something is pounding on the wall [entries|friends|calendar] m. [ userinfo | livejournal userinfo ] [ calendar | livejournal calendar ]

on being away [08 Nov 2010|12:10pm] A year away from livejournal. You come back and want to erase the whole thing as if you could press some panic button. Then, after deleting your 20 most embarrassing entries, you want to start writing in it again. It was fun to reflect on my baltimore years. i can and can't believe it's been a year and a half since i left [baltimore]. i think i have matured and de-matured in a variety of ways. it's time to write down some memories of that place before they disappear. 1 say,

[27 Mar 2009|02:48am] fist of terror knocking at my chest// flash cuts and self-indulgent feelings of tenderness packed to the density of an old biscuit. i came to sit at the breakfast table and suddenly it was midnight. i go back to sleep. sunday on the unmoving train i looked out at the supports under the causeway and they were shifting and sinking into the water until i blinked them back into place. the psychosis was bubbling through again. i woke up an hour ago and the curtain was billowing. i saw a slice of sky for a second and it was the color of mustard. the buildings out there were blurry- forgot i wasn't wearing glasses. i will wait with wide bleary eyes for morning, for the sun that rises up from hell. everything should be back by then. say,

stanley kubric on drugs [29 Oct 2008|04:37pm] "I believe that drugs are basically of more use to the audience than to the artist. I think that the illusion of oneness with the universe, and absorption with the significance of every object in your environment, and the pervasive aura of peace and contentment is not the ideal state for an artist. It tranquilizes the creative personality, which thrives on conflict and on the clash and ferment of ideas. The artist's transcendence must be within his own work; he should not impose any artificial barriers between himself and the mainspring of his subconscious. One of the things that's turned me against LSD is that all the people I know who use it have a peculiar inability to distinguish between things that are really interesting and stimulating and things that appear to be so in the state of universal bliss that the drug induces on a "good" trip. They seem to completely lose their critical faculties and disengage themselves from some of the most stimulating areas of life. Perhaps when everything is beautiful, nothing is beautiful." 1 say,

drunks, skunks, skanks [15 Oct 2008|04:29pm] mr. cohen lives downstairs. he looks like a beatnik. he's certainly old enough with his big white beard and wrinkled suit. he regularly appears shirtless and barefoot through doorways answering the bell or distributing packages to the other tenants from where they were left at the front entrance. i caught a glimpse into his apartment. both sides of the hallway were lined with plastic grocery bags filled with god knows what. the whole building stinks like fish. 2 say,

[09 Oct 2008|12:15am] i understood today that i've not been making works of art. only works of FEAR. i went to submit a drawing for the juried show. they will post a list on friday of the names of those who got accepted into the show as is done after auditions for the high school play. ---------- yesterday i sat down on the couch and there was an explosion and everything shook. i went to the roof and saw smoke ten blocks away. i came inside and made coffee, not really shaken up or anything because there was nothing to be done and there were no sirens. the story exists outside the pages, in radio waves which disperse once the receiver is turned on, as cockroaches at the switch of the light. only in drifting from duty - or in sleep - does the white of the page dampen, in washes, but the letters are hardly ever clear. there was a wall of fire wide as the eye can see, moving in like a tidal wave, and i watched it from the roof alone. if somehow i could know that the whole world was exploding, that would be way less terrible than if it were only baltimore. ---------- i walked home in the dark (already) and tripped over a scorched arm. say,

honesty, honesty, honesty [07 Aug 2008|01:54am] i want everlasting love! say,

kathleen and i were talking about what we would be like if it were the 50s [29 Jul 2008|04:06pm] [ mood | chicken parata roll ] sometimes worrying and not worrying are the same. back in the 50s i wouldn't have to worry (or not) about my credit score, or somebody triangulating my position, having dreams of cartoon spies. i would be reading comic books. i would be afraid to read commies in public. better or worse, i'm not sure, but the regimes would be different too. would i rather be spoiled in the 50s than deal with these new corporate regimes of disciplined perverse smiles everywhere. i would be wearing art deco glasses and listening to the radio and feeling more alone in my small walk-up apartment than i could today. we would snack on hard-boiled eggs. we would have different kinds of passwords. say,

poorly thought out critique is actually work related rant [27 Jun 2008|02:00am] It smells like a wood fire in here. I'm afraid something is burning which shouldn't be and afraid to sleep. At twilight in the square I stopped reading the newspaper because the surroundings were so pleasing- the electric light starting in on the natural light. furthermore, there was the presence of the first lightening bugs and a copter circling the sky with its roving spot. using a loudspeaker, the pilot commanded someone to get down from some roof. on the way home from work I passed a pair of men, who to me registered as drug casualties, hitting each other over the head, laughing, with slurred speech saying, "i'm still alive, you still alive? yeah, you alive!" CARS i've been really living it up here these last few weeks, though I'll be relieved to leave town monday. not because things are burning and someone might be up to no good on a nearby rooftop and baltimore's finest loiter on my block at all hours, but because of the appalling behavior of selfish jerks on president street in their battle cars. the crowded thoroughfare is a great example of today's american antagonism- people trying to express individualism while moving in a huge mass. it must be all the nouveau riche waste I encounter all day long at the restaurant finally getting to me. working for sixteen days in a row without any time off really fills a person with hatred. mostly, i am looking forward to not riding my bike alongside these motor nutcases. it disgusts me surely in the postindustrial-latecapitalism-crises-collegiate-angst sense and also just because i feel i am always waiting for them to get out of my damn way. 5 say,

[09 May 2008|03:13pm] say,

sleep deprived [17 Apr 2008|07:43pm] broke hippies used to stay awake for as long as possible when they couldn't afford LSD in order to reach a hallucinatory state, a "free trip". I feel so peculiar, like there's cartoon sweat underneath my skin. something's coming, something's coming, but not real soon. say,

smeop, only joking [03 Feb 2008|11:21pm] [ mood | oh i forgot about moods ] somebody said that politics was the shadow cast on society by big business. --- she was! say,

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