some...

seriouslyxjoking (3:28:22 PM): Maybe I need some soup
gaspitsjimmy (3:28:31 PM): maybe you need some ABORTION
seriouslyxjoking (3:28:39 PM): D:

26

things can never be simple because we are too complicated
our connections are too twisted and tied together and within each other.

...by mother nature, that green-eyed slut

"did you know there are people in the world
annoyed with all the other people in the world
and of all these angry people in the world
i am the angriest boy"

two weeks, one day
psyched

there are only a few people I would like to drink with in this whole world
and I think you are probably one of them
there is a list that I keep posted on my wall
of all of the people I love
you are there
I never see you
but that does not mean I do not want to

there are only a few people I would like to sleep with in this whole world
and I know you are one of them

I feel really silly most of the time. I feel like the things I think and the things I feel are not important because everyone thinks and feels them, but maybe everyone does not. I am nervous all the time. I cannot help it. My palms sweat and my heart flutters around like a canary in a cage way too small. Well every cage is way too small for a bird because birds should have the whole world, but this canary does not. Canary is really cliche, but I am no bird expert; I kind of wish I was some kind of bird expert. Sometimes I want to tell you the things I think about you, but I am too scared so I do not. I wonder if there are things you do not tell me because you are too scared. Then I feel silly again for thinking that you are too scared to tell me things you think about me. Full circle.

soon is never soon enough

it is as if there was once a boat made of all the things i loved

There were so many things I wanted to do today and almost none of them were accomplished. This needs to stop happening; I need more motivation. There's this crippling emotion inside of me and I cannot figure out what it is and so I cannot figure out how to fix it.

You know, it felt like the end of the world today because of something very trivial. This very trivial thing meant something to me, though. It is stupid how much grades mean to me. I am tired of being so stressed and frustrated that I cry. This is not what a senior year should be: crying and stress and disappointment. Granted, stress should be present, but not this crippling amount that brings me to tears over mundane grades. I suppose that if colleges base their decision of admitting me to their school on one set of grades for one class then I do not want to be there. The thing that kills me is that none of this will matter in seven or eight months and I will know where I am going. And I guess if I still do not know what I am doing by then I will go out west and find something to do there.
All of these plans are so pointless, but I cannot help making them and hoping for them so much it hurts.
After cooling down it is easy to say these things, but in the middle of class, when nothing makes sense and everyone seems to be getting somewhere, learning at least something and I am stuck with nothing but confusion, ruffled hair, and tears in my eyes, it is not so easy. I guess it is hard to think that none of this amounts to much except a, "Yes!" or, "No!". Of course, that, "Yes!" or, "No!" will result in the next part of my life, but in short, that is it.

"a story worth retelling is worth a listening"

Q: Where are the clouds and the wind and the rain and the red noses and the jackets?
A: Too far away.

Nostalgia is a bittersweet gal.

paper-covered heart

I laid all of my feelings on the floor beside you and then packed them away in a suitcase made of old photographs. I walked for days until I came to a sea, a sea made of cotton fluff and cellophane, whereupon I jumped right in and kept on walking.
Your voice kept floating by, kissing my ears and fingertips, teasing me with things I swear I thought you said.

I laid my heart on the floor beside you. I wrapped it up in shiny paper that you tore right through. I ran for miles until I came to a place filled with snow; I put on my winter hat and kept on running. I've been running ever since I met you...

Now I never hear your voice floating by. Now I never feel your kisses on my ears and fingertips. In my hand I've got my suitcase made of old photographs and tucked in my jacket I've got my heart wrapped in shiny paper, brand new shiny paper, that you won't get your hands on.
I won't let you get your hands on my brand new shiny paper-covered heart. No I won't let you get your hands on my brand new heart.

I cannot play "song for a friend" without almost crying. I feel really pitiful these days; I am an emotional wreck.

I miss you, as if I haven't said it a million times already.

