Gonna be a long one, folks. I got rolling.
About three years ago , when i was in Redlands, i decided to undertake a project that thinking back seems fucking impossible: get my life in music. Make an anthology, for lack of a better word, of my life, a tapestry woven by other people's words from moments when they spoke to me the most. I remember, this time EXACTLY three years ago, i started this thing. I guess i found it to be a theraputic thing, something i could keep working on until i couldn't work any more. Just collect songs that were important at key moments in life, arrange them as close to chronologically as i possibly could, & be able to pick up a mood from a time period like it was nothing. I mean, it sounds fucking crazy to me now, but then it made sense. Must've been the pent up rage against everything at the time & the Vicodin for the knee.
So, guess what i found in a box this morning? Volumes one through nine, my life in music. I don't think i've heard these in at least two & a half years, about when i stopped working on them & got distracted by school & love & all that stuff that continually has bitten me in the ass. And damned if they are out of date even by then; last one goes up to about April of '04, a month before i left Redlands, & in my prime period of being the biggest prick you ever met. Kinda miss that, to be honest. But listening to this stuff is a mindfuck, just because it actually is WORKING like i wanted it to. I mean, yeah, beyond a collection of mostly good stuff (musically there's some shit in there, definitely), i don't think anyone would actually enjoy it, but damn...with all due respect to the scientists of the world, for me personally, the sense of sound is the strongest tied to memory, not smell. I'm vividly recalling things i haven't even dreamt about in years. It's the strangest thing. Almost feel like keeping this thing up. Just because there's no Lou Reed on it yet. And because i think i've needed to know i've grown up at least a little.
And i've been rereading Hearts in Atlantis by Stephen King. My favorite book of all time. Ironically, i read it almost exactly three years ago as well. I packed it because i was crippled up & would rather read than listen to my roommates do shit like microwave fridge magnets & stick cold spoons to their balls, respectively. I started reading it after they moved me in, again, with this guy named John Beck. Think i wrote about him before, getting hit with a broom. Anyway, the guy was the most embarrassing person i've been unfortunate enough to meet. Twenty-five, laughed at all his own jokes, looked like Howdy Doody, would tell you why jokes on TV were funny & how he enjoyed them on a higher level than anyone else because he had just the right lack of social skills to sit around & mull them over. And, he was a virgin, who had a couple shots to fix that during the time i knew him to fix that, only to turn them down because he thought he could do better. The point is, the guy thought i was his best friend, when i would rather beat him to death. Anyway, while he was microwaving lightbulbs far too long (i told him how to do it right, but the fucker couldn't figure out that seconds & minutes were different, apparently), i started the book. Finished it a few days later, & honest to god i felt like it changed my life. It made me want to follow me dream to be a writer. Made me want to change the world. To create characters a person could honest to god feel like they KNOW.
Two quarters through it now, i feel like that again. Like there's something i can actually accomplish. I mean, i think i've gotten much more cynical in three years, but i still feel like there's a chance i could make my dream WORK. Those of you who actually read these, if any exist, i hope can see i at least reek of adequacy. And that's cool. But i think i can do better. For the first time in three years, at least, i feel inspired. Like i can actually do something worth remembering, even if it's just me doing it. Between the music, & the books (i'm not even close to done with all the ones i need to read again, or for the first time in a few cases), it seems like a switch has just kinda clicked on.
For the first time since it happened, i think, i vivdly remember leaving Redlands. How i was too excited when they told me i was going home to even pack everything; only things i considered essential went. Seeing everyone for the last time, saying i'd be in touch & meaning every word of it (the higher ups apparently threw out any letter i sent anyone. Ten letters i sent, none returned, & those i talk to now say they got nothing). I left there around ten in the morning on May 26th, 2004. Happiest day of my life, far & away. Last person i talked to there was Jessica, the alleged single mom stripper in Boston (or Seattle, depends on who you ask). Wished me luck, & genuinely meant it. That day was the first time i felt like i meant a damn thing to anyone; i got hugged, i shook hands, i mended fences. My leaving made a difference, & i think that's the first time i've ever fully believed i meant anything to anyone, even they were all a bunch of crazy drug addicts & social outcasts & embarrassments to their parents. The last thing i remember doing was putting a piece of paper up in the kitchen window, for all in the smoke pit to see. I'm sure it didn't last the day, but it was there when i left, which is good enough for me. Made sure it said in large letters LOVE + PEACE = INFORMATION. Just like the book. I don't even know why i did it now, & have been laughing at the notion i did it all morning. But fuck, it felt right at the time. And that's all that matters. So i think that's the only book that can make me cry for two different reasons.
FUCK this was long & beastly. I'm expecting no comments, because i don't know of anyone who'd want to read all that. I think this was just something i had to write out. Felt imortant. I'd give it ***1/2.
Man, i should really quit posting shit no one will read. Makes me seem nuts.
