Man, I tell you what . . . you skip town for a bit and all e-hell breaks loose.

Paul (and all other culprits), nice job with your masterpiece here. It took me a while to figure out how to write a journal, I mean it's not myspace, but you know that*.

• Ha. Yeah, I just read your rant and I did appreciate it. That was only a quick dig you understand. Although, an E-Pink sounds like a grand idea to me.

So. I've been gone, out of my head, and out of Buffalo. Something I read today in the New Yorker brought me back. Truth be told, I am not back (physically) in Buffalo, but there are days wherein I think I should be. We'll get to that later. The line read (and let me know if you've heard this):

I believe it's from Harold Arlen, "Suicide in Buffalo would be redundant."

I was sitting still in a teacher's meeting the city of Newburgh, that has been called worse than the Bronx, when I took out said New Yorker and read this line. I laughed out loud. Then I got proud. I elbowed the bored teacher next to me (it was staff development day and no staff developed) and showed her.

Well, isn't it?

Then I kicked the chair from underneath her which caused her coffee to fly all over the corrupt math teacher behind me.

No, I said. You don't talk about Buffalo that way unless you live, or have lived there.

Look. I am proud. I miss that city and am finding living in a suburb of New York difficult at best. And not in a good difficult way. Buffalo difficult was productive. This town doesn't even suck the blood out of my life like Buffalo used to do. This town does nothing. It feels nothing. There is no potential here because everyone is done. It's a bit boring.

I'm working on it though. I have my art in a local gallery. I decided to market what I am and decided to design a Writer Action Figure. (The drawing will follow.) The main feature is that you push a button and the toy sighs.

I am coming back though. Actually, sooner than later, but only for a spell. I will be at the Pink in my usual seat drinking my usual drink (which is any seat and a jameson on the rocks). Whether or not I will return in the coming year has yet to be decided. My idea of exhausting my messiah complex on little children is becoming old. There are other paths that are unbeknownst to me as of now.

I am starting a writer's blog type thingy with a friend of mine, of stories that I have run into here. It's the spoonful of sugar mentality that I am concentrating on now. It works when I don't eat bad Chinese food for lunch.

We'll talk soon.

God speed, my friends.

(Paul, may I every once in a while, join in your quest of catharsis (meaning this)?)

ps. drawing is the userpic, if I can figure it out. (yeah, I can't, nevermind)

You have one day left. Strike that, you have one day left after today which works well because the person of your dreams (seeing as though this hypothetical applies to all) seems to be sitting right beside you. You feel good tonight. You say hi. She/he says hi back with a smile that tells you to keeping talking or something of that nature. Take a drink. Relax. You have time.

But you don't.

See this situation you somehow called all along the way. You're feeling extremely anxious. 23 hours. You talk more. She/he likes Magnolia, good GOD! Wait, WAIT! Don't even say that you appreciate modern dance. You know who Giacometti is?! Get the FUCK out.

22 hours, 45 minutes.

Clock is ticking.

What do you do? What do you want? Sex? Hmm? A cuddle partner?

A cuddle partner? Give me a fucking break, you have 22.5 hours.

Is it really worth it when you're leaving for Montauk in the morning?

I will expound on this scenario at a later date. It's a metaphor like anything else (if we look for the ketchup behind the leftover pasta).

The Paradox of Reality as Seen Through the Eyes of a Proleptic Nihilist.

When you take into account the desire for a person to be completely honest with you, versus the amount of recovery time (you would base on yourself or on thoughts of this other person), you will inevitably come to the conclusion that it is indeed a lose-lose situation. Do I say what I want to you, or are you going to cry? Can I handle you crying? Do I care at all if you cry – strike that- will your crying affect me in some productive way at all, besides the obvious and useless guilt that will set in?

But then, no. Once again, wrong question.

Enter the person I despise but whom I actually adore more than I know -the nihilist(hence the paradox), complete with apathetic actions (oxymoron?) and unceasing desires (the anti-buddhist?). It sounds like a college artist of some type, funded by Pink Floyd albums. Give me a canvas. I'll paint it red. (Let's try the honesty thing) Speaking for all artists, in terms of what all artists hope you'll say, (my opinion) "You'll say I'm angry and filled with senseless passion. It's a cry for attention people! That's what art is! Look at what I created Mommy!"

Mommy: What, it's a red square . . .

The Artist: FUCKING SHIT! You're right.

Mommy: Oh wait I see it now.

The Artist: What? What do you see?

Mommy: My keys, I knew I left them over here.

The Artist: (sigh)

I'm going into the abyss once again because there is a reality that I am now capable of admitting: I am more masochistic than nihilistic, much to my bitter dismay.

God speed ladies of promise, honesty, and intrigue. You will always be more misogynistic that I will ever unintentionally come close to.

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 . . .