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"Offer them what they secretly want and they of course immediately become panic-stricken."
“As early pioneers in the knowing, that when you lose your reason, you attain highest perfect knowing.”
-- "Book of Blues”
“All things are like visions beyond the reach of the human mind.”
“But let the mind beware, that though the flesh be bugged, the circumstances of existence are pretty glorious.”
-- "The Dharma Bums”
“I hope it is true that a man can die and yet not only live in others but give them life, and not only life, but that great consciousness of life.”
“You can’t have birth without existence and you can’t have death without birth.”
"...Ah, life is a gate, a way, a path to Paradise anyway, why not live for fun and joy and love or some sort of girl by a fireside, why not go to your desire and LAUGH..."
-- "Big Sur”
“My witness is the empty sky.”
“Desolation, desolation, I owe so much to desolation.”
-- "The Dharma Bums”
“My aunt once said the world would never find peace until men fell at their women’s feet and asked for forgiveness.”
“The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn, like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars..."
-- "On The Road”
“You’d be surprised how little I knew even up to yesterday.”
“It’s like old newspapers blowing down Bleecker Street.”
-- response to a question about fame
“I’d rather be thin than famous.”
“Dean, don’t drive so fast in the daytime...ah hell, Dean, I’m going in the back seat, I can’t stand it anymore, I can’ look."
-- "On the Road”
“I’m not a beatnik, I’m a Catholic.”
LETS BE REAL. JACK KEROUAC IS THE ULTIMATE SHIT
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Thursday, April 27th, 2006
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"SELF PORTRAIT AT 28"
by David Berman (god)
I know it's a bad title
but I'm giving it to myself as a gift
on a day nearly canceled by sunlight
when the entire hill is approaching
the ideal of Virginia
brochured with goldenrod and loblolly
and I think "at least I have not woken up
with a bloody knife in my hand"
by then having absently wandered
one hundred yards from the house
while still seated in this chair
with my eyes closed.
It is a certain hill
the one I imagine when I hear the word "hill"
and if the apocalypse turns out
to be a world-wide nervous breakdown
if our five billion minds collapse at once
well I'd call that a surprise ending
and this hill would still be beautiful
a place I wouldn't mind dying
alone or with you.
I am trying to get at something
and I want to talk very plainly to you
so that we are both comforted by the honesty.
You see there is a window by my desk
I stare out when I am stuck
though the outdoors has rarely inspired me to write
and I don't know why I keep staring at it.
My childhood hasn't made good material either
mostly being a mulch of white minutes
with a few stand out moments,
popping tar bubbles on the driveway in the summer
a certain amount of pride at school
everytime they called it "our sun"
and playing football when the only play
was "go out long" are what stand out now.
If squeezed for more information
I can remember old clock radios
with flipping metal numbers
and an entree called Surf and Turf.
As a way of getting in touch with my origins
every night I set the alarm clock
for the time I was born so that waking up
becomes a historical reenactment and the first thing I do
is take a reading of the day and try to flow with it like
when you're riding a mechanical bull and you strain to learn
the pattern quickly so you don't inadverantly resist it.
II two
I can't remember being born
and no one else can remember it either
even the doctor who I met years later
at a cocktail party.
It's one of the little disappointments
that makes you think about getting away
going to Holly Springs or Coral Gables
and taking a room on the square
with a landlady whose hands are scored
by disinfectant, telling the people you meet
that you are from Alaska, and listen
to what they have to say about Alaska
until you have learned much more about Alaska
than you ever will about Holly Springs or Coral Gables.
Sometimes I am buying a newspaper
in a strange city and think
"I am about to learn what it's like to live here."
Oftentimes there is a news item
about the complaints of homeowners
who live beside the airport
and I realize that I read an article
on this subject nearly once a year
and always receive the same image.
I am in bed late at night
in my house near the airport
listening to the jets fly overhead
a strange wife sleeping beside me.
In my mind, the bedroom is an amalgamation
of various cold medicine commercial sets
(there is always a box of tissue on the nightstand).
I know these recurring news articles are clues,
flaws in the design though I haven't figured out
how to string them together yet,
but I've begun to notice that the same people
are dying over and over again,
for instance Minnie Pearl
who died this year
for the fourth time in four years.
