They say that the opposite of love isn't hate- it's indifference. I felt that early yesterday morning in a way which I never knew before- at least not to this extent. Sometimes when you think you've just been profound or done something special, the world can respond with even less acknowledgement than a yawn- indeed, a complete lack of any sense of giving any kind of fuck whatsoever. I ask myself every single day why I even keep trying- and never have an answer. It's like I'm a robot, just doing without thinking. Thank God for the media/internet, right? Otherwise how could I find the time where I pacify myself, and pretend to forget that life has no fucking meaning whatsoever- and that the only constant in life is my own pain. Yeah, I'm a virgin. But it's not because I'm waiting for "love" or anything like that. I don't even think there IS such a thing- save for those moments I allow myself to give in to the delusion of anything at all. I guess I'm waiting for someone, ANYONE whom I care about at all or am drawn to in a certain way just to realize I even exist. Hell, I don't even think I've realized that MYSELF! Missy is the greatest for making this website- and one of these days I might have the courage to post to her journal or send directly to her email through her profile a fairly long response I made to one of her posts, thanking her for putting this site together, as it's meant so much to me (after essentially giving my own life story). Of course, it's so fucking long that she'll probably ban me from the site just for wasting all her journal space posting it, or bugging her with an email that's crazy mad long! In the end, I should probably stop being so damned academic/writing and reading all the posts I do- and just stick to looking at the pretty pictures.
OK, on to business. I've wanted to post something for the nearly-defunct "Poetry Journal Day", albiet a day late now- I apologize- especially after I've made such an effort in requesting everyone from the "Poetry Kicks Ass" group to try to participate every Wednesday again- I'm going to post some stuff in a moment. I spent yesterday's early morning/late night the day before devising a post to Erin's journal that was really thoughtfully written- and emotionally taxing, truth be told. And then just after doing so, she made another post to her journal and not only made no mention of it, but moved on to another topic completely, about having a problem with a bounced check. Don't get me wrong, I sympathize- but it just hurt that I put so much work into a post that I considered to be near-brilliant only to have her ignore it and not a single person read it. Anyway, I should expect these types of instances to happen to me by now- it's the story of my life. In any case, once again (though this may not be read by very many people, if any) I wanted to post some stuff for "Poetry Journal Day"...
OK, first of all I'm cheating a bit- as this stuff can't really be technically considered poetry. In about 1993, during a summer in Florida (where I am now, hence the profile location change once more, though I do try to spend more time in NYC, where I'm originally from and went to university, and will be in a couple of weeks again through till after Halloween), a friend of mine named Randy was moving away, up to a little town in Tennessee called Erwin. He was driving a sport bike as his main transportation then, I think it was a 750cc Kawasaki, and in fact I myself had a little 250cc Honda motorcycle as well. Anyway though, I also drove a Chrysler New Yorker I owned, and he asked me to follow him in it as he drove his Kawasaki up to Tennessee- both for reasons of safety in case anything happened, and also just to spend some time on his family's farm hanging out and writing music- and shooting our guns in the woods and shit like that. I don't know how my friends ever convinced me to get into that stupidity- I swear to God I'm the most non-violent person you'll ever meet (I've never had a fist fight in my entire life) and I'm a staunch pacifist and normally way against conflict or competition of any sort- even sports! And most especially awards- particularly for the arts, judging unrelated art as if one had more value than the other- but that's a whole other story (me and Marlon Brando can bitch to each other about that kinda shit someday, perhaps). Anyway, I had a black Mossberg double-barrel sawed-off shotgun for a little bit there; I hardly ever took it to the range, but it sure did look cool as fuck. In any case, I managed to sell it (and get really ripped off) to one of his friends while there, so that was the end of that. Far more important to me though was the music we wrote, which I still have on tape somewhere- with me on keyboards and lead vocals and him on guitar and backing vocals. And for the stuff that was strictly on acoustic guitar, I'd often tell him which chords to play (i.e., "play an A minor chord here") or he'd come up with something that fit the vibe by himself- or sometimes a combination of these two things happened. We did a cover of Nirvana's "Polly" that was dead-on accurate, if I don't say so myself. It'd have been easier if I knew how to play better guitar myself, so I could've figured out how to play some things which I'd then tell him to play- while I went back to keyboards- but just like then, I've got too much on my plate to learn to play guitar at the moment. I probably SHOULD, though- I still have a lot of ideas for electric and acoustic guitar which I'm relegated to synthesizers to try and emulate. Nevertheless, I could probably do a lot more with actual guitars if I owned them and learned play them more professionally. I also wrote all the lyrics, so these are they...
This one was mostly instrumental, kinda like Hendrix's "Little Wing" except for this short little bit of lyrics I'd scribed as well:
Crescent
Crescent Moon-
Be my guide
Keep me safe
In the Night
...
And I will run
And I will go away
And I will show
There' still hope somehow, someway
Crecent Moon
OK, like I said, the little town he moved to was called Erwin, Tennesse, so we put this portrait together:
Erwin
Polo was layin' out in the grass
Lickin' his paws and scratchin' his ass
Runnin' around with little Joanne
With Ma on the porch waitin' for a man
Oh Polo
Oh Polo
Polo get outta' my yard
Jim was a farmer tilling the land
Dreaming of things he can't understand
Kim was a housewife who hid when she cried
She swore that she loved him and smiled as she lied
Oh angel
Oh angel
Sweet dove fly away
Out of the night and into the day
We rise from our beds and battle away
Out of the day and into the night
We fall into sleep and rest in our fight
We toss and we turn and we steal and we beg
We laugh and we cry and we push till we're dead
But sometimes... we are cradled by the arms of love
_________________________________________
OK, we came up with one more which was one of the best things I ever put together- not just the lyrics, but the whole song together (with Randy as co-writer of course). But it's not in the notebook I found these in, so maybe I'll get the tape and listen to it again to write down the lyrics and then post them another time. Or better yet, maybe record it as a .wav file to my Mac, and put it up somewhere where people can dowload it, if there's any interest...
