It's one of those days where I'm falling through cracks in the sidewalk, not concentrating on anything, seeing double, can't get into an or any groove, am not inspired, can't spell worth shit, and losing my mind and soul and just feel shitty.
Last night, again, I couldn't sleep. It's fucked when you can't sleep. I wrote a post about this in April so I won't repeat how bad it is, but it's a terrible situation.
I had a dream last night and it's far back in my brain now. Too bad we can't remember our dreams, which are subconscious thoughts acting out on stage, but after hours of being awake that subconscious becomes its own subconscious. Somewhere there's a "file" in our brain where all our dreams are stored. I wish I could retrieve them.
But last night I dreamt of a girl, yeah, you can say she was a "dream girl" because she sure was cute. Little, and young, a teenager (17, 18) although I think I too was younger.
She was into hippie music but also pop music (that is, modern shit, ghetto stuff) and... God I can't remember but I kept going back and forth hanging out with her at some carnival that had two locations and I never had enough time to be with her without being somehow thrust to the other carnival. I'd be thinking of her whenever I wasn't with her; and when I was with her, I'd fear losing her again.
And again and again.
At the same time my friend Gale Trask and I (Gale is a male) were started up a band. I was going to play guitar and so was he (who would play bass?), and he would sing.
Gale was a ladykiller in his day, and I felt nervous as I was hooking up with this cute little girl that Gale was around; although he was older and overweight in this dream, so I didn't fear him swiping her away.
Not only that, but, she was built just for me.
I wish I could remember more, but she was sure pretty and yet, I only know that but cannot remember her face, or most of the dream which was built around her beauty, now faded and hidden from my weary brain on this horribly lackluster Monday.
Monday, March 14, 2011
Friday, March 4, 2011
DREAM OF COLLEGE
Half thoughts lately. Of college. The first junior college I went to. It was horrible. There were rabbits on campus. That was supposed to be artistic, but it was gross.
It was a lonely campus, and the parking was terrible. The college lay between a big neighborhood and you could only park along the streets, near suburban houses.
After parking there was a long walk campus. And after walking there were long, boring classes.
Except for one: philosophy. The teacher was great. I would sit and listen and listen and listen. I took him twice, just to listen.
I wasted time at that college. I would go to classes, and not do any work. I was in my early twenties, and simply wanted to be there. Not to belong, but to be there.
To just be somewhere.
This experience, at this particular college, could have to do with my reoccurring dream: of being in a college (it's never clear which) classroom and realizing I haven't been there in a long time.
Or being at home, waking up and realizing I better go to class. But then I forget how long it'd been since I'd been there. Probably a long time.
And when I am there, I never study.
So I tell myself, I better not go... and that I might be kicked out... and I feel empty about it.
This college dream is the most reoccurring of all my reoccurring dreams. I dream it more than when I'm looking into the sky and see a plane. And upon seeing the plane, the plane will begin to fall.
Both of these dreams are depressing, but one, at least, has an ending.
It was a lonely campus, and the parking was terrible. The college lay between a big neighborhood and you could only park along the streets, near suburban houses.
After parking there was a long walk campus. And after walking there were long, boring classes.
Except for one: philosophy. The teacher was great. I would sit and listen and listen and listen. I took him twice, just to listen.
I wasted time at that college. I would go to classes, and not do any work. I was in my early twenties, and simply wanted to be there. Not to belong, but to be there.
To just be somewhere.
This experience, at this particular college, could have to do with my reoccurring dream: of being in a college (it's never clear which) classroom and realizing I haven't been there in a long time.
Or being at home, waking up and realizing I better go to class. But then I forget how long it'd been since I'd been there. Probably a long time.
And when I am there, I never study.
So I tell myself, I better not go... and that I might be kicked out... and I feel empty about it.
This college dream is the most reoccurring of all my reoccurring dreams. I dream it more than when I'm looking into the sky and see a plane. And upon seeing the plane, the plane will begin to fall.
Both of these dreams are depressing, but one, at least, has an ending.
NO SLEEP LATELY
God, I was in a really bad mood today. Everything was sucking. Everything sucked. I couldn't stand anybody or anything. I was rude in my emails and in person too.
It might have to do with the fact that last night, my shoulder was sore. I took two Motrins this morning and also, I haven't slept well in days.
Here's the routine: I fall asleep, and then wake up a few hours later. I can't fall back asleep, so I just lie there. I take my allergy pill, and sometimes that helps. I'll fall back asleep and then wake up again only a few hours later.
This has been happening the last few nights. I don't like it. But it's become a routine. Sort of a standard.
And soon, perhaps, an anthem.
