in time

I wish
I had
more time
to be happy.

I'm so glad
no-one is here
to see me
all alone.

disgust

more time past
hope builds
disgust

(( ))

So if you haven't noticed, I don't really post anymore.
I don't really have much to say these days,
so I'm just telling you that I won't be using this anymore.
I think I'll come back to it eventually,
whenever I'm having another bout of depression,
but that will probably be a couple of months,
I hope at least.




But at the same time, I kind of hope it's sooner.

I didn't post for the entirety of May.

That is all.

Words

I feel like I need to post here,
but I don't have much to say.
A lot is happening right now,
such as starting my new job,
starting the summer semester,
and starting to play music gain,
potentially.

But still,
nobody gets it all.
You have no idea how tired I am.
Not physically tired,
but I won't go further into it than that.

A lot of things are happening,
but there's a lot of potential
for things to go wrong.
I'm tired of being alone.
That's what I left out one page break ago.

My mind is aging faster than my body can keep up.
If you listen closely and read carefully,
you can hear the gray hairs and the wrinkles setting in.

J.I.

This is the third and final essay I had to do for my class.
We were supposed to "Jump Into" one of the stories
we've read over the course of the semester.
That means we can re-write the story,
but from a different characters perspective,
or in another place, or another time etc.
What a terrible idea.
I did mine on "Optimists" by Richard Ford.
It's an alright story.
I wrote it from the perspective of a homeless man,
and in the original he gets cut in half by a train.
How fun!

And just so you know,
I used The Mountain Goats album "Get Lonely" as a jumping off point,
because I really didn't want to write this.
Also, I like this essay a lot more without the last paragraph.



Little Argument with Myself

I steal down the highway like a ghost. Cars whip by, blowing my hair in my eyes, and I brush it away. I stop and pull a cigarette out of my pants pocket, my last one, and fish a pack of matches out of my backpack. As I strike the match and hold it up to my face a sharp wind picks up, and I cup my hands to shield the flame, but the wind is faster and it goes out. I dig up my matchbook again, open it up, and I realize that had been my last match, so I take the empty matchbook, the burnt match and the unlit cigarette and throw them all into the weeds.

I pull my map from my pack and look at it, in search of my location. I rarely use it, but it gives me a sort of comfort to have an idea of where I am. I search for the highway I’ve been following, and just as I think I’ve found myself, the wind picks up again and this time snatches the map from my hands and carries it away from the highway, so I follow it. It flies fast and I pick up my pace to match it, but every time I get close enough to make a grab, it takes off again, like it wants me to follow.

The map drifts up and over a hill, and I start to climb upwards in pursuit, trying to choose my steps wisely. As I near the top, the dirt shifts under my feet. I lose my footing and start to fall down, and I scrape my hand bracing my fall. I climb over the top and stare at the heel of my hand until the blood dries, and it doesn’t sting so much. The map landed a few yards away, but I don’t pick it up. It seems more at home on the ground than it did deteriorating in my bag.

From the top of the hill, I can see for a mile or two, and in the distance, made wavy by the heat, I can see some buildings, and I began walking toward them. By the time I get there, the sun is nearing the horizon and I’m tired from walking all day, so I look for a nice place to sleep. There’s a gas station nearby, and next to it is an empty lot with a short fence and the grass overgrown, and it looks like a fine enough place to spend the night. I climb over the four-foot fence and drop into the cool grass, lying there until the sun sets, and I fall asleep.
I slept in the lot until the gas station’s overnight attendant switched on the floodlights. I got up and walked further into the lot and laid back down once I was far enough away that the lights wouldn’t bother me anymore, and I fell back asleep.

I woke up with a start, engulfed by a deafening sound like a tornado bearing down on me. What had shaken me from my sleep was the rumbling of a train roaring past. I had been lying only fifteen feet away from the track, and I could feel the wind whipping by me. I looked around, and noticed the sun was already high in the sky; I had apparently slept until at least noon, so I decided to leave my home among the weeds.

I hopped back over the fence around the empty lot and crossed the parking lot of the gas station. When I was nearing the road, something caught my eye; at the edge of the parking lot, there was a parked convertible with the top left down and nobody in it. I approached it cautiously, waiting to be accosted by the owner of the car, wherever he might be, but he never came. I looked into the front seat of the car, but nothing caught my interest. But I then looked into the back seat I saw an open case of vodka. I looked around to see if anyone was watching, but I couldn’t see anybody, so I snatched a bottle and made my way out onto the road.

With the bottle in one hand and the other with its thumb stuck out in search for a ride, I start down the highway. It isn’t long before a car stops to pick me up, and I step inside silently, without even looking at the driver. We take off, and the person behind the wheel starts talking to me.

