Wednesday, March 11, 2009


I have been writing in notebooks for so long that something thoroughly disturbing slipped by.

I don't have a copy of Word.

Over a year and some growth later...

I enrolled in school. I finally got up, stalled for as long as i could waiting for my pants to dry, and then ventured out into an overcast day to the local college. I followed the signs to the right parking lot, followed the path to the right building and didn't even have to wait in line. A student volunteer asked me what she could do for me, and i seriously considered the question. I replied "I want to be a student. How do I do that?"
She handed me a form, I filled it out and exchanged it for a student id and a test date.
easy enough.
The entire time i was there i had a tightness around my ribs, building like someone had stuck a huge key into my back and was winding me up. When the bored volunteer handed me an id number and flashed a half hearted smile, someone let the key go and something seated someplace around my sternum began to hum. I thanked her and stepped outside, sliding my student id into my wallet, between my expired bank cards.
Once outside, the cold, damp air seemed to stick to my skin, soaking in. I felt a childlike joy i hadn't felt at this magnitude since actually being a child. I walked to the theater and smelled the sawdust and contained emotion. I wanted to leap all over the planters and climb the trees, to whoop and shout and skip and sing because this grey obstacle had become a stepping stone, a fountain of youth and all of the drab buildings were suddenly filled with life and vitality.
I take my assessments next week. Hopefully I can brush up on my algebra before then. Although, to be perfectly honest, I know about as much algebra now, as I did when i took a class for six hours a week. Which is why i took the class three times.

Monday, November 19, 2007

this space intentionally left blank

I don't think the way that i used to anymore and i kind of want to get back to it. On one hand, i suppose i should learn what the hell to do with all this maturity, and allow evolution to occur. on the other hand i feel like i should stomp my foot and declare that i don't wanna.
I'm not journaling enough.
Everyday life has barged in and taken up residence on my couch, drinking all my good wine and deleting all my TiVo programming. For instance i have the time to write, and i'm not doing it, simply because i feel the need to fill my day with small inconceivable trivialities so that i don't feel like a lump. Depression is here in full swing and it's not going anywhere until i get a job i can like, which won't happen because i am currently having a crisis of employment identity. I want to be a cop, but at the same time, i dont want to deal with the restrictions and hypocrisy therein. the police force holds a certain ideal in my mind, and possibly only in my mind, and if i can't live up to the ideal, i shouldn't throw time effort and schooling into trying. alas the police is only a step in getting where i would actually like to be, analyzing handwriting. maybe to get a job in forensics, you don't have to do the street cop thing, but i doubt it. i could try going to school. im not doing that because i dont have the money or the time. i need to make money to live, and the time it takes to do that just gets in the way of the schooling time, which holds a much more strict schedule than i first imagined. I want to be a teacher, but at the same time it will feel like a cop out. no pun intended. On top of all this, i do not want to end up in an inner city school. the kids need help, but i dont feel like dragging someone kicking and screaming into education. i want to try to facilitate those who are looking for that spark. though i suppose i was dragged kicking and screaming through te hoops to my shiny 3.2 gpa. 3.2, pretty much looks like you failed your way through high school in the job market. Then i think, maybe i'll wait tables. i can do that i think. although that includes remembering things and talking to people, neither of which i do particularly well.
journaling takes a lot longer than it used to. my world, and thus its problems are so much bigger. are they? i guess thinking my mom was dying is probably as important as what i want to do for a living. but what Tony said about Matt who kicked Tony out of the band, really doesn't matter anymore. I barely talk to either of them these days. Tony because he hates all form of communication, and Matt because, sadly, i have no real interest. He hasn't been able to be real with me since we dated and he told all our guys friends that i let him touch my breast. In and of itself, not a problem, i did let him touch my breast, among other things. The upsetting part was that i had done more with at least one of the guys there and well, i'm not into scorecards. I wish him luck on his quest for a psychology degree.
That's it, i'm going to go read The Virgin Suicides and live vicariously through other people's abilities.

Monday, October 1, 2007

Ok, while im in a funk on the last train of thought.