III three
Today is the first day of Lent
and once again I'm not really sure what it is.
How many more years will I let pass
before I take the trouble to ask someone?
It reminds of this morning
when you were getting ready for work.
I was sitting by the space heater
numbly watching you dress
and when you asked why I never wear a robe
I had so many good reasons
I didn't know where to begin.
If you were cool in high school
you didn't ask too many questions.
You could tell who'd been to last night's
big metal concert by the new t-shirts in the hallway.
You didn't have to ask
and that's what cool was:
the ability to deduct
to know without asking.
And the pressure to simulate coolness
means not asking when you don't know,
which is why kids grow ever more stupid.
A yearbook's endpages, filled with promises
to stay in touch, stand as proof of the uselessness
of a teenager's promise. Not like I'm dying
for a letter from the class stoner
ten years on but...
Do you remember the way the girls
would call out "love you!"
conveniently leaving out the "I"
as if they didn't want to commit
to their own declarations.
I agree that the "I" is a pretty heavy concept
and hope you won't get uncomfortable
if I should go into some deeper stuff here.
IV four
There are things I've given up on
like recording funny answering machine messages.
It's part of growing older
and the human race as a group
has matured along the same lines.
It seems our comedy dates the quickest.
If you laugh out loud at Shakespeare's jokes
I hope you won't be insulted
if I say you're trying too hard.
Even sketches from the original Saturday Night Live
seem slow-witted and obvious now.
It's just that our advances are irrepressible.
Nowadays little kids can't even set up lemonade stands.
It makes people too self-conscious about the past,
though try explaining that to a kid.
I'm not saying it should be this way.
All this new technology
will eventually give us new feelings
that will never completely displace the old ones
leaving everyone feeling quite nervous
and split in two.
We will travel to Mars
even as folks on Earth
are still ripping open potato chip
bags with their teeth.
Why? I don't have the time or intelligence
to make all the connections
like my friend Gordon
(this is a true story)
who grew up in Braintree Massachusetts
and had never pictured a brain snagged in a tree
until I brought it up.
He'd never broken the name down to its parts.
By then it was too late.
He had moved to Coral Gables.
V five
The hill out my window is still looking beautiful
suffused in a kind of gold national park light
and it seems to say,
I'm sorry the world could not possibly
use another poem about Orpheus
but I'm available if you're not working
on a self-portrait or anything.
I'm watching my dog have nightmares,
twitching and whining on the office floor
and I try to imagine what beast
has cornered him in the meadow
where his dreams are set.
I'm just letting the day be what it is:
a place for a large number of things
to gather and interact --
not even a place but an occasion
a reality for real things.
Friends warned me not to get too psychedelic
or religious with this piece:
"They won't accept it if it's too psychedelic
or religious," but these are valid topics
and I'm the one with the dog twitching on the floor
possibly dreaming of me
that part of me that would beat a dog
for no good reason
no reason that a dog could see.
I am trying to get at something so simple
that I have to talk plainly
so the words don't disfigure it
and if it turns out that what I say is untrue
then at least let it be harmless
like a leaky boat in the reeds
that is bothering no one.
VI six
I can't trust the accuracy of my own memories,
many of them having blended with sentimental
telephone and margarine commercials
plainly ruined by Madison Avenue
though no one seems to call the advertising world
"Madison Avenue" anymore. Have they moved?
Let's get an update on this.
But first I have some business to take care of.
I walked out to the hill behind our house
which looks positively Alaskan today
and it would be easier to explain this
if I had a picture to show you
but I was with our young dog
and he was running through the tall grass
like running through the tall grass
is all of life together
until a bird calls or he finds a beer can
and that thing fills all the space in his head.
You see,
his mind can only hold one thought at a time
and when he finally hears me call his name
he looks up and cocks his head
and for a single moment
my voice is everything:
Self-portrait at 28.
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Tuesday, April 25th, 2006
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yo im about to be all up in all y'alls teen vogue's "street style" and shit. my ass got stopped on state street today.
LOOK OUT. teen vogue this month, vogue in a year, MUTHAFUCKIN PLANET IN TWO.
"You're all very helpful, but I'm not sure any of you are ready to give me what i need."