“So where are you headed?” a man’s voice asks warmly.

“I don’t know.” I reply.

I turned to look at the driver, and I see an expression on his face that was a mix of bewilderment and disgust. I can’t find anything wrong with my reply, but obviously he did. He pulled over on the edge of the highway and I got out without a word and resumed my travelling. Up ahead of me was an endless highway that led out to who-knows-where, and running parallel to it was a railroad, maybe the same one that carried the train which awoke me. I couldn’t see a better way to go, so I began following it.

~

After a couple of hours following the tracks, and about half of the bottle of vodka later, I could see a train station a few miles off, and a rail yard not much further. There were crowds of people on the station’s platform, some arriving, some departing, and some just waiting. Every time a train would arrive, the crowds would lurch and shift, and every time a train would leave, the crowd would move again. There was something spectacular about seeing people all moving like one monstrous, but human creature, but it also made me feel alone, standing by myself next to tracks.

When I reached the station, I haphazardly climbed up onto the platform and watched the throng of people for a while more. Even just a few feet away the people still blended together, moving back and forth like the rhythm of the tides. I did my best to clean myself up, brushing any debris left over from my night in the grass and put the alcohol in my backpack, and I stepped into the crowd. I was overtaken by its mass, like a wave washing over me, and I moved deeper and deeper with every undulation. After only a few moments in the crowd, I reached what I felt was the center of the sea, and I closed my eyes; trying to find a little comfort in it.

But then I could hear the people talking; every person in the mass of people had a voice, and every voice had a pair of ears, and all the ears had voices of their own. People knew people, and they loved people, and they had friends and family, and all sorts of things that I didn’t. So then I got lonely, and gasped for air. Someone called my name out, and I looked for them, but I realized they weren’t asking for me. So I stared down at the palms of my hands. Gazing at the dried blood and the dirt from my fall the day before was all I could do to stop from breaking down in the middle of the crowd. I could hear a voice in my ear, but it wasn’t talking to me, so I did my best to ignore it.

The voice said, “Are you okay?”

Although I didn’t think this question was aimed at me, it was so close I had to look up to see the face from which it came. In front of me was an old man with a thick grey beard, and he was looking directly at me. He motions towards my hands and asks again; “Are you okay?”, but I don’t know what to say, so I looked into his eyes, and I think he understood. After a few moments of silence I turned around, and I started weaving my way out of the crowd.

Just as I make it to the edge of the crowd, and the edge of the platform, a train blows by and I’m whipped with wind, just as had happened earlier in the day. It was a cargo train, and I watched as it rumbled down the tracks to the rail yard where it finally came to a stop. I skirted around the crowd and hopped off of the platform, trailing the train, and looking for a new place to rest.

After just a minute of walking, I reach the train, and I climb into the first open car I find. I sit on the bare floor of the car and reach into my bag for a cigarette, but remember that I had run out the day before, so I open up the vodka, take a deep swig, and fall asleep.

~

The ground beneath me is shaking, and I get up as fast as I can, grabbing my pack and standing up in the railroad car. I can see the sun is going down outside, but I don’t know what is happening to the car I’m in, so I stumble to the open door and try to climb out. As I lean out of the door to climb down, the car buckles beneath me and shakes me off. I fall onto the ground and land on my feet, but I lose my balance and start to fall backwards. My right foot goes out behind me to catch myself, and I feel the empty car roll onto my foot. As I try to get away, I see a man, and he sees me as well. I didn’t yell out to him, but I looked him in the eyes, and I think he understood.

I am losing my mind.

D.P.

This is another essay I wrote for my writing class.
It's supposed to be a descriptive essay about a place,
which should explain the title of this post.
I don't like it much, but it's okay.
I just figured I'd post it anyway.
It's supposed to be about a place,
very descriptive and stuff.
Yeah.

You know, I just read a couple words from it,
and I didn't like them.
Baaaaah.


A Lifetime of Temporary Relief

Sunlight poured in through the windows of the store. The windows were so large that they took up almost the entirety of the storefront forming a glass wall, and the lack of clouds on a cold winter day would cause sunlight to drench the front half of the room. Standing in the light felt like a hot shower that sprayed with enough force that it could you off balance if you were unwary. In the light, the blue carpeting almost looked white, and the areas untouched by the sun in turn looked black. Other spots of the carpet turned red as the sunlight passed through the writing on the windows. They projected words on the ground that read CD Warehouse. Still, despite the warmth the sunlight brought, the rest of the store was cold. Not the kind of cold you feel outside during winter, but a more artificial cold, like that of an office building, regulated and stifling but still comfortable.

