standing five inches from your face, screaming 'til you're dead

There is a whole thread about how I am a ne'er do well thief and a wretched wielder of the English language on the forums at Something Awful, as you may have noticed from the goon rush in the last entry. At first I found many of the comments in the thread about me discouraging, so I deleted the LiveJournal account. Some of it's true. Most of it was for the sake or humor (And some of it was funny). It was all taken out of context though.

I'm not going to quit writing because someone tells me that I'm no good at it or that I can't tell a story very well because I've been on a benzodiazepine binge. Yeah, I know. I'm still working on that. I'm doing fine though.

I find the harassment to be enlightening. In a more exclusive place, I intend to write more productive things. Either way, I am starting over. If you'd like to read any of my future writing, you'll have to get in touch with me to get authorized. I'd be glad to share it, but this five years of an open book is over.

Bye.

An apple will irritate my gums and produce a reaction of persistant itchiness in the area; this is if I tied to eat it, which I learned to avoid long ago. An apple makes for a much better marijuana pipe than for a source of nutrition.

I've slept often lately.

I watched the movie Silent Hill with Kathryn, Laura, her friend, Shelly, Ryan, and two other people. For a movie based on a video game, that was a rather interesting three hours. I think they did a very good job. I would definitely watch it again. Also, Kathryn and Laura's house becomes very cold and there is little room to sleep. Of course, I would rather sleep in uncomfortable conditions than have Kathryn take me to a bed while she is drunk. I once had a mild crush on Kathryn. That's gone now, but I still think highly of her. I wish that I'd see her more often.

Sigh... I have to go.

Should I die facing Judge Ghis again, I vow to make an example of bloody retribution out of the development team working for Square Enix that programmed the battle system for Final Fantasy XII.

I have forgotten how to do this.

I'd bet New Years Eve will be depressing.

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I've had the same thought on my mind for the past week or so, from when I wake up until I sleep. It's all driven by something very strong inside of me. It makes me feel wonderful or alone.

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I'm very unproductive. I don't write enough. I have plenty of time to.

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Lately (for the past few days), I have slept normally - at night.

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I watch a lot of films on IFC. Sometimes I read literature, but not often enough.

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I'm ready to go back to school now. There's really no reason to take any breaks. If I can afford to, I'll keep going in the Summer. I need to be finished very soon so I can leave.

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I am very lonesome in general and often.

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I am afraid to share my thoughts completely, though I am urged to.

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I am very crazy with this certain emotion.

I made a C in Algebra, but I'll take it; it's remedial, and it will come off my GPA at a university. I'd been too frightened to look at the grades until today. I made a B in World Literature and an A in Speech. I still have a B Cumulative GPA.

I'm taking Goverment, German, Anatomy, and the second to last Algebra course I will ever take. I was going to do French or Italian, but the schedules for open courses conflicted. I almost have an Associates degree and then it's goodbye to this hellhole of a place.

I like macabra tales. I like widows - or just any literary women, really - that are morbidly depressed.
I like the 19th and early 20th centuries. I like phrases such as, "...the blackest moments of my wretechedness."
I like female actresses that can play such morbidly depressed women of such eras who say such things in such drab, pitiful tones with such woesome expressions. I'm not really so entirely sad or anything, but I love stuff like that. I like to read such tales very quietly in similar tones as the old European films with English subtitles.

Maybe that's why dead things come to me. What laments more than ghosts?

Oh, I love it. I love Gothic literature. I don't care that much about Germany, and I'd better never hear anyone use that word to describe me or there will be hell.

These are among my favorite songs ever.
This is what I listen to when I eat eight grams of pscilocybin when I see dead folks and such. :P

( Read more... )

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The lyric sheets for the first verses of Postlapsaria and The Poet You Never Were don't exist, but what you can put together from them is really great.

The only good thing about Christianity is the Sabbath. On that day, everyone that is Christian leaves in the morning and is gone for half of the day. Then they go to Vespers and are gone in the evening.

So I decided to make Leary Biscuit-esqe sandwiches. I put butter and cheese (plenty of fat) between toasted bread, and microwaved two of them; I grilled the other one before I nuked it for good measure. I'm the most oddly stoned that I've been in a long time. I used about a half ounce of scwhag - only myself, of course. I should have used a whole ounce, but I'd rather make cannabutter with that much. It's just that iy takes so long. Anyway, I'm super baked.

In about 2 to 6 days, I'm going to go on one more trip. My hallucinogens dealer moved to Arlington. She was getting me sweet deals on acid and mushrooms... more so with the mushrooms. I don't feel guilty if I trip because I'm on vacation (even though I want to get a real job). So yeah.

