Death can wait, I have bigger issues right now.

OKAY! So I have a job opportunity for anyone who's interested.

I am looking for someone to help me out. I am writing a book entitled DROWNING HERMEY, based upon my time as a toy designer at Fisher-Price. What I am looking for specifically, is someone or a couple of people, who are somewhat well-read, or at least enjoy reading, who'd like to read (so far) about 15 short chapters and let me know what you think. To be honest, I'll take anyone's thoughts, although I am really looking for the female viewpoint (to let me know if it's one of those "guys" books like a Fight Club) because as of now, I only have guys reading it. This is not to say that I wouldn't mind another guy checking this out. I just need feedback.

The story is about Tom Banaulski - a toy designer who hates his job so much that he has picked a fight with absurdity. It's not merely a will he quit, or not scenario, but rather, can he find some justification in his existance.

That sounds heady, but it's funny, being about toy designers and all.

Anyway, the pay, um, yeah, we can figure something out. Coffee, food, a few bucks perhaps (being an aspiring writer is not profitable). But basically, you'll be able to have your hand in a book that will most likely be published, hopefully, okay well I'm banking on it.

SO if any one is interested, there's not much to read and it's a good story from what I've been told, let me know via email or on estrip.

I thank you.

So I just watched bjork's Dancer in the Dark. Being a huge fan of musicals simply because as she says in the movie, "Nothing dreadful ever happens in a musical," I loved the music, the shots, the choreography. But the story. Talk about a lesson in empathy . . . I felt sick at the end and then remembered to breath. That's a great thing.

Then it got me thinking about death again and the dread of something after death, the undiscovered country from whose bourn no traveler returns.

So now, as I once again walk on the railroad tracks that separate an absurd existence from a life worth living, high above the valley below, whilst others frolic in the stream and don't bother to look up, I have to keep my balance. This is why I had practiced so much when I was a kid on the Moodna Viaduct back home. I now realize this.

That's better. He's a lot cuter than I am (referencing previous userpic)

I have to say, it's good to hear from y'all in these wee hours.

the morning will come either way, so might as well . . .

But as Dylan says, do not go gentle into that good night, rage, rage against the dying of the light. It works literally too.

night all.

Okay, so I've been wondering. I'm up every night until about, well late or early depending on the glass half full/ half empty perspective. It seems the best time for me to get something accomplished. And maybe there's a bent appeal of typing away, on the verge of discovering something great whilst the world sleeps.

But I suppose my question is, of the (e:peeps) out there, does anyone else find the night a comforting time to stay awake and do what you want to do? Is anyone awake because they want to prolong the coming of the morning, and another day disappearing? Now that I think about it, maybe that's it. Sure it's great to work at night, the sullenness is truly beautiful (although I could stand to live in an apartment 18 or so stories up looking over the skyline of Manhattan, but one has to make due), and yet maybe it's just me trying desperately to use time to its fullest. Maybe I'm attempting to disparage the hold time has. Hmm.

Anyone else know where I'm coming from, or should I just go to bed.

Oh crap, deadlines. Deadlines keep me up too.

Does anyone else get affected by the moon in its current state? I'll just say it. If something absurd and irrational happens, I blame not meself, but the moon.

But usually it happens the other way. It seems that when I'm unaware of the moon in its fullest state, the most bizarre but comprehendible things happen. In essence, I lose my mind briefly. When I know of it, nothing much happens. It's unfortunate because honestly, who doesn't like dabbling in oddity every now and then.

I painted a sunset yesterday. It sounds poetic, but really I painted a sunset for a backdrop for Annie Get Your Gun going up at the Lancaster Opera House in two weeks. Frank and Annie have to walk into the sunset at the end of the show, so that's where I come in. It was draining in so many ways, but I think subconsciously, I was taken aback by the ultimate desire to ride off into a sunset with someone besides my motorcycle (which is not in any way a bad second choice). There's a lot of pressure there. Imagine, creating a sunset out of your head, in a painting form, with a sun three feet wide. Your dreams coming through a brush onto a canvas for everyone else to see. I was spent after painting it. I was hoping it would turn out to be cathartic, but no, it was slightly depressing. I just painted and my idea of perfection came out. Unfortunately the realistic version of what I see as perfect is never as perfect as what I've seen or imagined, so what does that say? Is it merely acquiescence once again my friends? To love something so much, your physical interpretation of it makes you weak. I suppose I'm not ready to truly see, but a slight peak would be a good, good thing. Like Dylan, I think the answer for most things lies within the retiring of the sun.

On a slightly different note, kind of related, but not really so not related in the everything-is-connected sense, Robin, there was a joke I heard a while ago on the radio. It was St. Peter in Purgatory, separating people. "Christians please over here, and Jews on that side," St.Peter said holding his clipboard. He then looked at the Christians and said, "Oh and by the way, the Jews were right."

I love that. No I'm not Jewish, and I am a Christian. What I'd really like to be is Native American, but it's just not in the cards for a Polish/Lithuanian boy from the Hudson Valley.

Has anyone seen Donnie Darko? Well whaddja think. I mean about it all.

c'est ca.

When faced with the absurd decision to go to sleep or not, I find myself wondering that of those extra two hours of reading, writing or sleeping, which one would be more beneficial to my existance.

Or should I say fuck it, and watch another movie.

Camus says that there is only one real philosophical question, and that is of course suicide, BUT I think there is another - time. How do you spend it? Do you feel obligated in anyway to spend it a certain way? Does it come naturally? Does time stop - YES - there, it does.

The time you think you have is only the time you let yourself have. If you run out of it, it's only because of another priority in your life. I think we should all experiment with time and mess it up for once. Then we'll see who has the apathy.

