a river walk, PVC pipes to moonshoes, Kilts to onesies. No one is cramping this style. They keep each other good company.

O this makes me weary.

Your Rump:

Never been dumped, cuz I'm the most mackinest
Never been jumped, cuz I'm the most packinest

My Pop-Tart

My poptart's "filling is made with equal to 10% fruit."

Portland is Pretty

Have to blog because it is right. There is so much control to life when you have the time to live through something twice. There is so much righteousness in keeping up a blog.

I've found myself hoping for the prolonged Portland rain and I haven't been getting it. I've wanted an excuse to stay in my room. Usually it's cloudy and dim when I wake, and I am relieved that I won't be taunted by the exterior. It won't make me feel guilty for a reluctance to engage. It usually clears up by noon though.

The weather hasn't been like they said it would be. There hasn't been more than two or three days of straight rain, much less months of gray. The sky hasn't allowed me to hide beneath it when the low clouds seemed comforting. I hope it reveals me, but I still haven't climbed a mountain out here.

Looks like there are a lot of phospholipids out there

Trees and stuff are outside everyday, and they are usually beautiful. It all deserve a page or two. The problem is I only see the forest. But I see each lumberjack’s jacket and the bridges and the roads. But the concretes only see the forest; they too cannot see a shrub. I was sitting on the bridge, and I saw a school of fish and a school of thought. I distinguished a couple thoughts but could not discern a fish, although I knew the school was there. There was a sea of scales, and I decided that I didn’t want to go swimming that day. But the other swimmers headed to the pool, and bought packs of bubblegum after practice. All the pieces went into all of their mouths together. After their jaws got tired, their moms arrived, and it would have been strange chewing bubblegum in the car anyway.

Sometimes I plan ahead

A nice outdoorsy man sells books sometimes outside of the Student Union. He's got crooked teeth and wears a bucket hat. His book collection has been accumulating since he was five. I like buying books from him because they're really cheep and they all have a living history. I bought E.M. Forster's The Longest Journey and Dostoyevsky's The Brothers Karamazov for five dollars yesterday. I usually have to justify myself to all the critics here, especially with books and shit. I knew I probably would not read them anytime soon, but I admire the guy and his great collection.

I was preparing my brief about why I bought these books when I bumped into a friend who I hadn't seen in a while. We decided to play pool like we did a lot last semester. I left my books in the pool hall and didn't even notice they were missing until this morning. I felt kind of unhappy for a couple reasons before that and realizing that I had forgotten about those books all day brought me lower. I eventually tried to gloss over the mishap and chance upon the books, but after an entire Friday night I didn't have much hope. When I got to the pool hall, I was happy to find the Forster book where I left it. The other one was gone. I know Dostoyevsky's hot, and that's why I bought his book. I guess the motherfucker who stole my book must have decided that Dostoyevski was worthy of theft but not Forster. Or he also knows Dostoyevsky's hot. I would rather both gone. I didn't buy them together for them to be compared and judged the way this fucker did. I wanted to read the books in the summertime. Now I only have what someone believes to be the lesser of the two.

I'm going to watch Nailin Palin in the lecture hall now, free to hate the player and the game.

Porridge

No one can shit in Tropic of Cancer. It's not something that is seriously addressed, but it's very funny when it comes to the fore. Like when Miller discovers that his depraved friends start going out to breakfast everyday. He is certainly impressed and surprised that he is so close to some people that eat a meal everyday at the same time. They're eating at some family-friendly place because it serves cheep porridge all day. And porridge makes you shit.

I'm doing laundry and getting ready to fly on inauguration day. I can't wait to see all the clogged up people in the airport.

Just do it already

Happy New Year

I don't want to be a wet blanket.