Sunday, October 8, 2006 8:12 PM

Grey blogs are gonna clear up, put on a happy face...

I'm tempted to rename this thegreyroom.

For thegreenroom is so far in the distance, i can't even see a tint of the hue.

But blogging, as a blogger must, must continue.  I've never been so without for so many months, and i mean since way back, since i started in college days some seven years ago

But I have to make money before i can even think about that.

What's gotten me to this place is in the past.  A past involving a lot of places i didn't want to be, and a lot of stupid choices, the color of my blog not deciding, and thus the final color of my blog not decided.

But i fear i have months ahead of me.  Months.  But i have the essentials.  okay, the essential: which is my cat.  He probably misses san diego as much as i do.  There was a whole ravine for him there.  As for me, all my friends are there too.  All the friends I made pre-college, which means high school, have escaped more successfully than I the orange country, festering with republicans, fake people, and no diversity.

I miss driving down the streets where i lived and seeing a handfull of whites, now it's the otherway around.  I used to live in a area that was almost entirely mexican-americans and african-americans and asian-americans.  I used to be able to go a whole day without having to see anyone my own color--now i can't find anything but my own color.  I just got a grey blog in a white reality.  Man, i miss my old neighbors.

But the reality is a reality, and a long term one at that, with months, not weeks, to contend with.  I still only bump black music through my one or two speakers (it switches on and off between one speaker and two speakers, quite capriciously), but the look of respect is gone, because the people here are stuck in their plastic vaccuum-sealed lives.

How it all happened...  I'll never know the truth about some things.  But ruminations are finished, i have instead reality to deal with.  Not complete poverty, but far less freedom.  Man, i wish someone would f'ing donate some money to me.  Though it's a lot of money to buy back my freedom, and i figure i'd be better off trying to write my way into getting it.  And blogging is not a way into getting it.  But I blog, as a true blogger must, until the world itself crumbles to dust, and there's nothing worth writing about, as there's no pain any more to write out.

But i can still write.  And i can still perform.  And i know (now) that i can live without.  And in the meantime, i'll take the pills perscribed to me.  And i'll work on that final goal, financial independence, which has been pushed away farther and farther as i had a way to keep that off my mind, and a reality not so unpleasant, full of freedoms, but i was doing it at the expense of my mother, and now i won't ever go back to doing that again.  I live with my mother now, but i feel more grown up than a few months ago when i didn't, when i was using my mother's money on a thing she'd never agree to.

If nothing, if no one else, i make the only person in my life who still completely and truly loves me, and whom i keep on par with my cat, who loves me despite the lack of places to roam and play, i make that person, my mother, happy with my being here.  And that helps.  I've also learned a few "life skills" through it all.  Learned to take it, may i be so cliche? One day at a time.  And set little goals for myself.  Learned, though it should be clear, that motivation is not the first thing you need to do, to do, you first need to start, and then the motivation comes into play.  My goals are simple, though i first wrote it in plurals (i.e. work on writing projects).

My overall goal is something i, at 27, really need to work on: financial independence.  But i'm not going to do it any conventional (and thus slow, and thus mind numbing) way, i'm going to do it with my talents, which no one can contest with me on that.  I know i'm talented, but the steps I'm talking about are: work on writing project, work on website project, and send an email.  The last two are most unlikely to work, but the writing project...  I mean to finish something for the first time, it'll feel, in my life.  It'll take a while, but it's a script, and no, not of my life and tribulations, something thankfully removed from that, it's about four years old, but i blew the dust off it, and started into it earlier in the week.

I've also started doing a bit of parking lot performing.  As that was something i really missed from my old job in san diego--man those were some good days.  Except it's not in the parking lot of where i'd work...  I'm tempted to ask for tips, but I don't want to have to stop because a cop sees a tip basket placed on the opposite side of my car door.  I like getting out, once a day, to find some 24 minute parking spots, and performing there, with just my voice and my recently replaced, fresh, new C harmonica.  I perform to black music, as much as i can, since OC really needs some f'ing color.  I'm hoping eventually, if i do manage it daily, that curiousity will peak and some local news or something decides to talk to me, then i can plug my site, and maybe, gasp, actually get some donations (more than my still-currently-under 5 dollars).  But right now i'm not even plugging my site, i'm just going to be this mysterious guy who plays and sings to the FM radio, with no tip receptical, and hopefully that'll keep me hassle free.  Well, I hope i didn't just google myself into losing my "gig."  I've only been doing it for a week, we'll see if i can keep up the dailiness.  And if i get googled by someone unpolice, well, you can just donate through the site, or, what the hell, toss some money in my car, do it through the sunroof on the opposite side of the car not to disturb me, please--but no change--i don't want to hear it, just let a few cash dollars fall without a word or a sound, then when i open my eyes because i'm finished, there will be a nice present before i back out, because it's been over 24 minutes, and i need to repark or go home.  But really, i hope no one googles this mystery out, i feel most comfortable being unknown and undisturbed.  If you've googled me out, well, if you want to tell me something, email me, or drop a quiet piece of paper with whatever you want to say.  But no, i don't do requests, you'll just have to call it in to the radio stations i listen to.

Oh, should i write this all?  Will I ruin the enjoyment?  I mean, i really don't care about tips, i'm trying to write my way into money, remember.  Oh, should i even write this...  I don't know, I just don't know.  But there's another big reason for doing this, i get to perform without being cut off, like a certain show that is all part of the last section.  This is a time for a new section.

Sunday, October 8, 2006 9:33 PM

Sunday, October 8, 2006 9:34 PM

I don't even want to put the anchor up there.

So i'm going to use up a few lines.

And hope no one bothers.

To see what is before.

Since before is before, is the past.

And i am now in the present.

And the present is good as it is.

So a few more lines

And pretty soon, i'll have enough space to put another anchor,

And maybe obscurity will go in my favor.

Since i don't want to lose what makes me happy.

Even in months of grey background.

But it is kinda getting late, though i'll sleep for more than 12 hours, like usual, probably.

Well, not always.

anyway, who cares, anyway.

I just want my simple pleasures.

And by and by get my grandest treasures.

And not by any means where it is determined by judges.

Not in any way in which I must halt.

I don't like getting disturbed from my art.

My music is my love.  I don't like to be stopped.

My writing is my salvation, and frankly, it's the only thing i can do entirely by myself.

I will win my financial independence, one way or the other.

Sunday, October 8, 2006 9:43 PM

Sunday, October 8, 2006 9:43 PM

And it will come, and it will last, and I...

Will have grown.

My way.

Sunday, October 8, 2006 9:45 PM

Thursday, October 12, 2006 4:09 PM

STATUS REPORT: Still in OC, still poor, still livin' L7.

That is all.

Thursday, October 12, 2006 4:11 PM

Saturday, October 14, 2006 8:41 PM

STATUS REPORT: Finished the sitemap, took me months, but I finally did it...  But I'm still poor.  Still no donations.  I think, maybe had i put somekind of ranking on the items...  Nope, i couldn't figure that out on my own, unless I gave them my own rankings...  Which would take so many months...  I wish I...  Naw, i'm not going to bug my friend about it.  Jake.  I thought maybe he could put together some html that i could paste in after each item so that other people could rank the item and then people could go straight to the best stuff.  But i hate being like, "hey, i know i haven't talked to you or any of my s.d. friends though i miss them all, but uh, can you do some coding for me, and whip me up a nice little ranking thingy to put in my sitemap...?"

Saturday, October 14, 2006 8:49 PM

Monday, October 16, 2006 6:51 PM

My mother says i need to learn to relax...  Either that or i said I need to learn to relax and she agreed with me.  I tell her i don't watch television, it's a waste of time.  She said one, two or three, two hours is fine.  She asked me if i wanted to read, i said maybe.  She brought some books to me, one of them i told her to leave with me, "the arrowsmith" i haven't started it yet, my mom said this was her favorite...  No, favorite wasn't the word, she said "i loved this book when i was younger," when I said, "when I was in college, i don't remember anything other than I loved it," then with emphasis: "loved it."