I know that I don't grasp the concept of being on my own at all. I read things that people have written about the passion they have and the way things don't always work out, but they find something because of this thing within them. Of course they don't say these things, but from the words they write and the songs they sing, I can tell. I am scared that I don't have some glowing piece of love or strength or passion or whatever it is that I should have. Leaving in less than one year is a terrifying prospect. Though I want to get out of the place I am in I can't help but realize that I am young, too young for all of this to be happening. It is strange to think that I'll probably be missing my room when I'm hundreds of miles away (if I end up hundreds of miles away), the room that has held me for the past eight years, that has unknowlingly been my sanctuary will become a dream and a place I long for. After a while I suppose it won't feel like this because if you're somewhere long enough it feels like some kind of home, right?
I'm not growing up, but things are changing, and I feel like I am way too young to be going to college next year. Granted, I'll be seventeen this time next year, but will that really change all that much?
I'm putting it out there:
I am fucking scared shitless.

paper car

we'll take a drive in our paper car
and ride along the cotton sea

these are the things you've missed.
and these are the things i love.
i will send you a parade of my memories
in hopes you will find some reason,
sift through the petty touches and words,
to find something i've tucked away.


if you find yourself setting sail
don't forget to dirty your feet
if you find yourself setting sail
don't forget to callous your hands
then you might recall all the reasons you found and
all the people you've loved and all the places you've been.
and maybe, just maybe, you'll find me on
your way home
and maybe, just maybe, you'll find me
on your way to the unknown


and we'll take a drive in our paper car
and ride along the cotton sea

a start to the school year

I am so glad collective is back. I feel like I'm home again.

this is very nice. you should listen:

http://cllct.com/release/layersonleaving

17 august 2009

I keep listening to watercolor paintings and it makes things seem all right.
I am realizing how much I do not want to go back to school.
It's shitty that my really good friends don't go my school and I'm just realizing this now as well.
It's also shitty that two of my best friends just moved far far far away and I won't see them until november.
But things will be okay
things will be okay
things will be okay.

'I am going to make it through this year if it kills me'

'try to be patient

on the way home'

hello again fanfarlo

Give me rampant intellectualism as a coping mechanism.

song for a friend

Soon we'll all be in separte parts of this country and i won't say the things i mean
because the things we say cannot be quantified by the telephone wires running from state to state.
And I'll miss you, I will, and I'll write to you every time you run through my mind.
But it won't be the same, no it won't be the same, but we'll make it til wintertime

we're moving fast
and we can't slow down
it'll be okay
yeah it'll be okay

I'll grow a pair of wings and fly to come see you, maybe sprout a wheel or four
It really doesn't matter, cause the next time I see you it'll feel like you never left this town at all.
I hope you build snowmen and climb lots of trees and fill up a basement with friends
and if ever you're lonely you can always come back down south where the winters aren't as cold

we're moving fast
and we can't slow down
it'll be okay
yeah it'll be okay

|sorry|sorry|sorry|sorry|sorry|sorry|

I thought things might work out, but I guess they won't. It was a silly thought because we live in different universes, we live in different galaxies. I guess I don't really know you, not nearly as much as I'd like to. But I thought that one day I would get to memorize your face and maybe I'd see you on the street or I'd happen upon you on the beach because that's where we both like to go. I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry.....

but darling, I'm not sorry............
We will still have the beach
and I will still have me
and I will still have my feet

Oh oh oh



THIS IS SO SILLY.

ode to summertimes

There is something calming about being with friends all day and all night and not sleeping and screaming neutral milk hotel songs on the top of a tower. We are all lulled by the comfort of each other's company and deliriousness. I want more of these nights where there is no pressure to entertain each other because we know that being with one another is enough. The only pressure is to find something to keep us occupied so we will stay awake. This is what summer means: to be free of any pressures or demands or cares or insecurities, to drive around blaring music and sometimes singing along to stay awake or simply because you know the words and before they can be stopped they spout from your mouth, to buy 2 liter bottles of BIG THUNDER and sip all day to keep conscious, to go to McDonald's at 6:30 in the a.m. and sit on the comfy couches, to paint and carve things in the wee hours when things are fuzzy around the edges and you are not too sure of the time or the place and that's all right, to play yahtzee until numbers do not make sense anymore and adding them seems silly, to go to the park and sing about genitals and how you should show me yours really loudly, to not give two shits about anything tangible because you are so fucking happy in these instances that nothing matters but the warmth you feel inside from your best friends fully and completely understanding you.

summertime, if there was any doubt that this year you were not so nice, this day has washed it all away. everything is okay now, nothing else matters.

oh man

<3

I am in love with Zach Condon

waking up is never as nice

leave a note when you go
'cause I like to know, like to know
where you are.
please
stay with me tonight
stay with me tonight, me tonight
stay with me.

