Fresh Air From The Age
“I see a harbor filled with masts and sails, wearied by the sea wind that wearies me.”Archive for May, 2007
November 30, 2006
This was the 50 year plan. I don’t know how much things have changed this since I wrote this. I’m not sure how it’s all changed yet, but things seem much different. All I know today, May 28, 2007, is that last night was the first night I came home at 5 in the morning and everyone was asleep; there was nobody to reprimand me, nobody to ask where I was. I loved it, it was just me and the experience. What experience it was i’m not sure but i’ll try to write about it. The past 3 nights, I’ve wanted to write in this small notepad i’ve dedicated to nothing. I love it because it’s nothing for nobody. But i’ve been too tired, physically aching for sleep. Living too much might ruin the writing.
“50 Year Plan”
-June comes.
-Graduate.
-The rest of them go off to find themselves and drink in slack American institutions.
-I move to a city somewhere and play the role of something to somebody. This role could be a repetitive job or a meaningful relationship.
-Ill live in that city for a year, ditch the job or the girl and go to another city. Start over.
-Ill do this till I cant anymore or until someone wants to buy my words.
The chapter ends if I cant do it anymore; a new chapter begins if someone buys my words.
-No ties anywhere. No ties to the job, no ties to the people, no ties to the place.
-Somehow, somewhere, ill run into a lot of money.
-I take this money and buy a small, one story house on a beach somewhere.
-I wont have neighbors. I wont have mail. I wont have people.
-Ill have the rising and setting sun peeking in and out of my window and my words.
-Ill go on the rooftop of my house when dusk approaches and smoke grass every day.
The sun will never seem as intense.
-Ill write about it the next day; when I wake up in the afternoon.
-Ill ride an old bike on a dirt road into the small neighbouring town to buy cans of food. The dark-skinned locals will look at me strangely, making up my past in their heads. They will fish early the next morning, shrugging off thoughts of the strange-looking man.
-Ill return to my house one day; dusk approaching.
-Ill be looking at the Monet skies and looking forward to another beautiful moment watching the sunset. Another moment when id feel something lacking, too.
Upon reaching my doorstep, id find you there; you, who I abandoned in those lost cities, who I told I didnt care, who I couldnt see, who I couldnt help.
You, who I always thought of when I was watching those countless setting suns
A Pleasure To Meet You
I crave everything intangible. It seems I too am a conflict-seeker. What is this human condition we all share? Lusting for an imaginary unknown; we strive to know not ourselves, but anything else. Avoidance of self-enlightenment? What kind of creature does that? What an existential travesty. We deserve our fate; I especially.
The English Teachers
Tomorrow is the last day of school. 12 grades and im not sure what I have to show for it. I wish i could see myself had I never gone to school. Math was always terrible, but English came easy; and this year, it was enlightening. I’ll give this to my English teacher tomorrow morning:
“The English Teachers”
went to the porch to have a thought,
and i noticed there,
that a thought takes up about as much time as a cigarette.
it was a most grand thought, though.
it was about my english teacher.
many writers can always remember an english teacher that inspired or subdued them,
and ive always wondered who mine would be.
graduation approaching,
or my world unraveling,
my walks more real,
the ground a bit harder,
made this thought all the greater.
i wished to write this man a letter,
in a vague fashion,
telling him about life.
what do i know of life?
in this letter i would make the hard ground shake and crumble,
id make the reality haze,
i would make my unraveled world a world i would want.
all in all, it would be a grand letter.
i could count it as my first real world connection to someone.
you know, the people id meet in ballgames,
in dance halls,
in silent libraries,
in crowded coffeeshops.
what a grand journey comes soon,
one not to dread,
not like i used to.
i knew there would come a night that id notice that it would be worth it,
it would perfect.
it would be a mirage in the desert,
slowly becoming real.
it would be the blind man’s music,
making him see.
it would the lonely night dreamer’s company,
pressed against his body.
this night would not be one to forget, i always thought…
and it won’t be.
i just never thought it would be real.
