Saturday, July 31, 2004

jessica leaves tomorrow morning. she's packing all day. last night she asked me to come with to chicago, i had to say no for a lot of reasons.

they're not good enough

she spent the night last night, i shouldn't write any of this here.

i'd like to say it was mindblowing, life changing, things were just ok though. we were too drunk to have our hearts in it. fun for sure, just not 'tomorrowyouleaveforever' good.

I'm starting to love her, i hate to say it. I made her a mixtape of music i'd like her to like, and maybe she'll think about me when she goes to chi town. she says she won't get with any other guys, but if she drinks that'll be a lie.

she says on of the songs on there will always remind her of me, that broke my heart, confused me, and made me happy all at the same time. I've listened to it almost 15 times since then. I don't know what to think about all of this.

"our time is running out."

asheville kid is coming tomorrow to go see the warped tour on monday in charlotte. that's a lot of driving for her, but she's a cool kid--hopefully we'll spend some 'qt' next year in ithaca. she's something of a connection to home, to the south, to people I know, to things that are good. how can people just embody something they have nothing to do with, they didn't ask to, it doesn't even make sense why these people represent what they do for me. I've always hated allusion, symbolism; they seem like ways to make up for a weak plot, but anything worth telling doesn't need to have those elements crammed in--they just exist. the message is so huge, so important so relevant, that symbols are infinate; it takes on countless meanings for every person who reads.

i'm waiting for something right now, feeling good, bored, tired, heartbroken, lonley, and utterly satisfied. As they say, it's love, it's love, it's love:

Make it hurt.

Saturday, July 24, 2004

So, I didn't write for awhile. But I had every intention of writing, I just wasn't feeling that spark.

It's saturday morning, I've been watching the second to last stage of the tour de france. I don't see what the big deal is; put me on a bike, i'd win that shit.

One more week of work, thank god. It's just too boring, no one can handle that shit. Five days. Cubangirllopez is done with her job already, so no more burritos.

Last night we went to a show to see my friends band, only her facist father made her come home at 12, so we didn't even get to see my friends band. They probably would have sucked anyway. The two bands we did see weren't exactly awesome, I don't reallly dig bald sax players with locks to the waist. It's just not my thing, maybe some people are into that.

Since jesssica couldn't eat, i've gone back to eating alone and reading and watching people. I eat at this certain place, but the name isn't important, just the dynamic that goes on there. Because of it's location, no one stops there except for people traveling, and construction workers. No one is local, lots of spanish speakers and suntanned familys, who are coming back from charleston, or somewhere east of here.

On the way back, I couldn't force myself to get back into the lab, so I drove straight, instead of left, and found this ghost neighborhood filled with 60s style houses that used to be quaint, but now they're falling apart, with shitty yards and grass growing in the cracks which is especially depressing. All the streets were named after camera brands, nikon, minolta. It's a strange place.

Thursday on monday with jessica, a good time will be had. For sure.

Wednesday, July 21, 2004

Forgive my misspellings and splices.

Most days here, it's so hot and smoggy, that when the sky should be perfectly dark blue and clear, It's yellowish white, with grey outlines of where clouds are.

Real clouds. Not the one big cloud that sits on my city.

I met cubangirllopez at lunch for a burrito today,

She doesn't know it, but her emails keep me alive at work.

I work at a highly secretive a prestigious research laboratory, George and Paul Inc.

I don't work there, so much as they work on me there.

In May, I needed some money fast, so I dedicated my mind to super torturous boredom studies.

I sit in a box, no bigger than my arms this way by my arms that way, and I do nothing.

I'm permitted a few emails a day, just to let people know that I'm not dead, because at my job

Death is a very real thing. If people don't hear from me, they worry.

Emokidotis gave her a CD to give me, I listened to it on the way home, from 26 to 378 because I stopped at 4:30 to hear Detour Dave, Trailer, Jack Daniels give the traffic report and 10 second advertisment bit, selling insurance, during what I assume is his 4:30 circut. I don't know how I figured this out, but I did---how do you get that job.

That's two days straight. Soon to be three.

The Trial-Franz Kafka
Casually Dressed & Deep in Conversation-Funeral For a Friend
Piazza Navona

Tuesday, July 20, 2004

No titles. From the start of this.

Maybe at the end, once I re-read, which I don't do, and probably will never do:

While we're on the topic, of my not re-reading. Not because I'm lazy (I am, but that's still not why)

But because I'm scared of what leaves here. Not because of any sort of consiquences,

Only because of embarrassment. Because I hate what I write. Because I go back 30 seconds later,

And can see how full of shit I am.

What a liar,

I am.

So much it hurts, so much I've almost cried.

Within inches, I've been there before.

This is where I want to lose pretention,

Where I plan to find myself.

If I don't, myself will stay lost.

And it's going to happen. War is going to be fought on these pages.

It'll happen, or it won't. I'm going to write everyday. I've got to have ambition.

If I don't have it, I need to write about where it is.

Unlike before now, I'll write about everyday. Everyday.

These posts will never have titles, it hurts even now.