So maybe i'll give that a shot.

My mom says I'm more like i used to be, like her "son."  It's true when she knew me best i was also ... Well, i think i was most unhappy.  I thought i was happiest back in S.D. before my house of cards kinda took a strong gust of wind, and everything kinda fell.  I liked living alone--and on my terms--i just was doing it, rather, funding it, the wrong way.  Any way i look at it, it's still wrong how i paid for it.  But that way of life...  Sure was fulfilling to me.  I used to look forward to waking up in the morning.

I know i spend entirely too much time in bed now...  Hmm, it's almost seven.  Time to do another of those things I do for her sake.  Like going to church every sunday.  Yep.  i'm doing that too.  seven is "jeopardy" time.  yep, the tv show.  we have to watch commercials, we're that old school at this house.  I hate the commercials.  The show itself isn't so bad.  Maybe i'll see if i can't convince her to mute the commercials...

Anyway, time's up, i just wanted to waste nine minutes.  nine minutes, properly wasted.

Monday, October 16, 2006 7:00 PM

Tuesday, October 17, 2006 8:52 PM

I'm trying to learn how to relax.

I'm doing an okay job of it.  "Arrowsmith," the book I'm reading, with my cat at my feet, in my very comfortable bed that i spend so much time in.  Who says greyed roominatings can't be askewed from tradition of sentence that make complete thoughts and whatnot.

I try to read it, but i feel guilty for not working on writing projects.  music projects?  heh.  they are what they are or were.  music goes with other things well, and can go without just as well, except i don't think they should, and it's late, and this and that.  writing has always been my first maiden.

i'm home, my old home, the /home/ of homes, where i grew up like a prisoner trying to survive.  Or likened to one.  i did so horribly with medical care facilities, prison would be too much.  this is the kind of prison, with an amiable guard, that i can survive.  As long as my father is still gone during the weekdays.  I like it in many respects.

My friend otto, he called me recently, i didn't know how to even begin to describe the life i've been going through.  He's happy i'm safe, as i am happy for him with his recent life, i know i've blogged it somewhere that he has a girlfriend, and that's a major thing for us, highschool comrades in virginal pain.  He's moved in with his girlfriend, very good step.  He's still in new york though.  Anyway, why i mention it, i tell him i'm sober, but i gave him the same excuse i give myself.  i quit because i (and to use the word "quit" makes it sound like it would be easy to start again, no such thing) was using my mother's money (well, i guess both of their money, but mostly my mother's, the other i don't know how much of an extent, and much less care since he's an alcoholic) to feed my addiction (which is still no where near as evil, and yes, i will use that silly four letter word, as alcoholism).

Anyway, he took that excuse and said, well, something i suppose should be obvious, maybe even awbvious to me, that maybe it had something to do with this whole year of depressing events.  Not just the last one, since i feel there were so many contributing factors to my unhealthiness, my having smoked the most ever in my life in so short a time was besides (still is besides).  a diet of cigarettes and red bull leading to a 128 pound (i'm now steady above 150, sometimes 155) frame of sinew and marrow.  Anyway,

Anyway, a favorite little six letter word of mine.  I use it more when sober, when i'm not, i don't even bother i just tangentalize and whisk off to wherever.  Anyway, my friend otto said it could have something to do with the great mess of my life before.  That i didn't really think of.  But i feel he may be right.

I just damn wish I didn't know how damn good of a singer I am.  How I could take the world by musical storm if just given a chance like one of those damned contestants on those damned talent shows.  i know i'm an excellent writer, too, when i want to be, even when i don't.  But music is so much more stirring of the soul, music is so much more, well, fun.  And to sing, is a wonderful thing i do every day, and have since i was born it feels.

But it isn't something i "should" do.  it can't be in the ways i do it.  oh to be high right now and not care.  And my living situation of before, damned be the hour, it was never the wrong one.  and i swear, i have so much to sing, i just want to sing, i want to sing and make beautiful, awesome music.  I want to be back in the sixties with motown, i want smokey or marvin come up to me and say, i wrote this song, it'd be perfect for delivery and range, and i'd go into the studio surrounded by those great studio musicians, and it would be magic, everlasting magic, longer lasting than any of this damned blogging.

Anyway, i've other things that keep me from reading.  I don't see why i can't blog about it...  Well, i just emailed her asking if she wouldn't mind me blogging about it.  She, though, is committed to someone else, i think, we only spent one evening, one enchanted date, for my eyes and memory if nothing else, nothing else really matters for that one evening.  She's the one person, well, song lyrics notwithstanding, that wasn't psuedonymized, she, oh what the hell, it's...  A girl from my past, we're talking years ago.  her name starts with a "b"--that's enough, i have no others in my tiny past who's name starts with that letter.  i think of her when i'm reading these romantic chapters of "arrowsmith" by sinclair lewis.  It's not so bad, but i start drifting off into my own romantic foibles when i read it.  i mean, it's no faulkner, which i finished last year.  i'm actually devouring the book pretty fast, by my own standards.  But it does mean i put off writing projects, but i do need to learn to relax.

i'm on quite a bit of meds.  i think tomorrow my zoloft upgrades to the full 100 mg, i don't know what's to blame for the, sigh, disfunction, if i must, which i don't have to, but i've not a scintilla of shame to me.  Otherwise i'd have pushed harder to keep it as a night-time drug.  As you may know, until my life started going spirally spirally down and down and down, around the time i lost my yoga teacher, and then my job.  i was doing 150 mg of generic wellbutrin in the morning and 100 mg of zoloft at night.  After things went spirally, i upped the dose of wellbutrin (with my doctor) to another 150 mg in the afternoon.  Once i was tossed into mental places, which i just got out of a few weeks ago, i was on anti-psychotics, zyprexa for one, but in my partial program i was switched onto risperdal, which "did well for me."

It should it costs ridiculously a lot of money.  It makes me not feel very good about myself to think my parents, again, my mother is paying for it.  But it's of course cheaper than my addiction was.  Still, they want me on this stuff for a full year i think.  i'll go there, i'll name numbers.  500+ for a bottle of that stuff.  Stupid drugs, don't even get me feeling good, just cost a whole fuck load.  Anyway, i take 100 mg of risperdal in the morning with my generic wellbutrin 150mg and (thankfully now generic) zoloft 100mg (i am/was on half dosages for 8 days to wax me onto it).  And at night i take 300 mg of risperdal.

Risperdal isn't your typical ssri, it works on dopamine (an addict's closest friend/fiend) and epinephrine, or however that's spelled, as well as serotonin.  it just does a slew of stuff, and since i'm not hearing voices or whatever, it must be working.  But i paraphrase the simpsons and told my mom i have a magic keychain to keep away tigers in my diffidence to risperdal, since i never heard voices...  The only thing I heard was i thought live musicians instead of the same old songs (and i say that affectionately).  That one took a while to go, i was hearing it up until the last few weeks of my partial hospitalization program.  Now i don't hear it any more.  Though it took me a while to realize my mom's car had the balance and the, whatchama... fader?  no, wahtever it was all to the left and all to the front.  i fixed it for her, and suddenly the songs sounded right again, so i did feel a little stupid after that.  Stupid is a nice way of saying it.  And i never did have any other hallucinations, except for my psychotic episode, which had a whole character in it, a magician.  Oh, the magician.  i can't even begin to write about that whole bullshit again.  i'm still not convinced he wasn't there.  I'd be quicker to think he was there and didn't assault me, as the way i was assaulted was...  Yeah, i'm not going down that road again, i've blogged and sectioned it off, and if i could i'd cauterize the sectioning.

