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[06 Mar 2008|01:00am] |
I got the Resident Advisor Gig today in UAC
I got cast in milewalkers again
I find out tomorrow if I can do both.
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[05 Mar 2008|02:50pm] |
ARRRG
WILL PEOPLE PLLLLEASE STOP CONNECTING ISRAEL WITH WHAT THE US IS FUCKING AROUND WITH IN IRAQ
ISRAEL SAID NO TO FIGHTING IN IRAQ
PLEASE STOP HATING ISRAEL WE HAVE NOTHING TO DO WITH THIS
thank you
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| heritage |
[29 Feb 2008|06:09pm] |
Sweater vest.
When did I become
this:
barely seeing over the steering wheel -
early bird special parking spot -
a dollar off at McDonald’s.
I am OLD!
Just yesterday I swear I was
5 running after my big brother
16 crying alone in the rain
22 and out of college in a borrowed suit
35 with two daughters weaving between my feet
55 and we are no longer talking
75 saying goodbye to the only women I ever loved
80 locked away in a prison they slander as a home,
or was it,
that I never lived a day
and all that was before
is slowly
slowly: dying with me.
Tomorrow is my funeral,
I invited what friends I have left.
Never thought
that tomorrow could become,
yesterday.
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| Why am I up now? |
[06 Dec 2007|05:04am] |
I haven't written here in a while and I feel like I owe a contribution to the collective live journal consciousness. I used to feel so devoted to here (most of my best therapy coming from here) and for some reason it is still my home-page. But now I dont really write here anymore (not like I used to anyway). I've moved on from it, not purposely, but on from it none the less. I wonder what that says about me and this new life I've sculpted. Moving to a different state makes it so easy to completely reinvent yourself and now I walk around a confident patchwork of identities and pretend that by admitting it I somehow have a greater understanding of personality, life, or the human condition or that I am at any level better than the orange skinned hollister-ites i feel an odd connection and distaste for. I was discussing this with a professor I actually respected and was constantly surprised by her actual interest in our conversations. I mean we both followed each other for a good five blocks simply to continue it. She kept engaging me, forcing me to rewrite this paper three times only to give me an a on it finally. Which leaves me wondering why have me re-write it? I mean teachers always pretend to care about my writing but it is rare to have one that honestly means it. But after ten weeks of extended conversations she told me I really should read A heartbreaking work of staggering genius. So I am reading this book like it is the code-book to all these conversations. To understanding if she found my writing troubled, tragic, found me tragic, found my writing funny, engaging, found it poetic, found it broken, jumbled, lost found it above the rest, below the rest, or lost in the rest. Or if she just thought I would like the book. Which I do and I don't. I find his "innovative writing techniques" inferior to those of the 'classical' writers of stream of consciousness but I find thinking that cliche and precocious so I continue reading it genuinely intrigued. But the main reason I logged on was to ponder about my state. Reading this book I have started to realize I have begun to consider writing as the mostly likely avenue for me to ever contribute anything of artistic and cultural worth. Which is odd, because I'm not a writer. I play a writer sometimes on tv or in front of people who wish they were writers but are too shy to pretend to be writers. I always wonder how much I pissed off real writers that way. I know musicians, or comedians who just fell into an acting career without any work pissed me off. Not like celebrities who got some crappy film but when boy band drop outs and rappers would start to be considered oscar worthy. I say pissed because now I kind of hope to be them. Someone who dicked around for years in a venue they had minimal success at and then by shear chance finds a calling that they immediately succeed in, propelled forward by they previous, and drastically different successes. I want my future wikipedia entry to be like their's. Eric salinger started of as a classical pianist before doing a commerial for his piano company and then being cast in the remake of terminator and winning an oscar. And I want 3 million caffineated teenage fans to email their friends being like. NO FUCKIN WAY MAAAN MARK WALLBERG STARTED OUT AS A RAP-ER!!. I know it is my ringtone