(no subject)
but it's nights like these that remind me i'm mostly crazy
and if it were my minds decision, i would be out walking in the cold
trying to find out why gutters are considered uncomfortable,
or why other things like maple leaves are suppose to be symbols
and what they are symbols of
or why i hated that poem so terrificaly when i read that line about
a maple leaf in a gutter.
God Damn I hated that poem. Poet Laureate my ass.
'the room that you lie in is dusty and hard,
sleeping soft babies on piles of yards.'
what is taffeta. i should go look that up.
some sort of cloth.
sometimes i wonder who reads these things?
the other night i talked to someone i hadn't seen in at least two years. he said he read my xanga. apparently my post about Bono and U2 playing on 7th ave. is somewhat famous.
if people do actually read this, i hope they do not see it as art. that would be a travesty. whatever the case, they most likely judge me based on it. Here is how I would have judged me:
a. His writing is very erratic. Unfortunately, if there is any suture at all, it is lost on the reader who has no real knowledge of this main character, and therefore cannot relate.
b. he takes photographs. people seem to like them, but you can't take him seriously as such.
c. lately, judging by the lack of interest in his own writing, it is obvious he has lost touch with his imagination.
i want to write characters that are not hyperbole nor boring. which apparently for me is impossible. sadly, if these characters were to look at their creator, i do not know if they would find me to be crazy or dry.
honestly, i wish i could write at all. it's already nearing a full year of nothing but journal entries. how pathetic.
'but hush now darling, don't you cry
your reward's in the sweet by-and-by'
and if it were my minds decision, i would be out walking in the cold
trying to find out why gutters are considered uncomfortable,
or why other things like maple leaves are suppose to be symbols
and what they are symbols of
or why i hated that poem so terrificaly when i read that line about
a maple leaf in a gutter.
God Damn I hated that poem. Poet Laureate my ass.
'the room that you lie in is dusty and hard,
sleeping soft babies on piles of yards.'
what is taffeta. i should go look that up.
some sort of cloth.
sometimes i wonder who reads these things?
the other night i talked to someone i hadn't seen in at least two years. he said he read my xanga. apparently my post about Bono and U2 playing on 7th ave. is somewhat famous.
if people do actually read this, i hope they do not see it as art. that would be a travesty. whatever the case, they most likely judge me based on it. Here is how I would have judged me:
a. His writing is very erratic. Unfortunately, if there is any suture at all, it is lost on the reader who has no real knowledge of this main character, and therefore cannot relate.
b. he takes photographs. people seem to like them, but you can't take him seriously as such.
c. lately, judging by the lack of interest in his own writing, it is obvious he has lost touch with his imagination.
i want to write characters that are not hyperbole nor boring. which apparently for me is impossible. sadly, if these characters were to look at their creator, i do not know if they would find me to be crazy or dry.
honestly, i wish i could write at all. it's already nearing a full year of nothing but journal entries. how pathetic.
'but hush now darling, don't you cry
your reward's in the sweet by-and-by'