About three years ago , when i was in Redlands, i decided to undertake a project that thinking back seems fucking impossible: get my life in music. Make an anthology, for lack of a better word, of my life, a tapestry woven by other people's words from moments when they spoke to me the most. I remember, this time EXACTLY three years ago, i started this thing. I guess i found it to be a theraputic thing, something i could keep working on until i couldn't work any more. Just collect songs that were important at key moments in life, arrange them as close to chronologically as i possibly could, & be able to pick up a mood from a time period like it was nothing. I mean, it sounds fucking crazy to me now, but then it made sense. Must've been the pent up rage against everything at the time & the Vicodin for the knee.
So, guess what i found in a box this morning? Volumes one through nine, my life in music. I don't think i've heard these in at least two & a half years, about when i stopped working on them & got distracted by school & love & all that stuff that continually has bitten me in the ass. And damned if they are out of date even by then; last one goes up to about April of '04, a month before i left Redlands, & in my prime period of being the biggest prick you ever met. Kinda miss that, to be honest. But listening to this stuff is a mindfuck, just because it actually is WORKING like i wanted it to. I mean, yeah, beyond a collection of mostly good stuff (musically there's some shit in there, definitely), i don't think anyone would actually enjoy it, but damn...with all due respect to the scientists of the world, for me personally, the sense of sound is the strongest tied to memory, not smell. I'm vividly recalling things i haven't even dreamt about in years. It's the strangest thing. Almost feel like keeping this thing up. Just because there's no Lou Reed on it yet. And because i think i've needed to know i've grown up at least a little.
And i've been rereading Hearts in Atlantis by Stephen King. My favorite book of all time. Ironically, i read it almost exactly three years ago as well. I packed it because i was crippled up & would rather read than listen to my roommates do shit like microwave fridge magnets & stick cold spoons to their balls, respectively. I started reading it after they moved me in, again, with this guy named John Beck. Think i wrote about him before, getting hit with a broom. Anyway, the guy was the most embarrassing person i've been unfortunate enough to meet. Twenty-five, laughed at all his own jokes, looked like Howdy Doody, would tell you why jokes on TV were funny & how he enjoyed them on a higher level than anyone else because he had just the right lack of social skills to sit around & mull them over. And, he was a virgin, who had a couple shots to fix that during the time i knew him to fix that, only to turn them down because he thought he could do better. The point is, the guy thought i was his best friend, when i would rather beat him to death. Anyway, while he was microwaving lightbulbs far too long (i told him how to do it right, but the fucker couldn't figure out that seconds & minutes were different, apparently), i started the book. Finished it a few days later, & honest to god i felt like it changed my life. It made me want to follow me dream to be a writer. Made me want to change the world. To create characters a person could honest to god feel like they KNOW.
Two quarters through it now, i feel like that again. Like there's something i can actually accomplish. I mean, i think i've gotten much more cynical in three years, but i still feel like there's a chance i could make my dream WORK. Those of you who actually read these, if any exist, i hope can see i at least reek of adequacy. And that's cool. But i think i can do better. For the first time in three years, at least, i feel inspired. Like i can actually do something worth remembering, even if it's just me doing it. Between the music, & the books (i'm not even close to done with all the ones i need to read again, or for the first time in a few cases), it seems like a switch has just kinda clicked on.
For the first time since it happened, i think, i vivdly remember leaving Redlands. How i was too excited when they told me i was going home to even pack everything; only things i considered essential went. Seeing everyone for the last time, saying i'd be in touch & meaning every word of it (the higher ups apparently threw out any letter i sent anyone. Ten letters i sent, none returned, & those i talk to now say they got nothing). I left there around ten in the morning on May 26th, 2004. Happiest day of my life, far & away. Last person i talked to there was Jessica, the alleged single mom stripper in Boston (or Seattle, depends on who you ask). Wished me luck, & genuinely meant it. That day was the first time i felt like i meant a damn thing to anyone; i got hugged, i shook hands, i mended fences. My leaving made a difference, & i think that's the first time i've ever fully believed i meant anything to anyone, even they were all a bunch of crazy drug addicts & social outcasts & embarrassments to their parents. The last thing i remember doing was putting a piece of paper up in the kitchen window, for all in the smoke pit to see. I'm sure it didn't last the day, but it was there when i left, which is good enough for me. Made sure it said in large letters LOVE + PEACE = INFORMATION. Just like the book. I don't even know why i did it now, & have been laughing at the notion i did it all morning. But fuck, it felt right at the time. And that's all that matters. So i think that's the only book that can make me cry for two different reasons.
FUCK this was long & beastly. I'm expecting no comments, because i don't know of anyone who'd want to read all that. I think this was just something i had to write out. Felt imortant. I'd give it ***1/2.
Man, i should really quit posting shit no one will read. Makes me seem nuts.
VIEW 3 of 3 COMMENTS
marge:
I don't read anything on here anymore, so don't feel bad.
catagogo:
