| greetings |
[10 Jul 2008|12:31am] |
| [ |
mood |
| |
 complacent |
] |
| [ |
music |
| |
the morning after girls |
] |
its been a long time
i felt like this needed posting somewhere, incase it gets lost.
perhaps this is a figurative xerox copy,
further construction of one's virtual paper trail,
either way,
not too sure i will lose this if its on here.
looking back on my highschool career, one night i sat home to complete a homework assignment...an essay, if you will. instead of sticking to the guidelines, this is what came out. i've always wanted to expand upon it, or at least revise it once more from the ground up. maybe i'll see it on here randomly, after having long forgotten about it and someone will kickstart its revival at that given moment...
until then...
________________________________________________
At precisely 6:23 in the morning on November 17th, 1998, Jonas Efrim Benamis disappeared. Just seven minutes before his father’s alarm would sound and bring the well respected white-collar worker into a new day, Jonas was gathering into a small blue patch-covered backpack: a harmonica, the key of C and a gift from his father eight years ago; a copy of Orwell’s 1984, a favorite novel since the seventh grade; a well-worn leather-bound Bible, the same one his grandpa carried through the Ardennes in World War II; a dog-eared college-ruled spiral, with JONAS B. scribbled across the green cover in the fattest Sharpie he could find at the time, and enough cash to get him a bus, train, cab, whatever to at least the edge of town.
As the son of a bookstore owner, Jonas had surrounded himself all his life with the literature of the most beautiful minds, from Socrates to Hemingway. He simply thrived on the adventures that existed from cover to cover. However, as he grew older, the words of writers past no longer satisfied his voracity for adventure. Briefly, the works of Dickens and Emerson were replaced by the music of Bob Dylan, The Cure and The Clash, but like literature, music could only last so long. Alas, Jonas had in him the spirit of a vagrant, and an inward motivation to experience the world around him, which led him to leave home without a trace.
That early morning in November, one day before his eighteenth birthday, Jonas left only a note in his poorly scrawled handwriting that read, again, in the fattest Sharpie he could find:
“Gone to find life. Gone to find myself. Don’t worry. Jonas.”
And just as he dotted the last period, it never hit him how truly free he was. As he dashed out the front door and into the street, he left 13789 Kathy Lane; it never crossed his mind where he might go. With one hand-written note and a walk out the door he had abandoned Jonas Efrim Benamis and become a regular John Doe. No one knew his name or his face, and with no ID, birth certificate, or social security card and just the black Converse All-Stars on his feet; a pair of blue jeans, with a hole wearing through the left knee; his favorite Beatles t-shirt, the one with Abbey Road on the front; his blue backpack; and a musty old, olive-drab green Russian Army standard-issue combat jacket, he jumped the turnstile at the nearest Greyhound station with a twenty dollar ticket to Austin.
Where did he want to go? At less than a day short of 18 years old, he sure didn’t know. All that was on his mind was freedom and an incessant desire to pursue his own American dream. No longer was he bound by money, rules or worldly possessions. The only real things he had that were truly his were his notebook, harmonica, and Bible, for he gave up his copy of 1984 to a young woman in El Paso who had never heard of a utopia. He lived in the present, taking each day one at a time and for the first time, not living, but living. He borrowed books, played his harmonica for spare change now and again, snuck into concerts, slept on rooftops, hopped freight trains and climbed the highest billboards, just for the experience, all the while recording the places, faces and things he came across in his green journal.
Jonas considered himself a modern transcendentalist. He chuckled at the thought of Henry David Thoreau living in the woods by himself, secluded from society as an idea of independence. In contrast, Jonas lived independently in the very heart of society, no matter what city or state he was in. He walked streets run by the components of capitalism, as weary laborers and business men alike shuffled about their daily routines, slaving for a level of stability that for many was never within reach. Never before had he grown akin to the mere thought of routine, so the instant he found himself in one, he skipped town as soon as possible.
Traveling by far represented the ultimate adventure for Jonas in his early stages of independence. Often he would hop aboard a Santa Fe freight train, unaware of where it might take him. Sometimes he would ride the rails for hours, days, or even weeks, sitting in an open freight container, dangling his feet over the track below him and watching the countryside speed by: Midwest Kansas, the waving golden wheat reminded him of a girl he once dated when he was sixteen; the Arizona desert, where the long days of scorching heat were worth the beautiful sunset, and the Colorado mountains, where the boulders and white capped peaks made him feel so humble and insignificant in the world around him.
