Yesterday ate nothing but 4 bowls of reese puffs.

today, wake up late again, more malnutrition.

behind in classes. 

behind on the piano.

lost library book.

not much admirable.

the worst sin is to speak plain, all out in the open, directly without discretion.  it's like unveiling something beautiful with no preface.  what's happened to good rhetoric?  the play on words, the deceits, the feathery feeling of it too.  as far as i can tell, people my age speak directly to each other, as in 'Hey how are you?'  'oh good, thanks for asking'  'cool, i'm good too'  etc.etc.

there's no intrigue in that.  there's nothing artful in that.  i've spoken like that for a long time.  just a few days ago, i realized how uncomfortable and unsatisfying and awkward it is.  

so i've worked on it.

a kid today asked, 'man, is it a little chilly outside?'

i thought for a moment, and came up with this:  'but i can take it.'  not even answering his question, inserting a little wit (as best as i can), lightening the situation.

women around my age are quite good at this sort of witty rhetoric, but only when they're coming onto you. 

i suppose i'm frustrated with all the 3 second, meaningless and painful passings i've had with people who are hardly my acquaintances.  

if you are an empty person, i highly suggest resorting to this sort of rhetoric; at least you'll be hiding the nothing.  if you are a substantial person, i even more highly suggest it; then you'll have something worthy of hiding, and you'll stand even more intriguing.

i believe a lot of this bland style of conversing is a product of my society.  my worth as a student as well as a human being when applying for college was spelled out in numbers and figures and computer pixels and ink.  it's all about conveying your worth and your style and your life within a damn resume.  i say fuck that.

whatever you've got going for you, hide it.  lock it up.  tease the hell out of people with it.  god does the same thing.

(note:  feminine gesture of readjusting strap very elegant)

I admire Jonny Greenwood.

people scoot into the room laughing

paper smiles open hearts, companionship and friendship,

i'm on the bed, trying to listen trying not to listen,

participating without participating, distant and strange,

don the headphones for familiar music

to remind me that my great friends,

my great memories and my great dreams

lie miles left away at home, strolling around

through Isle of Wight forests, dark-shiny 

neighborhood streets, faces I would forget

after years of absence because I see into them,

through the flesh into other things,

the qualities hesitantly admired

over the course of years,

people of substance, 

like the way your lover's flesh feels

feathery and complete against you.

a way to say hey man scoot over pull over stoppa the car because you have lost your mind you think the road is a medieval playground and you're on the monkey bars this is a car got that this is a car and you need to pull over before it falls out.

A beautiful day from where I'm from.  The sky with shades of soft baby blue and castle-clouds that seem more definite than the plans of tomorrow - to return to Columbia after a month in Chesapeake.  I drive mesmerized -- the most beautiful day and I just want to watch the clouds float by as I rotate with the Earth -- into the night.  

To her house for goodbye.  No I can't sit and stay for awhile.  No I'm not all that hungry; I just ate.  No thanks, I should get going:  To stay would be so overwhelming, so I limit myself to an embrace.  I look at her baby blue eyes like the clouds and how they well up with tears, and it's too much.  She needs me but I have to leave, have to do the whole college bit and leave.  

Love.

I retreat into myself, a maze of little impulses, the spark of mysterious life, separate from exterior expectations.  Here I can gaze through windows at memories, remembering.  

And at Columbia, I'll lock myself away.  I'll close my eyes and feel lungs pushing out against their cage.  Then I am alone with the keys, black and white.  Then I can tell the truth.

A forum:  A slate:  The Earth bounded cover to cover, filled up with ink and words and pictures and infallibility, another way to chart out the wanderings of a self-discrediting mind, combinations of syllables projected into a vacuum like grains of sand tossed into the impulses of the ocean, a place to fail with no consequences, no readers, nothing to lose.  America isn't always kind to her artists.  Strong, aggressive, iron businessmen sort of chuckle at the idea of a starving artist then rattle some change in their pockets.  But they don't understand that the artist fails thousands of times.  Repeatedly, endlessly, like evolution on a much less interesting and grand of scales, but the failures are personal, perhaps more profound than a fish to a frog (the diagrams of dusty texts).  

Blogs.  The very unappetizing sound of the word fits the pursuit -- to fail, by and by, more or less, in and of itself, most importantly, first off.  If some lonely eyes come to pass over these words, may they know they read through a vacuum, the emptiness of some black hole galaxies away, consuming without anyone's knowing, sucking.  Three or four posts tops, not much more.  A forum to fail, secretly.  Blue and purple and gold swirl, then POOF, bye bye.

Rachael Maddow:  "I don't WANT to know the 'right' way to do things."  Amen, sis....brother.  Aware she is but removed also.  She admitted to not owning a television.  An artist.  Creating art of herself, without filter upon filter piled up like prescription in an old man's glasses, he worn down by the twists and turns and deceptions of a patterned world.  

Art of herself.  Art of myself.  Disconnected yet interested.  Syllables pouring fourth with no deceit, no aim, no ambition other than to exist somewhere other than the doubtful corridors in a preconditioned brain, a simon of a brain, a jigsaw of a brain, a password of a brain, a rubix cube of a brain.  

I've been brainwashed...

I'm beaten down by the rules of an unjust-insane society.  I don't believe in them yet I live by them, because people created them.  Late (or early depending on your perspective), I watch prison shows of violent men, disturbed and desperate and violent.  Little could they have known that the way to live outside of the law is through words, thoughts, conceptions, not of others but entirely of their own.  And yet, only the greatest ever escape -- to the blind delight and dumb admiration of those they leave behind.