My apologies to the queen’s blog

I recieved a letter a few years ago, 'Fell off the wagon again, New York killed me, will be home soon'. My heart drops. What do I do? Another old friend reverting back to a place no one should go. Already blame shifting, 'New York killed me'. We've been through this before, old wounds open again.

It doesn't matter how many times you've dealt with situations like this, you never know what to do. What is the attraction? Time itself is the enemy. Memories are a dangerous thing, they are not to be taken lightly. They can destroy you, if you take them to either extreme. I've gotten fairly good at this game, words like 'the good old days' make me shudder. Not that memories are bad, or disgusting, we just need to be carefull with them.

They are not to be ignored either, our self-indentity depends on them. Maybe this is why I never relapsed, because I have grown to have this perception of time and memory. Maybe I see it in everything. The way my hands shake, the way I feel sick around large groups of people. The way I've become more frightened of death. So I write, I'll just keep putting it down, trying to keep that bridge between memory and existence as stable as I can. I falter, we all do, but I'll just keep remembering and forgetting, and taking care to take care.

I have one of these....hello.

Finished rereading The Subterraneans by Jack Kerouac today while at work. I forgot how good of a book it is, and how much I relate to it on different levels. Worth the read if you ever get the chance. No new years resolutions, I don't believe in them, long story short (actually my girlfriend, vintagefury already wrote about it) it's dumb to choose that day above all others, do whatever it is now before it is too late, there is no difference in any day to new years except that you have a bunch of other people with resolutions that will fail. Had a good time however, in the city with my girlfriend and a couple friends, good drinks at my favorite bar (vesuvious [sp?]) and ran around drunk, to see the fireworks off of the bay bridge. Got to sleep about.....four in the morning I think.

I haven't actually done any 'stream of consciousness' writing lately and I am in that kind strange fucked up mood to do it today. It probably sucks. So here it goes:

So there we were, walking through the angel like streets in times like those of madmen,

shooting junk on park benches, whistling at passing hookers,

waiting to hear the sound of the cats wailing,

and their Italian husbands coming home late, drunk with the boys,

with the last of the day dreamers walking out the open door,

avoiding any problems that come with social law,

but this is the last chance for anyone to get things done,

pretenders and whores, sitting in the gutters, sleeping against curbs,

because it's 4 in the morning and I forgot my hat,

with no one to blame, for the problems I see within the veins of this city,

broken heels and bottles and people and belts and shoelaces,

fog clouding the vision of all those who pear in awe,

at the skyscrapers of the financial district,

while the city buses swim pass in the reflection of neon lights,

bouncing in this forgotten space.

What's on your "do before I die" list?
Submitted by Caroline.

Too many things to name them all. But here is a top ten list (in no particular order):

1. Visit Russia.

2. Visit Paris, again.

3. Live in a foriegn country (preferably France i.e. Paris) for at least a short amount of time.

4. Get published and/or sell some art pieces.

5. Hop a train somewhere (illegaly).

6. Visit India.

7. Learn how to make Communism work.

8. Cross-Country US trip.

9. Learn to function better.

10. Obtain a PhD.

So this is part of a song from a band named Jawbreaker. They have been broken up for years now along with the lead singers other band Jet’s To Brazil, who I also recommend, but this bands song’s have been there for me through many times that were either too bad, or too good for me to handle without an outlet. Here is an excerpt from one of their songs:

Boat Dreams From The Hill

Boat on a hill, never going to sea.
Anchored to a fixer upper's dream.
This boat is beat, never gonna be a boat now.
Thirsty, sees the sea from high on ice plant.

He keeps patching it and painting.
Thinking about his pension plan.
But the boat is out to pasture.
Seems it never had a chance.

I wanna be a boat.
I wanna learn to swim.
Then I'll learn to float.
Then begin again.
Begin again.

Boat remembers the carpenter's sure hand.
Missing fishy flutter on its rudder.
Sold at an auction, on the dolly ever since.
Sometimes rainy days drop boyish wonder.

He keeps patching it and painting.
Thinking about his pension plan.
But the boat is out to pasture.
Seems it never had a chance.

I wanna be a boat.
I wanna learn to swim.
Then I'll learn to float.
Then begin again.
Begin again.

The lyrics are so simple but so good and I relate to them. A lot of their lyrics are like this.

It looks like I am moving to San Francisco soon, sometime around June (give or take a month or two). I am excited and nervous. I have never felt at home here in Orange County, and I will be at the very least partially glad to leave it behind. My stomach is beginning to grind like the gears in a clock now that the time is so close. At first it was a little transparent, but now it is more material, because I am now in the beginning of the planning section of the move. A friend of mine already lives up there and two of my other friends will be moving up there within the next month (one of them my roommate). I am excited and nervous, but the fact that my girlfriend Carrie (a.k.a. vintagefury) is going to be moving up there also (and wants me to move in with her) is a nice incentive (especially because the long distance relationship is hard). I have wanting to live there for years but have never had a stable chance to do so. Now seems like the best time. I fell in love with that city the first I went, that hasn’t really changed. I will be strange being away from the people I have been able to fall back on when I fail, which I do often, but fuck it, let’s do it. I want to be uncomfortable at first, nervous, let it kick my ass. I desire it. Let’s just hope I can actually build a home from this.

