| une belle journée |
[Dec. 17th, 2008|08:17 pm] |
Clean room, Brazilian incense, a Punjabi cassette tape, green t-shirt, black cardigan, wooden seashell earrings, a ballpoint pen sketch of the sea, sunny afternoon, pomegranate white tea, shades down, mystical curtain drawn, mattress cover. Deux pour elle et trois pour moi. |
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| (no subject) |
[Dec. 12th, 2008|01:43 am] |
I have yet to post anything on here for quite sometime this being due in some part to a lack of time, the relative nature of time, my increasing forgetfulness and the fact that due to winter the condition of my ailment seems to be aggravated. Nonetheless, I am most certainly alive as far as lungs breathing air and heart pumping blood goes. Sometimes, I seem so hollow and void of purpose that it proves difficult to breathe despite my many attempts at shrugging of the torpor of the week and inhaling through this cigarette's filter. The colors of winter -so poignant and vibrant at times often seem all too much to bare- then interspersed with the seeds of discontentment I find myself in various coffee houses flicking the last bits of sugar from their tiny packets and watching them fall into my paper/styrofoam/ceramic cup as I ponder how I got here. This "here" being both this location in the city and this point in my life. Decisions, thoughts, emotions, and influences all essentially leading to some overall trend that if plotted out upon some chart or graph would only cause me to momentarily grimace and promptly turn my head. When people and books and movies and stars are all that you find interesting or worth looking at for any length of time- what then happens when you find that you no longer want to concern yourself with any of these worldly/mundane happenings? Is life worth living if you constantly fill your days with drink and smoke? Conversely, is life worth living if in order to avoid the aforementioned question you must take a pill & or pills to be alright? I could go for two weeks of solitude and Gregorian chant and if I can't have that then give me a roadtrip to the seaside and the happy smiles of friends. What is all the merriment of Christmas about if I can only be christian two days a week? I just finished The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe. I think I can tackle the two remaining books that I am immensely looking forward to reading and still have time to browse through Le Monde while in class. Until next time . . .
another cigarette
another sip of coffee
another page
another glance
another song
another end.
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| these are a few of my favourite things: |
[Jul. 9th, 2008|08:25 am] |
Any flavour of Arizona iced tea is delicious.
Marlboro Virginia Blend my fav cig.
Listening to music on giant headphones always dope.
Going to Seacliff State Beach to look at the half-sunk concrete ship.
My lil 1993 corolla.
A wee bit of the dank to make you feel good.
Go Banana Slugs!
Smithwick's, always a good choice. But I only drink it on tap.
Jameson on the rocks please.
Henry Miller. Such a good book.
Hugh Laurie. I dig House and some of his older brit comedy.
Babyshambles. I don't care if pete doherty is a druggie he makes cool tunes.
Always a fashion statement. I think YSL makes cool shades.
My trusty harmonica. I will take one in A and C.
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My cheapo i-pod shuffle. 1GB but gets the job done.
Fresno's Finest. The Revue Cafe in Tower.
Tattoos obviously.
Strawberry Fanta is so fucking amazing when you're stoned. I'm sure it's just as good sober
I just don't crave it when I'm straight.
Jack Nicholson, shades and cigarette. At 71 he's still a cool actor and a badass.
My Sig Sauer 45 caliber handgun fitted with tactical light, some extra magazines and a case of rounds.
Vive la France!
La joie de France avec la voix d'une ange. Charlotte Gainsbourg. Son pere etait vachement cool aussi. |
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| And I'll shake you . . . |
[Jul. 8th, 2008|07:18 pm] |
Won't you let me walk you home from school?
Won't you let me meet you at the pool?
Maybe Friday I can
Get tickets for the dance
And I'll take you
Oh, oh, oh
Won't you tell your dad to get off my back?
Tell him what we said about "Paint It Black"
Rock and roll is here to stay
Come inside now, it's ok
And I'll shake you
Oh, oh, oh
Won't you tell me what you're thinking of?
Would you be an outlaw for my love?
