where have i been.

this is not a list and believe me, I truly adore (or abhor?) lists. But then you get into ranking and what's important to you, knowing that you may one day show this list to a third party (the first two being you and yourself). No my brothers and sisters, this is not that.

where have I been.

When asked this or contemplating this, you are diving into your STOP. I'm preaching again. Not to you, because who knows what this will do to you. Inorder to really capture you I must write a play about this whole experience although watching someone on stage typing is not exactly nail biting theater.

But wait.

Scene one.

(A man sits at a table center stage - 27/28, hair a mess, five day old beard which looks like he has not shaved so that he can go to the art opening on Friday night in the hip part of town and show off his new shirt he just bought and really fit in a conglomerate of people who all claim to have their own mind in-tact, he is shirtless, he has cuts on his arm from an accident he has easily gotten over, he wears jeans with holes in the knees. His space is disgusting - books everywhere, papers, laundry, a bra from someone he dated for two days three months ago is visible, along with five layers of shirts hung over his chair. A leather jacket with a beat up motorcycle helmet lays on the floor which stares back at the audience.

he is typing fast then nothing, fast then nothing. There is no expression on his faced. He rubs his eyes. He types faster, standing up as if playing a piano. He stops claps his hands and looks forward at the audience.

He cracks a smile. He stares for exactly one minute in silence, not moving.

The phone rings, he picks it up automatically then hangs up immediately. Starts typing again. He shakes his head maniacally. Deep breath. Gets up moves downstage stares for exactly one minute in silence, not moving.

A horn is heard and then a car crash. He returns to typing faster, and faster. Sirens are heard, then silence. He screams loud. Gets up, walks to downstage center and stares for exactly one minute in silence, not moving.

He reaches into his pocket still staring and pulls out a syringe. He takes off his belt. Sits down and ties it around his arm. He places the needle on his arm.

He is interrupted by an alarm clock. Without missing a beat, he gets up, throws the syringe upstage, grabs his jacket, and his helmet and a shirt. He exits stage right.

One minute passes and ge comes back in, and while standing, he types. He looks up. Smirks. Exits stage right.

Blackout.)

Nail biting?

It's not real after all.

where the fuck have I been

“Life begins on the other side of despair.�
-    Jean-Paul Sartre

Some people have it, some people don’t. This is not to be confused with the idea of an IT that creeps in into your psyche with one word, or one vision, or one thing that starts the ignition; please, do not confuse that IT with what I’m talking about. And yet, there is a correlation there, which will be explored.

Thinking can drive you mad, that’s a reason people don’t do it. Then again, some people are just not capable of that, alas. I say alas simply because you do not live unless you know, or rather see the breaking point. Once you see it, and stay there for a minute, you have two choices: you can either kill yourself as compared to defining the absurdity (for you), or you can go beyond that and experience a new consciousness.

An analogy . . .

There are those who can afford to go to go on vacation, but the time has to be right and you must know where you’re going. It’s essentially this: say you go once or twice a year to the beach or mountain of your choice. After a while you start cursing the place you reside because this paradise is just that. The drive there is awful and grueling, but once you’re there, you feel as close as you will come to clarity.

So you remember this vacation while you’re at home, at work in school, and that life you lead gets difficult. The normal person will accept the fact that what you experienced is indeed a vacation, but then you don’t. Why shouldn’t it be that way? So you strive to stay in that paradise, but for the meantime, you merely visit. One day though, you will live there, in your paradise and all will be right, for you.

But you then realize that the amount of money you need to stay there is indeed immense, and you curse that book, that bum you once talked to, that class you took for letting you even know about this paradise. You begin to envy those who’ve never considered even finding out about it, for they are ostensibly the lucky ones.

Start saving. In the meantime, the drive to paradise is an inferno.

If y'all have no idea what I'm talking about and are curious, please by all means, let me know.

Oh and Ajay, apologize for freaking you ouu [inlink]ajay,109[/inlink], and not to pick on you brother, but look, one day I'll write about how my day sucked or was great or that I'm pissed of at my friend for not even considering sleeping with me, but until then, I've got other things on my mind. Please take no offense to this. I am merely clarifying.

How ironic, yes . . .

Gee Sqb, you seemed like such a nice boy. HA. Very nice writing my friend. It'd be good to see more of that me thinks. It reminds me of the time I walked into Spot and the girl asked me what I wanted.

