| those giants in blue |
[Jun. 8th, 2004|10:30 pm] |
| [ | mood |
| |  disappointed | ] |
the post office. the united states postal system exists to serve our needs of hardcopy information transfer. a holdout from the "paperless" office philosophy which is anything but, the postal service of the united states offers more...much more...that the retina may be exposed to.
the postal service and the extensive network of post offices, trucks, delivery personnel, anthrax detectors, and cool satchels trade much more than letters. much more than words. much more than foreclosure notices, bills, money orders, advertisement, and bank statements. the most important thing available for trade through that 37 cent lifeblood of our country is emotion. *gasp* that word sucks...checking my thesaurus now...
ok. the postal service trades sensation. that elation of getting the long awaited post card from a friend whom you share nothing with any longer. the despair of every day that the post card doesn't contaminate the space of that 6 inch rectangle. the dread of a letter your fingers define as too massive to attack until "later." the kindness of the greeting card, the disgust of advertisements, the fantasy of vicarious living, the red heat of an empty box. it is a kind of torture device. goods purchased through the miracle of the electronics you're using now come late, return to sender means nothing of the sort, because you are too hurried to write in that upper left.
the post office and affiliated support network unrelentingly trade stacks of trifolded stock certificates bearing value measured in one's happiness. stocks without an influx of investment are devalued.
yeah...devalued. that's about right. |
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| again, a randoo repost. |
[Apr. 27th, 2004|03:23 pm] |
Stand and Deliver! Your Answers or Your Life!!!
1. Give me a nickname and explain why you picked it.
2. Am I lovable?
3. How long have you known me?
4. When and how did we first meet?
5. What was your first impression?
6. Do you still think that way about me now?
7. What do you think my weakness is?
8. Do you think I'll get married?
9. What makes me happy?
10. What makes me sad?
11. What reminds you of me?
12. If you could give me anything what would it be?
13. How well do you know me?
14. When's the last time you saw me?
15. Ever wanted to tell me something but couldn't?
16. Do you think I could kill someone?
17. Describe me in one word.
18. Do you think our friendship is getting stronger, weaker, or staying the same?
19. Do you feel that you could talk to me about anything and I would listen?
20. Are you going to put this on your livejournal and see what I say about you? |
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| i dare you |
[Apr. 19th, 2004|03:48 pm] |
I Want Everyone Who Reads This To Ask Me 3 Questions, No More, No Less. Ask Me Anything You Like. I Will Answer Them Honestly. Then I Want You To Go To Your Journal, Copy And Paste This Allowing Your Friends To Ask You Anything.
strange how the cut and paste resulted in all capitalized words...
this is courtesy of TGR. |
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| regarding a friend |
[Apr. 9th, 2004|04:25 pm] |
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your self-fulfilling prophecy has become trite |
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| On managed waste and clichés. |
[Apr. 5th, 2004|07:38 pm] |
| [ | mood |
| | cold | ] |
I just spent 20 minutes writing about complete trash...roughly 3 paragraphs worth. And these were not your run-of-the-mill 3 sentence paragraphs designed to just meet the requirements of that ludicrous [sic] compare and contrast essay in eleventh grade. They were some sort of rubbish outlining my feeling on forcing puzzle pieces where they do not belong (it gets the fucking puzzle to imperfect completion, if nothing more). Literary stove-sweepings of the lowest order.
I deleted it.
Why? Should that have meant something? Should i keep it to remind myself of the grotesque cliché i exploited? It has escaped to electronic obscurity. Lost beneath something i cannot explain to myself, let alone any soul unfortunate enough to step into this trash heap.
Break it. It's the best decision you've ever made. |
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| Divine Comedy |
[Mar. 4th, 2004|05:29 pm] |
| [ | mood |
| | exhausted | ] |
| [ | music |
| | Death Cab For Cutie - We Laugh Indoors | ] |
So, what does it matter if I have become a joke? More precisely, what if I have become the punchline to that stupid joke you have heard too many times? The joke that makes you secretly roll your eyes and breathe a barely audible sigh when it begins. Those telltale cues that you try to keep right on the border of noticeable, with the hope that you can express your disapproval without anyone noticing...or maybe you wish they would notice a bit. Notice enough to ask if you have heard it before. You feign a smile and say yes, covertly rejoicing that you don't have to sit through the whole thing again...don't have to hear that tired facsimile of humor at the end.
But then you decide that you need to hear it again...you remind yourself and you smirk. You tell a friend and they chuckle. A chuckle very much like the one you experience when you see a rerun of Who's The Boss and remember that stupid crush you had on one of the characters. The same chuckle as when you run across a used copy of the New Kids On The Block album you listened to in your stone-washed high-rise jeans and seriously consider purchasing it.
Or maybe you do not reminisce. You really do hope you never hear the joke again or accidentally remind yourself of it. But somehow, you come across a phrase in a newspaper or magazine...a marquee for a late-night diner that has some words to trigger the memory. You cannot help but run through that punchline in your head. It happens, and you shake it off. Once again you are left cursing how damned stupid it is.
