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My neighbors are having a HUGE FIGHT and I can hear it all from my bedroom window.
The girl (I don't know her name) is fighting with her boyfriend (Dustin). She's screaming at him for being a drunk and how she doesn't have to put up with his shit because she put up with it for four years in her last relationship, I can suss that out for sure, but they keep straying off into tangents. I can't hear Dustin too well, but she keeps screaming, "I NEVER SAID THAT!!! WHY DO YOU KEEP SAYING THAT?!" She even started crying once, then I heard things being slammed around and even a "IT'S OVER!" They're still screaming at each other as I'm typing this, it's a cacaphony of "Fuck!"
These kids sure are resilient. When Jenni and I fought I never let it last this long, I was down the street after five minutes. Do I REALLY miss serious relationships? I forgot about the fighting part. But in a really strange way, I miss that.
This is in fact the cute girl that I stalk from my bedroom window that lives in the apartment building next to mine. Maybe I can move in for the kill. I'll leave a box of chocolates on her doorstep with a note attached that says "Sorry about your drunken boyfriend, <3 the guy in Pacific Place #7." But she needs to find it first, the alternative wouldn't work out too well.
Also - earlier, across the street, there were two missionaries going door to door, and some guy drove by and threw a milkshake at them which splaterred all over one's feet.
My neighborhood rules today.
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Comments: Read 12 or Add Your Own.
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You're being chased around a fire by a pack of wild dogs. Your bare feet kick up dirt back toward the growling and snapping behind you. Someone throws you a pogo stick and you use it for a while. Now you're dodging rocks being thrown by punk rock gypsies, the fire is getting hotter and the dogs are getting more vicious and even though you know they're faking and will joyously lap your face if they ever catch you, you don't want them to catch you, you throw away that pogo stick and you want to keep running and digging that rut until you die. The rut gets bigger as you run faster until you're running on the sides of it like in a centrifuge, going so fast that you're sideways and the fire is singing your hair. You finally give up and jump in the flames, which pick you up and make you dance on top, up in the smoke, away with the flying embers. That's what it's like to see Gogol Bordello.
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Comments: Add Your Own.
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Let's organize all of our desires into neat little piles, then stomp them to dust, collect them and lay them out for miles across our yellow brick roads and forthcoming red carpets, until everything is a nice golden brown.
Or we could instead play a game, we'll shuffle everything until the stakes are the same. We'll play until we forget what for. Then we'll guess a winner, who will take the winnings and burn the whole lot on the floor.
Would we thirst for pain if we forgot about nerve? To whom does fascination first serve? Would we listen to the same music if we only just found our ears? We could find out by relieving the hounds that have been chasing us all these years,
and spoil them with bloody meat from animals fattened from the plants that were fertilized by all of those rich desires we once organized so arduously.
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Comments: Read 4 or Add Your Own.
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Thursday, October 16th, 2003
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I was writing a lot last night, so luckily my notepad was still right by the bed this morning when I woke up from this dream, which is loaded with vague and metaphorical references to my real life:
I am in Mexico, in a sandy desert. I am with a faceless friend. The feeling is that there is a war going on, or about to start, or the repercussions of which would reach us soon. There is an old house covered in graffiti, some of the walls are torn out, and people are squatting here. Some of them carry guns. There is a large barn, maybe two, off to the side. There is this guy named Enrique. I know his name because it is spelled out in 8-bit Nintendo-ish letters hovering over his head. He keeps jumping off the top of the barn, even though it is like 50 feet high. He is coaxing me to try it. I consider it heavily when he starts telling me not to have any fear, as if that were my trigger, as if breaking my leg is not nearly as horrible as the fear of breaking it.
-switch-
A few of us are in the kitchen, which is in the bottom right rear of this house. I'm opening cupboards, and I discover peanut butter. The guy I'm with, who has been squatting there, says he doesn't know what peanut butter is or why it is in his kitchen. I make him a sandwich and he loves it. He shoots his rifle into the air and says something like, "Viva la peanut butter!" My friend and I decide it's about time to go to sleep, so we go upstairs and find an empty room with a couple of nasty mattresses on the floor, covered in bugs and dust. I tell him, "Don't worry, these are just Mexican mattresses," which convinces him enough to lie down and go to sleep. I don't remember lying down.
-switch-
Tanks are rolling up into the yard. Everyone is excited, but I don't want their war.
-switch-
I'm in another house, a bunch of college kids live here. People are drinking beer, and a masked goat is roaming around. Someone tells me they were using it in a play, but it is not explained why they left the mask on the goat. I go upstairs and decide to take a bath in this huge tub that's almost like a small pool. All of the shampoo and soap is purple, which I think is gross, but someone tells me that they only believe in using purple soap for some holistic reason. When I get out, I find this goat, and I take off his mask. He starts talking to me, and I freak out and ask him how he learned to talk, and he says "I can't talk, you're just reading my mind." I ask him how I could do that, and he says, "Some things just can't be explained." So I go around reading the minds of a few people in the house, which is intense because they aren't at all thinking what I might have expected.
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Comments: Read 4 or Add Your Own.
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Wednesday, May 14th, 2003
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Junkman's Obbligato
by Lawrence Ferlinghetti
Let's go
Come on
Let's go
Empty out our pockets
and disappear.
Missing all our appointments
and turning up unshaven
years later
old cigarette papers
stuck to our pants
leaves in our hair.
Let us not
worry about the payments
anymore.
Let them come
and take it away
whatever it was
we were paying for.
And us with it.
Let us arise and go now
to where dogs do it
Over the Hill
where they keep the earthquakes
behind the city dumps
lost among the gasmains and garbage.
Let us see the City Dumps
for what they are.
My country tears of thee.
Let us disappear
in automobile graveyards
and reappear years later
picking rags and newspapers
drying our drawers
on garbage fires
patched on our ass.
Do not bother
to say goodbye
to anyone.
Your misses will not miss us.
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Saturday, March 30th, 2002
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This should be an interesting start.
I stayed home sick from work today. I cannot articulate myself very well right now, since I am still a bit sick. I'm just glad it's friday, so I have the weekend to recover.
I just got a new computer a week ago. It's nice, but it's been bothering me. The same way it bothered me when I bought my new truck 3 years ago, the same way it bothered me when I bought my house. I feel like the things I own are "too nice" for me. It's that pragmatist part of me. I'm way more practical than I am materialistic, that's why I'm more frugal than either of my brothers. I'm just glad that most of what I buy are substantial investments, in a society where disposable income is fashionable. Except I'm a hypocrite there. Take coffee. I'll indulge in that every once in a while. But, a luxury item, and people drink it with unremitting routine. It's as much a part of their life as is waking up in the morning or feeding the dog. But then, I live in Seattle...
Speaking of Seattle, I have decided I do not like dark cynics.
I am tired. This is all for now.
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Comments: Read 4 or Add Your Own.
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myykke's journal
amused.