flying south for a future

this is a song i wrote for an interesting ep organized by tony of we heart arts. check it: http://www.myspace.com/weheartarts and http://www.last.fm/label/We+Heart+Arts
the concept of the ep is a relationship in five parts (from the gal's side of the story), each part done by a different gal. i was asked to do 'the future' track; i tried to take a bit out of each of the songs and sneak it in to sort of tie the ep in to a close, i don't know if it worked. we'll see i guess.


it's november once again and i'm inside
i miss yr batman pillows sometimes
there's more than leaves a changin' round here
the south is warmer this time of year

i think i'll fly south for the winter this year

i don't even miss the curve of yr jawline
i've got better ways to bide my time
than to remember what i was doing this time last year
i promise not to shed one more tear

cause i'm flying south for the winter this year

you might have once loved me truly but i
am getting along without you just fine
and come spring i'll have nothing to fear
cause everyone i love will be near

so i flew south for the winter this year

my future is very clear,
i'll be flying south for the winter every year

There's been too much 'I' around here lately.



I offer this. The song I discovered hereabouts: http://withthismightyswordicrownyouking.tumblr.com
The video I can do without; just open your ears.

imaginary tuesday

there's something to the way you move when the kids are playing their songs. you're rocking back and forth, tapping your fingers and your toes; i've never seen something so beautiful: off-beats -- fingers, down-beats -- toes. i'd like to dance with you, but i hate dancing. you make me like dancing sometimes and that's all i really need. no one else makes me want to dance and i think that makes us okay for each other. i've still got paint stuck under my nails from that day we painted our bodies and walked around the house singing. this paint will eventually get washed away. so will you. that's all right because we've all got to move on some time, but i think you'll be around for at least a little while. i like waking up next to you and never making the bed with you because making the bed is pointless and you understand that.

I need to stop over analyzing and creating ridiculous scenarios inside my head that will not get the chance to happen. I also need to stop feeling sorry for myself because it is of no use and these weird moods are breaking my heart and I'm sorry for the way I've been acting. I need to stop missing you because I don't even know you.

I I I I I I I

I'm not sure what to believe anymore. the thoughts inside my head are begging to come out and I'm starting to think that if I walked into the sea I'd make it to you somehow. I'm writing to you because you live too far away and maybe the bends and swirls in the letters of each word will say the things my words cannot. I'm singing songs that have been stuck in my head since wednesday night and maybe you're singing songs too. I'm one of those romantics and that's usually not a good thing because romanticizing things gets me nowhere. I'm not tired because somewhere else there is a revolution going on inside the workings of the clocks at the train station where whistles are blowing and people are yelling and being reunited, while I'm sitting here trying to tell my thoughts to be quiet and let me sleep.

the children of the apokalis

the women of that time
have secrets in their spines
and the fire from that night
is making us blind
tonight

bottles are breaking
voices are shaking
bottles are breaking
voices are shaking

the chemicals in the trees
have soaked into your feet
and the branches of these trees
are bending to be
your dreams

the women of that time
have secrets in their spines
and the fire from that night
is making us blind
tonight

bottles are breaking
bottles are breaking
voices are shaking
voices are shaking
our hearts are breaking
our hearts are breaking
tonight
tonight

tonight.

W.H. Auden - 'O Tell Me the Truth About Love

Some say love's a little boy,
And some say it's a bird,
Some say it makes the world go around,
Some say that's absurd,
And when I asked the man next-door,
Who looked as if he knew,
His wife got very cross indeed,
And said it wouldn't do.

Does it look like a pair of pyjamas,
Or the ham in a temperance hotel?
Does its odour remind one of llamas,
Or has it a comforting smell?
Is it prickly to touch as a hedge is,
Or soft as eiderdown fluff?
Is it sharp or quite smooth at the edges?
O tell me the truth about love.

Our history books refer to it
In cryptic little notes,
It's quite a common topic on
The Transatlantic boats;
I've found the subject mentioned in
Accounts of suicides,
And even seen it scribbled on
The backs of railway guides.

Does it howl like a hungry Alsatian,
Or boom like a military band?
Could one give a first-rate imitation
On a saw or a Steinway Grand?
Is its singing at parties a riot?
Does it only like Classical stuff?
Will it stop when one wants to be quiet?
O tell me the truth about love.

