On the Verge- Le Tigre I thought I had something really important to say, but it seems to have slipped my mind. Ah yasss....I've been reading On The Road by Jack Kerouac. Fucking good read. I finished reading Eleanor Rigby by Douglas Coupland in less then a day, as I'd sorrowfully anticipated, but shit, it was a good book. It is official that I'm hooked on anything post-modernist now. I didn't really realize it until I was talking to Mooke on my last day of school, and shit... it all makes sense now. I realize some of you are hanging your faces in facsimiles of aghastness right now as to my vague comments on certain novels by certain god-like authors, but I suppose you'll have to read them yourself. Here's a little hint- All space junk usually has a ridiculous amount of radiation about it.

Mooke and I also talked about my novel- the novel that has been my steaming pile growing slowly for the last three years or so. Now four. People are starting to hound me about it, and I haven't even pulled it up and written a sentence in over four months. But, he gave me some very sage advice in things I needed to explore further, and advice to explore things I hadn't even considered much. He saw things that I didn't even realize- I love that I can create something that other people get entirely new and coherent concepts out of that perhaps I was only subconsciously aware of creating. Because I sure as hell can't vocalize any of my art well at all sometimes. Ah, parenthetical thought...Anyways- I'm going to explore ideologies more in the novel, and of course, establish more clarity in the thematical aspects, as well as start coaxing my conflict into a narrower focus. Fun in the sun. I'm looking forward to it, but of course I always look forward to writing it, because I love my book. I LOVE IT. I just never have time to work on it. If I get money for my birthday, I'm going to see about investing in a personal voice recorder. I've always wanted one.

Returning to On the Road momentarily- This book is bending my brain in contortions I hadn't thought possible sometimes. I hate that we can't have an age like the one that "Sal Paradise" and "Dean Moriarty" sauntered through, again. When I think of taking a car and flying across the country so half-hazardly like that for weeks on a time, and making it from one coast to the other on eighty bucks or less, it makes me drool. I have a small secret- and some of you already know it- but I have this terrible terrible urge in me to take off in a car with some close friends and just do the same thing. Fly by the seat of our pants, have irresponsible adventures, and heated debates through Death Valley on a 40 C Sunday afternoon. Run out of food, sleep in the car, drive through the night through the hills with the moon shining down - I want this really bad car commercial for myself. Even if it was just one more big blast before we all had to officially grow up and be responsible child-bearing adults.

I went and bought my grandfather his fish today, a young turquoise and red betta. He has this little skull too that grandma bought for the bottom of "Leonardo's" tank. The bowl magnifies it, and I'm jealous. Copernicus just has that one yellow marble. The shiny yellow marble he rediscovers about one hundred times a day as opposed to the standard dumb fish amount of 12, 000 times.

WestJet and I went and saw Napoleon Dynamite tonight at El Cheapo theatre, and while of course I was a little apprehensive about hanging out with him at first, I quickly got over it. I mean, how flattering is it to know that I was missed? Quite a lot, though initially misinterpreted. But, enough about that. Napoleon Dynamite totally rocked. Post-modern, of course. It was a look into the early nineties- at a time where the ladies of the internet were actually ladies, and even attractive, and not scam artists looking for free tickets across the country. Also at the time where the nineties seemed like a large wasteland of non-originality spreading out before people recovering from the cocaine stain of the eighties. Oh but let me assure you my peeps, it was not. This movie was amazingly awesome in that it made you suprisingly uncomfortable. You knew that dude in high school, that dude that had that completely baffling unrealistic amount of self esteem, despite the fact that outwardly, he was the biggest loser in the world in the eyes of everyone else. To him, nun-chucks were still cool, and he was still hot stuff with the ladies though shunned by every single one, except the dorky one who thought he was god on a stick. This movie reminded me of my fucking hometown- "Sean" and "Joe" were two ...ok, Joe was no friend of mine, merely a tolerated presence- but I knew them, I knew the people they hung out with- I even hung out with them. I was the loser with the sideways ponytail. Sean was the loser with the nunchucks and the trenchcoat. "Blah blah blah", as he would say, "less talking, and more smoking." However, what Napoleon makes up with integrity and morals, Sean never did.

Interesting note: I ran into Sean at Timmy Ho's when I was home for NY's. Mr. Pink and I were having coffee with my parents, and Mr. Pink nudged me and said, "there's that weird kid Sean...weren't you friends with him?" Aaack, NO. I've been dreading this moment for several visits. Sean used to be one of my lackeys. Anyways, he sauntered up, and I blankly stared at him before deciding that I should stop being a bitch in my head. We talked, and Mr. Pink kept meeting my eyes and smirking slightly, sensing my discomfort. Sean is essentially still the same as he was when he started hanging out at the smoke pit with us in highschool, despite the fact that he'd long ago been kicked out, and was fully two years older than any of us. Except now he's older. He's got more peircings and tattoos, and more heartbreak, and more shadows in his eyes that tell me that he's still never going to be happy, that he's still giving up, that he's still "broody", that he's still immature, that he still suffers acid flashbacks. I feel bad for him. He gave me his number, "to catch up." And I should have called him while I was home, but I didn't. I don't know if I will. Let sleeping dogs lie? Maybe one day. Spur of the moment poetry break:

Attention.
I remember you all,
Black trenchcoats
That fluttered like autumn leaves
Flared like the robes of death
During your battles for the world
Men hiding in boys
Fighting with sticks and staffs
On a three inches of grass meridian
Battles to save your life
Or any other derived fantasy
That meridian in front of A & W.

You drifted everywhere
And no where
So halfhazardly
Heads bowed
Cigarettes tucked behind ears
Knives in combat boots
Hiss under your breath
Brazenly staring down authority

For a moment I envied you
A long irresponsible moment.
My cure was a pathetic discovery

You seldom sleep at home
Home is two white fluffy
Walking bladder infections,
A computer to dry your eyes out,
Or, moisten them

(A pathetic loner only in reality
Though surreality is harder to navigate)

Your crazy mom
(I think she's just lonely and ashamed)
The sister who cuts herself
The brother who eats
Himself into a better place.
The dad that died,
Left the family with nothing
But estranged relatives.

It's disgusting
Embarrassing,
And just enough
That you've given up entirely.

We drink a lot at your house.
Your mom only asks that we smoke
OUTSIDE! We flick our butts at cats
Sitting on the fence
And make eyes at each other.

We always made eyes.
I never got you in bed
It used to piss me off
I realized later that it
Was only a conquest
Conquer the one that-
You couldn't be conquered
By your apathy alone.


  ¶ 12:47 AM