I'm also writing just STUFF from a living experience that is hard to describe in a few words.
I moved out of Spring Valley to a place called Reseda, which i later came to understand was the very antechamber to hell. I moved into a trailer in the back yard of a five bedroom house, for no rent. I moved in there just before winter, coincidentally one of the rainiest winters southern california has had in decades. Beyond that, i moved there because of two people, Aengus and Melissa. Both had made me feel welcomed, warm, like i had sat in front of a fire with a cup of something hot and a good book. This is simply a testament to the ability of people to alter consensual reality.
Both Melissa and Aengus belonged to a woman we all knew as Madame. I had met her at a renaissance faire in Arizona, and had seen her several times that season. In arizona she invited me in, washed my hair and fed me. Grooming does not just belong to the animals as an act of affection, it touches people as something intimate and tender as well. I love having my hair washed by another person. Madame connects to people, she sees within that person and finds little strands of threads begging for contact, and attaches herself to them, or makes herself appear to be attached. regardless, one feels connected to her almost immediately and one feels as if they could tell her anything and that if she needed it, they might do almost anything for her. Feeling like this is only unnerving if one is opposed to connection with people, out of fear. I am not such a person.

When i moved out of my mother's house, I packed a thick, black trash bag of clothes and my playstation. I was moving out right before she moved to Ramona, and moving out really just consisted of me going on a trip to Ireland, coming back to the states, and my mother not showing up to pick me up. I stayed with my friend Tony for a couple of weeks, and then i moved in with a couple of leeches in Spring Valley. They were my friends, one still is, but i learned a very valuable lesson about money management while living there.
This lesson compounded when i had to call my room mate to unlock my bank card in the states because i was in the middle of the Irish countryside (Doolin) and had no money. I then learned that if one were to throw a hat down in the street, and juggle, one might make 11 euro in one hour. One can also get a table at a pub, and wait for the waitress to bring bread. then one can smuggle that bread into the hat as she walks towards the door without ordering any food.
In any case, i moved from juggling on the street to Spring Valley.
by the time i lived in reseda.I had a job in Riverside. It paid cash under the table, and amounted to about three hundred and fifty to four hundred dollars a week. About the same as an ugly stripper, and i was glad for the money. i took the train out on monday morning, and took it back to reseda friday night. I reveled in the independence and solitude of the train station at seven in the morning and the changes as the hours go by until the train leaves at 12:15. A haze of contemplation would fall over me as i watched the Los angeles gutters and landscapes drift by to the tune of Massive Attack,or bjork. Eventually, I would sleep.

Wednesday, August 22, 2007

Virginia Woolf

I think that if i had known her while she was alive, i would have been madly in love with her.

my new favorite first line.
"Mrs. Dalloway said she would buy the flowers herself."

Monday, August 6, 2007

... ...

"what are you doing here?"
"What is the matter with you; you scared me near half to death." Questions shot from her mouth rapid fire. Vic slid past her through the doorway and countered.
"when did you get here?"
"Early this morning. Your door was unlocked so i just came in to see if you were all right, and i didn't think you were here so i was making a drink and were going to hit me?" Her barrage was not to be stopped. Vic rolled his eyes.
"no." He turned from her and walked across the open expanse of concrete to the kitchen.
"why is there blood on your face? you really should lock your door. did someone hit you?"
"no." Vic answered, though in truth he couldn't remember. He peeked into the blender, smelled it, and poured some into a glass. He sipped. Something was missing.
"Did you fall? Are you feeling ok?" She followed him with questions as he searched through cabinets and opened cupboards.
"no and yes. Can we stop this game now?" he opened the cabinet over the fridge. He reached in a took out a bottle, smiling.
"what game? oh, don't you take that tone with me."
"tone?" he asked, un corking the bottle and pouring amber liquid into his comandeered smoothie.
"that one you do, the bored tone like you don't need this right now. you scared me." she paused, and looked at the bottle. "Is that rum?" Vic smiled widened.
"Yes, Mother, yes it is." He recorked the bottle and took a fork from a drawer, stirring the pool of rum into the frosty fruity goodness. "Would you like some?"

Friday, August 3, 2007


The blender had stopped.
Vic struggled to his feet. The world turned sideways and he caught himself on the wall, squeezing his eyes shut until it righted itself and the floor steadied. He opened his eyes. The bathroom door sat open halfway. He listened but heard nothing more. The light coming in from the small, rectangular window glared against the plain bathroom, making it look bleak and sterile despite the blood on the sink and the shower wall.
A shadow moved beyond the door. Someone was standing on the other side, just out of sight. Vic turned and edged along the door, reaching out to pull it open. He balled one hand into a fist.
He snatched the door open and lunged foward. He didn't have time to register recognition before her shriek tore through his ears and ravaged the inside of his skull. Clutching his head and bent at the waist, Vic opened one eye.
"Jesus Christ, Mother," he growled through gritted teeth. "What are you doing here?"