"Clarity," I said. "Would you have any of that?"

You see, A small term goal in my life is to have people look at me and say, what? I think I know what you mean, but what?

ITs are all around but what do we do with them? Hmm? Oh wait, we use them right, for creative shit like writing. But the problem is, you don't know when it'll happen.

I was telling a doctor friend tonight that I think I might have a heart problem. My heart beats uncontrolably sometimes out of no where and it scares the shit out of me. The other day my arm went numb.

"So have you gone to the hospital?" she asked.

"Not at all."

"Why not?"

"Because it always goes away eventually."

That's just like IT, isn't IT.

On a side note Rachel, sorry for not swinging by Faherty's. Billy was getting a bit anxious to go and hear George W. and then puke all over, so I had to get him home. On another side note, he tried to kill himself today, sadly enough. I got home from work and found a chewed up bottle of Aleve by his bed, with half the pills gone.

It's okay though, I told him that he's important to me and that I love him and we hugged. He kept crying saying things like, I JUST COULDN'T DO IT, I JUST COULDN'T DO IT! I HAVE NO BALLS!

I know Billy. It's not always a dog's life.

I'm here for you brother.

So talking about IT.

The IT. The IT. You all know what I mean.

That litle guy who sits in your brain and tells you to do things that you should not. You try to shut the fucker up but that's as usless as saying, okay, tonight I will not imagine how sex would be with my neighbor, or her mother.

My idea is that this guy knows more than you ever will. He is the paragon of nihilism, and more often than not, he does not come out in most people, because he's lazy. You watch TV? So does he, but he gets twice as fat. BUt see, logically, taking that premisse, if you read a book, say some Camus, he gets twice as much out of it as you do. Which we all know how dangerous that is.

Drugs do nothing but knock IT out for a while. BUt what happens when you oversleep and miss your job, or a class? You get pissed. Alas.

My suggestion . . . don't piss IT off, for IT is really you. Let IT play now and then, throw IT a bone, toss IT a frisbee.

BUT should you feel IT needing more space than you have at the time . . . leave.

Find an open field or a beach and pray to GOD for a lightning storm.

Leave the tools at home my friends. IT knows how to use them much better than you ever will.

More on this later. If you are lost, it's because you probably know how to control IT. But see . . . that's just mean, not to mention incredibly boring.

I went to Florida for a vacation that turned into a display of how fucked in the head I really am. I'm wondering if it's genetic. Prozac couldn't make a dent in this mess.

I rode my bike down to fly out of JfK. My intention was to throw shit at republicans this past Saturday and Sunday on the return to civilization, but some asshole in a BMW stopped short underneath the FDR and I went scraping across the ground. My arm is all filled with road rash and I think I broke my left big toe. Did not stop me from riding home last night at 2am in the fucking downpour that draped over NY state.

Why did I leave last night that late?

The reason is this. After mending my bike to the point where it was ridable with a broken toe of which is used for shifting (the pain is/was intense), and talking to a bum who made my day saying that they put him away for five years only to realize that he did NOT have a mental problem, I headed of course to Brooklyn.

There I met up with Kenny, got a cane and began to drink.

I met an existentialist on the F train half cocked and am now emailing her. She had a rule, "always talk to people who quote more than 3 existentialist novels in a five minute period." Again that was me, half cocked.

I made it to Gregs where I met many friends and vicadin (sp?). I knew I was too much for the drug and continued to drink to prove it. After doing that properly, we headed to a chique bar of which I was thrown out of, with my cane all the time smacking on the ground cursing republicans.

I woke up the next morning in my boxers and headed to the kitchen sink to continue vomiting. I laid down and heard the stories of the night before. Jesse sat up and shook Kenny and I and told us to head to fight the good fight.

It was at this point I heard this . . .

"And this ladies and gentleman," he said as he pointed to us slobs swiming in our own feces, vomit, and urine, "is why the left will never make it in this country."

I rode through the night once I recovered and made it to French class at 8 am this morning.

Bring on the chaos for I am not ready.

Oh oui.

I think censorship is the way to go. Fuck those who try to get abscure bullshit plaguing the airwaves. Those bitches fucking blow. They're all cheese cocks, I swear to Christ.

There is just too much vulgarity and bad shit out there. Fuck everyone and protect our children s'what I figure. Dickholes.