In the morning, getting coffee before work, Carrie asked me if I wanted to go to Avalon, a city on the that her parents and we will be flying to on Saturday. It's a 45 min. bus ride but I said no at first. At that point I started to beat the shit out of myself in my head, 'What the fuck! No? What the fuck is the matter with you? You have gone through far worse for lesser places to see. You have never been there before, what the fuck are you thinking?!’ After a minute I looked at Carrie and said 'Wait, what the fuck, yeah let's do it, WWJKD.' After a few minutes of getting a confused look from her I explained the WWJKD part, 'What Would Jack Kerouac Do'. It just came off the top of my head. I hope I never get like that again; I never want to be so comfortable that I don't go somewhere new unless I literally can't, for whatever reason. Fuck that. It really pissed me off that I said that, hence kicking the shit out of myself in my head.

I don’t know, I guess all I really wanted to say was I wanna be a boat, I wanna learn to swim, then I’ll learn to float, then begin again.

Fuck.

Dead letter from a forgotten mind

forever soothing the boys and girls through the contents

of haunted hills

Ghost of my lost abilities

sitting in the fetal position under a willow tree

in the meditative state of an ocean

The needles penetrate my skin to recreate something

that can only be explained in words

mariachi's of the world of drunk weddings

sex and shot glasses

everything

everything

alcoholic cross country summer

the latter

of nothing

Terrorism for anarchist thoughts

Dreaming in sleepless nights.

       The trains are roaring through this eternity of sound that escapes as a sort of distorted echo on this page of paper, blank, sometimes with the fillings of an abstract mind, that has nothing to speak about except stealing the life around him like a leach on amphetamines. The smoke in the bubble she just cast away from her lips, released,, and through this crazy haze of time we see many things like men working on scaffolds and new white paint on a newly built office building, the pages of time turn right before us but are we to busy with the daily drool of coca-a-cola and reality TV to really notice any difference away from the screen? Stream of consciousness is just a lonely phrase if there is no consciousness anymore...and what are words? Yes you can describe many things with them but do we really need them or is it just a pronunciation of out own lose of self? None of these things are a mystery when you look at the mysteries of the world from the perspective of a Buddhist monk, or an Indian medicine man, or from a peon in an African tribe, but the TV and corporations just give us an excuse to no longer feel, to no longer write what is around us, or to write in general. Is art the abandoned faith of those who see? Is it abandoned yet? Can things such as this be revived to an ultimate and honestly living state again? Or will it's rebirth be the same monotonous fake, well kept excuse for an abstract world? Is this world really abstract anymore? Is the wanting for the honest rebirth of such a thing the only true form of rebellion? The streets of San Francisco, you can see this here, or hitting satori in Paris, or in the alleyways of New York, or the gutters of Chicago. True rebellion...the want for the rebirth of honest art, which is in reality unlimited, with all things present in a world such as this everything is noticed, no more walking by gum-stains and not seeing, we must look at everything here honey. Boys we must be ready for the absolute end to rebellion, death. So fight them, and let them fight you, when you leave this world you should be bloodied, broken and smiling, for you fought for the truth in life, art, with the acceptance of death. Speak, in fact scream the honest truth, you must repel it upon others, they must hurt from it, they must know that both they and you are alive, the breaking of a television is one of the highest forms of art, so in the end, is all this art? I think I can let you decide, personally, I am no better then any of the masses...I just simply don't like television.

       I look into the mirror. Tracing all the lines that have formed on face with my eyes. Examining my beard, shaggy, I haven't trimmed or shaved in about two weeks. I am only 23 and I already feel thin in times like this, examining my beaten face. I put my olive green bandana up to my face, make a good knot in the back, and put the hood on my jacket up. I continue looking, searching for something that I have partially lost. The bombs in my small black messengers bag take the form of spray cans. I think of words from revolutionaries and authors that I have read since I was a child, Emma Goldman, Howard Zinn, Jack Kerouac, Noam Chomsky, Karl Marx, J.S. Mill, Che Guevara, even The Unknown Rebel (you would probably know him as the student that stood in front of the tanks in Tiananmen Square) and I wonder who the fuck am I. I am no one, I am no revolutionary, I am no one interesting, I do not stand in front of tanks, or live in the jungle fighting armies, I am no historian, I am no philosopher, I have not been deported from a country because of my beliefs and actions, I do not live on the road, with really only my thoughts and a pen, I am nothing. Do I even make an affect upon the lives or people that read the poetry I paint on walls, I think not, except to rise a little anger by those who do not appreciate this modern form of art. So am I an artist? I think not.