Why is it so irritating? If someone else tells it and you inadvertently eavesdrop, you just shake your head and continue on, never another thought about it. But somehow, you know that the humor inside it wants you to crack just a little, to lower your guard and smile again. The way you do when you watch that movie you have seen a hundred seventy-four times and still think is funny.
But it is not that movie. It is not funny anymore because it is secretly painful. It does not give you joy anymore because there is something else. It is not the humor alone. It is the person who told you the joke. THEY ruined it for you. Somewhere in that pretty mind, it clicks. It is not the humor at all that is lost. The punchline alone will still bring that offensively self-satisfied smile. But you cannot, because it is the face that told it that slithers into your head. The lips move, and you hear every word...and you wish to forget.
Forget it. Find a new joke. Hopefully it will bring back that radiant fracture to your stone face. This one is about finished trying. |
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| (no subject) |
[Feb. 18th, 2004|06:13 pm] |
| [ | mood |
| |  sick | ] |
| [ | music |
| | Feeling Left Out - Best of Both Worlds | ] |
Face down. Hugging warm, friendly floors. This is the position. Kissing tile. Embracing linoleum. Try it. It will change your life.
I would like to take this time to thank our friend Johan Gütenberg. Without him, after all, I would have no textbooks to learn from. I would have no books to read for pleasure. There would be no fliers for local concerts. He was a good man, that Gütenberg.
In fact, as the "Most Influential Person of the Millennium," the big G has singlehandedly expanded the ability of non-clergy humans to gain great knowledge. It is now there at anyone's fingertips. That is, of course, excluding those without fingertips, like many victims of land-mines in current and former war zones. Land mine victims I would never know of if G. had not given his gift to the world.
Gravy fries. Pride of the humorous nature of Canadians. I could go for some of that action. Maybe without squeaking cheese curds, though. That sounds downright fucking nasty.
Here is about the point where some insightful metaphor about my current state should enter. Some bullshit again about the "icy waters of my future" and the "hypothermic monotony that I cannot escape." It's all fucking ridiculous, though, as nobody cares.
That's not why they exist, though. I hope I am not writing this for everyone who knows me or reads my aim profile to see. Hopefully, I am writing for myself. Writing so that I can look back on these entries with appreciation for their motives.
I sincerely hope that will not happen. I hope that I will never see this when I (inevitably) stop typing this rubbish. Perhaps it will be lost in the seas of digitized information, only to be found when an electronic archaeologist stumbles across fossilized files on some ancient clay server. They will read it, shake their heads, and realize what savages existed in the days of the qwerty keyboard and its printed circuits powered by fossil fuels long relegated to elementary history books.
Perhaps I am subconsciously writing to an audience other than my own vanity. Maybe I am trying to impress readers with my linguistic proficiency. Maybe I want someone to think that I am that neo-proverbial "beautiful snowflake" because I can fill my aforementioned "blank page" with contaminants.
I'm contemplating vanishing.
I hope you see all of it. |
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| (no subject) |
[Feb. 4th, 2004|10:54 pm] |
| [ | mood |
| | disappointed | ] |
| [ | music |
| | silence | ] |
my mouth may well be sealed, and my ears packed with gauze. worthlessness to all those you care for is a strange position. |
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| (no subject) |
[Feb. 3rd, 2004|08:14 pm] |
i need a couch to sleep on. somewhere new, different. perhaps without urine stains, however. the house of someone else. that unfamiliarity when the eyes let morning light in. that uncomfortable silence when you're the first to wake. the twinge of embarrassment when you aren't.
i need a shift key. something to change my actions. to define a beginning and an end. to specify. to make SOMETHING a proper noun. adds emphasis...excitement.
i need a warm sunshine to stop that painful cold that makes your hands slow their activity uncontrollably. to take away the months-long chill in my toes that ends only with the rush of hot water from the shower head.
i need concrete. perhaps to break a fall, or perhaps just to make my locomotion noticeable with that relieved exhaustion of repetitive impact.
the push-pull, the unlock, and sashimi. |
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| Equipment Inop. |
[Feb. 2nd, 2004|06:34 pm] |
| [ | mood |
| | adequate | ] |
| [ | music |
| | IndiePop Rocks on SomaFm. | ] |
it seems that the livejournal experience has, for the authors of many journals, become a pissing match for metaphor and life insight. the author who has created the most obscure metaphor or connected a classroom lecture or simple daily experience to the largest, sweeping generalization about life has succeeded.
indeed, it would seem that the same is true in any non-technical published material. for example, simple novels examining character strengths and the trials and tribulations of an individual have evolved into a best-selling conglomerate of simple stories with implications for the whole of humanity. what happened to writings with intensely personal messages? why does everything need to change a life? am i, an average member of society, waiting for something to change me? i feel ill at the thought.
in addition, comedy is lost. this weekend, in a trip to the video store for rentals, i realized this sad truth. there is no funny left. all humorous avenues have been explored. ever wonder why fewer and fewer new funny movies make it to theatres? the well has dried up folks, all that is left is a gasp and uncomfortable laugh while everyone is looking around wondering if they should be offended or not. it's simply an attempt to shock someone the most.
