I will salivate tomorrow
Something is to be said for spontaneity. Nah. Scratch that. I think the term I am looking for is "unexpecting the expected."
Something is also to be said for the doldrums of life. Monotony-notony-notony-notony. Better yet, familiar ground-ground-ground.
Something is to be said for many, many things. Now is not the time, and certainly not the place, for any of things, unfortunately. Now is the time for mindlessness.
Cheers to that, right?
* * *
There's something infinitely consoling about my friend, the keyboard. As much as I know what is currently being written, and what will soon be permanently (to some degree) etched into the abyss of the web is useless, that doesn't matter to me so much as my fingers gliding from key to key does.
I wonder if they have a name for those of us who get off to the sound/feeling of a keyboard.
Oh. Yeah. Eccentric.
* * *
What is to be said of myself at this particular point in time? Nothing. Not nothing as in, not a thing, as in there is nothing to say, as in there is no substance. There's plenty of that, rest assured. Coincidentally, that's exactly my problem. I could not begin to serve the fountain of wonder and joy that is my life justice by written word, or perhaps even spoken word.
Fuck. Do I sound melancholy enough? It's time to change the tone, here.
What do you say?
* * *
This house of mine, this chunk of plaster and wood and carpentry about which I am surrounded, is no longer a home to me. It's been a lingering suspicion of mine for some time, and it is further compunded into mental confirmation each time I think of it. I go to this place to sleep, sometimes (rarely, now that I am in the scholastic off-season). I come here to see the people every now and then. But this place no longer holds anything of significant memorable and, more importantly, irrefutable solace-inducing value to me. I like my bed; it's comfy, it's a futon. My cat (the physical embodiment of the cosmos) is the only animal who will ever receive any sort of affection from me (that doesn't make me animalistic, does it?). My dad is a giant well of wisdom, and a great friend, but he's in a funk. My step-brother is way chill, for lack of a better word, and an invaluable pseudo-related companion. My step-mother hardly deserves any sort of mention.
But all of those things, they aren't an Elias Francia. Not in the least.
What is an Elias Francia?
He is a potpourri of his surroundings. He is no longer surrounded by this house of neither wood nor stone, and therefore it seems logical that this place is not an Elias Francia. With what does an Elias Francia surround himself? Sources of joy and self-growth, of which he has a handful (a single one which supplies him with more of the previously mentioned traits than he knows what do with [I'm not even going to try to make that sentence not end in a preposition]).
* * *
FUCK. That really sounds like it's on the upswing of tone, doesn't it? Jesus Christ. I tell you, I am happy, I am. Just mindfucked at the moment. That is all.
* * *
If there was one thing to which Sanders had an aversion, it was silverware. His family-- a vicious, silver-implementing bunch-- poked and prodded at him, likening him to a vampire. Only one person knew that Sanders was addicted beyond reconciliation to heroin, and that person was his sister. One time, she decidedly tested a working theory of hers. She spiked Sanders' product with some garlic, just to see if he really was a vampire. All the coroner could say to Sanders family later that night (the father had found him dead in the bathroom, needle in arm, and smelling strangely of Funyons) was, "I... I've never seen this in my 16 years on the force. Sir, your son didn't die from the heroin. He died of a garlic overdose."
* * *
Yeah. My mind is working real well lots. I think I'm done with this shit. Remind me to read this post top to bottom a dozen times before I ever again think livejournal is a good idea.
* * *
No!
* * *
I will not be victimized yet again by the self-induced "livejournal is for astrofags" syndrome.
* * *
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
* * *
Can you tell I need to get reacquainted with my writing self? Yeah, we need to get in touch. Lots of touching. LOADS of touching. Touching top to bottom, left to right, inside and out. Every exposed inch firt. Then, disembowelment and stretching to maximium length of each and every innard. Thorough examination through each orafice and out the others. Oh, but yes. I'll be so vicariously evaluated I'll be a meat puppet.
Does that mean I'm both the puppet and the puppeteer? Who's pulling whose strings now?
Or should I say gooey, sinewy tendons?