       I saw Howard Zinn speak last night, if you don't know who he is I highly suggest 'The People's History of the United States'. He is an amazing individual, very intelligent, a revolutionary of our own here in America. My reaction to my friends when I got home (as immature as it is) was 'ZOMG HOWARD ZINN MUST HAVE BABIES WITH ME' or something like that. Granted most of the things he was speaking I already knew, but it's nice to hear it from the horses mouth so to speak (I hope that expression works here). I met up with my brother at his house and we walked to Chapmen university to see the speech. Walked back to his place and he gave me a ride home. It was nice, my borther and I used to never really talk about politics or social issues and never philosophy (he thinks it's useless), but we had a great conversation afterwards.

       No ones probably reading this so none of it really matters, but honestly, the more the days go on, the more I want to move out of this shit hole. This next little ditty is from my brothers blog, and I couldn't have said it better myself, 'you’ve just spent five days in Paris, arguably the cultural center of the universe. You deeply admire the French and more so the Parisian lifestyle. The emphasis on living a life full of passion, family, striving for personal well-being that stems from situations, stimulations, and relationships as opposed to items and ego.' Why am I not just a fucking ex-patriot already I don't know, I think I am too concerned with school, thinking about England, not much better than here, but at least it's a bit better. Maybe I can finish school there and learn the french language better, then move to Paris. Granted I admit this is probably pretty cliche for a person like myself to do (like some authors that I adore like Ernest Hemingway, Henery Miller, ect.) but fuck it. I was sitting here at work on my lunch break the other day and for some reason, out of nowhere really, I just got this ache for Paris. My imagination really isn't what it used to be, but even though I was in Newport Beach, that encombases much of what I hate in Orange County, I was able to completely feel like I was in Paris once again, sitting outside at a cafe, drinking espresso and smoking, working on some formal logic problems. I seriously wanted to cry when I looked at the clock and realized I needed to back to work and I was transported out of the nice little cot I had made for myself in my head. As far people talking shit on the french (which you hear so much of from people here), fuck them, white flag jokes and shit, you know what? Those people have had major social revolutions occur a few times every one hundred years, which is far more important, and crazy then military occupations, take the Paris commune or instance (I have actually been to the wall in Pere Lachaise cemetary, where the last of the communard were shot).

So the begining to these lyrics is actually a quote, from the begining of Tropic of Cancer by Henery Miller.

Protest Song '68 by The Refused:

To sing you must first open your mouth. You must have a pair of lungs and a
little knowledge of music. It is not neccessary to have an accordion or a
guitar. The essential thing is that I want to sing. Then this is a song, I'm
singing.

I breathe in and I create
Invoke the spirit '68
Fresh meaning to torn ideas
Let's bring life to old clich
Punch a hole in tradition
Yeah, let's listen to the songs of discontent
To the chords and the movement
To the chords and the movement

It could all be so simple. We would all stand baffled by the precision and
accuracy. Our jaws would hurt from dropping so hard, fast and unexpected. It
would be the perfect metaphor. It would be the perfect song we'd be singing.

I breathe out and I scream
Invoke Malatesta's dream
Inspiration from the past
Focus to the future at last
Fixed dogmas can't substitute
Creative thoughts and action

We could be dangerous
Art as a real threat

And all it is is words
Words said a million times before
And all it is is a song
A song sung a million times before

I breathe in and I create
Invoke the spirit of '68
I breathe out and I scream
Invoke Malatesta's dream

Basically all I have to say is.....FUCK!

Nothing interesting to see here, please go on with your search.

Not enough people think of Karl Marx as a philosopher. Most just think of him as Karl 'I rule at this communism game' Marx. I don't think enough people realize that outside of the political ideals that he held, he also held many a solid philosophical ideal. He has influenced many many philosophers of all types, race and gender theorist, egalitarians, among others. The other ideals that he holds play into communism yes, but they are also very much separate and distinct from it. Historical materialism, exploitation, Idealism, equality, even ideas about the printed word, from The German Ideology 'Is the Iliad possible, when the printing press and even printing machines exist? Is it not inevitable that with the emergence of the press, the singing and the telling and the muse cease; that is, the conditions necessary for epic poetry disappear?' Unfortunately the negative impact made from the 'communist' (in quotes because I don't believe there to have been a country to actually try real communism yet to date [so stop using the the 'communist' countries that have existed as examples of how communism can't work]) have made Marx's writings mean nil to most, which is sad because there is some really valuable material in his works. If you don't like his solution to his solutions, at least pay attention to his critique. Granted many Marxist do not want to admit this of his earlier writings because of the impact those have upon his later theories, in particular Ideology (there is some tension in his earlier writings about exploitation and justice and his later form of ideology), but I am one of the few that really embraces those earlier writings. So even is your a hard capitalist, or a isolationist, or anything really, we can all learn quite a bit from Karl Marx, just read him with an open mind and without the negative image that he does not deserve in my opinion (which probably won't mean much to all of you considering the fact that I agree with Marxism, and I can't express the fact that this little thing isn't because I do). I mention this because I am sick of being automatically shut down to people thinking something like 'Oh you red army asshole' when I tell them about Marx, maybe I am talking about communism, maybe I am not, either way GET THAT SHIT OUT OF YOUR FUCKING HEAD! This is really all I wanted to say, nothing of value.