too. I want that drastic and sudden change in my life that will vault me into a new world, one I never even daydreamed about. Not perfect obviously, just new. But seriously, I hope to become an actual writer. Well hope is a lie, I expect to become an actual writer but it is conceded to say expect. But I expect to, but in much the same way as some of my parents older friends have. By publishing some sort of half-assed novel, cookbook, or auto-biography that gets sold to all their friends. And suddenly I'm a writer and at by 60th birthday party someone gets me a book signing table and I sign a book for all their kids, that ends up stuck on their sons book shelf all the way until college because she swears one day he'll read it hoping to find out his parents and friends are drug dealers. Only to read four pages of introduction and give up. I expect to be there. And most likely will be. But I have this lingering hope that now that my dreams of performing somewhere in front of a packed house with my name under the marquee are dead that I will somehow have something to say. So far I've only been able to say things interestingly. For the most part anything I ever written, and likely will continue to write, was written arbitrarily for performance. A randomly picked topic and dramatic writing quickly thrown together so that I could sounds like a bad-ass, or a weathered soul, or a deep thinker in front of an audience of drunk people. Sadly this sort of worked. I am not shitting you here I have fans in chicago. By fans I mean three people who boo anyone who gives me less than a ten really loudly and stop me to tell me "you are so angry...I love it" after I improve a poem about ninjas or fijitas or whatever word an super drunk audience member just yelled. Because I was pretending that night that I didn't care about any of this and I could just totally relax and be an artist even though I hate people who do that and suck totally. And the only reason i dont suck totally is because for almost 6 years now I've been practasing looking like I don't practice. But through it all I knew it was bullshit. I never took myself seriously for longer than it took for me to impress someone I hoped to sleep-with or more realistically eat lunch with one day when I was bored. Which is always. Still it was a role that I played mostly because I had done it for fun in high-school and now was out of other theater opportunities so I did this.
So here is my prayer for myself:
That one day I find something to write about
This has become to get pretty sad. I'm still clinging to my depression laced High-school years so I expect for it to be something hyper depressing ( a tragic relationship, body image issues, or a political event I become connected to) and I find myself hoping, if not praying, for my life to suck more so I can write it. I even start to consider the best case scenarios for dallas to cheat on me and then dump me in the rain as i wonder around realizing every thing reminds me of her cursing the heavens; so I could have some fodder for a new poem. But in the same instant I realize she is without a doubt the best part of my sad little life and even if I did lose her in a perfectly plotted way I wouldn't be able to write it. For two main reasons. One, I love to suffer and would instantly be unable to offer any perspective and would only be able to eat a shit load of pizza,and drink lots of caffeine and alcohol. And second, I can't write.
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[18 Oct 2007|09:21am] |
SARKO IS SINGLE!!!
WOOP WOOP
in other news i would like to say HAHA and FUCK YOU to those who voted for him
in more important news these are my classes next quarter
tuesday
310-440 philosophy
545-9 creative writing
wednesday
545-9 religion and political conflict in south asia
thursday
310-440 philosophy
545-9 the american presidency
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[25 Sep 2007|11:26pm] |
to the police officer who almost hit me today as he refused to yeld to me a cross walk
9-24-030 Crosswalks—Pedestrians to have right-of-way.
Where stop signs are in place at a plainly marked crosswalk at an intersection or between intersections, pedestrians within or entering the crosswalk at either edge of the roadway shall have the right-of-way over vehicles stopped in obedience to such signs. Drivers of vehicles having so yielded the right-of-way to pedestrians entering or within the nearest crosswalk at an intersection shall also yield the right-of-way to pedestrians within any other crosswalk at the intersection.
and
9-24-050 Pedestrians in roadway to have right-of-way when.