But nothing happens for me any more.  I am normal.  Normal and unknown, and except for the certainty of my cat and my mother, unloved.  Well, not that i expect love if i'm not completely crazy (oh was an innocuous little word that is, five letters) and some of that shit did happened to me.  I really only care about getting to sing with my heroes and heroines, wow, what a great feeling that was.  I have an unfortunate tendency to cover artists, not to be morbid, but within a year of their passing.  I had to check, but yeah, lou rawls is another one.  Others include rick james, wilson pickett, ray charles, i recorded covers of their songs they never heard, though they were alive, no one hears all the other covers i have, and who knows how long the rest of my heroes will last.  I want to record songs written by motown legends, stax legends, atlantic legends, chess even.  Will bo diddley ever get to hear the covers i did?  I mean, getting to play jerome's part in "say man" opposite of him that's pure fantasy.  And speaking of fantasy what about the groups that are still around that i idolize, earth, wind, and fire, or the commodores?  My silliest of dreams?  To be the lead singer of the Temptations, to go from ruffin, to kendricks, to edwards, to me.  That would be a fucking amazing wow, and go on tour with them...  Lord.  Oh, and record new songs, songs that would play on the radio, to hear myself on the radio!

Sigh...  So those are my silly dreams.  A stupid dreamer am I.  Except i know i could do it.  That's what's so infuriating, i could do it.  I could sing with the temps, i could.  i know i could.  What was i going to blog about again?  Oh yeah, how i can't relax.  I can't.  But i'm thinking i'll try again.  Now that i've wasted an hour on this stupid blog.

Tuesday, October 17, 2006 9:56 PM

Thursday, October 19, 2006 8:49 PM

So the doc put the kibosh on the audition thing.

What does this mean?

Well, i had for a while thought to myself, that i'd be very smart and tell my mother I was going to see a friend.  And then on that day go out and audition for the tv show i was kinda/nearly on.

For i am that good, which i know.  But the brain is not necessarily ready for it.  If my one, true psychiatrist says so, then i'll agree to it.  And she almost was, and then she talked to my mother, and ... i'm getting ahead of myself.

Not to backtrack too far, i read about the audition through the website.  It's the second season, and their trying out in cities all over in october.  Next week they try out in LA.  Damn, i know i could win the damn thing, and be famous, and record with my idols, etc.  But my psych has seen more of the show than i or my mother had...

Anyway, I read that they were trying out, and i knew my mother wouldn't allow, so i said i was going to see a friend, that was about a week ago, i kept saying things like, i won't be able to make yoga that day, i won't be needed will i for anything, etc.  And my mother didn't say it was this reason, but the truth is, i haven't seen any friends since i've been back in OC.  And i've been here a few weeks already, and i said it wasn't far.  But if it wasn't far, then i wouldn't need to wait all these weeks, would i?

Anyway, after yoga yesterday, she said, "i have a funny feeling, tell me this isn't some kind of audition thing."  I was silent.  One of the few advantages to being clean is not having to lie to my mother.  I detested the feeling, and even though it was always the same lie, it didn't get any better, but it was supporting my habit.  And somebody needed to.

So, i'm nice and clean now, i think, good, now i won't sabotage myself like last time.  But is there a this time?  I said nothing to her query, "tell me its not some audition in LA."  After a few minutes, i couldn't be silent any more, i blurted--not one to blurt usually, but blurt is indeed the word--"it's the second season, alright?"  Immediately I got an "absolutely not, no, I can't, no, not again, oh [name1] you've gotten so much better, i can't now, not that," etc. etc.  But i pressed and said, "mom, this is my dream."

And it is my dream.  I blogged as such, that's my dream, to perform with those people whose songs i sing along to every day.

Today, she said, "it's not like i could come with you," and i said emphatically, "of course you can!"  "And they'll have you signing contracts again," and i said, "well of course there's some contracts.  Look you can read them," and i printed them out from the website.  What made her change her tune was my camcordered practice of the song i would sing, that's when she saw/heard i really do have talent.  And we even started looking at outfits to wear--i could care less, she could have me wear a burlap sack as long as i could perform, so i tried on various things.

Then i printed out the contract for her, for this stage in the production, she definitely disliked one part, which i didn't like myself very much either, something about they could do anything including ridicule, whether "factual or fictional."  It was a bit of a sticky one, but i didn't care, don't care.  Then she said an absolute stop would be anything involving hidden cameras.  But the contract for the first step of the show didn't seem much different from last season, and i doubt the second step contract would have changed much either, so i didn't know exactly what to do, but i agreed we'd deal with it once we got to it.

One of the things she said to me wednesday was that she wanted me to ask my psychiatrist, my real psychiatrist, not this new person, the one who's opinion i value more than my own.  To have her okay it, and i left her a message yesterday, with a lot of "i miss you terribly," and told her she could call either of us, she called me today, just an hour ago.  I started the conversation saying i had already gotten her to talk about coming with me, so i wasn't going to need her to convince my mother, she agreed though that my mother should come with.

But then i handed the phone to my mother, and with it my chance.  My mother read to her that line from the first contract, and then she said, "and if there's anything with hidden cameras in later contracts that's a big stopping point."  And that's when the tone of my psychiatrist changed, and she said she'd seen it before, and there is a bit of ridicule involved, i think she said, but regardless, she said no to the idea.  And i'm standing nearby, and my mom says, "she says it's not a good idea also."  And then she handed the phone to me, and my psych apologized and said, maybe next year...

"But it's my dream," and she said "i know [name1] maybe next year, there are other ways, but something like this, so soon," it was no go.  So i gazed in the distance and waited for a chance to blog.

I turned on the computer, and here i am now.  blogging.  To tell no one, since no one really knows about me and my stupid dreams, that i won't be trying out this second season.  There will be no happy ending where the second time around everything goes right.  Even though now, now i can do the whole thing sober and clean, and the right way.

One of the things my mother said also in reading/discussion their introductory contract is she didn't want me "bad mouthing" i think is the words she used, the family...  I of course thought to myself, and this is precisely why i don't want her reading my blogs.  For I've blogged a bit about that already.  Well, she didn't say anything about this blog, so i might as well say here...

I found out earlier, before dinner was over, though it killed my appetite instantly, that this bareable situation where my dad was gone during the week and only here on weekends (which i obstensibly sleep through, i really get some z's), might change, as soon as a few weeks, some blah blah about ending the phase and switching from contract workers to employees--and my dad's doing contract work.  And I've blogged enough to say why this sort of news can make me lose my appetite entirely.

I don't think my mother would like me airing such news, but luckily, no one reads my blog, no one really cares.  Its too bad it's not as loose and fragmentary and full of double speak as when i'm riding high, but...  i must blog, i have to blog, it keeps me alive damn it!  And so i do.  Writing.  And singing.  Writing and singing.  Damned this whole scenario.

If only i hadn't called the damn police.  If only my phone could have survived that toss.  But i was unhealthy, and there's no say i'd get healthy again without those damn institutions, which my mother also wouldn't want me talking about.  Well, too bad, i blog, that's one of the things i do.  So, anyway, so much for television, i really wanted to be there next season, but it won't be.  Nonetheless, non-contestant number 2.  The one i went so far as to call a "pop tart?"  Why don't you send me an email and blow my mind?  I still think we could duet like gaye and terrell, at the very least, i'd be your pen pal.  Hell, i have little else to do around here.  And everybody else i know is in a relationship.

So, what now?  What now...  I guess i can still go drive and park and sing in my car.  I was so enthused before my psych called, i even shaved, nicely shaven now.

You know, i really could go for a girl right about now.  Just to email, to think about, if nothing else, and else i've blogged about might not be very much.  I understand women are usually not /as/ interested in those things as men seem to be.  You know, normal men, not men like me.  A man like me, heh...  What is such a man like me?

Just a blogger, who lives at home with his mother and cat, which would of course be fine if it was really just us three.  Oh well, might as well read a bit more of that fiction stuff, this "factual" stuff is a bit too much, I'll just leave it on the world's streetcorner called the internet, and go about my naturally obscured for life business.

Damn, i could win that damn show.  I could be the next marvin gaye.  Instead, i'm just a damned blogger.