If it's so then let me know
If it's no then I can go
And I won't make you
Oh, oh, oh
-the lyrics to "Thirteen" elliott smith |
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| how well do you do? |
[Jul. 6th, 2008|07:10 am] |
Because my fur is soft I can climb these mountains of stone. Because I smoke when I talk I can see through your tiny teeth. Because my claws are hidden I can surprise attack. Because the light is soft I can drink cool cool water. Because the music is always playing I can sing while I walk. Because the earth is round I can feel it coming down, slowly turning all down.
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| the way i see it |
[Jul. 3rd, 2008|07:16 am] |
There was absolutely no reason for him to be up at such an early hour. I wondered what he had been thinking. More importantly, I should have wondered what he had been doing. Only three hours prior had he really been driving around aimlessly, listening to a mix tape from a forgotten love, smoking and drinking cheap black thick gas station coffee? I said this as if I knew the answer and the only thing I was beginning to know was that the more I thought I knew about him the more his personality precluded any definable explanation. An enigma that stemmed from . . .
Although, I know of many people who had spoken to him or at least interacted with him verbally through some intersecting fate there was literally no one that knew him as I did. His tone of voice, mannerisms, his subtle gestures; the way he tapped his fingers when there was no music, the clothes he wore were all strikingly familiar yet something evaded. Like a sea that only grows deeper and more vast the farther you swim in search of land.
I had only truly spoken with him once or twice and both times he seemed half-mad and hurriedly chain-smoking unfiltered cigarettes. He spoke in a soft baritone that slid off the tongue with ease. Or could it have been a ruse? Was he so devious that he couldn't even be true to himself? At first I thought so but now I am not so sure.
But then again how well can you know yourself?
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| la premiere cigarette |
[Jun. 30th, 2008|08:44 am] |
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The first cigarette of the day is always a significant event which seems rather commonplace. For the first cigarette of the day is when I shrug off the fetters of sleep and reluctantly accept the disdainful reality of consciousness. It is when I realize that the sun has already risen and that it too must shrug off the blanket of frost and cold that came the night before. The first cigarette is when I realize that I smoke too much simply because I wake up coughing and my throat is parched. It is also when I come to the daily conclusion that I must eventually quit smoking, that I am too tired and or grumpy from sleep combined with a lack of nicotine to actually care. The first cigarette is when my lungs adjust to the thick tar that is coating the inside of my alveoli and it is also the time in which I feel I can breathe the deepest, both physically and metaphorically. |
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| herndon and 99 |
[Jun. 30th, 2008|08:28 am] |
I love the road; the quiet steady repetition of the road, the headlights, the white lines that delineate the lanes, the meaningless drab green sighs of the highway that cautiously form the oblivion that slowly unfolds itself as you pass.
"The discovery of your own end."
-Josh Wigger |
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| une autre fois |
[Jun. 30th, 2008|08:09 am] |
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I lost love (mistaken for lust). And I fell . . . then kept falling. Yes, I fell down and scrapped my knees bloodied and soiled. I turned to run and ran to fun because it kept calling. I ran from cops and then I lost and I was crawling. Brushed myself off and kept going. To live means to learn but not necessarily in that order. We joked and laughed in between cigarettes and sips of black coffee. Stolen glances, wasted chances, I've got a number but she's not calling. Fell out with friends, made some amends, others were purged (but not like Stalin). I once felt sad, bad, used, dumb, naive and young. Now jaded and older I cuss profusely and drink like a soldier. I hear sounds that don't move around, musical notation that has yet to be rehearsed. No sheet music for us. I had to get out but now I don't like where I am. Sometimes, it's too much so I drink and stay up. Late. I love you dad but you gotta understand (une autre fois) we are different people. So don't pray for me, just let it go. I need to be free and sound of mind as I traverse this plane in space and time. I've got two stars and I've fought wars . . . so appalling. Let's take a walk toward the shade, confide your secrets, talk to me. Don't be afraid, I'm not trying to get laid . . . the best plans are creative. Look at me can't you see that this is real? It's not too late please don't wait for me to go . . . for then we both may never know. |
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| late night conversations and the conclusions that follow |
[Jun. 26th, 2008|02:53 am] |
I think it's sad. I think it's sad that you've been wounded so many times. I think it's sad that you have suffered so many daily tragedies. I think it's sad that you don't see how enjoyable life is. I think it's sad that you have very little of an opinion; that you seem indifferent and cold to the world. I think it's sad that the world misunderstands you. I think it's sad that you go to ice rinks and don't skate. I think it's sad that when I asked you what subject you liked in school you simply replied that you hated every subject. I think it's sad that you live alone even though you live with your family. I think it's sad that you avoid relationships so that you can go home every night and eat a grilled cheese sandwich while you talk to your cat. But mostly I think it's sad that you aren't honest with yourself.
