confederacy of luncheons

i should stop pretending i'm better than everyone else. because i'm not.

if it's true and i'm really smarter than most of the people i encounter, i should use that distinction to my own advantage.

it's probably not even that i'm "smarter" than most people. that seems kind of dubious. not to mention, arrogant. i think it's just that i feel like i've had more experience than the average person. so i should use that experience, that knowledge, to relate to people.

then again, that's probably not entirely accurate either. i've been around the same relative amount of time as everyone else. obviously, i've been around longer, in a literal sense, as someone younger than me. and i haven't spent as much life as someone older but it's not like i've had twenty-three years plus additional time--time that doesn't count for anything. it's not like i have the exclusive ability to stop the clock and live more life than others. that's not what i'm saying. yet, i feel more experienced than a large percentage of people out there. and i don't know why.

oh well.

no reason to get upset, i suppose. everyone takes in the world--sensory information--differently. maybe i should just appreciate the fact that some people prefer to live their lives in a sort of routine, sheltered fashion--not unlike the owner of that bumper sticker i saw yesterday. familiarity, i guess.

i'm tired of writing, i think. i feel unable to express myself today. it's been a recent dilemma. the cycle has begun all over again. you have it. then, you don't. i need to learn to roll with the punches. accept change.

it's so damn hard.

i wish i was a metronome. a man-made construct which seems to laugh, defiantly, in the face of nature and all its laws--the law of entropy: a consistent pulse in the wake of nature's inclination towards disorder. then, i wouldn't have to reconstruct myself from scratch every time. collect the scraps. and, piece-by-piece, reassemble myself.

bully in a china shop

first day of tuesday class. introductions today. learned that most people--even english majors--consider harry potter, chuck fuck and stephen king among the literary elite.

that's fine. whatever. different strokes for different folks, right?

i mean, not everyone is going to like the same things as you. but, seriously...

since when did skimming the very brim of the bestseller list qualify someone--

i don't even know what i'm trying to say, here.

i guess it saddens me to think that the people i have class with--the people who will most probably be teaching children one day--have no idea nor any desire to learn anything about their supposed area of expertise.

the education system has failed us.
the government has failed us.

i can't say with much certainty that it's a matter of intelligence--taste, that is. but i'd like to think so. i mean, what you like is entirely subjective. but what you profess to know...

it's remarkable how many aspiring scholars we've let slip through the cracks. we've basically given these people--people with no concept of what literature is and how to analyze it--the necessary certification--literally, a licence--to shape and mold our children's young impressionable minds.

maybe a more rigorous system is in order. who knows?

i'm ranting.

anyway, i spotted this bumper sticker on my way back from class:

annoy a liberal: work hard and be happy

there are so many things wrong with this that i can't begin to address them all here in the few minutes i have before i have to get off.

suffice it to say, this is how i interpreted the hauntingly orwellian slogan:

money is happiness. i'm perfectly content with slaving away my life for monetary gain. and anyone who tells you there's a better way to live is a moron.

more to the point:
ignorance is bliss

i'm not even a liberal and this pissed me off. of course, i'm not a conservative, either. but--fucking shit, man. this takes the cake for most shameless boasting of one's own ignorance.

i read an article a few years ago about americans, in particular, generally being more empowered by their own stupidity than any other culture. it's actually become fashionable, cool to remain uninformed about things. i think this sticker is probably the best real world example i've personally witnessed of this concept in action. for all intents and purposes, it could have read:

dumb...and proud of it.

oh well.

i don't care anymore.
i'm done venting.

just like the eighties!

this "indie" rock thing has gotten way out of hand. it used to be about independent thought and independent production. now it's become as rife with contradictions as its predecessor, "pop-punk."

the term itself no longer stands for what it used to. it's now a big, sleazy way for the industry to pander to the uninformed sensibilities of every hipster-kid i know. it's become a genre, for fuck's sake. a genre (!) where, once, it was an irreducible alternative. i guess every major movement in free thought, serious artistry in music (punk, alternative, indie) runs its cycle, becomes corrupted, a small smouldering flicker of what it once was--simplified to its lowest common denominator.

seriously, just because your favorite band gets high praise from that snob-factory known as pitchfork and just because they sound exactly like every other "next big thing" out there trying to sound like some generic synthesis of the cure's entire 80's catalogue, that doesn't mean they're great. the white lies, for fuck's sake? i'm seriously going to unleash all holy hell the next time i read about a band garnering praise for sounding like every other band on the market. honestly, how many times can people be presented with the same formula: four moderately attractive myspace hotties in a joy division-throwback outfit. how many times before someone takes notice?