Thursday, October 19, 2006 9:40 PM

Sunday, October 22, 2006 9:36 PM

To blog or not to blog, that is my question.  In the form of a statement.

I keep wanting to call my psych. and leave some kind of message, something to make her change her mind.  When she called, I was all excited already had convinced my mom, and said that it was going to happen, and she (my psych.) said at least my mother was going with, but damned if i had to bring the damn cell phone to my mom.

I feel like calling my psych. trying to convince her.  Saying something about how that line about factual or fictional, that's just if they want to make the LA auditions look like the New York auditions, and put in footage from LA into the New York episode.  And say again how i really understand the hidden cameras line is only about on the set...

Though i don't completely believe that.  In fact, i think that time i went to see my friend perform in the blues club over at universal studios, all the people in the club and around were extras from the grand production of my every step outside of my apartment.  And the whole apartment situation a few days later was really--and this is about as probable as i can think it possible...

Well, since i say all this stuff about self-destructive tendencies (which includes doing something in the lot before my turn i don't do any more, i'm not going into details, but let's just say "plan a" i'm sure i've blogged it before) in my emails to the producer, which may have gone past him.  Maybe they thought, why not hypnotize him?  Hypnotize me into thinking i'm really at home, and not in a mock setup on the lot.  And this is where the magician would come into play...  First he got me into thinking i was at home, then he was supposed to intervene whenever i was thinking of doing that thing i don't do any more.  And then finally, at the end when they were supposed to get me out of the hypnotism, things went really wrong, and i imagined it instead as an attack by the magician, and then of course, that ends with me sobbing saying "i don't care if it's not real, i want to be home now."  And then they return me, and are like "SHIT, what do we do now?"  I guess not tell him shit, huh?

That seems like a likely scenario.  Or, there's the scenario which is what the doctors have all been going off which is I had a psychotic episode.  Which is why i'm on this damn risperdal crap 3mgs at night 1mg in the morning, damned expensive too.  But regardless my freedom is completely gone now.  And there never was a magician, and there never was a replacement cat who looked too symmetrical to be my cat, and there never was real musicians playing through my speakers, including ian anderson from jethro tull.  That was all me being crazy apparently.  Not that i've ever had a crazy experience like that before...  But never, of course, i must always say, have i done so much of that thing "i don't do any more"--the quotation marks just to make it an expression, certainly no question i haven't done it in a very long time--more than I had ever done in the past.  I thought someone was interfering, so I tried with a gusto to do as much as i could, thinking it was being wasted by interlocuters and interlopers and whatnot.  So either it was the effect of doing too much and having a really big desire and belief that they wanted to make me a wild card, no matter how wildly.  Or they hypnotized me and put me on a studio lot.

But i'll never know.  I do know i still want to try out again.  I think i could seriously get a real shake at it, and be backed by the band and do awesome and not have to worry about my "i don't do any more"--which back then i thought i had to do to perform--i know now that i don't.  Back then, i was an idiot, to an extent...  No, not an idiot, just an addict, and addict to something that never before done me wrong--so i thought.  Nothing really wrong, just little falterings here and there, a little agony for the extacy, just my entire downward spiral is all...  Or wait, was that just because i'm a flop with chicks?  Been that way since 1996.  Eh, make it 86.

But tonight it's 06.  and in six months, maybe i'll get another shot.  But right now.  No second chance for me.  Nothing to do but blog and blog and think about this next week, how first tuesday and wednesday will go by, and i will have lost my chance at performing in la.  And then within another week will be the last day for accepting video tape or dvd entries.  And then i'll have lost all chance in this next season.  I don't think they'd hypnotize me again, but give me another chance, i wonder...

Wonder pointlessly, it's over.  maybe six months from now.  i'll probably still be clean by then.  my "steady fuck" if i may be vulgar for a minute, has finally really fucked me over.  Never had she hurt me, and i sang along with rick james with glee his song of devotion.  But now...  Now i don't sing along, i've been hurt, by what no one tells me, so i am left with only what i do know was involved--or all anyone will believe.  Which in the end, the end being my living pharmaceutically, all that matters.

Sunday, October 22, 2006 10:02 PM

Wednesday, October 25, 2006 9:59 PM

I have finished Arrowsmith.

It was a task.  9 days of my life.  Today is the second (last) day of try-outs for that show.  The day has passed, the try-outs without me.  And though i have a few more (somewhat) agonizing (yes, agonizing) days left where i could turn in my videotaped/dvded audition, i will have to let them pass.

Yesterday was the climax of the book.  I tell you, SPOILER (if you ever plan on reading Arrowsmith, just continue on to the next paragraph).  I tell you, when the heroine of the story, well...  I don't like spoiling books i think others should read.  It was a good read, after all.  It affected me, is all.  As much as "a"ffection can effect one.  hmm, should i timestamp for a minute while i wiki the book?

Wednesday, October 25, 2006 10:05 PM

Wednesday, October 25, 2006 10:10 PM

Yes the same spoiler can be found in the Wiki-article.  Though i think someone should fix the part about "devotion to patients," devotion to science, yes...  I guess a little to patients as well.  Anyway, don't read the wiki on it, read the book instead...

But don't take my word on it.

(Ba da bum.)

I don't know, it's not exactly the most high-brow, i mean, my last novel was "Absalom, Absalom."  Anyway, it served its function, which was to distract me from the audition.

Now that audition is mostly over, but there's still the days of mail-submission...

I think (sometimes) maybe i'll record the audition, just for my own gratitude, and then share it on the website.  Do a little a capela singing and video tape it.  But it's a process and a half to do it properly, which i would.  I.e. I would use a microphone--i mean, you have one, you use it.  But the microphone directly into the--well, directly isn't the right word for one.  But the mixer directly to the microphone imput is full of static...  I have the necessary parts to make it go "directly" into the camcorder, but even then it's not great, to my memory.  And then anyway, to make it "great" would mean recording it into the mixer, then synching it with the video.  And using the microphone within the camcorder is no good either, i mean you get the noise of the tape within the camcorder.  But you'd use the microphone inside the camcorder, since the sound of speed isn't going to really off-set the frame-rate, and then the recording from the mixer and view the waveforms and match your peaks and valleys and it's such an ordeal.

Though i kinda would like to do a little a capela and make it available so the world could see how fucking talented i fucking am.  It drives me fucking nuts to think of how fucking talented i am.  i'm such an unbelievably good singer, i know it too.  Which is what's so fucking nuts.  I know how much fucking good music i could fucking make if i just was with some fucking talented producers and songwriters and musicians and made a fucking decent product not my fucking underproduced, pathetice crap that i churn out and put on this site, and it makes me improve my craft, but it never produces any GOOD, i mean really good, i mean good enough that i'd want to listen to it, music.

OH, sure, if someone cared, and took my vocals, and added the rest to it, it'd sound great.  But no one fucking cares.

Not who could fucking do it.

Fucking christ.  I'm so fucking good also.  I also goddamn know it.  Anyway, what was i talking about before i started cursing?

Ah, who cares.  Oh, yeah, that book, good little book.  Not much cursing.

And me, the writer.  I'm a writer, did you know that?  I am, i'm pretty good at it too.  Not as good as i could be a singer.  Oh, i'm a damn good singer.  As a writer?  I'm too undisciplined.  There's no straightforwardness to it like singing.  You hear a song, you sing along.  Simple.  Writing?

Dirty, complicated business.  Pointless sometimes.  Emails, and blogging, and shit no one cares about.

No one gives a damn about me but the same two damn creatures that always have.  My cat, my mom.  Others maybe, but i'm so involved in myself, i haven't done a damn thing about reestablishing connections.  They all live elsewhere.  Everyone elsewhere.  No one where i am, no one who, well, maybe they care, but do i?  I mean, i do, since i'm lonely, but i'm also a terrible snob who thinks personal affections can be a waste of time.

