tuesday morning

i have not written in a long time. i just read my last post and i guess that i was either enormously depressed or being a little bitch, because that is what i thought when i read it, i thought 'god i am a little bitch' or 'i am depressed'. so i stopped writing because i do not like sounding like a little bitch. anyway. it is supposed to rain today but as usual the sky is clear and blue and immense, and i am eating toast and drinking coffee. i am home from school, and it is incredibly lonesome; i just read a lot. there are no shows and nobody is in town, so i sit in coffee shops and read, and observe the passersby, all of whom are repulsive in one way or another but also gorgeous in a way that i can never be. when nobody is here i have very little human contact with which to fill my self, so instead i satisfy the emptiness with words and toast and coffee and other more harmful substances on occasion. i consume these things and think to myself, 'this is good', but then later i feel very much as though i have reduced myself to a bestial version of myself, acting upon impulse and fleeting desires. whatever.

i just placed far too much butter onto my toast.

some things that i am working on:
-becoming an incredibly skilled expert whistler
-reading a stupid book about magic (not harry potter) that is far too long, something like 800 pages
-thinking of an essay to write for the paper

even though i placed too much butter on my toast, it was still delicious.

kisses in monday

For the first time in months, it is raining.

There are raindrops on my window and it is beautiful, and I can hear the different sounds--muted droplets patting the roof, tinkling like piano keys outside of my door.

I don't know what matters.

Lately, I care about very few things; what I love and what I can touch and what leaves me with the vague sensation of "this is nice"; everything else simply happens or exists or fades.

I am reading The Stranger. Supposedly, it concerns a man who is Absurd, whose existence is morbidly futile, who is entirely indifferent to the world around him. His mother dies, he sleeps with pretty tanned girls, his neighbors beat their wives--and he just eats and sleeps and goes to work. What's strange is that, despite the immense pointlessness of his unfeeling existence, he makes no attempt to feel anything, or want anything, or pursue anything. Out of responsibility, out of primal carnal desire, out of hunger--he acts. Otherwise, he simply sits around and smokes cigarettes, watching other people live and die and walk about.

I just felt like writing this.

Because outside, it is as nice as anything, and I am warm as toast.

I want to take a nap.

the coast is always changing.

At intervals, when the clouds do not conceal the sun, it is the most beautiful day of the year.

Because it is cold and I can see my breath, and it is also bright.

I looked outside and saw somebody running down gym hill, flapping their arms as though they were trying to fly, looking absolutely ridiculous.

And someone else, walking, her phone pressed against the side of her face.

I just finished Bukowski's Post Office, and it filled me with the sensation of life-is-an-undeniable-shithole, mixed with life-is-simple-and-wretched-and-at-times-beautiful.

Sadly, I placed it back on the shelf - no more Bukowski novels left to read.

Last night I almost went to a show, but decided to spend the evening with Christine instead, ambling about the village and watching a movie and eating glorious mediterranean food.

A show may have been much more exciting, but being with Christine is also wonderful; she says funny things.

I said that to her last night, "I love you. You're funny."

I am going to go wake up Henry and walk to the dining hall for breakfast and feel the crisp cold air and the occasional sun against my sleepy face.

i think i am sick.

We took several days off of school to try and be happy again. You told me, “I can feel the world and I can feel every ounce of loneliness, creeping inside of my bones and veins every second of the day and I feel sad.” I attempted to produce a sad and sympathetic smile. My head moved up and down in a tiny nod because I wanted you to know that I loved you. Maybe I should surprise her and kiss her on the face, I thought. I didn’t do that. But my sympathy was not false; it was not the type of fabricated emotion one finds at family gatherings, fueled by alcohol and stupid people and shitty conversation. I felt unhappy, too.

“Sometimes, I walk somewhere and sit and look at the sky,” I said.
“Hm,” you said.
“And I see the stars and I don’t think anything. It’s not like in a movie, where people think ‘maybe my mom is looking at this star’ or ‘I feel so human at this moment’. I just feel tiny and restless and unhappy.”
You nodded your head; your hair fell across your milk-colored forehead and latched onto your unusually long eyelashes.

The streets were lined with trees wrapped in Christmas lights, like so many motionless fireflies frozen by the December night air. We listened to Tears for Fears and you muttered the words to yourself. The highway made me feel confused and pissed off but I hid my emotions and you put your hand on top of mine, still looking away into the world outside. I thought about me in sixth grade, how I dreamed of being free of parental supervision and other such restraints. I thought about how I’d go to the movies and wish I could drive because then people would think I am cool. It felt nice to have that dream fulfilled. I squeezed your hand and smiled and listened to Tears for Fears.

That night we lay in my bed and you pressed your face against my chest. A book sat on the bedside table. I picked it up; I began reading it to you in a deep, manly voice. You laughed at me and said that I’m stupid. Inside of my chest a certain calm and peaceful gladness began to settle in—caressing my nerves, nursing my tired soft wet heart.

there is something green on my leg (not a booger)

went to sleep at 2. strange dreams, dreams of rap-battles with kayla and dreams of going to coffee shops and smoking cigarettes with michael. i woke up at 7, too early, so i read and then forced myself back to sleep (this time on my back, to avoid any breathing-related distractions).

at 10, i woke up for good, started reading. i like nick hornby. it doesn't matter that his books aren't 'indie' or 'peculiar' or 'difficult to understand' or 'challenging'. i like his books. they are interesting and straightforward, and i like them. thank you nick hornby.

outside, there is a pair of girls walking up the hill. the pool and the burnt sky (tinged with the smell of distant brushfires) shimmer dimly in the distance. they sing "one" by three dog night; they each sing one word at a time. like this:
"one"
"is"
"the"
"loneliest"
"number"
... and so on.

and then, out of eyesight, i hear them laugh.

also, in my dream, i got in trouble for playing music at school. the song was, i believe, that one by lil jon that says "oh skeet skeet" and i got in trouble because it did not meet the school's 'suburbia mindset'. and then i looked up at a soap dispenser that said something that i can't remember. but it was very fitting and ironic. if i were to write a story about this occurrence, i would end with an image of the protagonist looking at the soap dispenser in the midst of being punished and reading what it said.

okay bye.

jcvd

jean claude van damme's new movie is called 'jcvd'. it is about him. it is about how he is old and wrinkly, and how he doesn't have any money despite his status as an 'international movie superstar'. he decides to rob a bank, and i think he performs many skillful roundhouse kicks to the faces of police officers and pedestrians alike. as he holds up the bank, there is a crowd outside hoisting signs that say 'i heart van damme' and that seems counter-intuitive, to support a bank-robber. but then again, it is jean claude. he has a funny accent, and there's this one thing about steven segal. steven segal is weird.

'jean claude is a bona fide bad ass.'

i am hungry, my belly is rumbling; i am excited to eat any food.

teenage mutant

i hiked this morning.

i woke up at 8 30 and voyaged through the dry and ravaged hills that sleep behind webb with nathan and henry and alex and dahle.

we have dubbed the area 'oakenfold'.

now, henry and i are watching the live action teenage mutant ninja turtles.
the first one, for continuity's sake, despite the second one's superiority.

later, he will go out on a date with somebody; he is going to watch 'quantum of solace'.

i'm glad he's finally going on a date.
although i think he can do better.