i wonder if people don't find some kind of immediate comfort in repeating history. oh well. i'd provide evidence but i'm too heated to get into any sort of well-thought-out, level-headed indictment. so, whatever. i'm done fuming.

la femme darger

"i have this recurring dream, see, where, you're still a boy--but you have a vagina."
"umm. o.k."
"i mean, it makes sense within the context of the dream."
"you mean, like, dream logic?"
"well, not in any sort of general sense of the term. but, yeah. it makes sense to me. my own individualized form of dream logic."
"well, what about you?"
"what do you mean?"
"what kind of genitalia do you have in this dream?"
"oh, i'm still a boy, too. except, i have a penis."
"naturally."
"it's not sexual, though. that is, i don't think it means that, on some deeper level, i want to fuck you or something. i mean, i'm not attracted to you."
"thanks."
"well, it's just that--in this dream, boys can have either sexual organs. girls, too. it doesn't matter. you can be a girl with a penis. or a boy with a vagina. and it's just as natural as, say, your eye color."
"interesting. i guess."
"yeah."

who's barry bostwick?

ars musica:

mangled voices from the ether
disembodied whispers
a burglar and his lute.

i've been thinking a lot lately, holed up in my room. i try to keep the light off as much as possible. when i think of it.

lately, i've been wanting to create something permanent--something which ultimately transcends the transitory. i'd like to capture, synthesize, translate all my impressions of the fleeting and invest it, cash in my tickets, in something definite--something i can come back to, like a photograph.

i had this realization after reading narcissus and goldmund. i like the idea that one can be destined to be a thinker or an artist or anything in between. which is exactly where i feel i am: in between. i don't know, if like goldmund, i think in abstractions or images, but i feel torn between both lives. i need an end result.

i've also been meaning to create a list of tenets--a list i can refer to when i need to be reminded of what i believe.

first on the list:

1.) no more dead-end pleasures--the kind that make you feel empty and defeated afterwards. i'd explain, but i think you know what i'm talking about.

anyway, that's all i feel like writing for now. i'll have more later, i'm sure of it.

averbalspankking

one of my most looming--perhaps irrational--fears is one day losing the ability to express myself. not just in writing, but in other ways. all dealing with language and subtext. one day, i feel like i'm just going to be somewhere and suddenly everything will sound like garbled noise. it's frightening, really.

i think it stems from my own highly self-analytical nature. i'm very in touch with who i am and how i think. naturally, this has its benefits--i think--and its drawbacks, as well. i've become so self-aware, it's almost crippling.

when i try to explain this concept to people, i often use an analogy hemingway used to describe f. scott fitzgerald in a moveable feast. he is like a butterfly, heminway says, that has suddenly become aware of its own graceful, effortless beauty--its miraculous ability to fly--and in realizing this, loses this innate gift.

i'm the same way. i realize when things are good and...it's at that exact moment that things start to turn sour. here's an example. i was always a pretty good batter when i played little league baseball. every season, however, without fail, i would go through a slump. i would start the season strong, with a drive to prove myself, my talent to my coaches and teammates, everyone concerned, and then, once i'd garnered enough praise, for some unknown reason, the slump would commence. i had no control over it. it was so frustrating. there really was nothing i could do--other than trick myself into believing it wasn't happening. once i knew or believed i was good at something, this immense pressure to perpetuate that feeling, that praise, would overtake me and, in turn, render me useless--no longer good. it was like having your worst fear played out before you and you have no choice but to just sit back and let it happen.

...

i'll continue this some other time.

immediately

goals:

in order of urgency...

practice, work on refining new and old material

record demo (one which i can live with)

send it out to labels i like

get signed

tour

record album

find soulmate/wife

get famous

fade into obscurity

die, eventually

aeroplane day

i'm just as guilty as the rest
because i haven't made any efforts
to separate myself from the rest

those i can't stomach

i am the homogeneous collective
so. what.

omg. it's killing me. j/k. roflroflrofl.
tenterhooks.
oh well.
ashes to ashes.

lulz aplenty.

"i wanna do coke, get in a fight, then have sex."

"something to keep my mind off"

"i think i'm in luv with harold"

"l e i g hton g a m ble"

when i'm in a bad place and don't give a fuck about myself