Not like blogging...  YAWN.

why do i blog?  Why?  No one gives a fucking damn.  No one gives a fucking damn about me and my fucking cursing and my fucking living.  If i don't watch myself this is going to look like some typical greyboxing in the greenroom like in days of yore.  Where grey wasn't the color of choice.

Choice.

How much is there...  If i had anything, any flavor or color to smoke right now...  And a red bull.  It's a shitty day, a horrible day i should have something to smoke or something to something, anything, i hate today, i hate yesterday, i hate the fact that i'm so fucking talented and no one gives a damn.

Oh, sure, people who could take financial use of me, maybe...  But they forgot to give me some fucking "CARE."  they just sat back and watched me, and watched me, till i went crazy in my own head, hey, i'm not just licking lollipops and chewing gum, i'm doing serious drugs, so i need to hear in words people say, "you're not crazy, we care."  Not just sit around and watch and watch and watch me go crazy...  OR don't watch.  Since that's what everyone wants me to believe.  And by everyone, that means the only one, the only person who calls me, and i call back, and spend any time with, and who i've always known loved me, but i really wish i could go back to san diego.  i've gone a bit batty here...  BUT, of course, it's a batty day today.

I think i'll just blog a whole fucking bunch tonight.  Why the fuck not, it helps when i'm depressed to blog, or to write rather.  I used to write when i was in this fucking house years fucking ago.  Decade ago even.  I used to write in highschool shit that really wasn't much different than this.  Not much different at all really.  I don't see how i've changed much...

But i suppose that's part of my going into college and starting the Great Stasis, that has been the last seven years.  Since in my partial hospitalization program they say that's what happens, and i'm damned near able to believe it.  You kinda stay in a cocoon of very emotionally stable, but not growing, little world.

I'd excel, of course, in what i do, which is art.  I make damn good art.  Art of ear, of eye, of mind.  But what of it?  I'm seven years out of this cocoon and deathly alone.  And writing the same damn shit i used to write when i lived here ten fucking years ago.  Who am i, what am i, where am i going?  I got a degree that tells me it was a painting by gaugain, not enough of a degree to know exactly how that's spelled, not enough to care, i could look at my book of nineteenth century art, but that's in storage.

I need to get that shit out of storage.  I may still be in this wretched county for a few more wretched months.

But i also need to chill.  Chill without use of drugs.  I don't know how to do that.  I thought about it, but i realized i don't.

Damn, sobriety.  Enough of it can make you think it's actually a way to go.

Damn, and here i have been for seventeen damn sections of this damn blog trying to warrior for the cause.  Show a generation how to do it the green and not the sloshy way.  But you stay green.  That's true, you stay green, and when you come out, you're not ready for shit.

But while you're in, it's oh so comfy, and it's no problem.  As long as you don't try anything.  And by anything, i mean tv shows, and damned if i wasn't followed with fucking cameras.  Damned if i wasn't.  I swear to god, i saw them.  I know i did.  First it was the damn shoulder bag, that was only until i decided to write to myself about the damn things i was seeing.  Then they all wisened up, since they were watching that too.  And suddenly shoulder bags went entirely out of fashion.  And then it was the cell phone cameras.  And i talked about, rather wrote about those, and those started going away too.  And lastly came, until the end, and i didn't talk about them, since i was feeling a bit sorry for them, the little white cylanders, they were the size of, well, tampons.  and people carried them in their hands, their tight little fists, and they'd walk by my car.  And i wouldn't tell anyone, i was on to their little white cylanders.  Until i had my "breakdown."  Whatever we want to call it.  When i felt i was being attacked by a magician, and i wanted to get away, since i didn't trust the people watching me anymore.

Oh, maybe i would have, had they came out and said something, damn it, when that happened.  SOMETHING, anything, just ...  I mean, if they said to me, yeah, he was there, but no, he didn't do that stuff to you, it woulda been okay.  I'm not completely crazy at least.  But instead he was there, then he wasn't, after he did that shit, or that shit never happened...  Oh, but it was so strong.  DAMN, damn that whole experience, while i was in my nice little cacoon, feeling all soft and comfy and green.  nice and green, and no one was my enemy, i had no enemies, no one disliked me, no one liked me, but i was alone and at the same time Somebody, someone everyone watched, it was so...

Unreal.

Unreal.

What a fucking word.

Damn sobriety.  Damn this clear-mindedness, when nothing comes out of the clearness about what ...  Those white cameras.  Those damn cameras, i swear to god, they were there.  And the day after the magician's attack, which was, was, anyway, i don't have enemies, i don't think it was real.  Okay, i do have some doubt in that.  But the cameras...

That's why my damn psych--okay, no damn there.  I still love my psych.  Why i can put up with this.  She knows, she did, i went to her and said week after week i was feeling the cameras, and it was getting to a point where we were talking about rehab, and i said i couldn't be without my cat, which i couldn't, and i'm not, and yet i'm getting the rehab the way i could, which is with my cat.  And i think about it, and i think about it...  Oh, and i think about it.

Yeah, i'm going a little manic on my writing style tonight.  For tonight was the night after the auditions i didn't go to.  For the show i'm not going to be a part of, and no one will care.

For it wasn't real.

The cameras.  Anyway, the day after the magician, there was going to mexico, to try to get away from the cameras.  In movies, the protagonist can always just, go to mexico, and all the police have to wait at the other side of the line, and maybe there's a denoument scene where they drink daquiris and ...  I was in mexico, and i said loudly, i didn't want to see any cameras, but i had been good about keeping to myself the white cameras.  So they didn't know i knew about them.  And then i saw someone walking by my car in mexico holding one of those.  And i remember going to the border, after my panic attack, and --oh i had one of those in mexico, trying to get home, but i took my med, and i went on, anyway, i went on.

Damn computer is still so damn loud, and i'm using inferior earplugs, i didn't buy them.  I didn't set this up, i didn't want this.

Damn.  Anyway, i was at the border and i think i blogged this already, how i saw them pass it from one extra to another, and then i said to nobody, as to whom i said all my lines "you're supposed to point it at me."  And then i also said, "yeah, i signed away for cameras, i initialed that, but i never initialed anything about being fucking raped."  And then three cars ahead and one lane over a person gave a fist of encouragement, at least i thought so.  And i said, "yeah, so do something about it."  I also said something about the young people in that lane that were next to me, about them being too happy, and i think they cooled them down for my sake.  Oh, it was a production my life.  All these extras with cameras and the world, must have must have must have gotten some of it, other wise i wouldn't have the celebs, oh i don't think i blogged about those.

I know another reason i haven't talked to my friends, i feel like a damn fool because i thought they were /all in on it./  Everyone was in on it, and it was going swimmingly, because no one had attacked me.  And then i attack myself, or something...  Damn, why is it so unfairly unknown.  I mean, why, oh yeah, i remember why, it's because the whole time the magician was there i was cracking jokes at his expense, saying stuff like, "oh, i get it, the magician and the musician, two go in, one comes out, see how long i can stand it, why doesn't he do something useful instead of this parlor tricks to make me believe i'm high, when i'm not, and i know it's his stupid tricks, why doesn't he do useful things like abracadabra me my water bottle when i need it, and whatnot, why not make yourself useful, huh, mr. magician?"

Damn sobriety.  Damn all it's improbability making.  Damn clearheaded statistically unlikeliness, damn Occam's Razor.  Which i live on, normally.  Oh, but it's a "magical business," "magical thinking," magical.  Magical makes it sound benign.  It was too.  Anyway, they were watching, they were, but they weren't.  Oh, all this is just to remind me why my psych has me not signing up again.  Since i don't know.  Six months from now, maybe i won't even care.

You're an adult, you can do what you want to.  But i can't.  I can't do what i want to.  Why not, why not do the audition tape, why not, you can do it, and you're legally old enough, you can sign the contract, you can then, um, sneak out again, when the next round comes.   Or not.  And then i'll be pissed, because i could go that far, and not go any further, oh yeah.  That's why.