As for the terrorist fucking shitheads. You read liter . . . you read lietru . . . you read books yer a terrorist, okay, you fucks.

S'all I have to say.

All extremists should be shot by the way.

Well. It was truly amazing. Didn't spend much time, but the time spent was worth spending. What?

A Newcastle, a cheesburger, John Fante, some decent blues that moved into this 18th street lounge vibe, and a glimpse of a young girl swinging on a bar with my hoping to God she doesn't fall. An amazing time had by all.

I was left wondering, as I took a sip, why would someone do that? What's the point of flopping around a bar?

That was when I looked at what I was doing, which was of course flopping around a . . .


To bad y'all missed out. I will catch you next time.

I will now shave my head.

perhaps . . .

Okay, so I'm really done this time. I dropped the 350 page fiasco off to get bound. Now onto other work.

BUT, before I do that. I am goint o the Pink to get a sandwich and a beer while I read. This was where it all started after all.

So if anyone needs a place to chill for a bit (I have to get back and really start a bunch of other work, but first thing's first) I'll be there around a 8:30 or so, give or take. There should be no one there. I'm psyched.

I usually like to chill by meself, but I am extending the invitation. I've been seeing a lot of me lately . . .

Oh and if any one is wondering what this book thing I did is about, read this . . .


“The more people I meet, the more I understand that everyone is looking for something to happen – good or bad.�

- Tom Banaulski

        
Tom Banaulski has a decision to make and he has three months to do so. He is a toy designer with Silly-Smarty Brand Toys who has been put on probation because of his volatile attitude problems and irrational behavior in a corporate environment. The easy answer would be to quit his ostensibly fun job designing toys, but his complacency and anxiety has all but effaced that idea. Besides, like people constantly remind him, why would someone ever want to leave a job designing toys?

Tom constantly analyzes his position not only at his job, but in his life. He was happy once and wonders where and when it all went wrong. During the three months, he re-lives the time from his first day at the toy company four years ago, up until his life today. The more questions he asks, the more things don’t make sense, and the more he begins his decent into absurdity. He wants to stop thinking, and just be that toy designer he once was, but he does not know how.

What he does know is that something has to happen, one way or another.

This is pretty dead on balls accurate. But then, hoiw does one prepare for a life of enternal suffering? And if so, I should really just kick in the nihilism, don't you think . . .

For those who are confused check out Robin's journal. That was fun Robin, thanks a bunch.

Here it tis.

The wretched King Minos has decided your fate. His tale wraps around his body 8 times.
The sweet light no longer strikes against your eyes. Your shade has been banished to... the Eigth Level of Hell - the Malebolge!
Eigth Level of Hell - the Malebolge

---

Many and varied sinners suffer eternally in the multi-leveled Malebolge, an ampitheatre-shapped pit of despair Wholly of stone and of an iron colour: Those guilty of fraudulence and malice; the seducers and pimps, who are whipped by horned demons; the hypocrites, who struggle to walk in lead-lined cloaks; the barraters, who are ducked in boiling pitch by demons known as the Malebranche. The simonists, wedged into stone holes, and whose feet are licked by flames, kick and writhe desperately. The magicians, diviners, fortune tellers, and panderers are all here, as are the thieves. Some wallow in human excrement. Serpents writhe and wrap around men, sometimes fusing into each other. Bodies are torn apart. When you arrive, you will want to put your hands over your ears because of the lamentations of the sinners here, who are afflicted with scabs like leprosy, and lay sick on the ground, furiously scratching their skin off with their nails. Indeed, justice divine doth smite them with its hammer

Here is how I matched up against all the levels:

Purgatory Repenting Believers Very Low
Level 1 - Limbo Virtuous Non-Believers Very Low
Level 2 Lustful Extreme
Level 3 Gluttonous High
Level 4 Prodigal and Avaricious High
Level 5 Wrathful and Gloomy Extreme
Level 6 - The City of Dis Heretics Moderate
Level 7 Violent Very High
Level 8- the Malebolge Fraudulent, Malicious, Panderers Extreme
Level 9 - Cocytus Treacherous Very High

I started in January. As of today, I've finally finished writing. Now all I have to do is revise my manuscript before Tuesday to get it bound to hand it in by Thursday. Simple enough.

Then I'll have my Masters and a 322 page post-modern book called Drowning Hermey.

I'm very tired people.