I missed tripping.

Edit: I am going to eat weed so much more often. Holy shit. Next time I'm doing an ounce.

3:54 Sitting upright in the utter darkness, in my closet, I was quiet. I breathe heavily. I am left with the knowing of what is to come, and it is firmly stated in my mental state. Often I can feel my blood rise into my chest and into my head. I had stirred from the darkness to tell you this. I am also left with the physical sensation that tingles, the faces when I close my eyes and in my peripheral vision.

4:04 The objects in the material world have chaged since I left them. In the darkness, I moved across worlds. Now the monitor feels so far away, and a woman screams at me, banging silenty in the walls. She is like the woman from Charlotte Perkins Gilman

There is a tendency for things (and her at this moment) to want to be in my face and to come at me. I am not very hysterical at the moment. I am quiet and intospective. Often, I laugh at the madness. Today it laughs at me. I look at it quietly and I smile intelligently.

You must understand how things can seem when there is little light and in all other places it is dark. In this instance, there is only the monitor screen.

As for the woman, I may quiet her with my own mind. In the darkness, when the faces are nasty and frightening I ask to be protected.

This is not how. I typically act in this place, so quiet. And the woman is raging mad. I am sure she only needs some friends.

4:20 In utter darkness there were many, many asians very interestined in watching me. They circle around me now. She blows me kisses through the monitor, chewing bubble gum. I will not go back there. There is too stong a sense of something that is... out to get me. I would not laugh at him today.

The darkness is terrifying, yet there is something about it. I will not go back.

I doubt that Saetia (screamo) is a good thing to listen to at the momen. hah.

Everything is so interested in me.

There's something about the word Everything....

None of the faces laugh. They are like death. They reach out for me as I dance.

4:39 In the light things are very different. It's not about the many people. It's me. It's not the light. I invite them. In fact, I will return to the utter darkness where they saught me. I am in a mood to laugh. I'm unsure of what moods are. I'm unsure of many things but that I am not alone

5:11 I spent some time in darkness, but the people have all left. I mean, sometimes... if I look. But they've lost interest. The faces still arive, but they belong to no one. I am so tired. I wonder of the time, but I don't know what it is. I know that things revolve around it, but I do not. Things expect me to revolve around it. I don't really want to. I'm thoroughly confused. I was too frightened and I ran from everyone, and now they're gone. But they looked so dead, and were so stolid and cold in my direction. And they just stared at me. So I ran from them, but now I wish to ask them, "What is it?" Alas. They are gone.

6:02 The boxy effect is less prevelant, though it is. Everything is off as I wonder about the people that visitted me. They were one entity. They were so terrifying. I want them to come back. I have so many questions for them. All those things rusing over my head and looking at me from the side. Now the ants crawl. They don't itch or live. They flicker. Anyway, I am left feeling lonely. I want all those people to come back. I spent a great deal of time lamenting them in the darkness. I told them to come back. They wouldn't. So I sat there. And I had lied on the ground laughing at how absurdly mad I am.

And, Christ, a heavy dose of mushrooms is a fuckton in the face, but it has nothing on the length and sheer omnipotence of high dose LSD.

But I don't mind. I mean, I'm writing these words on the a bay of colors that move and spin.

6:59 I'm not sure what happened to me. I go back to thinking about why that lady was so mad. And then all these Asian people just fucking... They were sad and they wanted something from me. I think the lady may have invented them to frighten me. But I invented the lady... There are vague tracers of her when I blink. Who is she? She scared me to fucking death with all the shit she did. I just wonder about her. It may be my ex-girlfriend.

8:05 I'm going to close this off. I don't know what all of that shit represented, but it was basically a good example of me not allowing a bad trip to turn into a psychotic freakout. I'm not kidding. That shit was scary. But I feel great now. I've been smoking pot. I didn't really smoke much of any during the trip. It wasn't necessary.

In Volton, the main problem is that the five lions are not together to form Voltron to beat some dude's ass or his star fleets' or whatever, which ever happens to be whooping the the four lions' ass. And it's usually that pink princess bitch that's seperated, and she's like, "I MUST GO TO THEM SO WE CAN FORM VOLTRON," and the nobility dudes are like, "ABSOLUTELY NOT," but she is resolute. And at the end of the day, I can't tell if it's the most sexist show on Earth or if it's trying to empower women.

