swirl ing black lil ies to tal ly ripe
swirl ing black lil ies to tal ly ripe
swirl ing black lil ies to tal ly ripe
swirl ing black lil ies to tal ly ripe
swirl ing black lil ies to tal ly ripe
swirl ing black lil ies to tal ly ripe

:)))))))))))))))))))

this is how i feel???????

Sunday, December 14, 2001
I feel so fuckingly wonderful, and my handwriting is just one of the few most beautiful things I have ever seen in my life. Right now I am spectacularly lucky to have pothead friends. I want, right now, to make love to the whole world - with the tangible and the ethereal.....
It is so nice to only love the different and remarkable ones. Sweet as sherry???....I do want to be a ..... But tonight has been great okay now to go get started on my five hundred crepe suzettes that shall be served to many people tomorrow at school.

December 24, 2001
Under the influence again, yes, but a different one. Wine makes my throat stop short, but the world go a'round. And God I am fucking depressed. What a shitty Christmas Eve. God do I wish... oh well. Hey here are the Beatles on their Magical Mystery Tour. It's ridiculsous that I haven't before heard this. God I am pretty joyful but it took some alki to get me here. God I'm a fucking idiot. It would be fun to go to a party with Sylvia Plath right now. She was a fucking alcoholic, in the same sense that I am. So he gives me a massage, drags me (literally) down a mountain, across asphalt, leaving big scars on my back, and no more!!! I'm going to cry at least they aren't real tears. They have a somewhat high alcohol content like my skull does right now. Why won't my music get loud enough. GODDD my soul hurts. Beetle-black eyes and coarse dog hair. The reason that I'm so fucked up, of course, is that I don't believe that anything tangible is real. INstead, I only believe that thoughts and emotions are. And that is still a quite shady/sketchy belief. Anyway, since my thoughts and emotions quite often SUCK, no wonder I fel that life sucks. You'd better fucking be thinking of me. Goddammit. So should I stay...or should I go? Really I don't know. I don't know why I'm so tingly after that little wine, although perhaps it was more than I imagined. So I don't know. Why does everything suck. It's all for nothing Jesus what's wrong. You'd better be thinking of me, God I want some weed.

Wednesday?Dec. 26, 2001
I am so strange: an abuser of substances, but also a purist and a naturalist. Art sucks. Sylvia Plath screwed herself by being so buried in her work. I hope Shawn does not do that, but it is very probable.

^^^^^^just excerpting to remind myself of the things within me that i loathe. see how primitive and banal my thought processes are in my writing. (though, at the moment of their transcription, they seem complex and intellectual.) if anyone reading this still retained an image of me as "witty and brilliant", then perhaps it will now finally be destroyed. not that i really yearn for that to happen... i don't feel too strongly against illusions. not truly yet. only practically.

however, i have lost since christmas break any inclination toward substances. i've thought about it when in despair, but not strongly. 'twas only thought, not urge. same as food. i'm doing alright. i am MY SELF right now, with regard to habits. i hope i don't change again.

"A human being in perfection ought always to preserve a calm and peaceful mind and never to allow passion or a transitory desire to disturb his tranquility. I do not think that the pursuit of knowledge is an exception to this rule. If the study to which you apply yourself has a tendency to weakne your affections and to destroy your taste for those simple pleasures in which no alloy can possibly mix, then that study is certainly unlawful, that is to say, not befitting the human mind. If this rule were always observed; if no man allowed any pursuit whatsoever to interfere with the tranquillity of his domestic affections, Greece had not been enslaved, Caesar would have spared his country, America would have been discovered more gradually, and the empires of Mexico and Peru had not been destroyed."
--Mary Shelley, Frankenstein

that is the most important thing stated in the book. so i hold!!! it summed it all up. i do so hope shawn knows it... he must!

no i don't feel it anymore it's been redirected muahahaha. i think. but if it happened again. is it a neverending story like that night? but if something more was meant than how can it never have ended yet. i can't persist although i can.

i have a recurring dream.

rain.

life life life (and the matrix; still on my mind.)

lifed; cookies. but not that kind. this:

life.

which is counted in cookies, mine, like the
ones i (all the time!!!) slice
and
step on,
disregarding my calloused
soles in an egotistic lack of sanitation--
because i sure do serve them still. after all, i used to

bake.

but do i go on and step on my life? “hoo, hoo, hoo, i gotchoo there, babe,” so would say
sheba, my monochromatic little lesbiana... who has un nombre <>
because of those seven grades of bowled-over inattention
to my oven. right,

"BABY?"??

ishly; and so i traipse uponalong those cookies burned, muttering un radio song. my
toes get trappsed in redolent mud, goo enough to et. their
chocolate chips rode clammy in my
hand to the
back
table where
i, on creaking night,
gambled away all my powder
compacts; i apologise, my darling cleopatra, my adorable catty
one in your little black dress oh but that would clash... ‘twould, and not compactly at all. sorry,

"BABY".

i was when those bricks that flew
seventy-two
mornings
and
eleven roads and
six stations and nineteen leaves ago
have finally returned after smashing some headlights. (just headlights,

whore.

) or: so i felt, when "she won a spelling bee!" once, yes, me, when i was three
and five años old. bricks flew through a window
waning-- "that is the way we came on our
voyage to blame our
daughter in
hell, and
so became
writers as well."
ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

GOD.

dahmme you!!! (who?) do you...want a plot!.?
how 'bout a quirk, or a smirk, that is
crooked, like
the way i
jerk,
under patchwork, plush, and preguntability; and here-there comes john!

jihosifats.

(along with pinks and moons) i art painting in a sky-striped smock... and ONCE AGAIN it's all a crock; and i,
i am a shitmonger, ¡¡¡muchas gracias, hamlet, por los siete centigrados!!!
and you never
you will
come
closer to the
liee-yiee-yight... (it’s all just animal embellishment after all; right,

"BABY?"?????????

) so i coddle her; unless! you’re fer a venture: they’re going now, a-rhyme-a-dime!
or, “...a DIME a RHYME!!!” squeal forth the face-painters. (i refer to
age-ids--much mature to tell me what
words should occur.)
but i’m not
samantha’s
CEO
of sales who’ll buy her sixth pair of
thighigh black-arthritis?-boots...¡¡¡no más comercialización!!!
beause i’m apparently still supposed to kick the system’s ass by thee
age of twehntee; when i will with luk bee aproacheng mucheritee. at leist charlie lykes me.

that's an edited version of one of my more schizophrenic poems. i have another going on now that more meaning. yeah i ought to work more on the meaning thing along with the word thing. i get too caught up in one or the other. well, i guess that's how poetry works. if you didn't, what would be the point of trying. like life. that's the point of it. so says david's mom. i guess she knows. after all, she is an age-id much mature. i have to quit quoting myself.