everyone's going to hell, and i don't care anymore. fuck you all. dave's gonna join the marines and ania's gonna starve herself to death. allison's tuning herself out. and the rest are alcoholics and/or nervous wrecks. not to sound self-absorbed or selfish or whatever, but d'you stupid fuckers ever think what this is doing to me?



so when you're all forty and keeping the bottle of sherry behind the muffin mix in the cupboard or dead, i'm going to know what you were, and what you've lost.



maybe then i'll have words for what i feel now.

yeah, well, friday night abou fifteen people showed up - all friends of dave's and taylor's, no one i knew showed up. we were planning on playing an hour (starting at six thirty), taking a two hour break, and then playing for another hour or so. however, we soundchecked at 5:30, and from there, we played till 10:30 WITHOUT BREAKS. we played every song we knew, and some we didn't. shortly after, a friends band (a nirvana cover band named "KC and the sunshine band") took the stage, and i sang for them, for another hour. it was truly great. i could do that every night. well, maybe not for five hours, but yeah.



i caddied yesterday and today, and i will caddy every day this week (if you don't see me online much, it's probably cause i'm sleeping, trying to make up for having to get up at 5 am). last night i watched the maltese falcon. i love that movie so much. it's possibly the best movie of all time. the directors cut of Bladerunner comes in a medium distant second, with "The Big Sleep" tying. i love film noir.



tonight taylor and i are going to go down to the buzz. i need the company, i've been spending too much time alone with a typewriter as the only person to talk to. i don't even play guitar that much anymore.



yeah. that's it for now.



"we'll always have paris."

the people i know, the stories i could tell...of dickie and taylor and bekkah, of anna, of my grandad's best friend who walked all the way from the boot of italy to paris in 1944, carrying a 100 mm cannon. of me, and paris, the man with the rotten leg, the man with the rotten mind, the cheat, the lush, the girls who cut and don't know what else to do, the girls who drink and drive and get beaten by their boyfriends, and the boys who drive cars shiny japanese ones, and get girls pregnant in the back seats, boys who are 19 and have a daughter and no future, and men who have lived and let die, who have seen the himalayas, who have spent their time sleeping in the communal mens hut of the natives of papua new guinea, like my grandad, who was a sailor and had four wives, and sang "the streets of laredo" and "the ballad of frankie and johnny" and "st. james infirmary," who wrote books on a smith corona, like me. my gramma who lost her mind, my dad, who had to be a man at fifteen cause his dad died, my dad who built a house, who made something of himself, and my mom, who grew up in the jungles of mexico, my sister who is going to be famous, a dancer, and me, the historian, writing this all down...my cousin who's seventy ran rum from chicago to kentucky in a black chrysler with his best bud and his best bud's girlfriend in 1941...and joe, old joe quiros who was on a B-52 and was told to bomb russia and end the world, joe quiros, a mexican kid whos dad couldn't read (like my gramma). the people i know, the stories i could tell...

if i were to put out a personal, it'd go something like this:



are you into depression? does it match your eyes?

this is a cliched pseudo-intellectual english major looking for someone to cook for.

must enjoy sonic youth, cigarettes, and sartre.

yeah, so i'm sure you want to know what's going on in my life other than artistic output.

well, as you can see, it's 5:17 in the morning, and i just got up. usually if i'm awake at this time it means that i was recording, or writing, or something and went the whole night through, but see, reality is starting to sink into my life at the usual age of 18. i got a job now (maybe i told you, maybe i didn't), but dave got me a job caddying saturdays and sundays (yes, i caddied yesterday). the money's not bad (i made $25 yesterday, and will do so hopefully today), and i'm done around noon, leaving the rest of the day free...(to recuperate). though, today, i think i'm gonna go see allison after work. i'm doing it to pay off my guitar, the ibanez. it'll be worth it. just four or five weeks.



radiohead is playing (big fish eat the little ones), and it's very dark for morning. i woke up on my own before the alarm went off, which is always strange, so i'm here writing - then i'll eat, and dave will roar up, and we'll zoom through the dark streets and mist and end up at the Maketewah Country Club. where mister Heeley (the caddymaster) will meet us in the caddyshack, and he will be impressed with me (i earned a quite good mark and tip on my review card) as he was unsure about me - no prior experience, not much golf knowledge. it'll be interesting....

well, i'm off...

this is my present for kate...