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Tuesday, April 18th, 2006
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hi you pretty little genius!
haha my fashion illustration teacher did this.
hahaha indians.
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"Cashmere feels good. Fur feels good. Sex feels good. Drinking feels good. Having fun feels good. Enjoying the sky is a nice thing. Being happy, singing a song, having fun with your friends, experiencing the fact that we are this human thing. Fashion is a luxury, just like steak or caviar or champagne. It sounds frivolous, but within our world, enjoying life and feeling good about yourself, looking down at your feet and getting a little rush of excitement because your shoes look fabulous, on some level that becomes important. It adds something to your life. Thats the power of fashion. It's there to be enjoyed. I've never been overly cerebral about it. Some designers are; thats their image. My image has probably been more base. I feel fashion more than i think it. That doesn't mean I dont think about it. I am pragmatic. But my first instinct is gut."
I rediscovered this man!
IN OTHER NEWS, I GOT INTO THE FASHION DEPARTMENT, YOU STUPID MOTHERFUCKERS. MY NAMES ABOUT TO BE ALL OVA ALL Y'ALLS SHIT. WHATCHU KNOW ABOUT THAT
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Wednesday, April 5th, 2006
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lifffffeeeeee riiiiighhhhtttt noooowwww
Also, Nikki. i watched brokeback again last night and almost called you during THE SCENE that is the summary of our friendship:
"Goddamn it, Ennis, you goddamn sonofabitch" "I wish i knew how to quit you" "THEN WHY DONT YOU! you did this to me, jack twist. the reason im like this is you!" ...you know. something to that extent. either way. i almost called but it was 5 in the morning and i was a little wine-y.
IF YA CANT FIX IT Y'GAT TA STAND IT
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Philosophy Professor: The reason why I refuse to take existentialism as just another French fashion or historical curiosity is that I think it has something very important to offer us... I'm afraid were losing the real virtues of living life passionately in the sense of taking responsibility for who you are the ability to make something of yourself and feel good about life. Existentialism is often discussed as if it were a philosophy of despair, but I think the truth is just the opposite. Sartre, once interviewed, said he never felt once minute of despair in his life. One thing that comes out from reading these guys is not a sense of anguish about life so much as a real kind of exuberance, of feeling on top of it, its like your life is yours to create. Ive read the post modernists with some interest, even admiration, but when I read them I always have this awful nagging feeling that something absolutely essential is getting left out. The more you talk about a person as a social construction or as a confluence of forces or as being fragmented of marginalised, what you do is you open up a whole new world of excuses. And when sartre talks about responsibilty, he's not talking about something abstract. He's not taling about the kind of self or souls that theologians would talk about. Hes talking about you and me talking, making descisions, doing things, and taking the consequences. It might be true that there are six million people in this world, and counting, but nevertheless -what you do makes a difference. It makes a difference, first of all, in material terms, to other people, and it sets an example. In short, I think the message here is that we shouuld never write ourselves off or see eachother as a victim of various forces. It's always our descision who we are.
Soap Opera Woman: Excuse me.
Wiley: Excuse me.
Soap Opera Woman: Hey. Could we do that again? I know we haven't met, but I don't want to be an ant. You know? I mean, it's like we go through life with our antennas bouncing off one another, continously on ant autopilot, with nothing really human required of us. Stop. Go. Walk here. Drive there. All action basically for survival. All communication simply to keep this ant colony buzzing along in an efficient, polite manner. "Here's your change." "Paper or plastic?' "Credit or debit?" "You want ketchup with that?" I don't want a straw. I want real human moments. I want to see you. I want you to see me. I don't want to give that up. I don't want to be ant, you know?
see the movie Waking Life
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Wednesday, March 29th, 2006
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what an amazing picture.
watched capote last night.