On a side note, my horoscope said that I should be akin to Charles Bukowski (if you don't know just ask me), and then said HA, April fools! like an asshole. It said something to the effect of, as if you were going to be a self inflicted melancholy debauched writer . . . well what happens when you are? This just goes to show that when people make jokes, their seriousness is unvailed. We mean what we say, but we don't know if we know what we mean.

Now of course the decision, read the bible or Suttree by McCormac? We've all been there.

Wilco, the indigo girls, Dan Bern, and Lucinda Williams, would play on my soundtrack. You?

So wow . . . I met a lot of (e:peeps) tonight and I am a better person for it. It was a very intriguing night which started off with TK calling Rachel from my phone (sorry Rachel), then moving into an existential talk about why we do things, and how lucky TK is for being so goddamn smooth. Check that, there is no luck. Any luck you acquire is simply a part of the plan, if you believe of course in said plan.

Anyway, with hand rolled cigarettes, we journied outside to further my talk about nihilism and the benefits of it, save morality. But I have to say that it's easier to talk about nihilism, than to do it. Me? The guilt is too much for me. And so I will remain my starting self with no hopes of ever finishing. That might be between me and me.

After I left, feeling great and rejuvinated that I can place a face to the names of Lilho, Tina, and Terry, I headed to get a slice of pizza of course. This is no euphamism people, as much as I would love it to be. Well I saw an add for a artist model that was needed, and now I ask you, do you think that my stickboy self, all skinny and nerdy, could grab a couple of bucks standing still every Wednesday? I did it in college why not now, right? The tattoos might be a problem or a benefit depending on which side of the drawing pad you are on.

Paul, I think you've made me catch the tattoo bug again. I love them and the entire process. If you need any advice, just ask. Make it black and something that you will look at and will make you think. This should be everything in life people. Everything should make you think.
Especially these movies,

Donnie Darko
Magnolia
Hurly Burly
13 Conversations About One Thing
Glen Garry Glenross
and of course Requiem for a fucking Dream
(that is not for the faint of heart)

God speed gents and ladies. I will see you soon certainly. And Lilho, even though I was adamant about the opposite, we can truly be friends. Although I warn all of you, Blest are those whose blood and judgements ar so well commingled that they are not a pipe for fortune's finger to sound what stop she please. Give me that man who is not passion's slave and I shall hold in my heart's core.

I am passion's slave and I apologize not for that. Good night all.

Terry, brotha, we do not have a democracy, come on, you know this. We have as much freedom as they'll let us have. It's not a bad gig actually. At least our McDonald's cheesburgers are still less than a dollar . . . last time I checked.

SO we all have a choice. We can live in this ostensibly free and democratic place, or we can march around holding signs that no one gives a fuck about. Regardless what we believe, at this point, and since the Civil War (I am not a confederate by any stretch of the imagination, I'm a Yankee through an through, but there is a school of thought that with the south losing, as they should have, so too was lost the idea to challenge your government), we have limited choices.

I think Twain said it best: Love for your country always. Love for your government when it deserves it.

Here's a way to look at it (this was once told to me by a professor in college. It was probably the most useful information I got out of RIT). . . you wake up one day in the pitch black (very Poe)and you know two things. ONE, behind you is a blade on a pendulum, but you don't know how far back, and TWO, in front of you is a river of shit, but you don't know how deep.
You need to go somewhere, so where do you go?

answer below . . .






life sucks, deal with it.


We all have to swallow medicine sometimes brother. But hey I say, that if you want to not vote, or to vote for Nader, do it! It's your conscience that you have to deal with, no ours.

Godspeed.

Dylan tomorrow.

Let's all get a drink and toast the demise of this once great country.

I did it. After doing it for so long, every month or so, it becomes less meaningful. The first time was absolutely terrible, but now I have to say I'm damn good. Especially at the details. Hell, I don't even have to ask the someone else how they like it anymore, because honestly it's me who I need to impress. We've all been there - you stop,look in the mirror, walk around and if need be, you're right back at it. It used to be life changing, but now it's just something I do.

So. If you see a really good looking guy walk down the street, with a slick new haircut, I'm the other guy leaning against a building thinking, "Next time, I'll pay for mine."

It's neither hair nor there.

HA.

I now have to venture into the mind of someone who knows for a fact that he, one way or another, will, poetically speaking, shuffle off this mortal coil within moments. You can see why I'm not exactly diving into this shit infested, maniacal, but very real pool. I'd rather dwell here for a bit, so if you'll have me, I am yours.

Distractions. They are what separates the sane from the absurd. Case in point. I type here and NOT in Act 1, Scene 1 of the new and original play, Hostage.

But of course, I have a question. Some of you are self proclaimed artists. Some of you dabble conceptual art, and to actually be moved by something like that gives you major points on my Clue check-off list. Who hasn't seen Kosuth's three chairs and has not left thinking, which one is real? Powerful stuff and I applaud y'all for drifting into a profession that can only be understood if you use your head.

My question is simply: Will you ever be satisfied? And secondly, would you want to be satisfied?

I toy with actually becoming happy, but then, my writing will suffer. I'm serious. So again it's the language or the kiss (anyone get the reference?). I will be up sorting through the scum covered boxes in my mind, looking for that thing. You know . . . the thing. Haven't found it yet. I'm going to look in a minute.

I now know I need artists in my life. I miss design school and the legitimately free thinkers there. There are to many carpet salesman for my taste right now.

Interested applicants are encouraged to meet at a bar eventually, to talk about random shit that will change our lives forever.

The woods are lovely dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

Cliche, but goddamn, if there ever was a thought in my head, it's that.