He had seen the Carolinas. He spent two days at the Grand Canyon. He had even stayed with a young group of hippies in San Francisco. Paul Simon claimed to have hitchhiked from Saginaw in four days, Jonas did it in two. He woke up night after night in a city that didn’t sleep. In just a year on his own away from home, Jonas Efrim Benamis had seen more of America than many do in a lifetime: the Creole culture of Louisiana, impoverished Texas border towns, Oklahoma born and bred Native Americans, and the innards of the United States capital in Washington D.C. Everything he had experienced in exactly one year he had recorded as best as he could in his green notebook, on the backs of flyers he had collected, newspapers, and waste paper, all stuffed into the blue backpack, along with his Bible and harmonica.
November 17th, 1999 one month away the entrance to the new millennium and the world moving as fast as it could, Jonas, for the first time came to a stand-still. In his entire year of traveling, he had thought of home for the first time as more than a passing mental glance. In the past twelve months he had sent anonymous postcards home from news stands across the nation to show the far off places he had seen on his own accord. But for once he really thought about all the things he was farthest from for the past 365 days: his house in Houston, his parents, his dad’s bookstore, his friends, his high-school. Collecting from his pockets thirty-five cents, Jonas Efrim Benamis stood up from a bench in Central Park and at the nearest payphone as his breath condensed in the frigid air before him and snow began to fall, dialed home for the first time.
~~fin~~
|
|
| long time no see |
[28 Oct 2006|11:58pm] |
| [ |
mood |
| |
 blank |
] |
| [ |
music |
| |
street to nowhere- georgia, can you hear me? |
] |
i felt so holy as the candle burned down to the bar,
and she filled me like her voice filled the room.
my feet got sorta heavy,
my tounge turned to lead,
she was gone before i drank confident.
but georgia,
can you hear me?
i've been crawling through the trees.
through the pines,
through the pines.
won't you whisper that you remember me?
i searched under rocks for the bird who flew away.
if i caught her,
i don't know what i would say.
because love don't haunt the tavern.
its not drunk on the balcony.
it don't spill out at two a.m. into the street.
but georgia,
can you hear me?
i've been calling through the trees.
through the pines,
through the pines.
won't you whisper that you remember me?
i was a leash with no dog,
like a track with no train.
well i hung by my hood,
and let the wind have its way.
i was lifeless.
useless.
a corpse with no grave.
an ascetic with no pillar or pain,
i was a shedded hair from a dead mare's mane,
from her fingers i dangled and danced along the stage.
i caught her when i was taut in the yarn,
and i yanked with all the strength in my arm,
and she tumbled from the rafters and fell to me so hard
to my arms.
but georgia,
can you hear me?
i've been calling across the sea.
through waves at your break-water.
won't you whisper that you remember me?
when they seal you in oak,
and throw dirt on your face,
may a soft-bark sapling sprout from thee.
may your bones turn to wool.
may your heart be a nest,
and warm the world
the way you warmed me.
|
|
| tabula rasa |
[13 Mar 2006|03:06am] |
| [ |
mood |
| |
 numb |
] |
| [ |
music |
| |
godspeed, you black emperor! |
] |
3:00 am, and i'm damn well aware that i should be sleeping.
but for some reason which shall remain unexplained, i can't.
certain, fickel aspects of certain things have been gobbling at my toes like a pack of hungry piranas.
but howcome its the fickelist of the fickel that bugs me the most?
i suppose i dont understand why people like to point fingers these days and say that others are fake. and not just on our beloved myspace, ladies and gents, but anywhere. its almost like back in the day when we kids with punk rock roots (im speaking from my own standpoint) used to bang our heads to the casualties or the exploited and call kids loser posers or "poseurs" that didnt stand for the patches that they had on their jackets, or actually listen to the bands that they showed support for. whatever. what was once a stupid insult for testing one's dedication to the "scene" or the "movement" has become a cutthroat battle of personalities. who is anyone to grab someone else by the balls and rip the basis of their life, their very behavior, to shreds by calling it fake. "fake" is defined as "one that is not authentic or genuine; a sham". so what IS genuine? WHO is genuine? and where the hell can we find these people so we can keep them in tiny, glass compartments so we can study them?
