I'm waiting for the train
The subway that only goes one way
The stupid thing that will come to pull us apart
And make everybody late
You spent everything you had
Wanted everything to stop that bad
And now I'm a crushed credit card registered to Smith
Not the name that you call me with
You turned white like a saint
I'm tired of dancing on a pot of gold flake paint
Oh, we're so very precious, you and I
And everything that you do makes me want to die
Oh, I just told the biggest lie
I just told the biggest lie
The biggest lie

elliot smith - the biggest lie

This is the most nostalgic, and I would say - depressed - time of year for me. It means memories of my youth and darkness and death and all the things that have come to make the ghost that lives within me. Its a familiar, comfortable - horribly painful place, and I love it. I hate it and I love it, and it is the only thing I have ever known is a friend. It agrees with me. It knows. I'm fucking doomed. I am doom incarnate.

And now I will sip my tea. For now I am a tea drinker and that is my solace and my peace of mind, on those rare occasions when I reach that plateau these days I relish in it. I love, I hate, I guilt, I am nostalgia.

Fuck, I forgot how painful it can be. I forgot how fast it can come back and like a black blanket of death, envelope me and suffocate me until there is no resort but grenades and bombs and weapons of heavy warfare that I let free to kill all the death in me. Im sick, always have been. At its worst I cannot think of anything but death. The guilt, like a 1000 kilos of human emotion weighted on me - your problems, my problems, the whole fucking world's problems. Fuck. Fuck it.

Ahh, the new year, christmas is finally gone, I've had my dose of family. Things feel fresh, green, everything in it's right place. This state has always been the precursor for change in my life and I await it with open arms. Give me change.

It's been almost 3 years and 5 months since I last posted here. Here was my haven and my hell, like a drug I suppose in a lot of ways.

But I've moved so far from that spot, where I was 3 years and 5 months ago. For those who dare venture or remember, they were troubled times chronicled by the manic.

Life is better now. I'm happy. I have a scooter. I have a great job. I have a great wife. And I have a lot of great friends and a future.

So, to me this is a life lesson in the power of TIME.

I may continue to write here ever so often. If you want you can email me at

My opposition to war is not based upon pacifist or non-resistant principles. It may be that the present state of civilization is such that certain internation questions cannot be discussed; it may be that they have to be fought out. We ought not to forget that wars are a purely manufactured evil and are made according to a definite technique. A campaign for war is made upon as definite lines as a campaign for any other purpose. First, the people are worked upon. By clever tales the people's suspicions are aroused toward the nation against whom war is desired. Make the nation suspicious; make other nations suspicious. All you need for this is a few agents with some cleverness and no conscious and a press whose interest is locked up with the interests that will be benefited by war. Then the "over act" will soon appear. It is no trick at all to get an "over act" once you work the hatred of two nations up to the proper pitch

-Henry Ford

hi.

I mash my palms against my eyelids, clenched tight. The colors swirl and atoms and molecules and tiny planets are created and I never opened my eyes again.

The bureaucratization of the imaginative mind is the bane of mankind. You stupid fuckers are looking in the wrong direction. Wake up you salty fool. Your exposed wounds are nothing. They do not exist. There is no form, only function that inhabits an empty room with whitewash walls and one small window. There is no theory, only misguided action. You dirty pile of plastic electrons. You believe that you are holding life in your hands but you are dead. You hold your hands out and beg for change but you are crawling with worms. You create a life and live through it but you hate it and you are dead. You fear the end to this shithole because you know it is already over and you are just waiting for verification from your own personal messiah.

You remember when this happened but it was long ago and the paint has weathered and eroded. Your casket has already been purchased with your line of credit from the bank of jesus.

I finally read some Hemingway. People are always surprised that I never read him in High School but its true. I read The BFG by Roald Dahl in third grade and it changed my life. I love that book. But no, I never read hemingway.

Anyways I read one of his lesser known works, published posthumously, called A Moveable Feast, which is his account of life in Paris during the 1920's. Amazing. Then I read Tropic of Cancer by Henry Miller, which is his account of Paris in the 1930's during the depression. Wow.

I hate reading posts like this when I read other peoples blogs.

I highly recommend both of these books, read in succession if possible.

I put a portfolio together for a class. It's not totally done and I don't have the time now to finish it. For at least a couple weeks or so. So I'm posting it now. Here.

Hold your children and your money tight. Prepare for the attack. Stick your head between your legs. Consider as you do this that you will die now. You’ve never had this feeling before and it feels kind of itchy like death feels like. Your last thought is the most precious thing you have.

You check your pocket like you always do. Slowly reaching your right hand first to your belt line, counting the loops till you make it to your pocket. The wallet pocket.

Wallet. Check

Oh! The relief.

You drop your baby.

It hits. Hysteria. You die instantly, but it hurt like fuck for .1 second.

Wallet. Check

I want to tell you what the sky has done to me but I won't and I hope you can imagine. I believe that people die because of nostalgia; the thought of their tricycle from kindergarten is like a gun in the mouth. Your first girlfriend is the noose around your neck. You remember the smell of Christmas and you feel the razor across your wrists.

Nostalgia is so pervasive that, in fact, despite the fact that you think you hate your guts right now, you will remember this as a great time in your life. Remember that.

I am nearly offended by trite and pretentious bullshit now and it is my cause to avoid producing said bullshit. Therefore, I should never emit a note from my mouth, or even move a part of my body, because every gesture suggest pretense. And, with a full frontal shock and awe assault on all things bullshit, at least as far as is my control, I will avoid any thoughts dealing with this thing or that thing or anything. I will die and with it pretense. What a shame! They will say.

Wow, that was bullshit!

ps. This was from your dream last night that you don't remember.

Everything is here. I wont read it but I will let you as long as you leave me be. This is psycho-babble: The chronicles of my early days in alaska to when I said fuck everything and fuck fuck fuck god damn and stopped writing. I get crazier as I go.

I know there are some good things that I wrote but I also know that a lot of it is shit. The kind that gets stuck in your shoes and wont come off even if you rub it on grass and pavement.

Sometimes I might write things here but dont pay attention.

Maybe you are bored and you should take a walk. Or better yet, Bike. I love my bike.

You should love your bike. It is a puppy. It is a kitten with small ears and large eyes. It is the dog with it's leg broken off that you find on the road that no one would help because maybe they didn't want the constant stream of murder red blood coming from the dog to cover the beige plush leather interior. And so you helped the dog but it died in your arms on the way the to hospital. Blood. It's eyes were talking to you. The dog told you to ride your bike you fatass.

fyi ps. you didn't mind picking up the dog because your car was covered in blood already.

Look mom a circus.

Remember that time you killed someone? Yea, you did.

You said you were sorry but things happen. You said things didn't feel right. You told me that life is like a shit sandwich, and that you want all the bread you can get. You said that life is like a bowl of cherries but you only got pits. Remember that?

You seemed alright until, well, you know. You said things were starting to get to you. You blamed it on the world and the government and poverty in third world countries. You were consumed with the angst of the world. A collective energy, you said. You said that the world is nice place to visit but you couldn't live there.

And so you killed yourself.

It wasn't all at once. That would have been much to easy. You started from the inside out, like a bomb just waiting to go. And when it went you couldn't believe it.

And then you brutally murdered yourself with a chainsaw and a very small pair of tweezers.

(Metaphorically speaking, of course.)

hello my name is you

hi

I think I'm afraid to tell people what I'm thinking. I have no idea why this happens, and I wonder why it is only now that I am realizing this.

I am for the most part expressionless, excuse the fits of laughter and mania that occur in my apartment, my comfort zone. I hate being read, but I read everyone I meet. And yes, I know.

I stare at the ground while walking mostly because I don't want to talk to you, or solicit your smalltalk. Sorry, but it's true.

If you are a homeless man and you ask me for money I will give it to you. I'm the worst sucker. So, please don't ask because I'm almost broke.

I think that I really, really need to get a bike.

I really think that George Bush is a moron. It seems like everyone's forgotten about Nader already. Don't give up Ralph!

So I wonder why it is only nostalgia that I feel lately. I have been of relatively good spirits as of late, really, but I can't seem to shake this feeling. That melancholy feeling that seeps in when you are looking the other way, yea, that feeling, I haven't had that. I am thankful for that.

But Nostalgia is a strange feeling as well.

nos·tal·gi·a A bittersweet longing for things, persons, or situations of the past.

It is more of the bittersweet feeling that I get. That intense feeling that doesn't fully show itself. It's like an equal mix of ecstacy and deep melancholy that leaves you balancing precariously somewhere in the middle, swaying.

I'm spent. I'm tired. I'm exhausted. I'm sleepy. I'm bored. I'm burned out. I'm overtaxed. I'm enervated.

I'm captivated.

It's valentines day.

Happy valentines day.

I got my girlfriend frogger for gameboy.

She likes it.

Oh and I got her an Orchid. It is white,

and exotic.