Just a word to say that I'm outta here for a bit for no particular reason. Who knows how long, but just thought I'd let y'all know.

The new userpic says it all.

Thanks Woody.

- stickboy

ps. Keep fighting the good fight people. I'll see y'all around.

In all fairness, I think I should let you all in on a little aspect of my life.

I am a priest. That's right. Or I was at least. This whole thing about toys was the best thing I could comeup with. My cousin is the guy that does the toy thing and that is why I decided to try this town.

I left Oregon because I met a woman while I was priesting and had sex. Three times in two days. She then had a child which I considered divine intervention and yet the church did not see it as such.

So yes I have a child and his name is Will. He's in Oregon, I hope, and I hate my life because I am not there. The girl shacked up with a drummer from some jazz band from Frisco and I have not seen her since. The poor kid is witnessing debauchery at it's finest.

So all the stuff I write is a show. I am not the man I thought I was and the things that pop into my head I must write down, in the form of a self loathing writer. All I want to do is to work at Home Depot for God sakes. Oh what tangled webs we weave.

My name is Brian but if we're laying everything out on the table, I really spell it Bryan.

God help me.

It happened once again. I should say that it's about to happen. Nothing has happened yet although I'm pretty sure that they know it'll happen.

There is a scene in the movie Talk to Her (Hable Con Ella) in which the main character is listening to a singer in a garden of some sort, surrounded by people who are listening but are not really hearing what he's saying. The man is so moved by this singer's song that he begins to cry. The man singing sounds like he's just lost love and that he now realizes that he'll never get there again. It's a lament. I have no idea what he is singing about but I swear it chokes me up every time I hear the song.

For some reason, this man's pain is beautiful.

I get sick at the idea of someone constantly there. But they pander. They convince. We'll be happy. I don't know. Yes we'll be happy. Well what about my needs? I need loathing, I have no choice.

Sweetheart, we all have a choice.

I'm beginning to think that's not the case after I say hey why not, sure come on over, I'll grow to love you, but I have work to do, yes I want to sleep, but I can't now. Okay sure. It'll end badly, it always does. Consider yourself warned.

You don't mind? Oh, you don't believe me. Okay.

My guilt is absolved.

But why do you do this?

I can't help it. It's in my nature, says the Scorpion to the turtle.

Does anyone know a substantial amount about Jung's theory of the Collective Unconscious, and would like to briefly describe what people are constantly telling me that I walk the line of everyday?

If not that, can anyone suggest THE book, his book, to read about this? (ex. Existentialism, read the Myth of Sisyphus) I have piles of anthologies to read and yet, I'd love to sneak in some Jung. I admit, when it comes to psychoanalysis, I know about my mind as much you do . . . of my mind.

sqb, didn't you mention something about this one time or another.

On another but maybe completely related subject, I truly believe that I can make things happen if I subconsciously think about them. (FUCK oxymoron) Within reason of course. But the, man I'd like to meet someone who . . . and then BLAM, shit happens more than you know.

Shit like that. Are perhaps all the planets are aligned. Where's Mars these days, that fucker bastard always messes with my mind.

oh, my bad . . .

It's a shame though. I get this perverse kick out of freaking people out.

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.