to me, the adjective "fake" describes a contrast to an original...ie, the mean old bartender at the bar downtown doesnt let you drink because he knows that your ID is fake...sorry, jack, but it doesnt fit. it doesnt LOOK like a real ID should. so if we go by this definition, what goes to say about fakers? are they the true originals? it seems to me like so many people have gotten caught up in this idea of an "assembly line" for the production of human beings. each human ought to fit a cookie cutter, stereotypical, mold. all punks should be pissed off. all preppy kids should be ditzy. all jocks should be jocky. all hardcore kids should be hardcore. all hip hop kids should be thugs. and if someone slips up and doesnt turn out to be like the rest of their gingerbread friends, good lord, we have a crisis. its almost like if someone doesnt do what we predict, its not OUR judgement thats flawed, but theirs...and they suck because of it. harharharkthxbye.
thomas aquinas was one of the original intellectual powerhouses to push the idea of tabula rasa...or "clean slate"...that each human being is brought into the world, entirely apart from any form of knowledge, intellect, etc. totally blank. like a large block of unrefined marble, from the very second we enter this world, according to tommy, we are etched and carved out by what happens to us. much like trial and error...you learn from experience, and each new line, every new pattern within us comes from a different event in our lives. a car accident tells one to drive safer, to buckle up. disease tells one to watch his health. whatever event you choose, aquinas says that it WILL effect your life, no matter what kind of spin you put on it. in the grand scheme of things, it will make or break the person that you are.
having said this, going back to whos fake. finally, id like to say that i believe that the only person on this great green earth who has ANY right to say anything about your own personal makeup or integrity is the kid in the mirror, your very own reflection. you know who you are. you know who you want to be. there you have it, you have your starting point and you know where you want to go. maybe its just the bastard in the mirror thats getting in your way. or maybe youre happy with him, and youd like him to stick around for a while. either way, i think it would be a lot more productive in the grand scheme of things, if we all looked at our own reflection everyonce in a while to see if we're truly pleased with who we are, rather than checking in on if we're happy with who someone else is. but isnt such a thing conceit? one may ask.. i'll leave that up to bill shakespeare as he says in henry V, "self-love, my leige, is not so vile a sin as self-neglect". how could we expect joe to make sally happy when joe is tearing himself apart with who he is? jesus said "love thy neighbor as thou lovest thyself" but to do so, you must come to good, even terms with your self, your intellect, your will, and your human spirit so that you may transfer your own love to those around you. afterall, everything has a source. good things in this world DO stem from the hearts of individuals, who i'm sure see eye to eye with themselves. if not, we've got a problem.
maybe im advocating narcissism in the eyes of some, but if the world is just a gaggle of indivduals, why cant it be a gaggle of individuals who are at peace with themselves? after all, maybe they'd come to peace with each other for once. i would urge people to take their experiences, their gifts in life, and apply them to acquinas' theory, so that maybe, when its all said and done, once your own marble has been refined with all its intricacies, it wont be just a mass of worthless carved up stone, but a beautiful, polished work of art, worthy of being called a monument.
~fin~
|
|
| progressively caterwauling |
[17 Jan 2006|09:49pm] |
| [ |
mood |
| |
 nerdy |
] |
| [ |
music |
| |
appleseed cast |
] |
in light of the previous entry, study of the english language, and my epic battles between seeing a glass half full or half empty, i thought id ramble a bit. suprising, eh?
"to become morally independent of one's formative society...is the grandest theme of all literature, because it is the only means of moral progress"
-william empson
outlook-
to be morally independent of ones society is to suggest that one not rely on the influences of society alone to determine the way that they live their life. human beings as a whole are prone to the pressures and influences of outside forces all around the world... but strong as they may be, not ALL influences of society suggest moral progress, let alone progress at all, but rather, the "decrepitness of species" as rousseau put it. what becomes a trend of society, regardless of how righteous or sinful the trend may be, was at one point nothing more that the idea of an individual. however, thousands of people taking one's idea as the "norm" does not suggest progress, but merely acting as a sheep among a vast flock. maybe what empson really means is that the concept of one's own, self-made ideas, especially from a literary standpoint. i suppose any well-rounded and educated person could write a "perfect sonnet"...full of shakespearian language or theories of romantics of the past, but as awestruck as we may be come in reading the literature, sure, it may be well written, but it is not by any means progress. one man can emulate shakespeare. cool. maybe he studied his works for years and years to learn how to write the perfect iambic pentameter, just as his idol bill did. perhaps a different form of art, yet the same concept...a man could study the works of bob dylan, strum his guitar incessanty as dylan did, and even croon upon his harmonica...maybe even get the rambling "voice" down. but at the end of the day, when the record comes out, and this man is known as the epic dylan impersonator, at the bottom of the record it still has HIS name...not dylans. enough of the BS. does this not frighten anyone? that we have wonderful scholars with magnificent imaginations and minds spending time trying to emulate and create a carbon copy of what is already known as great? afterall, an emulation might be wonderful, but it can never be as good as the original. maybe i'll be gotten wrong for this, preservation of the styles of the past is by no means wrong, but maybe even for literature there is a proper medium between the conservative and liberal. i suppose personally, id draw the line when the term "preservation" is slowly turned into "beating a dead horse". sure we can apply this to music. but thatd go on for hours. and i dont have that kind of time. progress progress progress. maybe ill contradict myself with this one, but maybe theres a new definition to "progress". first off in defining this simple term even further...to me, at least, especially pertaining to empson's words, i believe that "moral" in the sense of the word does not necessarily pertain to one's morals...no...that would be too easy for a man of literature. rather, i believe that the two coincide. moving on with it, cutting to the chase, i believe that "moral progress" in this sense suggests progress that is driven straight from the heart, not necessarily from what we know as custom to be "right" or "wrong" in the world we live in. to make another real-world reference...look at who congress gives medals of honor to. soldiers don't get them for merely following the orders of a superior. they get them for going above and beyond the "call of duty", serving with their hearts at hand. for the sake of saving the platoon, no soldier is ordered to smother an enemy grenade with his own body. instead, such acts of courage occur with a strong will and epic strength of mind. god bless our troops, but aside from battle field heroics, maybe all this world needs is a few more heroes. in the end, when we strive, toil, and struggle passionately, filled with emotion, true progress is indeed achieved.
|
|
|
[27 Dec 2005|12:11am] |
| [ |
mood |
| |
 geeky |
] |
| [ |
music |
| |
converge |
] |
friends only, suckahs.
:-D
|
|
|
[18 Nov 2005|11:08pm] |
| [ |
mood |
| |
 blah |
] |
| [ |
music |
| |
saves the day |
] |
dear neglected livejournal,
i hate being so goddamn jealous.
and i hate worrying about stuff that never existed to begin with.
i usually dont worry about what i know i cant change or whats passed...
but im hung up on this shit....porque??!?!?!?
i can tell myself all day that the mechanics were flawed from the very start,
but i cant help but wrap my mind around the concept day afterday.
and i hate how cliche it all is.
i wish that i had a cause to put my worry to rest...some kind of excuse,
oh i was lied to, oh but it wasnt my fault, "x" happened...which led to "y"...therefore i'm not to blame.
but it gets me nowhere.
perhaps i could start over from square one, id really like that
but i had waited too long from those first few days in the summer.
whatever.