I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked,
dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix,
angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to thestarry dynamo in the machinery of night,
who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high sat up smoking in the supernatural darkness of cold-water fiats 'doating across the tops of cities contemplating jazz,
who bared their brains to Heaven under the El and saw Mohammedan angels staggering on tenement roofs illuminated,
who passed through universities with radiant cool eyes hallucinating Arkansas and Blake-light tragedy among the scholars of war,
who were expelled from the academies for crazy & publishing obscene odes on the windows of the skull,
who cowered in unshaven rooms in underwear, burning their money in wastebaskets and listening to the Terror through the wall,
who got busted in their pubic beards returning through Laredo with a belt of marijuana for New York,
who ate fire in paint hotels or drank turpentine in Paradise Alley, death, or purgatoried their torsos night after night,
with dreams, with drugs, with waking nightmares, alcohol and cock and endless balls,
incomparable blind streets of shuddering cloud and lightning in the mind leaping toward poles of Canada & Paterson, illuminating all the motionless world of Time between,
Peyote solidities of halls, backyard green tree cemetery dawns, wine drunkenness over the rooftops, storefront boroughs of teahead joyride neon blinking traffic light, sun and moon and tree vibrations in the roaring winter dusks of Brooklyn, ashcan rantings and kind king light of mind,
who chained themselves to subways for the endless ride from Battery to holy Bronx on benzedrine until the noise of wheels and children brought them down shuddering mouth-wracked and battered bleak of brain all drained of brilliance in the drear light of Zoo,
who sank all night in submarine light of Bickford's floated out and sat through the stale beer afternoon in desolate Fugazzi's, I listening to the crack of doom on the hydrogen jukebox,
who talked continuously seventy hours from park to pad to bar to Bellevue to museum to the Brooklyn Bridge,
a lost battalion of platonic conversationalists jumping down the stoops off fire escapes off windowsills off Empire State out of the moon, yacketayakking screaming vomiting whispering facts and memories and anecdotes and eyeball kicks and shocks of hospitals and jails and wars,
whole intellects disgorged in total recall for seven days and nights with brilliant eyes, meat for the Synagogue cast on the pavement,
who vanished into nowhere Zen New Jersey leaving a trail of ambiguous picture postcards of Atlantic City Hall,
suffering Eastern sweats and Tangerian bone-grindings and migraines of China under junk-withdrawal in Newark's bleak furnished room,
who wandered around and around at midnight in the railroad yard wondering where to go, and went, leaving no broken hearts,
who lit cigarettes in boxcars boxcars boxcars racketing through snow toward lonesome farms in grandfather night,
who studied Plotinus Poe St. John of the Cross telepathy and bop kaballa because the cosmos instinctively vibrated at their feet in Kansas,
who loned it through the streets of Idaho seeking visionary indian angels,
who were visionary indian angels,
who thought they were only mad when Baltimore gleamed in supernatural ecstasy,
who jumped in limousines with the Chinaman of Oklahoma on the impulse of winter midnight streetlight smalltown rain,
who lounged hungry and lonesome through Houston seeking jazz or sex or soup, and followed the brilliant Spaniard to converse about America and Eternity, a hopeless task, and so took ship to Africa,
who disappeared into the volcanoes of Mexico leaving behind nothing but the shadow of dungarees and the lava and ash of poetry scattered in fireplace Chicago,
who reappeared on the West Coast investigating the E.B.I. in beards and shorts with big pacifist eyes sexy in their dark skin passing out incomprehensible leaflets,
who burned cigarette holes in their arms protesting the narcotic tobacco haze of Capitalism,
who distributed Supercommunist pamphlets in Union Square weeping and undressing while the sirens of Los Alamos wailed them down, and wailed down Wall, and the Staten Island ferry also wailed,
who broke down crying in white gymnasiums naked and trembling before the machinery of other skeletons,
who bit detectives in the neck and shrieked with delight in policecars for committing no crime but their own wild cooking pederasty and intoxication,
