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m-a-r-g-a-r-i-t-a-t-a

where are the words, how do you know what it means without the words?

 

 

goodnight LA

and unfinished

her name is kobe.she has no ear.

Hey bus driver, it’s me, in the wheelchair

happy 080808, if you’re into that.

job search busted, projects pending publication, and any all energies devoted to este blog are out the door as well.  the most inspiring moments are always those in transit from a point a to a b, via bus (see title) or my little red _______, where i’ve been playing my fav music lately AND letting my hand dance outside the window at high speeds… it’s so high school, makes me feel so californian, and i know it’s something i’ll miss if and when i do make the move to a bigger city where i plan to jumpstart my life a priori catch 25.

 

tis the plan.

this good story

A week after the Blast

Dear World,

I hope this is sincerely random and randomly sincere:

Welcome to the dilemma of Youth and Nukes. After the explosion, the desks and teens of High School High were no longer my nuclear family. Before the explosion, it was so simple, and it was choking the life out of me. Before, it’s like it was all a game. Let’s play grown-up. Hey baby, back then you were immortalized if you could manage to score some booze and some body every weekend. Let’s play a game that couldn’t be farther from a game. Ten fingers, or truth or dare, baby? It was all the same with us, damned if you did, damned if you didn’t. That’s how we played life.

The high-heeled, beer-drinking girls taught me everything I needed to know about the flat majesties of a wasted youth. Pop-tarts in push-up bras, lecturing me on the façades of popularity, parties, resisting pressure. Get ready to get pretty, to get smashed on sake bombs. Some kind of hardcore soft porn; Red Hot Chili Peppers and the other singing, strumming heads hinted that it was all just a performance. That’s what we did every weekend, perform for each other, for ourselves. Every weekend. It’s exactly that normalcy that killed me; that scrabble board of short words, memory board of movie lines. …I found myself becoming bored with those boards. Sparkle and fade, fade, fade.

Then there was the explosion.

You can’t really blame some predefined sociological flaw for what happened to our world, though some did. The talking heads dubbed it the Fundamental Tragedy of Human History, a Mistake of Global Proportions. A lot of people, particularly the suburbanites, tucked neatly away in their manicured, newly grey lawns, found themselves clinging to the newfound appreciate of “their remaining lives.” They were so self-absorbed. My friends, my parents. The only thing that they lost was their sky blue sky, the coordinating colors of their prized possessions. All of us -everyone who survived- lost our sky blue sky, and now had to live under the grey matter of a nuclear disaster’s aftermath. It was like a reversal of the technologies of television. But there were others, farther down south, who really lost. Not just the sky above them, but the land beneath them. Not just their colors, but their lives. They never even had TV to begin with.

Hey. Last night I had a nightmare. Not about the explosion, nor the missing bodies down south. I dreamt in high definition. And in color. I was in a tattoo parlor. I was in a big green chair, with those high-heeled, beer drinking girls draped behind me. They were like birthday-present wrapping paper. A tattooed figure looked down at me, but It wasn’t solid, It was like It was made of a million bright, watery pigments. Images of mosaic light and ink. It held a rusty, bleeding needle in Its warped hand, directed at my pale, virgin skin. Then It asked me,

“What’s the most original thing that you can think of?” The needle echoed It’s question, dripping brilliant-colored dyes.

It was all very colorful. Words don’t describe colors, they just describe words. But this high-def dream, it was sung out in colors.

I battered my brain for an answer. All that I thought of was the familiar nothingness of failed inspiration; the color white. Blank pages, blank tapes. In the first shot for true inspiration, I was shooting blanks. Static. I turned and looked over to the smiling, high-heeled-and-beer-drinking girls. Never had they ever appeared so blonde-haired, so orange-skinned, so pink-clad. In sync, they all raised their glitzy camis and exposed identical tiny pink hearts beneath their bejeweled navels. It was like they, the rumpled wrapping paper, unveiled some horrible unwanted presence. Some kind of sad, true lie.

It repeated Its question.

I just cried in response. I realized I was just as bad as them. I didn’t cry for the dead in the South. I cried because I realized I was just as bad as the suburbanites I hated, but loved. I quoted movies and songs, I dressed the same as everyone else, talked the way they did, baby. I was utterly selfish. I couldn’t have thought of anything original if my life depended on it, and certainly not if anyone else’s life depended on it. (Apparently, there’s a lot more clarity in my dreams and nightmares than in my nightmarish reality. I think that made me cry too.)