Peace.
Oh, and even if you hate my guts, I still like you Erin/Veronica- and think you're the coolest punk rock chick around.
"just you and me, punk rock girl..."
OK, on to business. I've wanted to post something for the nearly-defunct "Poetry Journal Day", albiet a day late now- I apologize- especially after I've made such an effort in requesting everyone from the "Poetry Kicks Ass" group to try to participate every Wednesday again- I'm going to post some stuff in a moment. I spent yesterday's early morning/late night the day before devising a post to Erin's journal that was really thoughtfully written- and emotionally taxing, truth be told. And then just after doing so, she made another post to her journal and not only made no mention of it, but moved on to another topic completely, about having a problem with a bounced check. Don't get me wrong, I sympathize- but it just hurt that I put so much work into a post that I considered to be near-brilliant only to have her ignore it and not a single person read it. Anyway, I should expect these types of instances to happen to me by now- it's the story of my life. In any case, once again (though this may not be read by very many people, if any) I wanted to post some stuff for "Poetry Journal Day"...
OK, first of all I'm cheating a bit- as this stuff can't really be technically considered poetry. In about 1993, during a summer in Florida (where I am now, hence the profile location change once more, though I do try to spend more time in NYC, where I'm originally from and went to university, and will be in a couple of weeks again through till after Halloween), a friend of mine named Randy was moving away, up to a little town in Tennessee called Erwin. He was driving a sport bike as his main transportation then, I think it was a 750cc Kawasaki, and in fact I myself had a little 250cc Honda motorcycle as well. Anyway though, I also drove a Chrysler New Yorker I owned, and he asked me to follow him in it as he drove his Kawasaki up to Tennessee- both for reasons of safety in case anything happened, and also just to spend some time on his family's farm hanging out and writing music- and shooting our guns in the woods and shit like that. I don't know how my friends ever convinced me to get into that stupidity- I swear to God I'm the most non-violent person you'll ever meet (I've never had a fist fight in my entire life) and I'm a staunch pacifist and normally way against conflict or competition of any sort- even sports! And most especially awards- particularly for the arts, judging unrelated art as if one had more value than the other- but that's a whole other story (me and Marlon Brando can bitch to each other about that kinda shit someday, perhaps). Anyway, I had a black Mossberg double-barrel sawed-off shotgun for a little bit there; I hardly ever took it to the range, but it sure did look cool as fuck. In any case, I managed to sell it (and get really ripped off) to one of his friends while there, so that was the end of that. Far more important to me though was the music we wrote, which I still have on tape somewhere- with me on keyboards and lead vocals and him on guitar and backing vocals. And for the stuff that was strictly on acoustic guitar, I'd often tell him which chords to play (i.e., "play an A minor chord here") or he'd come up with something that fit the vibe by himself- or sometimes a combination of these two things happened. We did a cover of Nirvana's "Polly" that was dead-on accurate, if I don't say so myself. It'd have been easier if I knew how to play better guitar myself, so I could've figured out how to play some things which I'd then tell him to play- while I went back to keyboards- but just like then, I've got too much on my plate to learn to play guitar at the moment. I probably SHOULD, though- I still have a lot of ideas for electric and acoustic guitar which I'm relegated to synthesizers to try and emulate. Nevertheless, I could probably do a lot more with actual guitars if I owned them and learned play them more professionally. I also wrote all the lyrics, so these are they...
This one was mostly instrumental, kinda like Hendrix's "Little Wing" except for this short little bit of lyrics I'd scribed as well:
Crescent
Crescent Moon-
Be my guide
Keep me safe
In the Night
...
And I will run
And I will go away
And I will show
There' still hope somehow, someway
Crecent Moon
OK, like I said, the little town he moved to was called Erwin, Tennesse, so we put this portrait together:
Erwin
Polo was layin' out in the grass
Lickin' his paws and scratchin' his ass
Runnin' around with little Joanne
With Ma on the porch waitin' for a man
Oh Polo
Oh Polo
Polo get outta' my yard
Jim was a farmer tilling the land
Dreaming of things he can't understand
Kim was a housewife who hid when she cried
She swore that she loved him and smiled as she lied
Oh angel
Oh angel
Sweet dove fly away
Out of the night and into the day
We rise from our beds and battle away
Out of the day and into the night
We fall into sleep and rest in our fight
We toss and we turn and we steal and we beg
We laugh and we cry and we push till we're dead
But sometimes... we are cradled by the arms of love
_________________________________________
OK, we came up with one more which was one of the best things I ever put together- not just the lyrics, but the whole song together (with Randy as co-writer of course). But it's not in the notebook I found these in, so maybe I'll get the tape and listen to it again to write down the lyrics and then post them another time. Or better yet, maybe record it as a .wav file to my Mac, and put it up somewhere where people can dowload it, if there's any interest...
Peace.
Oh, and even if you hate my guts, I still like you Erin/Veronica- and think you're the coolest punk rock chick around.
"just you and me, punk rock girl..."
VIEW 4 of 4 COMMENTS
asha:
oh, and if you put spaces after the commas between your fave bands it won't do that weird thing where they go behind your journal entry!
flux:
maybe in that picture. he actually looks like the hispanic guy from that 70's show, though.