|
|
| puzzle pieces and physics |
[12 Jul 2005|11:14pm] |
| [ |
mood |
| |
 contemplative |
] |
| [ |
music |
| |
explosions in the sky |
] |
theres always a void. not meant to depress, or to pine, but a vague, ranting, typical of a weblog. always a void that cant be fulfiled. the best beat cant fill it, neither can the worlds most refined culture, nor the saddest songs, or the happiest stroll down a street at sunset, or whatever beautiful part of nature or aspect of life you prefer. maybe this "void" is like a missing piece on whatever it is that we call life, and maybe these objects, experiences, etc, that we try to put in it's spot are nothing more than pieces that fit incorrectly. it may seem to fit for some time, but after a while, we soon come to see that maybe one facet of this piece doesnt exactly fit into place as well as we thought it would, as it causes some imperfection in whatever we try to build with our assembled pieces, and then remove it, and attempt to find another, better fitting piece. how can something like this be felt, and take so long to fill, if filled at all? could it be just human nature? one of mother nature's nifty little programs, installed on the processor of the human mind...think! act! achieve!, always moving one step further to accumulate our pieces? could that be it? and whoever has the most pieces at the end of the game wins, right? could be... or is there a catch? all i know is i can't find this piece in music. i can't find it onstage. i can't find it hidden in some country on the other side of this earth, i know that for sure. i can't find it hidden within the canvas and geometric figures of the latest art expo. i can't find it in the back of some book. and i sure can't come up with it myself. i'll come around. until then, i want to know what its like to fully devote myself to something, or someone, loving through and through, along with whatever imperfections may be present. the dictionary defines equilibrium as- a state of emotional or physical balance. or when applied to physics, could be defined as a state where all forces acting on an object are equally counteracted, thus maintaining stability. anything can stop you, but at the same time, youre stopping anything, thus, a deadlock. though this prooves true for what we some want to gain in life, im not too sure it applies to me. to be frank, "equilibrium" is what shrinks try to achieve by putting patients on the right drug cocktail. when little psycho freddy has stopped his raging acts of depression and has succombed to a vegetative state, neither violent, nor shooting sky high with joy, the shrink has done his job at the end of the day...hes got his patient in a calm, never changing mood atmosphere, just as long as he keeps taking his medicine. call it a drastic, stereotypical t analogy (it is), but i think it applies to life, and those of us not rocked up on anti-depressants and whathave you, and no offense intended towards those who are. but again, this "equilibrium" simply cannot apply to me...i want to go above and beyond, whatever it may be in my eyes. i want to experience the rollercoaster ride, the ups, the downs, the corkscrews, the zero gravity. how come all the human experience has come to is "how fast i can flatten out my life, and get to the point where im at a good middle point...not above...not below, steady enough to not change"? how can people want this? sure, you get to where you want to be, which may be great for some...but all i can ask is how can someone live like that? some may say, "but at such stability, it is impossible to fail!" sure, which may be true, but at the same time, it is gravely impossible to achieve. and with such thick supports, sure, a plan is sure not to fail, but since when has failure become such a horrible thing? we all need to take a step back, and look past the word F-A-I-L-U-R-E and the actual act of doing so. failure is one of the most beautiful things in this world, sure, it sucks to fail an exam, an equipment failure on the launch pad of apollo 1 got 3 of america's heroic astronauts killed, and the wright brothers didnt soar with the birds with their first attempt at kittyhawk, and almost gave up. though frustrating, repetitive and very often tragic, what do we get from failure, aside from headaches, sore thumbs, and a few "damnit"s every now and then? we learn. we learn. and we learn. some learn faster than others, but we always remember the place where we had our shortcomming, and do our best so that it never occurs again. cuz after all, if you want it that bad, who really wants to screw up something the exact same way multiple times. when pressure was on the great american inventor, Thomas Edison to produce results for his latest creation, he was asked about his daily results in the lab, as the public had yet to see the new project...when asked, he responded:. "results? why, man, i have gotten lots of results! if i find 10,000 ways something won't work, i haven't failed. i am not discouraged, because every wrong attempt discarded is often a step forward" also the great mind said, paraphrased, but "many of life's failures are often experienced by people who didnt know how close they were to success before they gave up.". to me, the last quote is both inspiring, and haunting. because yes, the next time i try to do something could be the time i do it just the way i wanted to, and experience success, but when i look back at all the times i've given up on something and left it to collect dust, its haunting as to how much i'll wonder, "how many more trys would it have taken to get it right?", or "if i have done this, would it have worked?". instead, of this, i want to do whatever it is that i find passion and joy in...i want to do it fully, and correctly, no matter how many failures it takes. a perfectionist? no. the only person who was and ever will be perfect died on a cross. and i sure can't soar that high. all i want is the joy of love, laughter, friends, family, religion, nature, and maybe even a good dr pepper ever now and then...but to their fullest potential, whatever they may be, within my reaches. i want to know what its like; devotion, sharing, working, achieving, to my full potential, and i've got my whole life ahead of me. so while i've got the time, i'll search for all those pieces that fit in the right places, and maybe i'll be someones piece too. cuz she could sure be mine.
as if this entry wasnt long enough
my favorite quote,
which i think has appeared 3 other times in this journal.
i could spend hours decyphering it,
but i think i'll let teddy explain it,
straight up
"It is not the critic who counts, not the man who points out how the strong
man stumbled, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better.
The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena; whose face is
marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs and
comes short again and again; who knows the great enthusiasms, the
great devotions,and spends himself in a worthy cause; who, at the best,
knows in the end the triumph of high achievement; and who, at the worst,
if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be
with those cold and timid souls who know neither victory nor defeat."