It might have to do with the fact that last night, my shoulder was sore. I took two Motrins this morning and also, I haven't slept well in days.
Here's the routine: I fall asleep, and then wake up a few hours later. I can't fall back asleep, so I just lie there. I take my allergy pill, and sometimes that helps. I'll fall back asleep and then wake up again only a few hours later.
This has been happening the last few nights. I don't like it. But it's become a routine. Sort of a standard.
And soon, perhaps, an anthem.
TURN UP THE RADIO
Thinking of a time when I was a teenager. I was sitting in my bedroom and a song played on the radio. And it really sounded great.
Now I realize it's a cheesy heavy metal tune but then, I liked the build-up. I felt, listening, like I was doing something. The song was Autograph's "Turn Up The Radio." Embarrassing that that tune did it for me that night. It's really dated, and lame.
Now, skip to many years later.
This entry has nothing to do with a bad heavy metal song, but the fact I've been sitting in my room all these years.
Sure, it's not the same room. But I'm alone like then, and not very satisfied.
If only bad songs could sound great like when I didn't realize they weren't good like the stuff I hadn't discovered, that I listen to now, and that sometimes won't lift me from the lethargic funk I'm feeling... right this second.
(I watched the movie HOT TUB TIME MACHINE wherein TURN UP THE RADIO is the main song, but writing this post I didn't know that.)
Now I realize it's a cheesy heavy metal tune but then, I liked the build-up. I felt, listening, like I was doing something. The song was Autograph's "Turn Up The Radio." Embarrassing that that tune did it for me that night. It's really dated, and lame.
Now, skip to many years later.
This entry has nothing to do with a bad heavy metal song, but the fact I've been sitting in my room all these years.
Sure, it's not the same room. But I'm alone like then, and not very satisfied.
If only bad songs could sound great like when I didn't realize they weren't good like the stuff I hadn't discovered, that I listen to now, and that sometimes won't lift me from the lethargic funk I'm feeling... right this second.
(I watched the movie HOT TUB TIME MACHINE wherein TURN UP THE RADIO is the main song, but writing this post I didn't know that.)
Friday, February 11, 2011
BEING ALONE
I'm not part of anything, but I have some cool things going on. I do a "show" on the Internet, but I don't wanna discuss it, that is, I don't want the me, the "now" me, to be mixed up with the person writing this pathetic frizzle.
For I used to, before writing scripts and doing neat stuff related to show biz (on the fringe of the fringe of the fringe), spend hours scribbling 'bout myself and my loneliness. But I don't feel alone anymore. That is, I'm alone... but not lonely.
Sometimes, though, a deep tragic sorrow will hit me from left field - usually I'm in right field and I'll miss the catch and the other team'll score.
Booooooooo!!!
It's a home game, and the crowd ignores me. They're booing at the other team rounding the bases, not at me for missing the catch.
They don't even know I exist.
See that's the thing: I've spent hours (and days and weeks and months and years) writing and nothing's come of it. I could give in to what others have said: that I have no talent. Well, only a few've said that: online kooks, jerkoffs, scumbags.
Others will acknowledge my talent as something that isn't surprising to them. "You're smart," they'll say. "And creative."
But I never want to hear the word "Potential." That's the last thing any "artist" wants to hear. There's no potential in having potential.
It's worse than the cherry goo inside boxed chocolate candy.
For I used to, before writing scripts and doing neat stuff related to show biz (on the fringe of the fringe of the fringe), spend hours scribbling 'bout myself and my loneliness. But I don't feel alone anymore. That is, I'm alone... but not lonely.
Sometimes, though, a deep tragic sorrow will hit me from left field - usually I'm in right field and I'll miss the catch and the other team'll score.
Booooooooo!!!
It's a home game, and the crowd ignores me. They're booing at the other team rounding the bases, not at me for missing the catch.
They don't even know I exist.
See that's the thing: I've spent hours (and days and weeks and months and years) writing and nothing's come of it. I could give in to what others have said: that I have no talent. Well, only a few've said that: online kooks, jerkoffs, scumbags.
Others will acknowledge my talent as something that isn't surprising to them. "You're smart," they'll say. "And creative."
But I never want to hear the word "Potential." That's the last thing any "artist" wants to hear. There's no potential in having potential.
It's worse than the cherry goo inside boxed chocolate candy.
IDLE HANDS
Idle hands are the devil's playground, or perhaps it's his classroom... Because I'm bored as hell when I have nothing to do...
But if I really listen, I'll learn a thing or two...
But if I really listen, I'll learn a thing or two...
SUNDAY MOURNING
I was a teenager on drugs but my parents thought I was off 'em... I was eighteen or nineteen and the peak of my real drug use, when I was fifteen and sixteen, were behind me...