Damn.  Since i couldn't fake it the whole way.  I'd get caught, and then life would get messy, and i'd lose the car priveledge.  Damn cacoon, makes it damn easy to clip my damn wings.

But i'm so damn talented.

I know i am, i know i can sing like the nightingale, like the skylark, like st. cecilia, like everything in every poem about fucking singing.  i have it in me and my voice, and i'm ready now.  Now to be free of trudgery, boredom, and i want to be on talk shows and say, oh yes, it was a silly event all up to this point, but now it's worth it, and i'm rich.  I'm rich and it doesn't matter the damn cocooning, since i came out this lovely beautiful butterfly, and see how i flap, see how gaily.  But no, i'm just crazy, and twenty fucking seven.

twenty fucking seven, and i'll be twenty fucking eight in a few fucking months.  i'm fucking old.  i'm just really well perserved.  And ready for my close-up.  And i'm ready damn it.  i have nothing i'm to embarassed to show, i have no shame, i write out my every damn thought, without second guessing.  Oh, it's going to be in front of the world?  Guess what, world doesn't give a damn.

Damn computer makes too much damn noise.  Damn harddrives need to spin their damn selves.  I wish they damn didn't need to spin.  But i need the whole tera at my disposal, don't i?  No.  I don't.  But i do.  But i don't.  Damn, i could get a new drive big enough to hold all of it, and it would only cost a few hundred and it would be so much quieter.  Sigh.  Oh, but i'm poor, yes, that's true.  That is true...  It's actually more than a tera, but a few of them could hmm, how much is the fry's ad going for now a days, i could toss out four drives and get one that holds half a tera, only be a little over a hundred maybe two...  And that would be soo much quieter.  i used to spend that much on just sustaining my habit for a week or two.  Maybe i'll convince my mom into it.  Damn risperdal has to be so damn much.  That shit costs as much as my habit did.  Damn money.  Damn money.  Damn everything that i can use an expletive for an adjective.

Oh it's too fucking loud, i've had enough of this for one night.  Fucking loud and noisy containers of art.  Art from my coccoonage.  Art that no one cares about anyway.  But i did just have an excellent idea about using these damn loud harddrives as holding footage and using an enclosure, once i transferred all their stuff into a new 500 gigger, and then i could have footage at my finger tips, instead of bags and bags, and, hmm, that would be nice.

Wednesday, October 25, 2006 11:24 PM

Friday, October 27, 2006 9:34 PM

yah, no 500gigger, maybe christmas, i got to deal with whirring for now.

another day.  what of it.  another day of sobriety.  what is it.

The green room has no admission fee any more, that means you don't have to have a habit to inhabit--or visit at least.

But what of yee without any habit, you probably wouldn't understand this grey room.  Because it's a room of quiet screaming.

That's what sobriety is like after all these years.  Quiet screaming, calm torments, torrential tranquility.  Bittersweet is perhaps a way of describing it.  Maybe i need a couple century-sustaining plays under my belt before i can start making self-contradictory terminology.  But it feels like quiet screaming.

Like i want to jump out of my seat, run outside the house, and keep running til i run out of breath and i'm really far from home, and i have socks on, and no way back.  And then continue in that direction.

Or of ripping up pages and pages of important things and writing miles and miles of unimportant things.

Or of writing paragraphs of a sentence length.  Maybe two.  Maybe not even with complete sentences.  But not in that "fun" way it used to be.

It was fun.  No question.  It just wasn't sustainable.  It was a fun of until i manage to secure another bag, and not sure how i would, or the next.  And it wasn't so bad, except now i'm not completely envious of it.  Just the feeling.  And the freedom, even if it wasn't free complete.

I even sang along to that certain rick james song.  why not.  it wasn't so long ago that i used to love her, that mary, mary jane.  I did, i had a thing going on, we did.  It was a nightly thing, it was a daily thing, it was an everything.  Now i just have quiet screaming.

And i scream and i scream and no one hears.  No one knows.  No one, apparently, cares.  But what do i do about it.  What do i do about it.

sentence length paragraphs.

That's all i do, and blog, blog when the screaming wants to start, since i can't scream, i could exercise, maybe.  They have a treadmill, i could use it.  But i wouldn't get far...

and i want to be far.

and away.

and in my world of possibilities and every man is free, did you know that?  Not just you, though you can want to be just me.  But every man is free.

And i blog, and i blog, and blog blog.  To no one.  No change there.  Still no one to hear my blog.  Maybe i have some readers, but how do i know?  I mostly write for someone i never met, who has yet to hear of my blog, but they will read, and it will speak right to them, and they will go through the same thing.  Of green.  To grey.  And for a few months, in the transition, something like quiet screaming.

Is my writing like quiet screaming or is it just me?  It might just be me.  I think it might be.  I think it might.  I think it.  I think.  I.  I think.  I think it.  I think it might.  I think it might be.  It might just be me.

Why not write gibberish?  I've done it before.  I could do it again?  For who do i write this damn thing anyway...  I don't even know.  I don't know if i should.  I don't if i do.  I just assume i do, since my fingers feel the keys and the eyes see the characters and i click upload and there it is.  The world has had lots of time to find my blog.  But have they?  Who cares about me?  Do I?  Do I care?  Do I care about?  Do I care about me?

Do I?  Like to write a word more with each sentence?  Sometimes.  Sometimes just a word.  Sometimes.  Sometimes just a word.  Sometimes.

Why not.  Joyce wrote his own fucking language, i can repeat a few lines, if i think it looks pretty.  As pretty as text can look.  And text can look pretty.  I think.  It looks that way.  As text does.  If text can look.  And I think.  It can.

It's like abstract sketching, with words, sometimes it's kinda pretty, in that abstract way that can't be ugly, so it can't really be too pretty can it, can it.  Can it.

periods look nice.  i like the way they look.  better than some.  punctuation.  why not use them?  why not a ? for spice.  Maybe splice.  Maybe nice.  Maybe twice??  Maybe not.

Maybe.  Mabye.  I maybe.  Mabye.  Why not?  Whyynot?  WHynot?  Whitonote.  Okay, that's jusst gibbersih.  WHy not?

Sigh.  Oh, yeah, do it too much and no one will like it.  Right now i want everyone to like it, can't you tell?  Heh.

Oh, my, what do i do i do.  Why not, why do, why either, why through.  Why rhyme, why time, why why, time time.  Words can be fun, they can be FUN.  They can be words, they can be.  They can do what i want them to.

And that feels like a lot of power.  Which is nice, when you're quietly screaming.

Contorting the face but sound is not accompanying.

And not contorting the face but the sound does.  It does.

I can hear quiet screaming.  I know how it smells, and it tastes like burnt toast.

It can scream all night, it can scream all day, it can scream "YOU ARE SOBER," it could quietly say, "you are sober..."

It does it's thing, i let it, i figure, what the hell, nothing else to do in this sober world.

Aren't i on antidepresents?  Why am i writing like i'm depressed?  Is that allowed?

Why not, i think, sometimes, i think why not.  I think about things, and i think what to do with them.

Maybe it's the music i'm listening to.  It colud just be the .  colud.  It could.

Damn app is acting up.  I hate that.  Be a good app.  Apply what i want.  I want to apply some letters to some grey background, be nice.  just be nice.  Why not be nice.  You can be nice.  I know you can--so don't fuck up on me.

I lost a sentence because of this app, when another app took processor priority, and poof pilferred it away, to that place where lost emails go.  OH how many lost emails.  Often important ones.  Why is it never the email that fucks everything up, why is it always the sweet ones we lose.  Because those are far fewer and far between and farther in probability to lose.  Simple.

Text is simple, writing is simple, words are simple.  Maybe it's the music i'm listening to.  Right now, jerry butler, hey, western union man.  Damn app didn't like me switching over so i could see what is next, which is, um, damn, forgot, i don't want to wait another ten second by alt-tabbing over.  Oh, what a day, a night, a thing known as quiet screaming.