The front door was green except for a small block of unpainted wood between the handle and the doorframe. The block was a repair we had made after the store was burglarized. When we arrived at the store that morning, the door had been kicked in, which burst apart the wood under the handle. Despite the burglars’ violent entrance, nothing had actually been taken from the store; the cash register had been opened, but there was no money in the register, as we hadn’t made any sales all week.

I was sitting on the couch beside the counter, which was actually the backseat of a minivan. Paul (my close friend as well as my boss) had taken it out of his van for Ipp (my closer friend as wells as my co-worker) and I to sit on. It was made of blue-green velour, more so green than blue. It was old, at least twenty or so years, and had grown soft with age, so it was deceivingly comfortable. It had a thick, musty smell, and it mixed with every other scent we brought into it. Incense would linger for weeks after it was burned, and sesame chicken would still smell strong enough to make you hungry long after its consumption. We were drinking Blenheim, a type of ginger ale you could only find at the supermarket next door. It was made with real ginger, and would burn your throat on the way down.

A pair of customers entered the store, and the three of us looked up to see who it was. Walking through the door was an elderly couple, probably in their late sixties or early seventies. The woman was wearing a mumu and thick gold rimmed glasses and was looking blankly around. Her husband had matching glasses and a gut that stretched his old t-shirt over the front of his jeans. He approached the counter with a bit of a smirk and said, “I can’t help but get offended when a store doesn’t decorate for Christmas.”

I was taken aback by this. How could anyone say something so incredulous, and to strangers no less? How could he assume we all held the same views as him, and then criticize us for not showing it? I was opening my mouth to tell him off, when Paul answered, “Oh I’m sorry sir. I’ve really been meaning to get a Christmas tree, but we’ve been so busy we haven’t had the time to go out and get one.”

~

After the customers had gone I needed to use the toilet. I walked to rear of the store and stepped out the back door. The back room was cold, almost bitterly so. It was so cold I could see my breath. This was because the heater didn’t reach this room, and there weren’t any windows to allow in sunlight.

I stepped over piles of CD’s, posters & records to get to the bathroom door, and when I opened it I was accosted by a foul odor. The room smelled thickly of ammonia, so my eyes and nostrils burned as I went inside. I held my breath as I stepped in to find the source of the stench. When I switched on the light I saw the cause; someone had forgotten to flush the toilet before Christmas, so their urine was left to stagnate for nearly a week.

I held my breath and emptied my bladder, then quickly left the room. As I returned to the storefront, I saw Paul had opened another bottle of Blenheim and had consumed a fair amount of it. His face looked grim, almost like he had a foul taste in his mouth. I thought about asking what was wrong, but I doubted it was anything important.

After an hour or so of sparse conversation, Paul turned to me and said, “Hey man, I’ve got some bad news.”

“Oh yeah?” I replied. His tone implied what he had to say was important, but I was having trouble taking him seriously. “What’s up?” I asked.

He waited for a moment, and I became concerned.. I put down the record I had been looking at. I knew he was serious now. “We’re gonna have to close the store. We haven’t been making enough money to pay the lease, so we’re going to have to shut down.”

This hit me hard. I could feel a pressure in my chest, like a bomb slowly exploding. The sun beat down hard through the windows. The store felt hot, so I took off my coat.

Alpha Rats Nest

Ah the lengthening hours in the refinery
Belching fire into the sky
We do our best vampire routines
As we suck the dying hours dry
The night is lovely as a rose
If I see sunlight hit you
I am sure that we'll both decompose

Ah the fitful sleep and the fire engines
That I dream of when I dream
Some day we'll both wake up for good
I will try hard not to scream
The evening wind will shake the blinds
You're stirring from your slumber
We've got something hateful on our minds

Oh sing sing sing
For the dying of the day
Sing for the flames that will rip through here
And the smoke that will carry us away
Yeah sing for the damage we've done
And the worse things that we'll do
Open your mouth up and sing for me now
And I will sing for you

-The Mountain Goats

Would You Believe

that I know how to disappear completely?
I've done it before,
many times before.

Do you believe that?
I think I may disappear again.

I could teach you how to.
Do you want to try?
Do you believe me?

Dear _____,
I don't know what to do.

And the hatred is rising,
but I hope that I'm stronger than this.

P.T.R.

In my writing class, we were assigned to read a handful of stories, and then write a response to one of them. The response was supposed to have the same theme (my choice being the "life-changing event"). I wanted to write about a particual interesting incedent in my life, but it wasn't actually life-changing, just, well, interesting, so I added an ending to it that made it work. The mess of words below are the essay, but with the false ending chopped off. Other than that, it's unaltered, and I still like it well enough. Comments are always appreciated.

