failed postponed and embarassed
"a thimble's worth of milky moon can touch hearts larger than a thimble."
and it's back into the cave/drawing board.
viciousness and sheepishness and voicelessness
my number one skill is never letting go of any hurtful detail and that's all the memory seems to long for
"but now i see the long and short the middle and what's in between"
now i need a new project. claire told me to write a song about her, but i'm not sure if i am able. it might be kind of fun. but i can't force a song out, it has to happen naturally because that's the only way it has happened in the past. i'm beginning to only be able to remember fondness of her, and it's a little scary, and an ominous symptom, i think.
i am almost finished reading "hell's angels" by hunter, but it's hard to say what i feel about them at this point. it's hard to place the group into a box. part of you wants to wax on about how they are the true counterculture or whatever, that they are just a vacuum within society that exists as testament to how fucked up is that there needs to be this extreme a splinter group. but really they had no ideology; they were idiots with huge bikes. they were completely unbound by society's shackles, but they really waste their freedom with really some awful acts. they are bad people. like if that is what you get if you commit to being an anarchist, then i don't want that. i am much more excited reading about the counterculture that hunter himself was in along with ken kesey, ginsberg, kurt vonnegut, tom wolfe etcetera (though i've read none of these cats, really). the prevailing hip viewpoint now is that the hippies were lame or whatever, but it seems like such a glorious and exciting time to me. at least they had a vague stoner ethos, i feel like my peers don't really give a shit, and don't really feel the need to fight about anything. Iraq seems even more ridiculous a war than vietnam in terms of reasons for being there and nobody's really doing shit about it.
what am i talking about? nothing.
to carouse in a fastmoving car towards the beach - window down halfway - and to fall into it aimlessly
to be always on a balcony upon waking, considering
to be strolling in a stupor with a green-tinted irishman.
i miss san francisco and its inhabitants.
and it's back into the cave/drawing board.
viciousness and sheepishness and voicelessness
my number one skill is never letting go of any hurtful detail and that's all the memory seems to long for
"but now i see the long and short the middle and what's in between"
now i need a new project. claire told me to write a song about her, but i'm not sure if i am able. it might be kind of fun. but i can't force a song out, it has to happen naturally because that's the only way it has happened in the past. i'm beginning to only be able to remember fondness of her, and it's a little scary, and an ominous symptom, i think.
i am almost finished reading "hell's angels" by hunter, but it's hard to say what i feel about them at this point. it's hard to place the group into a box. part of you wants to wax on about how they are the true counterculture or whatever, that they are just a vacuum within society that exists as testament to how fucked up is that there needs to be this extreme a splinter group. but really they had no ideology; they were idiots with huge bikes. they were completely unbound by society's shackles, but they really waste their freedom with really some awful acts. they are bad people. like if that is what you get if you commit to being an anarchist, then i don't want that. i am much more excited reading about the counterculture that hunter himself was in along with ken kesey, ginsberg, kurt vonnegut, tom wolfe etcetera (though i've read none of these cats, really). the prevailing hip viewpoint now is that the hippies were lame or whatever, but it seems like such a glorious and exciting time to me. at least they had a vague stoner ethos, i feel like my peers don't really give a shit, and don't really feel the need to fight about anything. Iraq seems even more ridiculous a war than vietnam in terms of reasons for being there and nobody's really doing shit about it.
what am i talking about? nothing.
to carouse in a fastmoving car towards the beach - window down halfway - and to fall into it aimlessly
to be always on a balcony upon waking, considering
to be strolling in a stupor with a green-tinted irishman.
i miss san francisco and its inhabitants.