-Theodore Roosevelt-
thankyou and goodnight.
|
|
|
[30 Jun 2005|12:27pm] |
| [ |
mood |
| |
 bouncy |
] |
| [ |
music |
| |
sakjdhakjsdhas |
] |
fred sits alone
at his desk, in the dark.
theres an akward young shadow
who waits in the hall.
he has cleared all his things
and put them in boxes;
things that remind him:
"life has been good"
twenty-five years,
hes worked at the paper.
the man's here
to take him downstairs.
and im sorry,
mr jones,
its time.
there was no party,
there were no songs,
because today,
is just a day
like the day that he started.
no one is left here
who knows his first name,
and life barrels on,
like a runaway train;
where the passengers change,
but they dont change anything.
you get off,
someone else can get on.
and im sorry,
mr jones,
its time.
streetlight,
it shines through the shades,
casting lines on the floor,
and lines on his face.
he reflects on the day.
fred gets his paints out,
and goes to the basement,
projecting some slides
onto a plain white canvas,
and traces it,
he fills in the spaces,
he turns off the slides,
and it doesnt look right,
and all of these bastards
have taken his place.
he's forgotten,
but not yet gone.
and im sorry,
mr jones
its time.
|
|
|
[04 Jun 2005|09:48pm] |
| [ |
mood |
| |
 optimistic |
] |
| [ |
music |
| |
dallas green |
] |
so goals for the summer-
catch a duck
climb the tower
work
do something worthwhile
be productive on occasion
make new friends
make old friends better friends
find something new
find myself
find out something about myself
do something
work with music
have fun
figure things out
do something really stupid, but i'll love for forever
*insert verb* something different
find my konstantine, or try
play some intense ultimate
go to the beach
jam
have more fun
work towards something
get motivated
try to sort stuff
jump off something
analyze the windspeed velocity of a european swallow and its ability to carry coconuts (not really)
find something new in this one horse town
go for walks
enjoy the sun
look at the stars once in a while
see at least 5 sun rises
see at least 5 sunsets
put some thought into things
write letters
give hugs
accomplish
~fin~
|
|
|
[01 Jun 2005|09:59pm] |
| [ |
mood |
| |
 recumbent |
] |
| [ |
music |
| |
say waaaaaaht |
] |
so far from me
stands a man known as disease.
he's shaking
all the hands
of the people he meets.
and
you just
just dont see me anymore
ive been losing
everything.
you just
dont see me anymore
ill
say
goodbye
since you left,
she's a mess,
she regrets all the things
that she could have said.
but,
we fall asleep,
never think about anything
we wake to the sound of the phone
as it hits the ground
and now,
you just
dont see me anymore
ive been
losing everything.
you just
dont see me anymore
i'll say goodbye.
and oh,
at the wake
at the wake
i will turn to see a face
just a face
just a face
so surrounded by a name
what a name
what a name
and we never want to change
what you gave
what you gave
and we never wanna let go.
so surround me.
i need anything
and
you're everything.
i want to live
like i did before all this hit.
to sleep in your arms
to think,
we'll never fall apart.
you know its such a drag
you live your life
for a heart attack.
to never get a second chance
to say goodbye
so say goodbye
i'll never try.
you just
dont see me anymore
now
ive been losing everything.
you just
dont see me anymore
i'll say goodbye.
</3
|
|
|
[29 May 2005|11:42am] |
| [ |
mood |
| |
 tired |
] |
| [ |
music |
| |
theSTEREO |
] |
so its summer
so its effing paraaaadiiiiiiseeeee
yeah so floating a a huge chair across a pool with the assistance of about 30 kickboards is both possible and necessary for entertainment purposes.
work is really fun
ice cream sandwiches are really the sandwiches of champions
so i hung out with jonesy last night
good times.
swim meets are long and un-fun
on friday i had pet crawfish from fiesta
but then i set them free to roam the sj campus so that maybe, someday, they would live to not be someones dinner.
but that was probably all in vain.
but its the thought that counts?
so uhh sonic is the best thing ever.
i need to go to buffalo exchange...
kates graduating
congrats
sisters are home
hooray for family
so summer really is cool
word to your mother
|
|
|
[17 May 2005|05:25pm] |
| [ |
mood |
| |
 chipper |
] |
| [ |
music |
| |
whatevvvvv |
] |
i feel like a quote out of context,
withholding the rest
so i can be for you what you wanna see
i got the
-gestures
-sounds
-got the timing down
its uncanny,
yeah, youd think it was me
do you think i should take a class to lose my southern accent?
did i make me up?