I looked inside the summer-house;
It wasn't over there;
I tried the Thames at Maidenhead,
And Brighton's bracing air.
I don't know what the blackbird sang,
Or what the tulip said;
But it wasn't in the chicken-run,
Or underneath the bed.

Can it pull extraordinary faces?
Is it usually sick on a swing?
Does it spend all its time at the races,
or fiddling with pieces of string?
Has it views of its own about money?
Does it think Patriotism enough?
Are its stories vulgar but funny?
O tell me the truth about love.

When it comes, will it come without warning
Just as I'm picking my nose?
Will it knock on my door in the morning,
Or tread in the bus on my toes?
Will it come like a change in the weather?
Will its greeting be courteous or rough?
Will it alter my life altogether?
O tell me the truth about love.

3 July 2009

girls with flowers for eyes dance and sing
they miss their mothers and can't stand their fathers,
who drink too much and smell like piss and sorrow,
whose fists seek them out in the night;
they pound and they pound and they pound.

the flowers are wilted, oozing red and yellow,
stained awful purple
that creeps up and lays claim
to the delicate
parts,
the most beautiful,
parts
of little girls without anyone but each other.

and so because they dare not mention their
flowers,
they sing and they dance around brilliant fires at night
vowing
i'll never let you go away,
vowing
i love you and no one else
because no one else knows what it's like
to have beautiful flowers
ooze red and yellow

2 July 2009

the words flying from your mouth are painting the sky with
endless imagery
blues oranges reds pinks
never purple
because you hate the way purple makes you feel

but then the rain comes
beating on your windows and doors
begging to be let in out of the chaos
and we open all your windows and doors
stamp our feet on the wet carpet
dancing in circles
realizing that summer rains cannot be beat
and should always be let in
when they knock so politely

29 June 2009

(f)lies pour from the holes in the head
of the one who sits upon a throne of bones
the power stolen from the past heroes
the kingdom built upon murder
well this foundation is crumbling and
the fishermen have come to show
how real men work and suffer

no one is glorified here
there is no queen of hearts,
no king of kings
only the sand and the sea

the throne matters not
the power, the (f)lies, the holes in
all of their heads
it's all a game they're playing
and it all ends here

two more things

1 - make-up is silly and unnecessary.

2 - the smoke all over this house makes me feel trapped and really uncomfortable.

this made sense when I wrote it

time flows irreparably and throughout syntaxes
we don't care to understand
it's imperative to find a structure worth
building, a structure worth living in and
around and through, a structure to grow
with and realize the finality of 'becoming'
with.
this is the place you will create and
revise and trash and re-create for the
rest of your days as 'you', if those
days can even be owned by one
singular 'you'.
our 'you' or our 'i' if you so
prefer is a constant flux of
ideas and actions and regrets and
perfection
moments capture these things
and continue to expand and
contract with us as humans
our self identity as humans is
what we've all got. sexuality and
gender and race and socio-economic
background don't matter because
first and foremost
we are humans.
that's the thing we have to grasp
if you leave 'you' behind and
realize our 'you's are only part
of a 'we' then that's all that
can be done. from there we're all
evolving into beings that are worth
being and becoming once the
'we' is shown to be universal the
separate identities and entities
evolve and expand.
this is being human
this is being alive!

There is something comforting about listening to my father and my brother discuss soccer and movies and everything under the sun while the game is on and the cheers of the fans are taking me back to the Revolution games and the cookouts and the camps and the crushes and when everyone was relatively close geographically.
Things sure have changed, which is obvious and is to be expected; coming to grips with changes is just a strange process. Of course college is becoming this huge part of everything and is freaking me out, though that's becoming standard.
Blah blah blah, banter banter; it's a lot of talk that is hard to process and grasp and fully realize. Everyone is saying that wherever I end up I'll be happy, which I think is true, but it's still incredibly stressful and annoying and I want it to be over.
None of this matters really.

thank you

http://www.pangloss.com/seidel/Ramble/howl_text.html

-thank you-

part II

commercial minds filling and overflowing
over and over and over
continuous stimulation breeding boys and girls to be resurrected at the dawn of a new age
with 'folk ditties instead of rock n roll'
and it always goes back to everything
devolution, here we come

19 June 2009

'This isn't about love as in caring. This is about property as in ownership.'