A problem, becomes a problem
When you let down your friends
When you let down your people
When you let down yourself
Oh, and only fools, vultures and undertakers
Will have any time for you
And the truth's too harsh to comprehend
You just pretend there isn't a problem
I am a pimp and a slave
I dig my bed, you dig my bed
I dig my own grave
And the truth's too harsh to comprehend
You just pretend there isn't a problem
No no, I ain't got a problem
It's you with the problem. |
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| un jour froid dans l'enfer |
[Nov. 19th, 2006|02:39 pm] |
So fuck the rents. I'm out and free once again. Court went rather well today; it seems as if when things cannot possibly get any fucking worse, the universe has a magical way of keeping the delicate balance. A bit of money in my pocket today, some whiskey tonight and a few job leads for tomorrow. When shit goes down it's good to know that I have friends that will stick it out with me. Live from the underground; I must've been tripping, just ego tripping.
Also, I scored a job on thursday. I am pretty fucking happy about that. I shall be a creepy midnight monger of all things cigarette and redbull. yeah. |
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| quoi? |
[Nov. 12th, 2006|11:39 pm] |
It seems that Maxine and I are the only two left in this wretched household. It's almost as if someone is manufacturing this humanlike clones that only spew forth jesuspeak and they only enjoy listening to worship music in the depths of the morning. I have a secret that even they don't know. Things will change . . . soon.
Until that time here is some haiku I wrote the other day. They might be lame but I like the simplicity.
(cigarette)
open, close, lips, light.
inhale, exhale, smoke, repeat.
drop, step, extinguish.
(drip)
rain falling down slow,
i followed the pattern,
sleepwalking for days.
(underage)
careful! watch for it,
quietly give him the slip,
look cool, drink beer, leave.
(pot)
pack, smoke, exhale, gone.
floating above all sound logic,
drift out, then return.
rbh. |
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| scary world theory |
[Jul. 31st, 2006|05:39 am] |
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I can honestly say that Lali Puna has altered my life in significant ways. It's good to know that I have a friend that doesn't care; one that won't answer when I call, and that never laughs at my jokes. I have been reading a book about the Gulag and the Stalinist era -it's actually more uplifting than you might imagine. I am going to san francisco soon, I'm already anticipating it, plus I am really good at lifting furniture. When prisoners tried to escaped the gulag and were caught (in the summertime) they would be stripped bare and forced to stand under a guard tower until they died from the mosquitos (which usually occurred in a few hours). It's refreshing to be chockfull of dignity and smartass comments, especially when you are as poor as I am. The sun is continually rising as the ashes descend. |
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| there may be a tiger |
[Feb. 28th, 2006|04:45 pm] |
Litigation has always been a manifestation of man, often the cause of which preceeds
the essence of such a delinquent and verbose nature. Let's not consider the profundity
of prose but rather be silent and still like the rose of crimson red, or the pledge of
Jesus as he bled and forged through the ignorance of man like a heron in the land of lakes.
Always the heron forgets the vegetation and regrets of single-celled creatures that dwell
within. Pandora left a jewelry box on top of my clock reminiscent of a freudian who slipped
on a banana peel and in a similar manner my MD asks me how I feel. I respond
"How do I answer such a question?" Furrowing his brow with a contemplative and slightly catatonic
grimace he retorts, "How do you feel right now?" Do I answer such a question with ease or do I
bellow a cough and buckle at the knees? Time is fleeting or at least tempus fugit is all that I
kNOW. So I issue a glib response and onward I go. It's moments like these. Some call it lucubration
and indeed a candle still glows for in vino veritas but Chopin is presque-francais. Ah, the nostalgia of
what Lemansec says. No, he's not dead just dearly departed sort of like melting snow in the Antarctic.