To Forget
i was reading baudelarie today and he mentioned the vastness of the sky and the sea.I wondered about it, the sky and the sea.
i wondered why it had changed, why these views had become almost foreboding of something. i realized that with time, all things change. I can almost feel any scrap of innocence leaving my body these days and i wonder, will i forget how to dream? How to forget? How to escape? Will i be caught up in everything everybody gets caught up in?
I might be in this cliched time of transition, where things change and the ground becomes harder, but I dont want to forget how to dream. I dont want to forget the beaches, the beauty of the words, the nights, the sky and the sea. I want to always know it as I first knew it, as this expanse of possibility laying there, untapped.
few days
Graduating on the 23rd. Senior Prom in 2 days.
Crazy times. I dunno, the past 6 months have been so unpredictable. Everywhere I turn is a new face or a new experience.
My nights are becoming more thoughtful. The fun I knew a couple years back; that scary, unexpected fun is still around, just different. It was a subtle change, i’ve just noticed it.
I’m dating a girl who’s going to college 5 hours away and every time I see a University of Florida logo it feels like someone punched me in the chest.
I don’t know what im gonna study, and I know a lot of kids my age don’t but what scares me is lack of motivation. In Burroughs’ first novel, Junk he said that the reason he first tried heroin was because of a lack of motivation.
I want to be a writer but it’s not very practical to be an english major. fuck teaching. I love words and I want to be around them the rest of my life, but i’m scared i’m gonna wind up doing the same job that’s changed my dad from the person he was to the person he is now. Entertainment… so cheap; I might as well go to law school.
This is the first time in a few months i’ve opened completely. The first night in many nights where the words just come, not as a struggling poem or a stoned thought, but as a letter to a relative, or a pen pal i’ve never met.
“I Imagine These Things”
these days have changed,
but the words linger– stronger.
the incendiary words,
boiling clitori.
cliched dreamer lifestyles get me down.
island life and pot makes me smile.
very brave men get up in the mornings,
and the very smart stay in bed.
dreaming of the day the brave men will recognize him as the hero he truly is,
the day when the champagne will come from the clouds,
making women’s clothes transparent.
i can take your hits,
but fuck man, when your days are cloudy or your nights lonely and my songs are the only fucking thing that can keep you going you can thank me when you fuck yourself.
very brave men go to sleep at night,
and the very smart men wonder why we sleep our nights away.
the very few will live in huts on beaches while the rest of the world burns and screams.
the very many will have said too much and lived too little.
its all i can do,
wait till its gone.
check till its through,
hang around till im done.
i wont lose control this time.
i wont lose control this time.
im over here!
so sing along with me,
this whitman song.
come sing along,
the occupational nation song.
come with me and wonder where hitler went,
wonder where youll die,
where the dreams go so few seconds after you wake up,
wonder how these kids can make it,
wonder how the sad old men walking the streets make it,
how the nuns stay virgins,
how rum is made,
how the pot grows on tropical islands where tan locals smoke and fish.
pumping bass,
and trailing lights,
smoking rooms,
foam parties,
blue euros,
dark dance floors,
sticky skin,
smell of sweat like old fried chicken,
warm warm warm bodies.
the new mass,
the new worship.
i picture myself walking empty streets. i picture myself screaming at an empty time square, and empty beach, an empty starbucks.
i like to imagine driving to a far away beach town and living in a strangers house. something on the west coast so id finally see decent sunsets.
i like to imagine a quaint little joint a few feet from the sand, with a forest of purple and blue and white marijuana growing behind it.
something new
I always go through people’s blogs on random when im bored. I love running into a really interesting person or a photographer or something new. I wanted to tell someone something, but im not sure how to. So I thought of something new. It’s crazy how I can be talking to no one, anyone or everyone at the same time.
A kid in Florida, about to start Florida International University in the fall and really wondering what’s gonna happen. Wanna be a writer; I’ll read anything. Bukowski, Hemingway, Whitman, Burroughs, Frost, Verlaine, Rimbaud.
Here I spit some words to no one, anyone and everyone.
Fresh Air From The Age 