Then I woke up. My pillow was dry and grey.

 

Right before the explosion, I was beginning to question a lot of things. Never had I ever been satisfied with any thing I’ve created; a painting, a relationship, an outfit, a pet’s name- no matter how colorful, how appropriate it may have seemed. It was all so arbitrary, and it had me beginning to question the points of life. The teens and desks of High School High weren’t enlightening me anymore, just forcing me into drinking down beer bongs and thinking up arbitrary theses. Perhaps this letter is nothing more than an arbitrary work as well, but for the first time, I feel inspired. Even in the black and white of today’s today, I feel. Like in the dream, not in words, but in colors.

Dear World,

You won’t be able to find my body. And I won’t tell you how. You can dwell in awe at my fantastical feat, or you can focus on the words I leave you with. Focus on the words- over the lull of the white hot, the approaching sound of your monochromatic future. I’d ask you to focus on the colors, but I fear in this new era, the language wouldn’t translate. Never before has the phrase, “the sky’s the limit” been so appropriate. So instead, just focus on the words. The words. By now I’m gone, and you’ll want to take it all in. Because with every passing word on these pages, with every moment passing, I’m slipping away. Sparkle and fade, fade.

Only in my disappearance can I make an impact. People don’t listen to people. Nor movies, churches, lyrics. Not some story, not their parents, not their mentors. But people listen to the lifeless. The dead, baby. Those unsolved mysteries haunt their living lives. These aren’t quite my dying words, for this isn’t a suicide note. It’s not melodramatic nor some desperate plea for fame. It’s… It’s my tattoo. The brand I leave the world with, or at least the person who finds him or herself reading this. This, this is my originality.

Something’s killing us softly; sake bombs, or bombs of other sorts. Its not the feeling alive that makes us feel alive, but the feeling of feeling nothing at all. Black out. White out. Sparkle and fade. That’s the tragedy of humanity. We don’t feel. Unless we understand that we can no longer feel, we don’t. To be a hypocrite, a movie line once described this as a “near life experience.” Hey, maybe the ones who set off that nuclear explosion understood this, and tried to volt all of us into feeling such real feelings. But we just misunderstood that idea, and when the explosion happened, instead of feeling, instead of really listening to each other, we just delved deeper into our selfish, pointless ways.

“They took away our colors,” we cried. “They burnt our sky blue sky.”

Fighting for personal successes, for the same, plainer than vanilla dreams. We sacrificed originality for lives, when really, we should have sacrificed our lives for inspiration.

You won’t be able to find my body now.

 

Sincerely,

my flashback writings are endless

_______________________________________________

Fuckstoriesforclassassignmentswithdeadlines&gradesithinkthereshouldbemoremoremore

Im sitting on my desk on a sat nite. it’s a beautiful way

…

I hope

_______

This is high school.

i wrote this long time, why i write what i write the bottom?

Let’s start this off right- at the end. The end of everything. Not just your own life. Everyone and everything is dead. Fucking gone. This is just a story, so of course your life is still perfect in the sense that it is, but this is the story where when you look up from the pages, there is nothing. Not like the books that had you hooked, oh-dang can’t put it down kind of thing. This is the story where all that is, before it isn’t, is what is here, the words on the pages, the pages in the book, the book in nothingness. Before you opened it, there was everything, but now, there is nothing. So, what will we read about?

Fuck your stories and your morals. Don’t dissect this like a classroom assignment, don’t use it as supporting evidence for your ideas.

Old habits die hard. But entirety dies with a fast, unfinished scream. So fast, the scream can’t even finish itself. It ends so fast, there are no flashbacks, no lights. This isn’t about heaven or faith. Heaven’s gone too. As is hell. This isn’t about trying to shock anyone, to move anyone. There’s no point, because when all of this is over… It’s all over.

His sex was like tequilla. Warming, right? It burned all the way down, and all the way back up, left a putrid flavor in there, but it got the job done.

i call this em-dash, a stream of conscienash

Writing

 

I stole a pop tart out the toaster

The tale of two identitica gas stations at an internsection <- night time, boy in tutu in mid intersection ballet battle

 

Nightclub dancingL girls in big baggy shirts and timberlands, big boys in high heels and tight shirts

 

Girl looking at shadow through a chain link fence overlooking a soccer stadium

 

Resorting back to fourth grade flirtations

 

Good music

 

 

 

 

 

 

Female dj, low key no big no big

Rich make money, poor make magic

 

She wears a scarf