A Note To Myself (and others)



The night! The night, the night I have spent. Awake and absorbing, the wash of radio-music playing over me, showered and slim, shadow on my chin. My cutoffs hang on my hips, the belt keeps them barely up. I made them last summer, out of a pair of jeans, jeans that were my father's, jeans that were his when he was seventeen and slim, a shadow only on his chin, a shadow then - but he's got a beard now, and it's grey. He's already outlived his own father, but yet he's in the midst of his prime.

And me, I am the young writer, goaded on be Kerouac and women and the blue light that is a particular of the night, the mist in the mornings of summer, the mist that turns the sky to peached hues of gold - gold, i tell you, believe me for I am the young writer, and all I see, I see for the first - the only - the perfect time! There is no touch like the first touch of a woman's lips to your cheek, there is no sight like the glimpse of your lover lolling naked in the shadowed light of a clouded January day. There is no feel, none at all, whatsoever, nothing can compare to the night, and the road, and the car, headlights pinioning the corners of treees and rusted cyclone fence, the wind, the moon silvered blue and beautiful, everything moving, motion, vibrant and alive, damn it, alive, d'you hear? Young for I am the first to be and the first to see, and the first to describe.

The world is but mine to write! To see, to be, the exuberance that you, my middle age-ed friend, and me, my future self, p'raps have lost, and p'raps, need to be reminded of!

The egg, the skillet, the sizzle and the rounded peaked green smell of olive oil sizzling, the hiss of the pancaKe batter on the skillet (iron and black, older than the hands that hold it gingerly, hot as it is). The insinuated rumble, the kitchen kitten grumble-roar of the coffee pot boiling. Barefoot! Barefoot! Barechested, I am a young man, practicioner of the ancient and arcane art of cookery, and soon, soon indeed, I will have the revelent revelatory roll of the mash of pancake and the sticky tar of molasses, the cleansing silk of the milk, cold from the fridge, cold and condensing the air on the glass. And then, and then! The comforting bitter sharp comfortable swirl of coffee (black, no sugar) from my blue mug (the mug my sister gave me when she was four and I, I was eight). My shirt, tight and old, my hat black and from a love I knew not of, and the door: open! Open to the morning, and down the steps I go, the caffeine moving into my system, the tightening of my stomach, the clenching of the veins in my head (I can feel them tense), the roll of coffee in my mouth, the swallow, the warmth spreading like a kiss on the back of my neck, the rool of pavement beneath my feet, the sun is smooth in it's projection, no beatings, not yet, but the insinuations of a hot day are ahead...

The rumble and roar of trucks and buses busy in the early hours on the thoroughfare a block away, the birds singing, and the hare, nervous behind the bush, hiding from me.

Remember this, old man, that you were young once, and once, you saw the morning with young eyes, and once, you saw everything for the first time...

this is one half of a story i'm doing called:



M LEE + ANN D



Once upon a time in a country not too far from here (but colder in the winter) there lived a girl. She was older and wiser than the writer of this story, and more beautiful by far. P'raps she is wiser and more beautiful than you, p'raps....

She came to me with a cry of "alone and in love at last!," with that cry, dear children, and the stringing strangle-straggle of the three young poets, nay, artists, that were her retinue. With a hue and smile she came to me, this sweet M Lee. A kiss to me she gave, once upon a time, and with her once I rested my head, with me she'd toy endlessly, kiss and breath and the glimpse of (velvet in the rain) her tongue in flashes. For the smell of comfort to her did I cling, blind and mewing, nibbling her fingers with milk teeth that were mine.

The artists, the writer, the singer, and the lush, the artists they gathered around us, but to them and their love of loss, we were oblivious. Alcohol for blood had I, she the match and means to set me alight.

The street beneath our feet was no nearer than the night and it's lights, fissioning and fusing like young bloods are apt to do. To the wall, through the light and the shadow, I ran. The rest, the artists, lost in philosopher's talk. To the wall, warm of a sun since set, to me seemed more dear than my mother's touch. To me I held it close, and breathed into it's ear "to me do cleave, the night will end, the sun will come to warm your thighs once more...but now the night is here, in blues and blacks, for your heat, I thank you dear, and adieu, forever adieu..."