-or-
make the face till it stuck
i do the best imitation of myself
the "problem with you" speech
you gave me was fine.
i liked the theories about my little stage,
and i swore i was listening,
but i started drifting around the part about me acting my age.
now if its all the same,
i've people to entertain.
i'll juggle one handed
do some magic tricks
and the best imitation of myself.
maybe im thinking myself in a hole
wondering
who i am when i ought to know
straighten up now,
time to go fool somebody else.
last night, i was east with them
and west within
trying to be for you what you wanna see.
but i cant help it with you,
the good and bad comes through
dont want you hangin out with no one but me.
now if its all the same
it comes from the same place
and if my minds somewhere else
you wont be able to tell.
i do the best imitation of myself
|
|
|
[16 May 2005|05:34pm] |
| [ |
mood |
| |
 dorky |
] |
| [ |
music |
| |
circle takes the square |
] |
eb61782: and he listened to you???
practice for war: yeah
eb61782: what an idiot
eb61782: always a fun time
eb61782: hey yesterday i saw a guy wearing a duct tape thong
eb61782: i will send you a picture late
^my sister
what would i do without her
just cruisin on in through finalzz
work is fun
word to your mother
|
|
| hello, america. |
[12 May 2005|05:21pm] |
| [ |
mood |
| |
tired |
] |
| [ |
music |
| |
the chariot-before there was atlanta, there was douglasville |
] |
took a dive out of a ten story building
to the pavement below.
no one saw the fall
just the aftermath.
the crowd gathered below
her beautiful face,
now blurred with tears,
unrecognizable just as his
face : face : concrete
dont let your dreamers grow up to be dead men
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
okay so when im not working this weekend-
UBER PLANS!!!
k thanks kids bye
<3<3
word to your mother :-D
|
|
|
[29 Apr 2005|08:51pm] |
| [ |
mood |
| |
 hungry |
] |
| [ |
music |
| |
zao |
] |
could the pizza get here ANY slower?!?!?!
comming soon to a pool near you,
well maybe not....
yeah, thats right, i started my lifeguard training today.
soon enough, ill be out in the summer sun working on my tan and doing all that i can to keep little johnny from drowning. heh. fun stuff.
i had almost forgotten how much i hate standardized tests
but oh, it was rekindled today
i'll just leave it at that
+loud music
-hungry
drinking a 2 liter of lime coke from fiesta CAN be accomplished and is fun AT ALL COSTS: physical, financial, emotional, etc.
duct tape can really do anything
i missed the format
i really want to play ultimate frisbee. its been a while and i fear my skills might be declining.
anyone up for a round of fierce competition?
another question-
anyone wanna make music? :-D
my room went from sparkling clean to doubleyouteeeff in about 2.4 days.
try that on for size
if i had a nickel for everytime i couldnt remember where i was taking an lj entry, id be one rich fella...and id probably have something to write about...like my masses of nickels.
im going to make a waler bear...only the best animal ever
bred for its skills in classy-ness....
a walrus + polar bear
if the world was a gigantic set of stereo headphones....and city and colour was coming out of those very mammoth sized headphones...good things, people...only good things.
i dont
wanna be an old man
anymore
its been a year or two
since i was out on the floor
shakin booty
making sweet love
all the night.
its time i got back
to the good life
i wanna go back
i wanna go back
and i dont even
know
how
i
got off the track
its time i got back.
word to your mother.
|
|
|
[19 Apr 2005|08:27pm] |
| [ |
mood |
| |
 cynical |
] |
| [ |
music |
| |
as i lay dying |
] |
fucking idiot
absolutely brilliant
worthy of a fucking nobel prize in the whatever category
my fault
my shortcoming
the epic saga continues!
just another go round around the vicious circle
right?
-right.
so close, enough to almost taste it
and i let it go
just from some false perception
brilliant.
stellar performance.
i'll be sure to award myself a gold star.