who howled on their knees in the subway and were dragged off the roof waving genitals and manuscripts,
who let themselves be fucked in the ass by saintly motorcyclists, and screamed with joy,
who blew and were blown by those human seraphim, the sailors, caresses of Atlantic and Caribbean love,
who balled in the morning in the evenings in rosegardens and the grass of public parks and cemeteries scattering their semen freely to whomever come who may,
who hiccupped endlessly trying to giggle but wound up with a sob behind a partition in a Turkish Bath when the blonde & naked angel came to pierce them with a sword,
who lost their loveboys to the three old shrews of fate the one eyed shrew of the heterosexual dollar the one eyed shrew that winks out of the womb and the one eyed shrew that does nothing but sit on her ass and snip the intellectual golden threads of the craftsman's loom,
who copulated ecstatic and insatiate with a bottle of beer a sweetheart a package of cigarettes a candle and fell off the bed, and continued along the floor and down the hall and ended fainting on the wall with a vision of ultimate cunt and come eluding the last gyzym of consciousness,
who sweetened the snatches of a million girls trembling in the sunset, and were red eyed in the morning but prepared to sweeten the snatch of the sunrise, flashing buttocks under barns and naked in the lake,
who went out whoring through Colorado in myriad stolen night-cars, N.C., secret hero of these poems, cocksman and Adonis of Denver--joy to the memory of his innumerable lays of girls in empty lots & diner backyards, moviehouses rickety rows, on mountaintops in caves or with gaunt waitresses in familiar roadside lonely petticoat upliftings & especially secret gas-station solipsisms of johns, & hometown alleys too
who faded out in vast sordid movies, were shifted in dreams, woke on a sudden Manhattan, and picked themselves up out of basements hungover with heartless Tokay and horrors of Third Avenue iron dreams & stumbled to unemployment offices,
who walked all night with their shoes full of blood on the snowbank docks waiting for a door in the East River to open to a room full of steamheat and opium,
who created great suicidal dramas on the apartment cliff-banks of the Hudson under the wartime blue floodlight of the moon & their heads shall be crowned with laurel in oblivion,
who ate the lamb stew of the imagination or digested the crab at the muddy bottom of the rivers of Bowery,
who wept at the romance of the streets with their pushcarts full of onions and bad music,
who sat in boxes breathing in the darkness under the bridge, and rose up to build harpsichords in their lofts,
who coughed on the sixth floor of Harlem crowned with flame under the tubercular sky surrounded by orange crates of theology,
who scribbled all night rocking and rolling over lofty incantations which in the yellow morning were stanzas of gibberish,
who cooked rotten animals lung heart feet tail borsht & tortillas dreaming of the pure vegetable kingdom,
who plunged themselves under meat trucks looking for an egg,
who threw their watches off the roof to cast their ballot for Eternity outside of Time, & alarm clocks fell on their heads every day for the next decade,
who cut their wrists three times successively unsuccessfully, gave up and were forced to open antique stores where they thought they were growing old and cried,
who were burned alive in their innocent flannel suits on Madison Avenue amid blasts of leaden verse & the tanked-up clatter of the iron regiments of fashion & the nitroglycerine shrieks of the fairies of advertising & the mustard gas of sinister intelligent editors, or were run down by the drunken taxicabs of Absolute Reality,
who jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge this actually happened and walked away unknown and forgotten into the ghostly daze of Chinatown soup alleyways & firetrucks, not even one free beer,
who sang out of their windows in despair, fell out of the subway window, jumped in the filthy Passaic, leaped on negroes, cried all over the street, danced on broken wineglasses barefoot smashed phonograph records of nostalgic European 1930'S German jazz finished the whiskey and threw up groaning into the bloody toilet, moans in their ears and the blast of colossal steam-whistles,
who barreled down the highways of the past journeying to each other's hotrod-Golgotha jail-solitude watch or Birmingham jazz incarnation,
who drove crosscountry seventytwo hours to find out if I had a vision or you had a vision or he had a vision to find out Eternity.