Away from the wall I ran, the artists had passed me by, M Lee was no longer by my side. Ground beneath my tread, tread over ground, swift and fleet, to the light and M Lee beneath. In the car, the front seat, close to me was she. The night, the city, the world was ours, youths of the blue light. To home were we headed, to home! A warm place to lie, a place to close the eyes, a place to listen to a lover's sigh...

wish i could write like katie.

i'd tell stories of the apocalypse in a new york diner (owned by the lebanese), and watching the glow of green light (the green light of new york street lights, the lights near madison square garden) fade away and an orange wash turn everything glowing bright and somehow softer (even the black asphalt would be comfortable and warm). i'd be smoking a cig, coffee on the table, with my notebook (blue pen, my sex-obsessed handwriting on graph paper) on the formica (light blue faded crosses inked on).

and then with the sun up and the shadows shortening, i'd drain the last from the coffee (cold, it's been sitting there for hours as i scribble), push my hat back, drop a bill on the table. "thanks," i'd say, as i went out the door, hunching up under my leather jacket, pockets filled with hands, notebook balanced between my wrist and hip. i'd push out the door, it would creak shut, and the lights would be on, green and clashing with the sun, mist rising from the grates, i'd push out the door, and walk down the street into a lo-fidelity morning.

saturday dad and i put the piano in my room, and bekki came. i showed her around st. bernard. we came down to the buzz around six: taylor, sean, and erin were there. saw adam briefly, too. taylor told bekki stories about her exceptional luck (good or bad). we left the buzz and took the long way to the university, to dad's office to call home. about nine. we watched moulin rouge with my sister when we got back. i had a six pack of weidemann, we went out back to the third garage, and drank it. mom came out around 2:30 walking the dog. disaster was averted. back to my room (drunk) where we listened to simon and garfunkel and lou reed, and we watched each other and wrote. what i wrote will soon be published. and then i lay down on the bed with bekki(my mom had changed my sheets to flower/butterfly print for bekki), she talked to me, and i told her something i should have told her a long time ago, that she's beautiful. i wrote some more. put on jeff buckley, and we had sex. drawn out and orange. we lay together for a long time after that, but i had to go downstairs to sleep. the parentals. four am, by then.



and then sunday, around noon, i was awake. i made pancakes for olivia and bekki and myself, with some batter i'd made friday. bekki and i went to the riverfront (caught the bus), pretended to be french tourists; holding hands and rambling. we saw a fish get caught, and i confused a panhandler greatly by saying to him "je ne pas parles l'anglais." went to a brueggers bagels, met a guy who's new there, he's from chicago. we returned and lolled about with olivia. callie came (after calls) to get bekki around 8 pm, brought lacey with her. bekki and callie were kind of tense, but it was ok. we went to Cody's cafe for the open mic, i was gonna do some songs. my guitar playing was good, but my singing sucked. however, the mic was broken and didn't get replaced till after i'd finished my set. so no one heard my bad singing. erin just randomly stopped by, which was good. she moved to toledo and i never see her anymore. i was complimented on my guitarwork. bekki left soon after, she was trying hard not to cry, and i was sad. she's so great. bekki's leaving for college in florida, see, so i'm not going to see her very much anymore. i hung around with erin and brad until 11 or so, and called home. i slept for 16 hours last night, and here i am. i'm not sure what's going on, i need to think.

oh yeah. you should probably check out these sites:



http://www.cryptrecords.com/

http://spicnic.com/

http://www.noirfilm.com/

the other day, i found a PA head in someones trash. i sold it at mikes music, got $50. i used the cash to buy a vintage stereo (a technics SA 80) and vintage Sony speakers at this stolen goods place on vine street. also scored a couple of rekkids from moles: Elvis Costello and the Attractions - Imperial Bedroom and the Cars - Panorama. both on vinyl.



tomorrow bekki is coming. she's going to spend the night, and maybe i will go back with her to lexington. if i do, it'll be till tuesday. good times.