speaking of shocking, what is the purpose behind going out with friends? next time you're out alone in a public setting, sit down, order some tea, and watch a group of friends. the only thing that will make them smile is something that also produces an "oh my !" it is an empty attempt. everyone wishes to be the funny person. don't. nobody is funny, everyone is shocking. shocking gossip is trite, at best. it isn't a god-damned pissing match.
how funny. i have turned guilty of the accusations i made in paragraph 1.
enjoy your evenings, there aren't many left. |
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| (no subject) |
[Jan. 20th, 2004|10:12 am] |
| [ | mood |
| |  amused | ] |
| [ | music |
| | Radio 4 - Dance to the Underground | ] |
What is it that one should write on a blank page? Electronically, the question becomes larger, as no doodling is allowed without a pricey replacement of the monitor.
The blank page faces the writer, mockingly free of imperfection. Pure white from top to bottom and across its width. White, which has long stood in western society as the color of purity. So, then, am I defiling this purity with my words, or are my words more pure when placed on this expanse of electronic papyrus? I suppose the optimist would choose the latter, and Marla would definitely choose the former.
Marla is the optimist here. The vegetable-fibre paper of life is filled with slashes of ink, crudely scratched words and fading punctuation. These scratches truly make a person virtuous, not the miraculous empty page on one's deathbed. We can only hope to blacken the page with ink, coffee stains, and maybe a bit of blood from out worn fingers.
By that theory, the page has become more worthwhile as it is blemished by my words.
Fill your page with ink, do not lament the purity of the white expanse.
[/game] |
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| A Plain Morning |
[Dec. 16th, 2003|09:24 am] |
| [ | mood |
| | lonely | ] |
| [ | music |
| | The Sea and Cake - Afternoon | ] |
Dependable Champion™ Spark Plugs - Igniting the Future.
I wonder what happens to used spark plugs. They aren't exactly biodegradable. Steel, platinum and ceramic...Will archaeologists find hundreds of millions of these "new arrowheads" in the future and sell them at gift shops for small units of a currency yet to be named?
ATTN: Graduation-
FUCK YOU. Fear is all you have supplied.. Really, I appreciate all the help. What, with your Pomp and Circumstance and your horrible commencement speeches.
ATTN: Carl's Jr.-
You made some sick sunglasses. Hook up the world with more. Kool Mo Dee bought most of them the first time around.
And to a good friend- Farewell. In all likelihood we'll never see each other again, and we'll likely fall out of any habits we swore to keep or begin. So have a great time. Don't become anything less than you deserve.
Kill your television and abandon your computer. You'll thank me later. |
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| How strange the uses of our education- |
[Dec. 10th, 2003|09:56 am] |
| [ | mood |
| | indifferent | ] |
| [ | music |
| | The Be Good Tanyas - It's Not Happening | ] |
An Introduction to Economics:
If a country wishes to expand its economy, it may look to foreign investment and trade as a viable option. One country contacts another, and the two begin to outline common interest. The countries then begin a beneficial trade relationship where goods and services are exchanged as necessary. What happens, however, if the trade is entirely one-sided? You have a country that receives no capital influx. Monetary resources evaporate and the economy collapses in poor industrial infrastructure and entrepreneurial failure. Interesting.
Anatomy:
If a limb is unused for a long period, the muscles will begin to atrophy. Over time, the muscle becomes completely worthless to the body, and the limb will eventually be starved of blood and its associated oxygen and nutrition. Numbness, gangrene and decay ensue.
The questions of the day are:
1) At what point does the nation described above abandon its trading partners in favor of those who return capital investment, those who carry a vested interest in the well-being of the nation and its people?
2) At what point does one give up on saving the unused limb? Obviously one would not wish to lose the limb for all eternity, but the body wishes to discard that which offers no benefit. It is, very simply, evolution. Where is the dividing line between exercising the limb in order to maintain it and letting an obviously unused faculty die away as nature would wish?
The above ramblings are simply reflective of a choice many face. When to abandon black holes of effort and resources which we pursue with no apparent benefit. When, exactly, does one cut their losses and try another investment? The time is now, don't be so naive.
Game Over. Farewell worthless limb. Farewell economic exploitation. I can support neither any further. New limbs, new investments. |
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| (no subject) |
[Dec. 7th, 2003|09:47 am] |
Going huge.
Going grande.
Going venti.
Getting in the zone.
Buzzwords defined by the eloquence of Heavy D. and the R.E.. There is a reasonable possibility, upon reflection, that more foolishness was involved in the pursuit of the activities above than a Milli Vanilli live show (record deals aside). That is why I stay pequeño during most outings.
Gushers artificial juicy fruit snacks (Bashas - 2.99$) are the playground currency of the perfect state. Stock up now, the dollar is being devalued every day. Investment in secure currencies is prudent.
Thanks go out to the R.E. again for spawning this monstrosity of a livejoural.
Listen to some Sunny Day Real Estate. It heals. |
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xylophonejesus's journal