Way Past Late: February 2005

Just a thought.

What if you could remember the in-betweens?

Not good, nor bad, but in-between?

If you remembered more than that embarrasing 30 seconds that never, ever ended. Or that other 5 seconds that counted the most?

Because really, that's what life is made out of-- snipets of time, clips of who you perceive yourself as.

You remember the lights, because they always made you grin.
You remember the dark, because you've never felt more alone.

Sometimes you get movement, a liquid feel of slow motion, transcending through your night, your time, and a hazy, streaky replay of whoever gave you that thumbs up. But mostly you get frames. You don't even remember the color half the time.

Try it. Think back--what color was your shirt? How was the tint of her complexion? Were there shadows across her face?

You remember the first glance. You remember the first kiss. You remember the last turn. You remember the goodbye that never happened.

Maybe it's to protect us, to shield us from what life really is. To shower us with a slideshow of time. Like one of those flipbooks that makes the character move.

Grow.

Change.

One day, maybe, I'll share with you my in-betweens.

But I forget.

Just a thought.

The Man.

The Hero.

The Legend.

Dig Deep.

3/7/04

In my room,
It seems my mind
Takes its legs--and finds
A resting point,
quiet music,
a different face,

I think.

I read-

-And attempt to work
My life is not perfect
although it may seem.
I have a ringing in my right ear
and silence in my left.

Polarize me.

Good night sweet prince. Wake up to find out what took your castle away.

Life throws at you whatever it feels it should. You are a canvas. You are a flak jacket. You are a blank page.

It's your trap.
It's your fault.
It's your addiction.

You wish for perfection. And you find perfection boring. You wish for happiness. And you find that there is no happiness without it's polar opposite.

It's your pressure.
It's your carelessness.
It's your addiction.

I wish for a constant. But all I find that is constant is this motion. I wish for warmth. And you find there is no warmth without it's polar opposite.

I wish for you. God, I wish for you.

Beauty is based on moments.

Up, Up, Up, Up

Once again, I'm still awake. I feel tired, yet, once I lay my head down on my pillow the sleep factor just doesn't kick in.

I mean, my eyes, they're bloodshot.

The guys next door are playing really, really bad guitar. And my roommates congestion fiasco is just about to kick up. Glorious night.

Great-- what is that I hear? Rap. I have on my uber sweet, DJ-style, chrome tinted headphones and Dallas Green is singing through both ears. If you've never heard of him, go to his myspace.

I feel like taking a walk.

Austin is a beautiful place at night, I mean, you get that calmness that folds over you when you're the only one around. It's you and the wind. I only realize now with longer hair how much I appreciate a breeze. I love the feeling you get when all the noise in your head just stops--and that's just how you want it to be. When you can look around and admire whatever strikes you as curious or aesthetically amusing.

It's like when you get that end-of-movie feeling. The one where your favorite song fades into your atmosphere, clearing all the other audio around you. Mouths move but nothing speaks. Everything around you is a soft glow. Lights flicker but you dont notice. The breeze blows, and you still shiver.

But sometimes it's just not enough.

A moment is nothing unless you can share it. To prove it was there. To prove you were there. To have someone smile back or grab your hand when it feels nothing but that cold breeze. You listen to nothing for too long and sounds start flooding back in. You remember too much. And it gets boring, you get sick, and you feel lonely.

I think I'm tired now. Good night.

Floating around...

Rockin' this dorm.

The Sound and (unfortunate) Fury

Tick, tick, tick...

Is it still 3:40 AM? The early morning hours of today were a constant drone of groans, mutters, snoring, and gagging through the congested lungs of my roommate. With a courtesy pause in between each new sound, maybe as to warn me of the new track looming to haunt me, each sound seemed to groan ever louder. Sometimes the grunts even coincided on perfect tempo with the ticking of either of his alarm clocks. I tried all that I could to battle the constant noise. You name it-- counting backwards, pushups (in the dark I may add, I am no rude roommate), and the various sleeping positions taken straight from the pages of the soon-to-be published guide, "How to Sleep In the Same Room With A Trainwreck". Is this single spaced font hurting your eyes?

There.

You.

Go.

I've been known to be a nice guy. A patient one as if that. Am I mad that now it feels as though I have a slight muffle in my left ventral cortex? Did I mention that I attempted to appease my tantrum stickened mind with food-- I.e. Cheetos Hot Fries, Pizza flavored Pringles (which indeed called for another trip to the bathroom to brush that breath away). Oh Chuck Palahniuk, how your stories call to me. I should have read something boring instead, hidden under my blanket like that, with a flashlight like a 13-year-old secretly checking out his older brother's snuff magazines. A call to my Only didn't even do the deal-- I apoligize again sweets for the late night call.

Did I fall asleep? Eventually. Only to be awaken two and 30 ticks later by the triple-wham of our three alarm clocks.

--I'm not mad at him by the way. I'm furious at his nasal cavities, however.

He calmly hit both of his snoozes and fell back asleep.

That moment of silence feeling.

Make me a steak. It's finished.

