December 2011
31 posts
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December 20, 2011
They want you to write in circles. Your metaphors should make sense only with overstretched neurons and pursed concentrated lips. Things should have some hidden meaning that proves a taxing task to reveal. It’s so illusive, drenched in flowery descriptions. Tell them you’ve hidden a great prize but give them hints about hints masked by unassuming lies. Really, there’s no prize...
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Getting freakishly good at wardriving.
There’s something thrilling about internet theft.
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Because I can open up to a keyboard. When I have time to hit backspace, I tend to be able to say exactly what I want. In reality, my nerves and fear of imperfection keep me from setting my thoughts in verbal stone. The keyboard is my chisel and I’m unsure of how to make any sort of sculpture worth viewing without it. Yank my only tool from me and watch me make sculptures of only...
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“Great things are not accomplished by those who yield to trends and fads and...”
– Jack Kerouac (via pavorst)
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I've broken the cycle of nocturnalnes.
I can no longer last much longer than midnight. Already, my eyes are heavy with the weight of being alive. I will finish my tea, read much less than I’d intended to, and fall deeply into a [hopefully] dream-filled slumber.
I only hope that tomorrow my lungs find some strength to run. I doubt it though, this infection is killing my upper respiratory system and breaking years of hard work in...
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The body is just a fragment of the self. Comprised entirely of cells that make the person into “themselves”. Electrical impulses sent and received. On paper, we are all two dimensional, everything is flat until it leaps from the page and demands attention. One must demand to be seen from the angle they most desire to be viewed, and then build the ramp to get everyone there. When I see...
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When she gazes longingly out of windows is she...
I hate gated communities.
Ruined my night.
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December 9, 2011
It’s like there should be something there. Some soft consistent hum of things being etched and re-etched in fancy script and creative doodles spanning the length of the backs of my eyelids. I search for the sound rather than its creations, blaming my monotonous meandering on the absence of content. “I haven’t an idea worth sharing,” is what I say to myself, a firm believer in the self-fulfilling...
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“There is always one person you love who becomes that definition. It usually...”
– Chuck Klosterman (via decrepito)
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December 7, 2011
Standing right behind the barrier of the sliding glass door, wanting nothing more than to open it, and wander out into the open air. I’d lie there, in the cool dark blades of grass, and watch the storm as it rolls slowly over me, like a blanket of reality. It competes with the spin of the Earth for who will bring darkness in first, clouds or a sinking sun.
“Where are you taking me?” I...
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“Smash some bottles on the ground and say we...
So many revisions.
I need an editor. I can’t read this clearly anymore.
For a Veteran, Finding Reasons to Move Forward →
killingcharlemagne:
At War. It moves quickly. This being a link to my piece in the New York Times. Breathless an inadequate definition when it comes together. There being a process to get used to. When work is dissected and changed for the masses. Call this an edit. And though these pages are mostly filled with excerpts and mindless thoughts there are times I find something in the fray.
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Strong Silence
It’s supposed to be between forethought and afterthought, that place where reality takes form in action and words, gestures and mannerisms. It’s where mind meets body, body impacting world, thus world hearing soft sounds of what lies inside.
What terror instills itself in me, to think that what goes on behind this shell of shy glances and sheepish grins consists of more emphatic ...
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“Fiction is one of the few experiences where loneliness can be both confronted...”
– David Foster Wallace (via mickzilla)
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Oh Disney,
you sly dog. I see what you’re trying to do. Making me change my password but only being able to change my password on the Disney network thus forcing me to pick up a shift to get in backstage and change my password.
I will trump you.
-.-
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The Shit I Do To Ben
Ben: My nonfiction piece is 1,603 words. My fiction piece is 3,603 words. What is the meaning???
Me: Que? Es strango. muy peculiaroso.
Ben: I think we need to hit your restart button to get you back to English.
Me: Lo siento. ¿Qué le dijiste? Yo no hablo Inglés.
Ben: I don't care if you don't speak English, and your apologies mean nothing to me. Nothing.
Me: Usted está decir, señor.
Ben: That's a negative, kid.
Me: *Sacude puño.*
Ben: By the way, to be the correcting jerk I am, your "Usted está decir, señor" doesn't actually make sense. That's mean as in, "what does that mean?" Not as in, "You're a big meany face."
Me: Que se lo digan a traductor Google, perra
Ben. Bah haha perra is "Female dog" nothing more...
Me: Usted entiende mi punto. -.-
Ben: Sure I do. But when has the point ever mattered? It's the discourse to get us there that holds the interest.
Me: The point matters in fencing.
Ben: Touche