I think i write in ways that should be read aloud, in the mind, if nothing else.  Oh, "it's just a matter of time," by um, someone, i'm not alt tabbing.  But i know what's next which is garnet mims and Cry Baby, which i don't want to listen to, not a bad song, just not what i feel like right now, i just don't want to alt tab when the time comes and have to wait another ten second because my application wants to be a naughty application.  But maybe, maybe it's the music i'm listening to.

I could change to a place in the playlist a little more optomistic.  I could, but i won't, i'm just going to be blogging for a bit longer anyway.  These headphones are not very good, the other ones that are broken even more at least cut out the sound of the loud ass computer better.  Crystal Mimms--no it's garnet mimms or mims, but not crystal.  Who knows why things get mislabeled, that's even something from my own collection, good old beg scream and shout that good ol' box of sixties soul by rhino, it's been with me long, and it's good songs.  And western union man i believe was from it also.  I listen to a lot of the same songs.  I like them at least.  This is pretty good, i don't really need to alt tab over...  Oh but the notifier from my antivirus, i have to close that, oh, but then i have to wait ten fucking seconds when i alt tab back, sigh...  Fuck it, i'll take care of it when i blog off.  I'll blog off soon.  i'm talking prosaicly.  At least before it wasn't prosaic.  Artsy, if it can be artsy, but it wasn't prosaic.  And tell me something...  please...  Is it better when i'm sober?  The writing?  I wonder that.  I wonder if i should just get more and more sober...

My mother says my mind is sharper, but how does she know, i had to hide my unsober mind from her... Okay, supremes i'm alt tabbing over--i didn't make this playlist with just me in mind, otherwise there would be a lot less supremes--i mean, they're good, certainly for a girl group, but i don't really dig girl groups, that's just me.  Okay, a quick alt tab, besides all this talk about apps is really plebian.

I really need a new app.  Anyway, now i'm on to the ruffin brother's version of turn back the hands of time.  As opposed to, what's his name, tyrone davis, that's who.  Good old tyrone davis--is this the, no it's the other version.  Nope, it's the tyrone davis version, nevermind.  Anyway, i could be jimmy ruffin, he's the one who was a tempt, not david, that's his brother who's only known because he sang with his brother, but hey, maybe he's still alive, and that's kinda nice.  Still, i'd rather be a lead of the tempts, even if it is kinda a jinxed position, considering the others who were sooo very awesome, but also like me...  Have known about addiction.  Have known about quiet screaming.  And i know about quiet screaming.  I often sing rather than quietly scream, and thus i sing alot, and thus i'm good at it, and i could be a lead of the tempts damn it.

I could even make a tempts comeback.  We could take over the radio, they'd be playing temptations songs on the r&b stations, new ones, ones with me in the front, and it would be beautiful music that someone my age 40 years from now will sing.  But in the meantime, oh there's no meantime, that suggests it will happen.  I put the odds of me being the frontman for the tempts as about equal to my winning the lottery.  Oh, guess who's on.  The tempts, "all i need."  I even waited 10 seconds so i could tell you that.

All, all i need...  is just to hear you say... you forgive me forgive me.

Songs about wanting love, wanting it back, yeah, that can have an effect on a man's writing.  Even if it isn't direct, it's there, it reminds me of my other wants, like being musically famous and making beautiful music.  And ending quiet screaming, though that would still be there.  I just want to be making awesome music, music like this.  Damn good song.  Then again, it is the tempts, probably my favorite group of all time.  Pretty plebian--i suppose, not as bad as your average white group lover.  You know someone who's favorite group is the beatles, or worse, the stones.  The beatles at least have a large discography, i may not dig any of it, but whatever...  Oo, another tyrone davis song, good ol' "can i change my mind," i've covered that one.  No one knows of course.

She acted like i was the last thing on her mind.  I would like ta...  start all over again...  baby can i change my mind...  i just want to change my mind...  baby let me change my mind.

I'm not sure, but i don't think tyrone davis is around any more, and i'm not enduring any 10 second delays to find out.  But still, i would be happy with tyrone davis level of immortality even.  Maybe.  I'd rather Ruffin's level.  But actually Levi Stubbs is more about...  Mmm, maybe James Brown.  That's a fair level.  James Brown is alive too, and still performing.  Oh, to perform with James Brown, man, what a dream.  What a dream!

Oh, but i lived that one, heh.  When i was thinking, yeah...  That i wasn't so crazy, but i thought he...  I was thinking crazy, no way could i have that dream come true.  And then have it taken from me.  Ug, that's the worst, when i started thinking it was gone.  When it didn't happen, everything just didn't happen, and i was me again, stupid useless unknown me.  And now stevie is playing, man, that's the true level of immortality, that's what i want Stevie Wonder's level.  But he was known since youth to be a genius.  No one knew i was a genius at youth.  Man, and i can do a mean, i mean a mean version of For Once In My Life, and if we were next to each other, singing together, that would be nirvana and a half.

Now it's Otis--man i can pick 'em, good list except for some of the girl groups i tossed in.  Otis, sing Respect, no one can sing it like him.  Well, maybe me.  I could.  I'm fucking that good.  And i know it, have i mentioned that?  I'm sure i have.  So what am i going to do with this talent?  Oh, maybe perform for strangers who happen to be passing by and that's it, and no one will know about me, and what of it, what of me, what of any of it, oh this and other things i blog, i blog and blog and blog.  Man, i could sing it mean, i could sing it sweet, i could be the singer of ages.  All this i know, but i don't.

And i was someone.  For a bit, for a few seconds, then no one knew me, and i was no one again.  Good old nobody, once again.  And i could be someone, very frustrating.  Very frustrating.  I could be someone, should i work towards it, or work towards being a worker.  A nobody with a nice secure position in a nice secure profession.  I'd hate that, but i hate being nobody in nothing and not having money.  That's kinda sucky, i just know i have somebody in me, and he can sing, it's just really annoying is all.

Perhaps the reader of this blog whom i envision will read me years from now, for what reason i'm not sure yet, what will he think?  I don't know.  I think what the people who may read this now might think is "who do you think you are?"  Why do you think you can be this.  So many people want to be that.  OR something like that.

Not people willing to work at it once i be it.  I don't know.  I don't.  I just write bullshit.  I'm a phony.  A fake.  A salinger in sheeps clothing.  I keep writing about big things but i feel i'm just doing a long small thing.  No one cares.  Why do i blog, why do i do this.  Does anyone care?  No one cares.  They don't.  They haven't, and chances are, they won't.  But whatever, i can still blog.

Still blog or quietly scream.

Yep, those are the special words for today's entry.  "Quietly Screaming."  You'll never hear them again probably, since i don't do things like themes or anything that might bring cogence to something like, oh, i don't know, a blog.  Who wants to read my blog?  Will they, won't they, why don't they?  Is it because i write about nothing, or because i don't?  I don't know.  I do say things a lot.  Like I don't know.  I say them repeatedly even.  I don't know.  Don't.  Know.

I want to do more covers, is that so wrong?  Is it wrong to do covers?  Is it wrong to do covers?  Is it wrong?  Is it so wrong?  Will it really get me nothing at all?  It probably won't get me anything at all.  Because i just make it, and then there's nothing but my stupid voice, which is all alone, and these great songs have all these great instruments and great other musicians, and i'm too antisocial, i'll never be anyone because i'd have to gasp talk to someone and network and get things together and i'm not like that.  i can't.  i'm not someone who does that, i'm someone who just sings, i love to sing, i love these songs, i want to make these songs, i could.  Really, i can sound very uncaucasian when i try hard enough.  Heh.  I'm sorry, but white music sucks, it just does.  Every once in a while you'll get a good group, they exist, like the guess who or zeppelin, sure, they're good.  Not many are american, but there's a few good white groups out there, not many good white singers though.  Can't really think of any off the top of my head.  Nope.  I could be one though.  I could.  I just...  Am nobody, that's all.  But i could beat my color, if i may be so.  I could.  But no one will make me anything more than i am, and i am nothing right now, and i wish i could be someone or something, but how, when the show i want to do i can't, and, oh yeah, there's still a few more days before i can't any more.

