Crashing gracefully.
A Santa Monica pier improperly labeled, this time-day time, beer cans scattered, and electro punk bands wafting over the planks. Some college-feel relaxation as children too aged wind down on the windy beach front. I am twenty. They are all twenty eight. He is 24.
I haven't written in over a year. Not for lack of material, bur perhaps lack of articulation.
Sometimes happy thoughts never make it to pen and paper.
On a revisit to Los Angeles, I am swept up in modernity. Perhaps I romanticized the motel crawl of two bearly eighteen year olds wandering about the western shore. The stay in an RV trailer with candlelight and steady marijuana. I'll admit to being a pothead once, much younger. I'll admit to thinking it was a curtain to my inner self, and that I could draw someone to the show everytime I burnt lighter to paper to leaf. I had/have/stillDEFINITLEYhave the same love affair with wine.
I remember never writing it all down, but thinking it was the next great american novel. The eurotrip of literature. A dave and I collabo: California at dawn.
I listen to mashups a lot recently. I yearn to be able to scratch vinyl on vinyl and become some media master of multiple emotions. It's not my calling, but I'll appreciate the skinny white boy who spends hours in his basement, aspiring to work at La Villa. I'll send him my degree from Bard in a year. We'll both be right where we started.
I date older men in a cliche way. I'm fascinated with their fascination with my youth. Meanwhile I know no substance develops, but I rationalize that I'm learning from my older companions. I scare Seth. He's my favorite at the moment, but I can tell he's the type of guy who lives for control, and a flitty young college student is like boarding a train without a ticket. He canceled our dinner Sunday and hasn't called me since.
I date college boys in a cliche way. I attend frat parties, and mingle with the liquidity of intoxication. There's no middle ground, no age to which I genuinely attract, and thus I've been dating my first love for the last three years.
Los Angeles is star struck and yet I've yet to see someone famous. I've yet to recognize a passing celebrity on Robertson. Frank tells me I need to wear prescription glasses. I have a pair, but vision is overrated. I lay by my pool, and walk to the gym daily. My body is at its peak condition. I often hibernate in Pasadena, and its probably for the best. I demand trouble in my daily social interactions.
I fell in love with my best friend last semester. I secretly invited him to my bedroom and we lay together dreaming up "what if"s that I was aware would never happen. We were ghosts in the morning. He told me he loved me. I think I cried for most of our relationship. I have a hard time keeping guy friends.
The weather here is good, but something reminds me that you bring yourself everywhere you go. Spring, Fall, Summer, Winter. You're always still there. And perhaps the crash of all this divine inspiration will involve finally going back home.
I haven't written in over a year. Not for lack of material, bur perhaps lack of articulation.
Sometimes happy thoughts never make it to pen and paper.
On a revisit to Los Angeles, I am swept up in modernity. Perhaps I romanticized the motel crawl of two bearly eighteen year olds wandering about the western shore. The stay in an RV trailer with candlelight and steady marijuana. I'll admit to being a pothead once, much younger. I'll admit to thinking it was a curtain to my inner self, and that I could draw someone to the show everytime I burnt lighter to paper to leaf. I had/have/stillDEFINITLEYhave the same love affair with wine.
I remember never writing it all down, but thinking it was the next great american novel. The eurotrip of literature. A dave and I collabo: California at dawn.
I listen to mashups a lot recently. I yearn to be able to scratch vinyl on vinyl and become some media master of multiple emotions. It's not my calling, but I'll appreciate the skinny white boy who spends hours in his basement, aspiring to work at La Villa. I'll send him my degree from Bard in a year. We'll both be right where we started.
I date older men in a cliche way. I'm fascinated with their fascination with my youth. Meanwhile I know no substance develops, but I rationalize that I'm learning from my older companions. I scare Seth. He's my favorite at the moment, but I can tell he's the type of guy who lives for control, and a flitty young college student is like boarding a train without a ticket. He canceled our dinner Sunday and hasn't called me since.
I date college boys in a cliche way. I attend frat parties, and mingle with the liquidity of intoxication. There's no middle ground, no age to which I genuinely attract, and thus I've been dating my first love for the last three years.
Los Angeles is star struck and yet I've yet to see someone famous. I've yet to recognize a passing celebrity on Robertson. Frank tells me I need to wear prescription glasses. I have a pair, but vision is overrated. I lay by my pool, and walk to the gym daily. My body is at its peak condition. I often hibernate in Pasadena, and its probably for the best. I demand trouble in my daily social interactions.
I fell in love with my best friend last semester. I secretly invited him to my bedroom and we lay together dreaming up "what if"s that I was aware would never happen. We were ghosts in the morning. He told me he loved me. I think I cried for most of our relationship. I have a hard time keeping guy friends.
The weather here is good, but something reminds me that you bring yourself everywhere you go. Spring, Fall, Summer, Winter. You're always still there. And perhaps the crash of all this divine inspiration will involve finally going back home.