Either this chap thinks too much or not at all. Don't glance at me because my head is to the wall. I simply
need a refrain from a life mundane. Shall I elucidate or would you rather I explain? Be not like me
I say unto thee. I beg thee be like the captivating beauty of the rose, the essence of it's nature no one
knows.
ps fuck |
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| walking rain and a cafe situation |
[Feb. 27th, 2006|11:41 pm] |
I walked through the wind today. I studied the ground as I walked; my mind flowing with endless
thoughts of nostalgia. I bought a redbull and a pack of marlboro reds. The dirty roll of sweaty money in my
pocket became thicker and wet as I walked. The canvas of clouds overhead were high and grey. The norhtheast
wind blew the clouds swiftly. Everyone and everything moves at the speed of light when you cease to move.
At the cafe, I sat in a chair smoking a cigarette and drinking the redbull. I went inside and talked with
Patrece, Rufina and the Spanish-speaking girl. Everyone at the cafe is always happy. It is as if they have this
glossy facade that they wear like a sweater and only when they are alone does the sweater dissipate.
I was drinking a venti Earl Grey when it started raining. The slanted rain glided across the air like a thousand
tiny red balloons fleeing sad children. I laughed about it and tapped my foot in synch with the music. I lost myself
for a moment somewhere in the notes/lyrics and then came back down to take a sip of tea. Rufina came outside and said something
but all I noticed was a girlishly flirtatious smile which made me smile. I took the patio chairs inside for Rufina and had one
final cigarette while Beck then Bob Dylan played.
Walking home I took my time and listened to some music that was left over from the cafe. Passing a church I looked intensely at
three giant metal crosses that stood in the middle of a small commercial waterfountain. The metallic crosses symbolize nothing to me
all I see is modern art gone terribly wrong. Jesus Christ. I wandered home in a sporadic gait. I walked as straight as I could yet I forgot
to step over the narrow grooves in the sidewalk. I trudged through the grass like lewis minus clark and sacajawea. I forgot my name all I
knew was that I was walking. The significance of my destination was washed away with the fresh rain. My face was wet and my hair became curly.
I held my right hand in front of my peacoat (much like Stalin) to keep it closed. I wanted to smoke a cigarette on my walk home but I resisted
the temptation to avoid feeling like Himmler walking through Bergen-Belsen.
music: velvet underground "venus in furs"
belle and sebastian "we are the sleepyheads"
bob dylan "it aint me babe"
space mtn "hovercraft"
johnny cash "folsom prison blues" |
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| boycott reality by eating delicious pears |
[Feb. 21st, 2006|08:33 am] |
a nice comfortable feeling of nostalgia. "my god this conversation is so mundane, i should be cutting cardboard with rusty scissors right now," or "i wonder what would happen if I took that policeman's sidearm and shot him in the chest with it, would he bleed profusely? Maybe he's got a family that would miss him dearly and if not then it's not worth the effort of shooting the poor bastard."