I came, I saw, I almost conquered.

Breathe a little deeper. Sigh a little longer. Take a second to pause. Freeze. Isolate. Live.

Call your family--even laugh a bit. But make sure not for too long, you don't want to waste your time.

Take a cup of water or two. Grab that secret dollar in your pocket-- you know how that feels.

Take a date to the movies-- maybe hold her hand. Maybe see a long, lost friend.

--Make sure you take a picture of that sunrise.

Now wake up. Time to start again.

"Some may never live, but the crazy never die." -- Hunter S. Thompson, 1938-2005

Wish me luck...

Calculus test tonight. I like that mechanic feeling you get once the right side of your head starts rolling (is that right? or left?).

Made a new friend. Nice guy.

Sugar-free Red Bulls are worth it. Trust me.

Off to be nerdy.

Dig Deep.

12/10/04

You know you have anxiety when you can't sleep-- even when you're exhausted.

When you hold your breath there is this one moment where everything stops,

--nothing moves and your anxiety is gone.

But once your lungs are depleted and your hemoglobins can't pick up anymore oxygen,

--it hits you like a train.

I'm the mess on those tracks.

Edit this story.

Tonight was Andrew's birthday. Happy Birthday from Pappasito's. Don't take offense Beth. You got the real deal.

My mind is blank. My brain is blank.

This feeling is the result of a 5 O' clock curfew. Designated Henry, such a charmer. He always was. After a few rounds of being a professional spectator and massive amounts of kung-fu dancing, I was spent change. The strange thing about dancing is that you ALWAYS feel like someone is watching you.

Also.

It's a strange feeling to be the only sober kid in the middle of a room. The story unfolds infront of you-- people who start akward, then tipsy, then--boom, it spreads like coffee over a white blouse. But only you're the one wearing the brown sweater--although now it smells a bit like hazelnut. All these crazy mongrols dancing the night away. You're that new kid sitting in the shadows. This isn't a cry out for acceptance, by the way.

This pertains to no specific incident. Trust me, I've been to my share of incidents.

Sometimes I feel like I'm watching a play. Where you know these people are all actors, with memorized scripts and stage plots. Until a few minutes later, when your retinas have finally adjusted to the dim atmosphere and finally you've found that perfect crease in your seat; you forget the powder and the painted age lines, and you sit back. You laugh. I laugh, at least.

You laugh at the akward things that apply only to you. You laugh at what would never touch the 2 inches of air infront of that girl's lips if her right hand wasn't grasped to that clear bottle. You laugh at when you know someone has just let go. And you say, "What a crazy, crazy girl,"--at least, I do.

You sit.

You sit some more.

When you sit you have time to think while the world spins and you're on wheels; you're at a constant position while the ground moves below you. Kind of like anime. Yeah. Wait, no.

You think about things.

You think about why on earth you're here. At that very place where you've positioned yourself or about the very place you're standing. It moves onto bigger things. Questions that pertain away from the frat house or the party. Onto bigger things. I'm not going to write those down, because you know you've had those thoughts before. At least, I have.

But if you've never been that kid, that one on the side peeking in. If you've never been the only sober--try my fold. Test my side. Come over to my field.

It's lonely, yet enriching--at least to me.

...lousy minutes...

You start out with 25.

When you ask me for money, don't bullshit me. When you pretend you're a bum, but are nothing but a wannabe burnt out yuppie-- deduct 6 points. When you say you need the money for the bus stop, and I don't see you at the closest one to my left--10 feet-- deduct 8 points. When you honk at a pedestrian when he has the right-of-way-- deduct 7 points. When I see you, you see me, and we don't say hi--well, add a point. I didn't feel like talking to you anyways.

You end with 5. That's what your life consists of. 5. Get it? I hope not.

...lousy minutes in my head. In this note. 5.

Hopefully you'll catch the next one.

Blurred blurb blue

Talking was such a relief. I come back, still no one is here.

Do you remember? Can you think back to the greens?

Once in awhile, everyone just seems so fast, she always seems so distant and I always feel forgotten. Invisible. Clear. Making out just a structure. A silhouette surrounded by this constant swirl of color. Sharp colors, not the ones that paint the mountains or the blue feather sky, but the stinging, biting, twisting colors that bend your retina into a convex half-bowl. Maybe I want that, maybe I want to see my neurons--jolting and bursting and burning. My mind is a blur. Maybe tommorow (today) will make it come together. Put the pieces into a box. Shake the box--maybe twice. Throw it in the air. Then maybe, maybe-- the pieces will connect into your picture perfect blue.

Dig Deep.

Lately, I've realized the amount of pictures that have been posted--well, have been a lot. To me it seems as too much output and not enough input. Whenever the title is "Dig Deep" I'm going to post something written by myself from somewhere else-- notes, scribbles, scribbled notes.

10/25/04

My head is
throbbing.

My limb are
weak.

-but through these corners,
are doors to sleep.

Inside, waken, afternoons
with chill and sun.

So sweet. So soon?

Why not? I ask to those around

perchance to dream- I hit

the

ground.