+

'...the glory boys at your bedside will love you as long as your something to own...'

state of disrepair

Every time I listen to a certain Toby Foster song I feel like going to college is the absolute worst thing for me to do. How are we supposed to know which paths to take? I feel completely lost and it is scaring me more so than before.

'My heart's no longer in every thing that I do like I remember it used to be, but it still feels good to at least be doing something.'



I've got nothing to lose.

things I like

stand up basses and melodicas and people with glasses (and people without glasses) and boys skipping and girls playing baseball and thunderstorms that go on for days and hybrid instruments and trumpet melodies and ideas of faraway places and realities of those faraway places and languages and toes and clarinet harmonies and big band sounds and normal kids who are my heroes and ethiopian food and taking pictures of my friends and swinging and holding hands. I really like holding hands. Let's hold hands. I hope run-on sentences don't bug you; it's not really a run-on sentence, it's more of a list connected with 'and's.

15 June 2009

unfurling capsules of moments left dead and dry upon the cliffs of time
only to be refreshed once in a while by the ebb and flow of forever
nostalgia's the name of the medicine
prescriptions for the price of happiness
a fair trade if necessity rules the kingdom
undoing the things that have been done
and redoing those things that only sentiment understands
rewind and fast-forward
but never stop, never pause
immortal movements captured within the time it takes to convert oxygen into carbon dioxide
only to be unfurled later by the ones who were too young to understand
the ones that were not yet of the age when things begin to crumble, irrevocably so
these are the ones who will unfurl
undo
redo
rewind
fast-forward

quoth the unknown 14 June 2009

'People keep saying when they hear Jeff Mangum that they can't beleive how much beautiful music is created by just a man and his guitar. I think the stories he creates in his music and his own are so deep and intertwined that these songs are almost like pages in his diary, and when we see the diary stop, we just want him back.'

Though it is not 'just a man and his guitar'. It is a handful of beautiful people making said stories come alive and become a part of us; that's the way I see it anyway.

!

I just cannot begin to express my feelings in this moment.
Maybe elation works
sort of
and admiration with a tinge of moroseness and envy.


_______________________________________________
There are some people that you can watch perform and just watch and listen to (sing or speak) for hours on end. I want to meet these people and surround myself with them because they are so vivacious and full of the best things. It's not that I want to be entertained constantly, it's that these people make me so awestruck I cannot create the words necessary to explain myself.
I just want to be able to get on all right and know that there are people that love me that I love and we all can be okay together. I just need to know that these people are real and they can exist for me in my realm and our circles can overlap.

I wish my voice sounded different

and



and not to mention




lock me in the cupboard
bring me out on holidays
we'll dance until we break
we'll dance until dawn
we'll dance until the break of dawn

phuture

the prospect of college is freaking me out
I think I'd rather go to Prague or California or Southern France or Washington to work and learn and meet nice people and probably some not-so-nice people

I don't know who 'you' is supposed to be, or 'me' for that matter

the wind keeps telling me secrets that you're not willing to share
my pockets are full of pebbles so I won't lose my way
cause your words are so well-placed and layed out so carefully
but they're all empty

my mouth is filled up with cotton each time I see your eyes
_________________________________________________



the sparks beneath your eyelids were a sure fire sign you were alive and well, or at least alive. the way your voice bent when you
said, 'I'll stay,
but I'll take the couch;
you take the bed.'
I knew from the angles in your voice that this was doomed,
as right as rain,
as sure as winter turns to spring.
but it's all okay.
we're built to be broken
and a moment is all perfection can hope for anyway.
we're still here and I'm still
in this bed alone
and you're still on the couch
convincing yourself that's where
you should be.

Miles

'radio static and hollowed out chests' 9 june 2009

winter pushed through your teeth and made everything
cold
but you danced in the snow
in the freezing cold
while I walked home along the buttons
of my own spine
bittersweet, each step away from you
bittersweet.
each step back toward myself

from january

there is nothing to broadcast.
there is nothing to say.
there is nothing to sing.
there is nothing to love.
there is nothing to be.
there is nothing to write.
there is nothing to exist.
there is nothing.

in progress - 9 june 2009

in the belly of a whale far away
are the instruments of time
and in this whale's belly you can find
all your useless memories

capsules of moments caught in the rain
left to fend for themselves
nostalgia is the name of the game:
play at your own risk