I didn't do as many as before and mostly I was depressed...
And at my mother's request I went to a shrink, a nice handsome guy who played guitar and surfed... He had a meeting with myself and a young blonde girl who was kinda pretty (but not very)... And another kid, very troubled, slightly younger...
During this meeting (the shrink wanted us to meet) the kid had a fit... He pointed at us (me and the girl) and said, "Look at you... You have no problems..." And he stormed out of the room...
So it was myself and the girl, and the shrink, and the shrink went to a popular big church (where my parents go now) and set it up so I would go to this church and meet the girl on Sunday morning... The girl was fine with this...
That was on a Friday... Cut to Sunday Morning: skipping past Saturday Night where I had dropped acid, and as dawn awoke I hadn't slept and felt a mess... But was aglow... Burning-out but still, some fire lurked...
And I drove to the church with the wrong music in the tape deck... I didn't want the right music because that would remind me of the drugs that, the night before, put me in this position of feeling different than the situation entailed...
For I now had to go to church feeling like the result of a lab experiement, and to "survive" the situation needed music to make me feel "normal," and I drove listening to Steve Miller and it was "Take the Money and Run," and the peppy lyrics and hand-claps, juxtaposed with my mangled brain, made no connection whatsoever...
And I arrived at the church early... Walked up to a building and there were some young girls there... Uptight Christian types and pretty, more than the girl I'd meet who wasn't there yet...
These two girls saw me, and my long hair, and my... my my... and I told them I was meeting her... Said the name of the girl... And they said, "Oh, how nice," which I realized meant... I was charity.
Well, I guess I was. But the sound of that, "How nice", wasn't nice... And seemed as though this girl I was gonna meet often met losers at church: upon the shrink's request...
So I left.
I drove home and the tape, on the other side, had slightly better music... Doobie Brothers ("Long Train Runnin'")... But it still didn't fit...
So an hour later... In my room... I put on my Neil Young record with a fifteen minute version of WORDS (mostly an instrumental)... Sounding like a brain-dead bull grazing in a vast field of green... The mantra of those steel guitars were perfect for my shunned soul... A symphony to my plotless pointless life... And I was relaxed, and content...
And perhaps if I had that music on the way to the church, I wouldn't have been so mislead that the realization of being a nice girl's charity wouldn't have mattered like it did.
I didn't do as many as before and mostly I was depressed...
And at my mother's request I went to a shrink, a nice handsome guy who played guitar and surfed... He had a meeting with myself and a young blonde girl who was kinda pretty (but not very)... And another kid, very troubled, slightly younger...
During this meeting (the shrink wanted us to meet) the kid had a fit... He pointed at us (me and the girl) and said, "Look at you... You have no problems..." And he stormed out of the room...
So it was myself and the girl, and the shrink, and the shrink went to a popular big church (where my parents go now) and set it up so I would go to this church and meet the girl on Sunday morning... The girl was fine with this...
That was on a Friday... Cut to Sunday Morning: skipping past Saturday Night where I had dropped acid, and as dawn awoke I hadn't slept and felt a mess... But was aglow... Burning-out but still, some fire lurked...
And I drove to the church with the wrong music in the tape deck... I didn't want the right music because that would remind me of the drugs that, the night before, put me in this position of feeling different than the situation entailed...
For I now had to go to church feeling like the result of a lab experiement, and to "survive" the situation needed music to make me feel "normal," and I drove listening to Steve Miller and it was "Take the Money and Run," and the peppy lyrics and hand-claps, juxtaposed with my mangled brain, made no connection whatsoever...
And I arrived at the church early... Walked up to a building and there were some young girls there... Uptight Christian types and pretty, more than the girl I'd meet who wasn't there yet...
These two girls saw me, and my long hair, and my... my my... and I told them I was meeting her... Said the name of the girl... And they said, "Oh, how nice," which I realized meant... I was charity.
Well, I guess I was. But the sound of that, "How nice", wasn't nice... And seemed as though this girl I was gonna meet often met losers at church: upon the shrink's request...
So I left.
I drove home and the tape, on the other side, had slightly better music... Doobie Brothers ("Long Train Runnin'")... But it still didn't fit...
So an hour later... In my room... I put on my Neil Young record with a fifteen minute version of WORDS (mostly an instrumental)... Sounding like a brain-dead bull grazing in a vast field of green... The mantra of those steel guitars were perfect for my shunned soul... A symphony to my plotless pointless life... And I was relaxed, and content...
And perhaps if I had that music on the way to the church, I wouldn't have been so mislead that the realization of being a nice girl's charity wouldn't have mattered like it did.
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