_transition_
english test yesterday
it sucked
biology test tommorrow
it will suck
spanish test friday
it too will suck
i
h
a
t
e
s
c
h
o
o
l
pardon me for not appreciating my education.
ive done my time, warden, cant i get back to the real world?
but im fed up
and summer couldnt possibly get here any slower
maybe i just need someone to bring me back to reality
/fin./
im already formulating my master plan for summer '05
and its sure to be a devious one indeed
not so much as "ernest does summer '05"
but, luke vs. summer '05
so months of relaxtion and leisure,
man your battle stations.
hooray for a new pope
maybe he'll be as rad as jpII
in other news,
whatever
i miss music
word to your mother
|
|
|
[11 Apr 2005|09:42pm] |
| [ |
mood |
| |
 confused |
] |
| [ |
music |
| |
slowreader- i like you most |
] |
eeek i hate being confused
it confuses me
and makes me dizzy
i suck at interpretations
anyway...on a lighter note
a little game
if you know how to play, woohoo, if not, get lost
no just kidding
1. dear god what have i done, hope its not to late, tomorrow may never come
2. i look at the world and i notice its turning
3. couldn't save the savior from savoring
4. for lack of a better word and thats my best excuse
5. she said be careful, his bowtie is really a camera
6. if i should buy jellybeans, id hafta eat them all in just one sitting
7. a vinyl sticker with big block letters
8. try this trick and spin it
9. burned all your pictures saved all the prints
10. the time is so little the time belongs to us
11. im trying to understand myself and pinpoint where i am
12. apocalypse can go down easy you gotta know its an aquired taste
13. today, skies are painted colors of the cowboy cliche
14. we're falling down someday you wont be around for me to fall back on
15. rhythmn, you have it or you dont, thats a fallacy
16. no angel flies with me tonight till freedom
17. rake the bottom for loose change
18. my closet holds no bones
19. spinning on the dizzy edge
20. when there is no hope, i smoke some crack, i shoot some dope
21. from the country club, girl, to the crypt now, girl
22. do you think i should take a class to lose my southern accent?
23. one part loss, one part no sleep, one part the gunshot
24. you were trying to make me your martyr
25. thirty seconds to the door, looked outside
26. i heard him laugh then i heard him cuss
27. kennedy's shattered head hits concrete
28. she wasnt too down with the rock n roll scene
29. my war is not with someone like you
30. i want you to know that ill always love you, always be your friend
30 in all,
NAME 'EM
word to your mother
|
|
|
[10 Apr 2005|09:27pm] |
| [ |
mood |
| |
dorky |
] |
| [ |
music |
| |
norma jean- dilemmachine |
] |
i think i blew it
me and my damn self
its annoying
in other news-
i love movies
|
|
|
[05 Apr 2005|04:03pm] |
| [ |
mood |
| |
irritated...just slightly |
] |
| [ |
music |
| |
the chariot- the bullet never lies and will prove all things |
] |
today was boring
good schedule, but boring
mental note:
i dont know how things are going to be from now on
figthing, pointing fingers,
getting no where,
never being satisfied
always finding something,
or
someone to blame
its ludacris what has to be done
so we can wear some mask of success
like we've accomplished something
when its torn us apart in the process.
its a picture painted to portray what i really wish existed,
but i know isnt there all the same,
a fallacy?
bet your bottom dollar.
a price to pay?
and its not a good bargain.
im not about to work for something that i dont want to
im dont want to force anything on anyone
dont force it on me
face-first
head on
transfer the momentum
all for productivity
build it stronger
push it further
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
now that i have whatever out of the way
on with life
summer is comming!
and i cant wait.
"It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood, who strives valiantly; who errs and comes short again and again; because there is not effort without error and shortcomings; but who does actually strive to do the deed; who knows the great enthusiasm, the great devotion, who spends himself in a worthy cause, who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement and who at the worst, if he fails, at least he fails while daring greatly. So that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who know neither victory nor defeat."- Theordore Roosevelt
word to your mother
catch you cats later
|
|
|
[20 Mar 2005|11:55pm] |
| [ |
mood |
| |
 amused |
] |
| [ |
music |
| |
explosions in the sky- first breath after coma |
] |
so today i found this....
hehhehheh....
|
|
| navigation |
| [ |
viewing |
| |
most recent entries |
] |
| [ |
go |
| |
earlier |
] |
|
|
|
|
![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small}
uber_impossible's journal