peotry
i wandered lonely as a cloud
that floats on high o'er vales and hills,
when all at once I saw a crowd,
a host, of golden daffodils;
beside the lake, beneath the trees,
gluttering and dancing in the breeze.
continuous as the stars that shine
and twinkle on the milky way,
they stretched in never-ending line
along the margin of a bay.
ten thousand saw I at a glance,
tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
the waves beside them danced but they
out-did the sparkling waves in glee.
a poet could not but be gay
in such a jocund company.
i gazed and gazed but little thought
what wealth the show to me had brought.
for oft, when on my couch I lie
in vacant or in pensive mood,
they flash upon that inward eye
which is the bliss of solitude;
and then my heart with pleasure fills,
and dances with the daffodils.
-william wordsworth
Functionality.
Highly-regarded television and radio physician/addiction medicine specialist calls "true genius" the ability to not only conceptualize brilliance, but to carry it out. Apparently he's never seen Se7en. Sometimes true genius lies huddled in the corner of studio flats in France cutting his own ear off. Sometimes true genius sits alone in her big, dark, cobwebbed house sobbing and writing poetry. Sometimes true genius is found in the gutteriest, stankiest, stickiest bars in New York city playing to a crowd of eleven, including staff. Sometimes true genius is found on pages and pages of scrawled personal journal entries after its owner has taken a shotgun to his face. Sometimes true genius does not have the ability to carry itself out. Sometimes it is up to you to find it.
Contusions.
I have dug myself a ditch in a dirt road. A small hole that I have nuzzled myself into. It is comfortable here. I think I will stay awhile. At least, until the air becomes too dense or too dry to breathe. I think it is already happening.
How To Sound Insane Pt. 1
i've been busy preparing for the revolution. what is the revolution? not sure. when is it coming? don't know that either. am i positive it's coming? nope, not really. but i got a small, confident feeling in the back of my neck it's coming. when it does-- i'll be ready. you gotta spend at least a year preparing your mind, body, and soul. the more prep you do, the better off you'll be when it hits. it's mostly mental though, the prep. you gotta be ready physically too, though. you never know what might happen.
The Irrelevance of Rolling Stone
unbelievable. rolling stone magazine is no longer a barometer for what's cool. the first hint should have been when they put the backstreet boys on the cover(May 27, 1999). the last straw was when they put the chicks from the hills on it. i've never seen the hills, but i'm pretty confident it's a piece of shit show.
back in the heyday of rolling stone, it was a publication that actually meant something. now, it's a crock of horseshit. all you got are a bunch of ivy-league uber-nerd editors who are too elitist and musically snobby to look up from their iPods when taking the subway to their swanky new york offices. they sit there listening to their german deep underground trance hardcore ska infused speed metal instrumentals thinking they've found the most brilliant thing since the last brilliant thing found two weeks ago. they don't have any street cred, which, by the way, is where all the cool things are coming from. the streets.
i did a little research and found rolling stone had the audacity to put the backstreet boys on their cover one issue, then completely badmouth 98 degrees in another. like there's any fucking difference?? last time i checked, you could interchange any one of those goddamn members and still get the same sound. 98 degrees, 'nsync, and the backstreet boys were the epitome of uncoolness as soon as their first singles dropped. it didn't take an ivy-league education to know that.
who knows, maybe there was some kind of ivy-league brilliance behind the decision to put jc, lance, joey, nick, shlomo, and whatever the fuck else the backstreet boys' names are on their cover. or maybe... there wasn't. times has a-changed.
been busy working on my patented new masturbation techniques:
the reverse grip
the underside shaft tickle
the come from behind under the legs surprise grab stroke
the double handed reverse back-palm friction twist
the knuckle burn
Racism vs. Sexism.
America, it appears, is more willing to let a black man be president than a woman. Even months ago, the media was pressuring Hillary Clinton to gracefully bow out under the guise of "bringing the Democratic Party back together" when it was a virtual neck-and-neck race. Her Florida and Michigan victories weren't even counted. When you think about it, it all makes sense. Politics is a boys club, and all these boys were born before the 1950's. They hold on to ideals that men are better than women and women belong in three places: the kitchen, on their backs, or on their backs in the kitchen. Even now, Clinton is being told to bow out gracefully when the fate of her Florida and Michigan victories are nebulating in limbo. Guess there's not much you can do as a pioneering woman these days. You just gotta sit back and wait for the tides to turn. That is, if the men will allow it.
Troubled Youth.
it's pointless. it's all so fucking pointless. you cut it only to have it grow back. you clean it only to have it get dirty again. you work only to die. i wish something crazy would happen. i wish something would occur shaking this earth to its very core. careful what you wish for. doesn't matter anyway, it's all so fucking pointless. happy father's day.
These are the Days of Our Lives...
The faces in our lives and the lives in our faces.
The places that we've been and the strive to get places.
The directions we've been and the directions we've lost.
The luck that we've had and the mistakes that cost.
The prices we've paid from the payments received.
The people we've been honest to and the people we've deceived.
The beginning of the end and the end of the beginning.
Hating. Loving. Losing. Winning.
The lessons we've learned and the memories forgotten.
Eating an egg that smells pretty rotten.