who journeyed to Denver, who died in Denver, who came back to Denver & waited in vain, who watched over Denver & brooded & loned in Denver and finally went away to find out the Time, & now Denver is lonesome for her heroes,
who fell on their knees in hopeless cathedrals praying for each other's salvation and light and breasts, until the soul illuminated its hair for a second,
who crashed through their minds in jail waiting for impossible criminals with golden heads and the charm of reality in their hearts who sang sweet blues to Alcatraz,
who retired to Mexico to cultivate a habit, or Rocky Mount to tender Buddhas or Tangiers to boys or Southern Pacific to the black locomotive' or Harvard to Narcissus to Woodlawn to the daisy-chain or grave,
who demanded sanity trials accusing the radio of hypnotism & were left with their insanity & their hands & a hung jury,
who threw potato salad at CCNY lecturers on Dadaism and subsequently presented themselves on the granite steps of the madhouse with shaven heads and harlequin speech of suicide, demanding instantaneous lobotomy,
and who were given instead the concrete void of insulin metrasol electricity hydrotherapy psychotherapy occupational therapy pingpong & amnesia,
who in humorless protest overturned only one symbolic pingpong table, resting briefly in catatonia,
returning years later truly bald except for a wig of blood, and tears and fingers, to the visible madman doom of the wards of the madtowns of the East,
Pilgrim State's Rockland's and Greystone's foetid halls, bickering with the echoes of the soul, rocking and rolling in the midnight solitude-bench dolmen-realms of love, dream of life a nightmare, bodies turned to stone as heavy as the moon,
with mother finally * * * * * *, and the last fantastic book flung out of the tenement window, and the last door closed at 4 AM and the last telephone slammed at the wall in reply and the last furnished room emptied down to the last piece of mental furniture, a yellow paper rose twisted on a wire hanger in the closet, and even that imaginary, nothing but a hopeful little bit of hallucination--
ah, Carl, while you are not safe I am not safe, and now you're really in the total animal soup of time--
and who therefore ran through the icy streets obsessed with a sudden flash of the alchemy of the use of the ellipse the catalog the meter & the vibrating plane,
who dreamt and made incarnate gaps in Time & Space through images juxtaposed, and trapped the archangel of the soul between 2 visual images and joined the elemental verbs and set the noun and dash of consciousness together jumping with sensation of Pater Omnipotens Aeterna Deus
to recreate the syntax and measure of poor human prose and stand before you speechless and intelligent and shaking with shame, rejected yet confessing out the soul to conform to the rhythm of thought in his naked and endless head,
the madman bum and angel beat in Time, unknown, yet putting down here what might be left to say in time come after death,
and rose reincarnate in the ghostly clothes of jazz in the goldhorn shadow of the band and blew the suffering of America's naked mind for love into an eli eli lamma lamma sabacthani saxophone cry that shivered the cities down to the last radio
with the absolute heart of the poem of life butchered out of their own bodies good to eat a thousand years.
Allan Ginsberg
from "Howl"
1956
total brilliancee.
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Went thifting today off Damen.
Best experience of my life. Things that i now own:
Oh, hi, bag. (this is not the actual bag. this is a googled image. alrightok) Hey. hey you, hey bag. are you authentically from a bomb ass long time ago?
Yessss!
And hey, bag, are you authentic and not some cheap ass rip off?
uh huh!
Only a couple more questions, kick ass bag. Are you made out of authentic lamb leather?
yessir!
And finally, bag. finally. Did i pay alot for you?
NO WAY!
why is that, baggy mc love?
BECAUSE YOU KNOW ABOUT OFF THE GODDAMN CHAIN VINTAGE STORES AND YOU ARE A DECENT PERSON! HUZZAH!
alright COOL. next.
I am wandering around this store called the Brown Elephant. i find shoes. im browsing. you know. i mean, IM LOOKING AROUND AT THE SHOES.
and then. i spot them.
I see a Y. i see the S. i see the L. Yves Saint Laurent shoes. for five dollars. its true. they are red. and also glorious. COOL
And finally
an extra large off white vintage tee shirt with a green silohette of a man with a machine gun and a ski mask and in green lettering, it says, "BIER BUA!" i looked up what it means on google? aparantly it means like, "yours truly" or "sicerely yours" so....ski mask..machine gun...."sincerely yours"
Hey, crazy shirt. did i pay alot for you?
yes. you did. you paid FAR too much for me considering i am a mens extra large tee shirt that is way..way...way old.
are you very very soft and old and threadbaren though?
yes. obviously.
do you make me feel like a rockstar?
of course i do. only rockstars and mary kate olsen wear oversized aged teeshirts.
alright. im glad i bought you then.
im glad im yours.
want to hang out tonight?
yes.
COOL, THRIFTING!
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Tuesday, March 14th, 2006
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Devendra Banhart proposed to me today. how cool is THAT!
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the best person of all times, ever. amen.
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Wednesday, March 8th, 2006
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Tuesday, February 28th, 2006
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Sunday, February 19th, 2006
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I want to share some lyrics with you. they are from William Shatner's 2004 album entitled, "Has Been"
"common people"
ft. Joe Jackson
She came from Greece. She had a thirst for knowledge.