Check it out. Voltron is about to kick this thing's ass. It's got big eyes and six horns or some shit coming out of its face. But Voltron's about to form the lightning sword, and then it's fucking over. DAH DAH DAH... DAH DAH DAH... dah dah dah... dah dah dah... DUN. DUN. DUN. VOLTRON DEFENDER OF THE UNIVERSER!#@!

Fucking blunts.

I've began writing part one of this piece of short fiction. Well, I had been last night mostly. But I like what I've got. I just started working with imagery of the first thing I thought of until it took off. I wrote some notes. I have a desired effect, but I'm still sort of working on the plot.

It's very Gothic in a literary sense. The tone is like the tone of an emo kid. It might have epiphany in the last part. I haven't decided yet. It's definitely tragic and nihilistic.

I've called it The Plight of the Serf... but that title is definitely subject to changing.

I want to write, so I need to write. I mean that I want to write fiction, so I need to write it. I'm going to do these exercises where I just have to start writing on the word processor. What comes out I'll edit or embellish on until I give up on it or do something with it. So, since it's afternoon at one am, I might as well do this while I have time off to do it. Next semester I should take creative writing courses.

The test wasn't that bad. I managed. I still don't know, but... school is done for Winter break. I got a little worked up and anxious about my Algebra final last night.

I saw Morgan one last time. It was awkward. We ran into each other unexpectedly and early, before our test, and we exchanged quick hellos before I left just as quickly. It was kind of satisfactory at first even because the person she was talking to, also in our class, said, "Speak of the devil," when I appeared. We avoided one another after that, and we didn't say many more words to one another. I wasn't sure if she wanted to talk to me, if she couldn't talk to me, or if she didn't want to talk to me at all; but she didn't seem overtly happy. She wasn't melancholy or anything, but she's normally more talkative. I didn't show any changes in my demeanor and was more social with others if anything.

I was more aware of her presense though than the fact that I was giving a speech, which I wasn't very nervous about at all. It brought back the sense of sinking with the tightened knot I had tied up in my stomach and chest. It's an awful feeling.

I think we both know nothing could be the same even remotely after what took place, whether she's actually sorry for it or not. She claimed to not be sorry after I told her it was probably good that we would never get back together or that she could never come over here again, and that was the last real thing she said to me. And I wonder if she actually does regret everything, but it's not that bit that leaves me feeling sick over it; it's not any sort of longing or wonderment over what she feels about me still.

I can't even explain what it is fully.

I wanted to go talk to her and ask her if she was alright, but I couldn't bring myself to look at her much even. What she did was a disturbing low for humanity in my eyes. I wouldn't have thought she would have done what she did. I knew it was best if I just didn't talk to her and so I continued not to. And, you must understand, I wanted to talk to her and see that she was alright. But... I couldn't want to do it very much.

The memories of her make me ill. I hope we never see one another again.

I need to leave a word processing program open all of the time, that way it will constantly stare at me, taunting me to write something good.

I wish I could have written short stories in the 1800s and died at 30 from a morphine overdose or from alcoholism or something equally pathetic. I would have called my stories tales.

And I've been reading a collection of them. If I had a story in a collection like this, it would have a short biography italicized above that would be like,

"After the death of his non-existant wife from the north, which he describes deliriously in a non-sensical set of essays and journal entries found by his body in the wilderness of New Mexico rotting in a pile of his own vomit, Shane Edward Rowden was named officially dead on October 6th, 1904. Many literary scholars believe he had been on a binge eating peyote cacti with Native Ameicans. Habitual behavior such as this led to his highly unproductive career in the early part of his life, when his only writings were written in a shitty journal that everyone agrees is quite pathetic; however, he did manage to choke out this one good narrative that's like a few pages long."

I would love that.

I don't think I did so badly. It's the essay part that will save me. I got an 84 - I think it was - on the major assignment of the course, a research literary analysis essay, that I put together so half-assed just the night before it was due. And I fucking finished the last book we're supposed to have read just moments before getting the test on my desk. Test essays are the best. It would be better to do away with the objective part of it entirely. If you can't express what you know orally or in writing, then you should just fail. Maybe not. But if the test would have been souly that essay, I'd have done better. It wouldn't have been comprehensive though. :/. Really, it's the comprehensive part that fucked me since I didn't read the folktale book due to my being an idiot. So I lucked out with the essay topics. But... I will still make a B I'll bet you. I will. God, I hope I don't lose the bet. I don't want any C's. Anyway, I don't like my Literature professor because he's old and very inflexible with his own structure. Old people are awful. I hope that I'm never old.

