X-treme · Nihilism

I used to put on scratching sweaters while walking through the failing Fall sun. The leaves were different colours and the sun popped through the cracks in the trees. The temperature was nominal and I felt not even the wind. Folk music was playing on my 'player and everything was fine. It was a grand ol' time, at least.
My grandfather is an artist. He stumbles over words and has a roundabout logic which repeats itself and talks in ignorance about most everything. He's overweight and plops, rather than plods, in gait. Going anywhere with him, you're sure to lose him- he has a tendency to wander to anywhere he's not "supposed to" be, something I picked up from him. Most often he says exactly the wrong thing- also a trait I aped.
But he draws beautiful pictures and crafts tin into something you never thought it could be. And he cares. And I do love him.

It rained today; I was excited to listen to quiet, ambient music driving to/from school. Leaving class, everything was dry and no rain was in the sky. I was upset because now I wouldn't let myself drive with the windows up- I can't do that- and I wouldn't hear the quiet music over the rush of wind.
I have a strange relationship with myself.

Today, dinner was next to the the girls whom I had my first crush on.
I was a nervous wreck.

In literature, where did all this insistence on examining humanity as a horrible, base people start? I'm not even referring to "darker sides" as with Dr. Jekyll or Werther, they're just flirting with the idea. Hyde was a dark man, but nothing as disgusting as some of what I see.

A few years ago, I thought it was just something Palahniuk thought up as a shtick for method writing. But no, there was Wallace with his in depth (IN DEPTH) depiction of every human act. But no, there was Mailer with some freaky pedophilic 69 description (freaky writing I mean). But no, there was Carey, destroying a man with his children blowing each other. But no, further back is Hardy with, on a surface level, an obsession with incestuous relation. But no! It just keeps going forever.
I'm pretty sure there's cave art of a guy dicking on some saber toothed tiger as a rite of passage.

What funny, hopeless people we are.

"Who knew that this day, which started with eggs which had the shells carelessly left in and coffee which had vinegar spilt into it, would bring such good things, which my father never gave me."

That is my entry to the Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest.

I'm also pretty sure that this man is my father:

http://8tracks.com/schmonday/love-sort-of

Man I don't even.

I'm sitting here watching classy movies and eating fast food.
I'm crazy, you guys. I am flat out crazy.

I ordered two books for 0.01 each and their delivery is all I have to look forward to.
I'm putting this chair on wheels and driving the bitch to San Francisco!
Or not.

I am discouraged; I want to give up everything.

Girl is pregnant now. Now only two of my ex girlfriends are not pregnant AND do not have a child.
I should stop dating, for the sake of humanity. I'm overpopulating the earth!

I keep having a dream that my car is impounded. This same guy is always the one to get my car in and to check it out when I come for it and he screws me over every time.
Once he tried to get to pay for a paint job because "the factory put the wrong suit of paint on. It's not fitting right and is really putting strain on the body which lowers your gas mileage. So, we went ahead and changed it for you. You don't want to pay for it? Well, you're not getting your car back, then."

He even has this goldfish in a bowl on the counter. There's a note on it that says "pay extra on your bill to help feed me."
He's a tricky, tricky asshole.

( Everyone should take this to heart. )

My memory is becoming a real problem. I often lose thoughts while I'm thinking them, much like a leaf held softly in the wind. Usually, I do feel lost. Even the sunniest days are a dim forest path. And for every shadowy patch and concealed bit of ground, I am lost 1,000 times.
"What does this mean?" "Where am I going?"
Most of my days are wandering and I wander with them. I hope to find something I know or something new, but I wouldn't know it even if I did discover something. So, I just wander.
Good can come of this. Yesterday I happened on a flow of water, cold and wet, crinkling in the hot air.
The river ran smoothly- oiled and empty. There was nothing in the river but a bit of flash on the surface. It was hollow wherever I looked.
A nervous fear quivered inside me, but it was a slow current and I needed to get to the other side.
I walked into the water, my feet rubbing the coarse rubble that supported the stream. In the middle, waist deep, my hands were shaken with a tremble of happiness- I was glad, the water felt cool and good. Every second a new river ran toward me, greeted me, and then left. Every new stream was a sight and a joy. And there was so much to see.
I decided to stand there, to see more.
Some of the water stuck to me, dripping languidly when I raised my arms, but most of it didn't. Most of it left without even a linger of sadness.
I stayed for a good while. Forever maybe, I can't remember.
This was a good place with many friends. When I made room for more friends, more and more water stayed with me. And then, my skin, saturated, foreign, began to give way.
The water came into me, directly into me, filling me. Tearing skin from muscle and muscle from bone and, dragging atop its back, bone from earth. And now I ran with the water.
And now I run in the water.
Listless and squalid, I move with habit. The ocean carries me through its veins, pumping life along the labyrinthian tunnels. Every few thousand years, the tunnel may cave or give way to a new shape, and that is a good thing and I am happy for it.
My friend the river runs with me. We are always running but we never tire.
I think I may sometimes touch something foreign. A bit of soft pollution floating just out of reach above my head, but it's not here anymore- I've run far past it, if it was ever there. Something in it is familiar, soft and slow, like a thing I used to know. But it does no good to wonder about things that are not there. I try to forget it and I am successful.
I move forward. I am running and I am satisfied.

The yellow covered my face- my eyes and lips- dotted with black. And, for a while, I was happy that way.
Lords came and went; negroes fought white men and red men and their own men; time started, time stopped. All the while bespeckled me lazing in the school bus chair. It was a good book.
"Hey, kid!" a punch to the shoulder yelled.

The girls sat next to me, eying whatever part of me. It took me a minute to realize this. Girls, for christ's sake. I've never even spoken to one girl. Two is outrageous. This is better than books!

"Hey, Kid. Which one of us is prettier?"
Nevermind.

'Ah, Misery. If only all the pretty-looking women'd die at the same time as myself!' But the jades will go on living; they'll be having a high old time, men'll be taking them in their arms and kissing them, when I'm just dust for them to walk on.

Admonitory grook addressed to youth.

The human spirit sublimates
the impulses it thwarts;
a healthy sex life mitigates
the lust for other sports.

I'm thinking about giving up guitar.

Anyone want to buy a decent guitar and/or amp? Some pedals available, too.

Cleaning out my room, I found a box of cast iron puzzles. I guess I never got around to them when I received them several Christmases ago.
I solved them all within one minute- two of them with just one hand. That was a large disappointment.