Oh, and the title has nothing to do with the essay, or anything really.
Incidentally, it's probably my favourite part.

I Closed My Eyes, Like Marvin Gaye

It was cold out. It was the end of December then, and the dead of winter. It must have been in the 30’s that day, but there I was in the middle of the woods wearing a t-shirt, an AC/DC sweatshirt and a pair of jeans, that despite my mothers’ hemming them, were shredded around the back of the feet from my walking on them. I was out in the woods with a pair of friends, David & Justin. They weren’t my closest friends, but were more the kind of people you would hang out with if your real friends were busy, or you just had nothing better to do.

Where we were was a small clearing made by generations of delinquent teenagers. “The Spot” as we called it, was littered with beer cans and the likes, and furnished with cigarette burned lawn chairs as well as a table held up by a stump, as one of its legs had been snapped off in a drunken frenzy.

David was sifting through the mess on the ground, searching for an uncrushed can to fashion into a pipe, but I told him not to bother. I brandished a corn-cob pipe which I had come across while rooting through my closet. My mother had given it to me as a Christmas gift when I was in the first grade as a reference to Frosty the Snowman. I passed it to David, who then fished a bag of pot out of his pants pocket, which was followed by a smaller bag containing four or five small white pills. I asked him what they were, and he replied “Methadone. Synthetic heroin. It’s what they give heroin addicts at rehab clinics.” He stuffed some weed into the pipe, packing it tightly. He then crushed one of the pills and sprinkled small white grains on top of the pot.

He offered me the pipe, but I turned it down. I was nervous of the pills, afraid of what they could do. What neither them were aware of was that I had made a promise to myself that I would never touch any sort of medications, as I believed they were dangerous. What I had forgotten was that I had made that same promise to myself before about marijuana, and alcohol before that.
They passed the pipe back and forth until they had depleted its contents and quickly re-packed the bowl just as before, with another powdered pill, just as before. I hadn’t been paying them any mind while they were refilling the pipe, so when they offered it to me the second time I didn’t refuse it. I noticed the bottom of the pipe had been blackened, as it had never actually been intended for use. Flicking the lighter, I held its flame over the concoction and sucked as much air as I could to ignite the contents of the bowl. I held in the acrid smoke as long as I could, and coughed it out when I couldn’t hold it any longer. The smoke that had filled my lungs carried the foul taste that was usual of pot, but there was a bitter sharpness that was out of the ordinary. I knew what it was in the back of my mind, but I couldn’t bring it forth.

It wasn’t until we’d repeated this process enough times to deplete our drug supply that it dawned on me; the bitterness the smoke had carried was the methadone. I had smoked more than an entire dose of it and I was already beginning to feel its effects setting in. I was afraid of what was to come, but the fear was wearing thin. The cold I had been previously was now gone, overtaken by a kind of warmth and comfort I had never felt before. I was like I was sheltered in an unseen blanket, immensely thick but not constricting, made out of some sort of fiber that reassured me everything would be alright, and nothing else in the world mattered. It told me I was safe.

So we started running. Not down the path that leads to The Spot, but into the woods around us. We dove headlong through the brush, tearing through the vines and brambles long dead from the cold winter. As we ran, we laughed and called out to one another, not feeling the bitter cold as we flew. We soon found ourselves on a road, the main road in our neighborhood, but we didn’t stop there, in fact, we only ran faster. We sprinted down the road, still laughing and shouting, shoving each other to gain headway and letting each other pass just to do it again, all out of breath but completely unaware.

We must have run five miles by the time we’d stopped. We were at the middle school in our neighborhood, our preconceived destination, although I was oblivious to it. We stood outside of the school, not talking, only laughing and waiting for a person we knew was coming, although I was oblivious to that as well.

A blue Volkswagen Beetle rolled up to us, and I remembered who it was; Emalee (pronounced Emily (I always thought the way her name was spelled was asinine)). I opened the passenger door of the car and we fell in. We were immediately overtaken by a wave of heat, which had the same sort of effect as the methadone, but this time it was real.

Progressively more & more full of hate.

^

I wrote my story
You should have seen it
You would have loved it
But then it ended
Ended no children
I guess when you woke up
You held your scream in
Left me there sleeping
For days and weeks
And finally when I woke up
And the day was dying
You weren't there singing
So when the fire's burning
And the smoke carries me away
I'll be the one singing

=

I feel one of my turns coming on.

I I I

I am a broken record
I miss it
I miss this
I am dying (only on the inside),
(there's no need to fret)
I know what I need
I'll never find it

' ' '

You can be sorry now,
because all I feel for you is
contempt.

That is a lie,
on one level it is.
But on the other,
it is the truth.

Please be sorry.
Please be well.