Edit: It's entirely possible that I will fail my math course. It will be entirely the fault of Xanax (myself). I pray for a C even. I don't want one. I may not get one... God, save me. It's funny how you still ask out of habit. Or is that archetypal? Cultural? Maybe I am really bound for Hell, but I doubt it. It seems more innately true that there is only the Self, and the the Self is alone amongst many other disconnected Selves. It seems like things are only causal and related to - in addition to my environment - my Self. But, you know... My environment is influenced by other sources unrelated to my Self - other Selves even. Either way, I think there are only Selves. I think it's probable that physicality is a figment of the mind's interpretation of its own existance. There are all these Selves entombed in brains that can't see that well outside of their own skulls except through senses that are deceptive. And all these brains entail a Self, and it can be very miserable to exist in pool of cytoplasm like that. I know there is a way around this perpetual lonliness. Sometimes I am afraid the answer is Collective, or what you might call God. But I don't feel it there. And by definition, that is Hell. So I'm grasping for hands to hold, pills to eat, lovers to sleep with, and dope to smoke.

I want to write a sort of Naturalism that doesn't revolve around the wilderness. I want to write something that is Naturalism of the mind - such as the bitterness and the weakness of the human condition. I want to depict psyches and the processes of how they come to be deranged. And I want to have a single effect that is made when everything is put together. And I want the narrative to abrubtly end as soon as that happens. I want to write tragedy. I was to write personal tragedy. I want to write social tragedy. I want to depict the world as it really is at it's lowest and I want it to be terrifying.

My name is Ernest Wright. We live down in them parts ya'll see down below them mountains iffen you take the trail up in through that there pass, about a mile west o' here; Gretchen's got enough to feed us and the kid, and the house is just up above the rise. Tell 'er you're guest of Ernest. I'll be there for dinner after chopping wood. By God, the witching hour'll beat ye to the village of Craete.

Gretchen lies upon the bed, mouth agape. her legs are lifted upwards, aiding to the mummers escaping her as he presses himself back and forth into them. She pleas queitly, saying, "Oh yes," as the headboard bangs against the wall beside an illigitimate product. "Alonzo!"

I failed miserably at the math test I recalled moments before last night's fall into sleep. I know that I did fail it. I didn't review at all. It was the material from the week I was too drugged up to go to class for. :/. Sigh.

I'm not doing well this semester.

For as badly as I'm doing, Morgan's doing much, much worse. I won't be surprised if she fails all of her classes. She didn't come today. In fact, I almost didn't go because I don't want to ever see or hear from her again. But... I went anyway. And the class only meets two more times, including finals week; and with any luck, she'll fail to go to either of those meetings as well.

I don't want to wish anything ill towards her. I know that she's just weak and drug-addicted; though, I am thoroughly disgusted with that. She needs to be removed from my life. It hurts me to think about, so she just needs to go if she's not strong enough. And she's not.

I hope she gets clean, passes school, gets educated, and finds something worthwhile to do. I honestly don't know that I believe she ever will. She's rich though. She'll inherit her parents' estate. She'll probably have babies. I think that's all she aspires to eventually do, really. Between bi-polar disorder and methamphetamine, I don't know... Otherwise she might not be too bad at motherhood.

Okay. I actually feel okay about all of this now. So that's that.

The memories are like ghosts in my mind. I wish they would go away. They sap my fortitude, and I can't do much of anything. I don't have energy to eat. I don't even like to smoke blunts. I can't finish one if I try.

I did a lot of my reading. But I still have to read a lot of old folk tales, so I need to do that.

A character in one of the books I've read avoids such feelings by staying occupied and doing work. I should probably do that. So... yeah.

I don't feel like doing anything leisurely. I take no pleasure in it. It's just motions if I have a drink or if I smoke a few hits off a blunt before I get tired of it and put it out. I can tell that I'm hungry, but I can't even find the energy to want to go prepare something to eat.

It's not that I'm sad... That's an effect. It's this sickness. It's caused by the memories. They hurt me; though, I am dealing with them.

I will sojourn here breifly to say that I am doing exactly what I should be doing. I'm reading a novel by a Chinua Achebe, which is set in the Umuofia tribe of Africa - all very alien to me. I will also say that most modern African-Americans are likely very thankful their ancestory traces back to being stolen, sold into slavery, and whipped and beaten into Christianity. Ah, the joys of assimilation.

Apparently this book is compared to Greek tragedies. I like to read tragedies. I don't much like to live them, but they are what is real.

I'm going to quickly get past all this trauma, and it was definitely a kind of trauma. I was sick with flashbacks, and they just haunted me to death. I couldn't do anything but lie. I was wretched.

I'm always going to stay focused on not staying sad though.