When the movement of traffic is not controlled by traffic-control devices, a police officer or traffic control aide, the operator of a vehicle shall yield the right-of-way, slowing down or stopping if need be so to yield, to a pedestrian crossing the roadway within a crosswalk when the pedestrian is upon the half of the roadway upon which the vehicle is traveling or when the pedestrian is approaching so closely from the opposite half of the roadway as to be in danger.
one day i am so just jumping on someone's car
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[25 Sep 2007|02:39am] |
when you trip badly
reality stumbles
and only the insane
are in the sane
for when reality stumbled
all the kings horses
and all the kings men
couldn't put her back together
again ☃
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| i wish i could remember the rest of what i said last night, more edits later |
[25 Sep 2007|02:14am] |
There is an old man who lives in a house by the el tracks
every night I see him
staring out into the sea
counting each passerby
and carefully pressing them
between the pages of his mind
He sees every baseball fan zig zagging home
every college girl who walks with her hand in her pocket
clutched tightly on her pepper spray
he measures the hard footsteps of construction workers
he listens half heartedly to rushed phone conversations
angry cab drivers
and old friends
his long since born dog
laying dreamily by his side
he too listens
and every now and then his head tilts lazily
vaguely recalling back to a time when
his motion was constant
standing stoic and powerful
a top the porch steps
ready to leap down
upon any fool who should have the misfortune
of walking through the gate
his grayed coat only seems to cage the passion now
but though they both say nothing as I pass
day in day out
on my way to get groceries
to school
to work
to the park
i know
they watch over me
guide me as i wander through alleys full of broken glass
and down the stairs into an empty garden apartment
not just from rapists, robbers, and drunkards but
from myself
and all the misery that comes
packed in with electric bills
and parts of my soul I toss out with the garbage
they are Chicago's history
from the ashes of the fire onward
they leap out
the great recorders of time
as my fingers whistle across the rusted iron gate
I imagine that they sing
the tune to a song we both know
as he looks up at me, and
smiles
its so quick I almost convince myself I imagined it
as I walk home
it lights my way
the tiny man sitting on the porch of
the house by the L tracks
just him and his dog
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[13 Jul 2007|01:04am] |
it is weird
how close i am to you
our skin mangled together
hard to tell us apart as we swirl together
and yet
we couldn't be further apart
I'm too depressed to be this happy
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[03 Jul 2007|11:27pm] |
I can feel it coming again
I always imagined myself on the beach
all the water sucked away
and as tourists jumped at the chance to pick
stranded clams and mussels
I prayed to a god
I didn't believe in
you can't stop it
you can't run from it
you can only hope to endure it
I can only hope
someone please protect me
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| quotes from the raps |
[03 Jul 2007|02:05am] |
"i'm not bi-sexual I'm tri-sexual"
"I'm sorry kari but i have to put my dick in your barbie"
wow kevin put his dick in your religion
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| a fun little improv poem |
[01 Jul 2007|12:20am] |
my roommate joshua
is extremely radical
he delivers his arguments
smooth as charlie parker's jazz
and as hot as kentucky whiskey
poured over the wounds society has cut for me
as I stand
desperate struggling
to help him conceptualize
my reality
every fact i fire is rebuffed
and comes bouncing back bringing by breakneck bite
as my brain hits a brick wall
again and again
as I begin
to
question everything down to the
very
breath I
draw
my face goes red and my voice begin to screech as
I accelerate in desperation
I am angry at the challenge as I realize
he has me in a corner
as our arguments begin to circle
like two dogs in a fight
except he has already bit my jugular
you see
my roommate Joshua is very radical
and he delivers his arguments
smooth as charlie parker's jazz
and as hot as kentucky whiskey
poured over the wound society has cut for me
As i desperate try to spin a rhyme and
buy myself some needed time
I realize he's got me too drunk to stand
and
my heart is beating like it is going to jump out my throat
and here he is
just cooly laughing
laid back and loose
like a summer breeze
he can sneak in through a cracked window in my mind
and spin my whole world upside
because you see
my roommate Joshua is very radical
and his arguments are delivered as smooth as charlie parkers jazz and as hot as Tennessee whiskey
over the wounds society has cut for me
and in an instant he can flip from a prototypical but literal assassin
firing bullets through my thoughts which i
built like
bank vaults
into a laid back bundle of style and laughter
as my brain beats against a brick wall
and i desperately try and spin a rhyme
to restart the argument
but this time
he just walks away
as smooth as Charlie parkers jazz
and leaves me hot as kentucky whiskey
and maybe
I'm better off that way
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[11 Jun 2007|06:41pm] |
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arrrrgggg
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ericsalinger's journal