She studied sculpture at Saint Martin's College.
That's where I--caught her eye.
She told me that her dad was loaded.
I said, in that case I'll have a rum and Coca-Cola.
She said fine, and in thirty seconds time she said...
I wanna live like common people.
I wanna do whatever common people do.
I wanna sleep with common people.
I wanna sleep with common people like you.
Well, what else could I do? I said, I'll see what I can do!
I took her to a supermarket.
I don't know why, but I had to start it somewhere.
So it started there!
I said, pretend you've got no money.
She just laughed and said, oh, you're so funny!
I said, yeah? Well I can't see anyone else smiling in here!
Are you sure you want to live like common people?
You want to see whatever common people see?
You want to sleep with common people?
You want to sleep with common people like me?
But she didn't understand...
...she just smiled and held my hands!
Rent a flat above a shop!
Cut your hair and get a job!
Smoke some fags and play some pool.
Pretend you never went to school.
But still you'll never get it right.
When you're lyin' in bed at night,
Watching roaches climb the wall.
If you call your dad he could stop it all.
You'll never live like common people!
You'll never do whatever common people do!
You'll never fail like common people!
You'll never watch your life slide out of view,
and dance, and drink, and screw!
Because there's nothing else to do!
another song,
"thats me trying"
ft. Ben Folds and Aimee Mann
I got your address from the phone book at the library
Wandered in, looked you up and you were there
Weird that you've been living, maybe, 2 miles away for the best part of 20 years
You must be, what, in your early forties now
If I remember,
You were born in June or was it May?
Eisenhower was the president although it may have been JFK
Years of silence
Not enough who could blame us giving up?
Above the quiet there's a buzz
That's me trying
You still working in that store on ventura?
You still going with--no, that's not fair
I know I haven't been the very best of dads
I'll hold my hand up there
The reason that I'm writing is that i'd like for us to meet
Get a little daughter dad action going soon
We can put things behind us
Eat some pizza, drink some beer
You still see your sister Lemli?
Bring her, too
Years of silence, not enough
Who could blame us giving up?
Above the quiet there's a buzz
That's me trying
But I don't want to talk about any of that bad stuff
Why I missed out on your wedding and your high school graduation
I'd like to explain, but I can't
So let's keep things neutral
Stick to topics that won't bug us
How 'bout this?
Let's choose a book and we'll read it before we meet
Then we can sit down at a restaurant
Have a look at the menu and talk about it while we eat
See, if we never had a problem
Then that's what life would be like
Easy
Uncomplicated
Cool
So let's just pretend that the past didn't happen
I don't really like thriller as well.
I don't want to know if I've got grandchildren
no need to tell me where I went wrong
I don't want to know what happened in your thirties
You wanna try 'cold mountain'?
Or is that too long??
Years of silence, not enough
Who could blame us giving up?
Above the quiet there's a buzz
That's me trying
I'm trying
this is all i care about right now.
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Comments: Add Your Own.
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Friday, February 17th, 2006
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lookkk, a shitty drawing exerciseee.
fucking hell bloody mother of god i am so bored.
happy birthday, hilton.
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Comments: Read 1 or Add Your Own.
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Wednesday, February 15th, 2006
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| Time: | 11:36 pm. |
| Mood: |  complacent. | | Music: | the magnetic fields. |
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i dont think that is going to work. it was just an experiment.
fucknewentrythatnobodywillreadalright letsmakethishappenyayayayaya
fact: looking like a crack fiend is the best thing that ever happened to me.
fact: i am on day 6 for my mens white cut up undershirt. if you turn it inside out you can see actual dirt and stuff. AMAZING
fact: i left my pashmina at the boys house so i have to go on one more date with him. totally lame.
fact: smoking marlboro ultra lights is like smoking clean air.
fact: my friend jacob and his girlfriend casey are like, my life. They were both born and raised in manhattan and she looks like demi moore and dresses like..upscale urban outfitters. and i hate urban outfitters style so that says something. and they've been dating since the 7th grade and he goes shopping in chicago for her and buys her vintage pucci scarves. COME ON. he has never said a single thing bad about her since i have known him. sample conversations:
me: jacob, did you give casey that scarf?
jacob: yeahhh
me: did she like it?
jacob: she loved it. she looked amazing in it.