I have to read some history lecture notes but I think I would rather gouge my eyes out with a spoon. The velvet underground has been really good to me lately. If I stop going to Stones will it stop existing? I hope so. Where is the newspaper? Yeah, I spoke to my mom . . . she told me that Amelia was a very kind and beautiful girl. Breakfast at Tiffany's sounds good right now. The wholesale price of wheat flour plummeted in the period after the Civil War. Livejournal isn't very userfriendly. Tangent you say? Actually it's an asymptote. Yes, but multivariable calculus bores me incredibly. Have you read the Elegant Universe? The string theory of course. No, but a girl in South Carolina spoke briefly of Malcom Gladwell's Blink. It explores the so-called adaptive consciousness. People that read have terribly depressing social lives. My brother ate five doughnuts, two pieces of toast, some off-brand cheerios out of the box and then proceeded to mock the romantic comedy we were watching. Last night I learned that USB cords really do charge batteries. I have left a cup of darjeeling out for approximately an hour. Rob bought her some flowers, the only tragedy is they haven't wilted yet. I heard he asked her to marry him over Del Taco, a hopeless romantic for sure. Myspace is continually disappointing me. I think our crockpot is broken. There are two things on the wall in front of me: my mother's B.S. degree and a mirror that is supposed to look like a window. Whenever I begin to fall asleep the doves outside my window start cooing, they aren't even white they're fucking grey like stones. Where did all the albino doves go? I've noticed that as my mother has gotten older she has bought more antiques. There are four tins of tea sitting on top of the refrigerator, but there is no tea in the tins. Last night John said there were people outside tacobell that had glued broken glass to their hands and were punching people in the face. Lastnight, I spoke a little with this chick that went to UCSC and I wasn't surprised to find out that we had nothing in common. Why do some of my friends hate Morrissey? The smiths are better but let's get fucking serious. I think I have poor circulation. Maybe I will take a bath and listen to Norwegian Wood on repeat. I have a cd player but it's not mine. Apple juice and some cheese sticks, because the teletubbies comes on public television in two hours. Yeah, and the chick I don't care about is in Michigan for the moment. I would like to not go on a trip but just tell everyone I'm leaving for three weeks. I would return from nowhere and have interesting stories about similar people and everyone would laugh and smile. Belle and Sebastian are from scotland. Their music is cool because it's like a depression mixed with sunshine. Last week my sociology prof said that staph infections were serious. My dad used to tell me that I would get a staph infection everytime I ate one of those round chocolate doughnuts filled with custard. I wish they made doughnuts filled with custard that didn't have the hole on the side. Maybe people would get into car accidents and forget to be polite. They would be stupified by a mere custard doughnut that had no hole in the side of it. But I think people wouldn't even notice. I mean does everyone look for the hole on the side of a doughnut? Just when I think I am finished writing more trivial rubbish comes into my head and I feel the need to express the plane on which these congruent angles are fixated. A line that goes on forever like a bread queue in soviet russia. When I went to the university I read this book about a czechoslovakian girl that lived in the 50s and they didn't have toilet paper. When her family did have toilet paper it was one-ply and they rationed it. Fuck that. I hate one-ply toilet paper. If I was that girl I would defect just so that I could wipe my ass with proper capitalist toilet paper. Which makes me wonder, you know someone out there has wiped their ass on the Wall Street Journal. When I was in highschool zoology we dissected a fetal pig. I successfully removed the brain and brought it home. I bet I was the only kid that did that. I remember I put it in a plastic bag and curled it up in an assignment so as to be inconspicuous on the school bus. Brain in french is cerveau(sair-voh) in spanish it's (sair-ray-bro) cerebro. Nicotine increases dopamine levels in the brain. I'm going to have a cigarette now. |
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| la rouille délicieuse |
[Feb. 17th, 2006|03:20 pm] |
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I threw some rotting lemons at a friend today. And although my friend returned fire with rotting lemons it felt good. I felt alive and was having fun . . . if only for a brief moment. I watched some figure skating (Torino 2006) with my brother at three in the morning. My brother layed on my bed and I sat in a chair and despite the fact that we talked about nothing that was really significant, we communicated and connected. It is a peculiar feeling to connect with another human being. It doesn't matter how you connect with another person but if you make the effort the second person is often soon to follow suit. I have yet to go to bed. I am not really tired but my eyes would like to be closed. I think my eyes are weary of anymore visual stimuli. Maybe my eyes are just bored and feel that the commonplace objects and landscape provide a somewhat banal visual interest. My sentences are fraught with awkward cumbersome words. Words that are scientific and concise in nature. It's not my fault. I have mainly been reading textbooks this week. I have neglected my Hemingway. The thick hard cover book sits idlely next to the monitor on my desk. My room is messy. I should get a job but maybe I will just avoid the hypodermic needle of reality for another day, then another week. Responsibilities are for grown-ups. I know how to act like an adult but I can only handle so much dull distractions. I am a career student. Delicious rust. end |
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vichywater's journal
