um

a friend reminded me that this existed (I'd forgotten--sorry?).

So. Yeah.

I got my driver's license today. Woo.


...Yeah, I'll probably let this blog die its indignant death now.

I've got the mic, you've got the moshpit

I'm starting a new musical project. I hesitate to say band, because that label comes with all sorts of conceptions.

I don't have much to show for it, yet. We have a profile on UG (
), but the song on there isn't exactly the direction we're going in. But! you can check out some sweet album art that I got permission to use from a lovely and talented girl in new york.




Oh, and I've also found an equally lovely and equally talented songstress from jolly old England who's expressed some interest in doing vocal work for me. Which would be really cool, since I sing like Christopher Paolini writes.


I guess that's all for now. I'd post the lyrics to the song I'm working on, but I'm pretty sure no one actually reads this blog, so it doesn't seem worth the effort. If you want to see them, prove me wrong.

give this man a fucking medal

Ever since Proposition 8 passed, I've been meaning to post about it. I first struggled to accept it, and then I struggled with how to put it in words. Thankfully, I don't have to. This man did it for me:



Please, respond, if you would.

halloween

I went and saw the midnight showing of Psycho. I'd seen it before, but it was still a lot of fun. Man, they just don't make 'em like
Hitchcock anymore. =[

Oh, and I was kind of proud of my costume.



edit: I'll talk about the Cobra concert later.
Suffice to say that it was amazing.

oh my bokonon

this makes me so happy

if raindrops had parachutes, maybe they’d enjoy the fall

i’m sweeping bones under carpets,
dusting off the urned ashes
of a summer passed.
now I put my pen to page everyday,
trying for some dark, dank university
where I can muffle regrets between squeaky floorboards,
and paint myself blue for a losing team.
my memories fading like freckles,
leaving me leafless to the teeth of the snow,
i’m trying at shedding you for newer growth.

from some ashen desk, I recollect:
you were content with your fraying rope,
your dying oak, your lonely throat--
and your greek naivety; the hubris hope
that sitting gods will let you hang with the stars.
back when you were such a pacifist,
with your opened wrists, your friends underground
and your curling fist:

i left you to your soil and roots,
watered the earth with leaky eyes,
and bid such a seed adieu.

now i wrap my arms around books and pens,
share sweet kisses with cigarettes;
as if a leaf, i’m losing hope,
remembering what you said autumns ago:

that seasons change,
people don’t.

on the distance between pen and page

I hate it when people ask me why I write. Do they honestly expect me to give a coherent answer? I write because I don't know how to not write. That's the best way I can put it.

With that said, I can hardly stand to read anything I put out anymore. It's always the same tone, same themes, same mood. And it always comes out as more depressing than I intended or imagined. I'm really not that unhappy of a person, so why is everything I churn out such a downer?

Ahh, whatever. It usually makes me feel better in that exhausted, narcissistic sort of way. Besides, I know I'm not that good and probably never will be more than capable, I don't know if I'm okay with that yet or not. Oh, and I joined a new writing site. I figured fresh influences and points-of-view could only help me at this point.
God, I bore myself.

I'll post something new eventually.