*looking at pictures of a model*
me: oh, models.
jacob: my girlfriend is prettier.
man oh man
fact: heidi klum is possibly the smuggest bitch alive
fact: michael kors should stop designing shitty resort wear that is only one step left and up from tommy hilfiger and start just being a commentator and philosopher. and title his first book "Life: Oh GAWD, Its Like Somebody Wrapped Me In Cheap Silk Charmeuse And Spun Me Around In An Office Desk Chair While Sprinkling Self Tanner And Jade Green Sequins On Me"
fact: ive just made friends with this boy after facebook messaging back and forth for months. in our old messages he would just rip me apart and insult me and then throw in a, "but youre pretty or something." we'd see each other on the street and avoid each other or he would give me a smug condescending smirk and sometimes a....dare i say...snort? i dare. finally we became friends and i ventured to his room last thursday where we drank wine that tasted like vinegar.
fact a: he is THE MOST arrogant person i have ever met
fact b: he said, "There are three things that are just...untouchable and beautiful: jazz, sex, and art."
fact c: he talked about himself for an entire hour and thats all
fact d: he lives alone in a room, he is 23 or so, he has 300 books in his room, mostly philosophy, and he paints excessive female nudes. hes very into "the visceral qualities of Abstract Expressionism."
fact e: he is totally abraisive and makes me uncomfortable
fact f: i am drinking wine tomorrow at 9:00 with him.
fact: there is this other boy that facebook messages me and basically remembers everything ive ever worn, every time he has ever seen me, and what i looked like when he saw me ( happy, sad, passive...etc)
fact a: i was in an elevator with him 2 days ago and i wasnt pay attention. he and a friend were the only two in the elevator with me and he didnt say anything to me and i didnt recognize him. i got off and caught his reflection in the glass and his jaw was dropped and he was covering his face with his hand. it was basically the cutest thing ive ever seen
fact: i just made it sound like i have at least 20 boys in rotation and i am a desirable object at my school. dont confuse. i have nothing.
fact: my fashion department interview is in like, 3 weeks and i have to have a 10 piece colored collection with fabric swatches, 10 examples of other, nonfashion oriented work, and be prepared for an interview with "the fashion board."
fact a: i am shitting myselffffffffff
fact: blah blah blah something witty and offhand and unexpected
the last thing i said: " 'Its visceral. Keep stroking your fucking canvas with your oil paints you fag.' "
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Comments: Read 2 or Add Your Own.
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Tuesday, February 14th, 2006
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Shitilikerightnowletsdothis:
1./A./- cigarettes still.
2./B./- taking pictures
3./C./- self portraits
4./D./- Vincent VanGogh
5./E./- Ashley Olsen drug use
6./F./- my big white guys' undershirt that i cut the neck out of and also the hems. i havent stopped wearing it for 3 days now.
7./G./- looking like a drug addict
8./H./- messiness/messy things/shitstyle art
9./I./- Fleetwood Mac
10./J./- "you shook me"- Led Zepellin
11./K./- wine
12./L/- facebook
13./M./-fresh flowers
14./N./- summer
15./O./- bran muffins
16./P./- tragically fabulous gay boys (myspace "your fucked up")
17./Q./- black
18./R./- 9am-9pm classes
19./S./- red suede string bracelet
20./T./- red lipstick
21./U/- doing laundry
22./V./- the asian
23./W./- bread
24./X./- Elliot Smith
25./Y./- watching movies
26./Z./- Edith Piaf
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Comments: Read 2 or Add Your Own.
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Sunday, February 12th, 2006
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| Time: | 4:05 am. |
| Mood: |  disappointed. | | Music: | The Lemon Song- Led Zeppelin. |
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DRUGSDRUGSDRUGSDRUGSDRUGSDRUGSDRUGSDRUGSDRUGSDRUGSDRUGSDRUGSSSSS
coke is disgusting and it turns decent people into shitty bright eyes songs.
also, artists are bullshit.
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Comments: Read 3 or Add Your Own.
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jayelaych's journal
busy.
chipper.
contemplative.
confused.
nervous.
stressed.
melancholy.