There should be a penalty no less severe than death for this kind of written debauchery.
Something is also to be said for the doldrums of life. Monotony-notony-notony-notony. Better yet, familiar ground-ground-ground.
Something is to be said for many, many things. Now is not the time, and certainly not the place, for any of things, unfortunately. Now is the time for mindlessness.
Cheers to that, right?
* * *
There's something infinitely consoling about my friend, the keyboard. As much as I know what is currently being written, and what will soon be permanently (to some degree) etched into the abyss of the web is useless, that doesn't matter to me so much as my fingers gliding from key to key does.
I wonder if they have a name for those of us who get off to the sound/feeling of a keyboard.
Oh. Yeah. Eccentric.
* * *
What is to be said of myself at this particular point in time? Nothing. Not nothing as in, not a thing, as in there is nothing to say, as in there is no substance. There's plenty of that, rest assured. Coincidentally, that's exactly my problem. I could not begin to serve the fountain of wonder and joy that is my life justice by written word, or perhaps even spoken word.
Fuck. Do I sound melancholy enough? It's time to change the tone, here.
What do you say?
* * *
This house of mine, this chunk of plaster and wood and carpentry about which I am surrounded, is no longer a home to me. It's been a lingering suspicion of mine for some time, and it is further compunded into mental confirmation each time I think of it. I go to this place to sleep, sometimes (rarely, now that I am in the scholastic off-season). I come here to see the people every now and then. But this place no longer holds anything of significant memorable and, more importantly, irrefutable solace-inducing value to me. I like my bed; it's comfy, it's a futon. My cat (the physical embodiment of the cosmos) is the only animal who will ever receive any sort of affection from me (that doesn't make me animalistic, does it?). My dad is a giant well of wisdom, and a great friend, but he's in a funk. My step-brother is way chill, for lack of a better word, and an invaluable pseudo-related companion. My step-mother hardly deserves any sort of mention.
But all of those things, they aren't an Elias Francia. Not in the least.
What is an Elias Francia?
He is a potpourri of his surroundings. He is no longer surrounded by this house of neither wood nor stone, and therefore it seems logical that this place is not an Elias Francia. With what does an Elias Francia surround himself? Sources of joy and self-growth, of which he has a handful (a single one which supplies him with more of the previously mentioned traits than he knows what do with [I'm not even going to try to make that sentence not end in a preposition]).
* * *
FUCK. That really sounds like it's on the upswing of tone, doesn't it? Jesus Christ. I tell you, I am happy, I am. Just mindfucked at the moment. That is all.
* * *
If there was one thing to which Sanders had an aversion, it was silverware. His family-- a vicious, silver-implementing bunch-- poked and prodded at him, likening him to a vampire. Only one person knew that Sanders was addicted beyond reconciliation to heroin, and that person was his sister. One time, she decidedly tested a working theory of hers. She spiked Sanders' product with some garlic, just to see if he really was a vampire. All the coroner could say to Sanders family later that night (the father had found him dead in the bathroom, needle in arm, and smelling strangely of Funyons) was, "I... I've never seen this in my 16 years on the force. Sir, your son didn't die from the heroin. He died of a garlic overdose."
* * *
Yeah. My mind is working real well lots. I think I'm done with this shit. Remind me to read this post top to bottom a dozen times before I ever again think livejournal is a good idea.
* * *
No!
* * *
I will not be victimized yet again by the self-induced "livejournal is for astrofags" syndrome.
* * *
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
* * *
Can you tell I need to get reacquainted with my writing self? Yeah, we need to get in touch. Lots of touching. LOADS of touching. Touching top to bottom, left to right, inside and out. Every exposed inch firt. Then, disembowelment and stretching to maximium length of each and every innard. Thorough examination through each orafice and out the others. Oh, but yes. I'll be so vicariously evaluated I'll be a meat puppet.
Does that mean I'm both the puppet and the puppeteer? Who's pulling whose strings now?
Or should I say gooey, sinewy tendons?
There should be a penalty no less severe than death for this kind of written debauchery.