New Journal.
Champagne In A Paper Cup
Pegs to hang ideas on.
When I’m anxious.
Moleskine, December ‘10.
After the storm on I-94 West, Summer ‘11.
Filed under: The truth is usually more interesting drugs are bad no smoking pot only apartment story by me
In the entrance of my friend’s somewhat ghetto apartment building.
My favorite part of a getting a new journal is deciding what to put on the inside cover. I opted for a little Bon Iver this time around.
I occasionally cut up maps, grab the paste and my sketchbook, and see what happens.
He said “We’ll see”
Guess a drunk man’s word is a sober man’s regret
Which is too bad ‘cause
I bet we could’ve had it all
You see,
Life’s a risk and love’s a choice
I’d rather choose than miss out, rather raise my voice than bite my tongue
My vice is that I care too much
I talk too much
I’ve said too much
And as much as I’d like to say more, the door you just slammed in my face advises me otherwise
A fool for your blue eyes and pretty lines, I’ve met my demise for the 88th time
Time to run back to my twin-size bed
Pull the covers o’er my head and hide
Filed under: Myrtle Beach Why You'd Want To Live Here atlantic by me oceanside photography places to go south carolina the scenic route the perks of being a wallflower
Myrtle Beach, SC. April 2011.
“I guess Zen is a day like this when you are part of the air and remember things.” -The Perks of Being a Wallflower, pp. 43
My moleskine journal. I typically fill one every three months.
Filed under: photograph why you'd want to live here places to go by me life is beautiful Oceanside California
Oceanside, CA. The Boardwalk.
Filed under: Oceanside California by me why you'd want to live here life is beautiful places to go photograph
Oceanside, California. March 10th, 2011.
Filed under: anorexia nervosa we're all mad alice in wonderland smart went crazy poetry? by me what i do in my spare time words
Anorexia Nervosa
When Smart went Crazy
Some mistook it for laziness
From 3 weeks in bed to darting circles around Wonderland
Dark circles frame glazed-over eyes
Her smile’s painted on
The wind-up doll walks backwards
What she sees is upside down
Black is white
And wrong is right is left
Closer to death than life
A top spinning on a tight-rope
Can’t distingish day from night when there’s no light at the end of the tunnel
She can run all she wants but she won’t escape herself
Put the self-help books on the shelf
There’s no prescription for sanity
No pity when it’s vanity that got you here
12 years locked inside a mirror
Palms pressed against the glass
Still trying to master the disappearing act
I laugh at my reflection with a disconnection
An ego-protective mechanism like my 3rd-person confessions
This obsession with perfection brings no redemption
It’s oppression, a deception, self-rejection
And there’s no satisfaction until you’re dead
Yet knowing all this
I still persist in painting the roses red
Telling myself I’ll get better tomorrow
As I spiral down another rabbit hole
Remembering the Lost Boy
Talk is cheap, especially drunk talk
And 3 drinks in, I’m like a sailor
You sit sober, drinking diet pop
My temper hot, ready or not,
Soon words I’m vomiting
Spewing chunks of our history
“Why can’t you be?” and
Blahblahblah
“Why’d you do that to me?”
But actions speak louder than words
At bar close, with sea legs and vision blurred,
I defer the caustic verbs
‘Cause i’ve got symptoms you can cure
Besides,
Sometimes when you spit it sounds a little bit like love
The way syllables slide off your tongue,
I want to lap them up
You knock rhyme into a beat as if it’s merely common sense,
Shake the moment out of present tense,
Freelance with organized recklessness,
And I’m left breathless, feckless, defenseless,
A hopeless romantic turned hopeful
And
I guess you know the rest
When the night ends, our clothes in a heap,
You turn back into a Lost Boy
And I pretend to sleep