Songs of wanting love.  Damn, that's the problem.  That's why i want to quietly scream, i still have a few days left until my dreams run out.  Then i have to wait another six months.  Oh i could do something else, but i'm not that kind of person.  Why don't they just say, "fuck this contest and all that bullshit, we found someone with a lot of talent, and we could right now have him in a studio, and we're sitting around on our asses hoping he'll try out again, when his psychiatrist says he can't, and really, haven't we played spook around the corner long enough?  Haven't we been video taping secretly and hoping he'll go the way of the script for too damn long?  So what if he's not going to be contestant who goes to the final round and wins in the nice prosaic way we all wanted it to happen?  The point of the contest of the damn show was to find someone with talent, we did, so fuck the million dollars or whatever the prize is, he doesn't want it, he wants to make music, let's get him in a room with some of these talented people whom he idolizes who aren't doing anything right now anyway, and let him make the awesome music he wants to, and we could sell it, and make ourselves a whole shit load of money??"  Why aren't they thinking that, why haven't they emailed...

Oh, that's right.  I was crazy.  There were no cameras.  No one cared about me, because i had no talent.  That's right, i forgot all of that, and all those nice people who take care of us crazy people have spent so long trying to tell me, and here i was forgetting it all again.  Why?

Maybe it's because i want to quietly scream.  Maybe that's why.

Oh, i'm so sick of this life.  Why do i do it?  Why do any of it.  Tell me Ray...

Come love your daddy all night long, alright now, hey hey, alright.  See the girl with the diamond ring, she knows how to shake that think, alright now, hey hey, hey hey.  Tell your mama, tell your pa, i'm going to send you back to arkansas...

Play it ray.

Man, that could be me.  Okay, maybe i couldn't be ray charles, but i could be someone damn it.  Quiet screaming.  Just do some more of that.

I don't open my mouth, i don't make a sound, but the screaming is there.  It plays in my head, and it almost drowns out the music, but it doesn't.  Since it's quiet.  But it's there.  And it's a scream.  It's not a yelp, or a hollar, or anything nice and musical.  It's just one note.  And it's loud except it's unheard.  Damn, this play list only has part one of that song.  Oh well.  Fats Domino next, he's still around.

I think about my idols, and time passing, and my idols passing, and with every year less and less likely i get to sing a song with an idol.  More of the same, more of the same, no one caring, just doing that one note.  That loud note, it wants to drown out fats, fats, not my fault, i'm no nobody, and i want to scream it.

quiet screaming.  oo, gladys next.  You can't beat gladys, oh stop it mind, it's gladys, and she's sing heard it through the grapevine, let me hear the song damn it, stop screaming...  Or is it just the whirring of the hard drives...  I turn up my head phones, but the screaming stays on level with the music, i can't drown it out, so i'm not going to try, i love this song too.  Sorry marvin, but her version is better.  I'm pretty sure his is next though.

Just barely better, not by a lot, just a little, but it is better.  Just barely.  So close, it's impossible to measure, but something's gotta be the best.  And Gladys is my favorite female singer, so that's all there is to that.  My favorite male singer is probably marvin though.  Could i be Marvin?  Could i be marvin...

Hmm, i didn't put it next, i'm back to ray charles with "hit the road jack."  Man, he was a genius.  So was marvin.  And what did marvin do?  He sang.  He sang rather than be the son of his father, that's what he did.  And boy could he sing.  Ray couldn't sing like that.  He could play a mean piana, but he couldn't sing like marvin.  Can i sing like marvin?  Hmm, i dunno.  That's pretty lofty.  But i can hit each note, i don't know, he's pretty clever with his intonations, i mean, like mozart with his appreggios or whatever they are called.  Next is four tops, standing in the shadows of love.

I gotta stop listening to these songs of wanting love, i got to stop since i want the love of the world, and i can't have it, so i gotta stop fucking with myself like this, i need to stop blogging.  Or is it just quietly screaming that i need to stop.  Maybe that's the word, the word that is being screamed "stop."  STOP, stop it screams.

Oh to be motown, that would be awesome.  To be someone.  Someone.  Stop.  No.  Yes.  Stop. STooooooooo

Nevermind.  You don't want to hear what my mind has to tell me, it doesn't tell me much nice things, okay, supremes again. fuck this, i'm done.

Friday, October 27, 2006 10:52 PM

Thursday, November 2, 2006 9:10 PM

Happy November 2nd everybody!  Yay, woo...  Can you tell i'm not excited?

I'm in fact the opposite of excited.  I'm the kind of bored where you want to hurt yourself--just to relieve your boredom.  Actually, i am kindof excited but for other reasons.

"Other reasons," can i get more cryptic?  Yes, i can.

Oh what the hell, it won't hurt anything will it?  Will it...  Dare i risk it...  I want to blog about an email i just got.  That of course involves another person.  Someone who wrote to me, thus that involves another person.  Who is this person?  Is it possibly female?  Possibly.  Would i care, really, if it wasn't?  Probably not.  And by "care" i mean would i blog about it?  Probably not.

I don't want to jinx anything, we got a nice correspondence going, and i will have to correspond back to her.  I sent an elicitory--if that's a word--email of just two or three sentences.  Basically a "you do like this email i'm sending you, right?" kind of message.  She took that as a excitement--verbosity does usually mean the opposite--hence this blog entry would be very verbose--assuming she hadn't emailed me--now the verbosity comes from the opposite of the opposite, one could say excitement, that it comes from excitement, yes, now i'm excited--i'm not really excited in my three sentences when i'm not sure the email was being, well...  appreciated isn't the word.  Okay, it is the word, it's an insecure word is all.  And it's being appreciated, that's what matters.  So she says--or rather writes--that she can hear the excitement in my voice.  Now i've excitement, of course, now i'm blogging it all over the world...

That's kind of how i am.  I like to tell people when i'm happy about something.  Or excited.  Or when i'm not.  But when i'm not, to a less extent.  And usually in a less coquetish way.  More of a, oh what was the term last entry, "quiet screaming," way.  Oh, i like that term very much.  Doesn't apply right now, though.  Right now i'm thinking, why am i blogging when i could be writing her...

Because it's one person as oppose to every person--but every person is really no person.  No one reads my blog.  At least they never did when i, um, was green.  Anyway, the rest of the email is none of your--by your i mean no one's--business.  It's the business of nobody but me, and perhaps the woman who wrote it.  Who is the woman...  Hmm, how much can i write...  Well, go back far far far into the past--about a year or so...  And i wrote about her fairly extensively.  I used my oh so clever psuedonyming ability and pretty much designated her by the profession she had at the time, by psuedonymizing her place of work as "intelligent and complete," maybe with an ampersan, i don't remember.  That may not be enough to find it, lord knows how i'd go about finding it now.  But i dedicated a lot of music to her on the new.htm page.

But let's not get /too/ excited.  After all, things are not yet completely unencumbered.  Typical of me.  Situation may be unencumbered eventually, and it seems cumbersome--which is a good thing, as opposed to "attached" and not necessarily chaffing.  But yeah, encumbered.  So let's just leave that as something slowly brewing or simmering, but regardless, nothing bad, and certainly cooking up well.  Oh, another thing, is i'm no longer in San Diego.  She is.  That's a problem.  But i've got problems, and she's encumbered, so whatever, a bit of excitement, in an email or two, and that's how it may be for some weeks--maybe months.

Perhaps i should do school work instead of blogging.  I just took my pill about 30 minutes ago.  Lesser dosage, that's something to blog about.  Or email about, but instead I'm blogging.  I'll be emailing her soon enough, I'm sure.  I needed a short email, at least, she gave me a short email, at least, and now i'm to write another, but i don't have to do it immediately.  It's just asking me the thing, well, you expect in an email.  To paraphrase, "how is everything."  What's new.  What's happening in my life.  What's the haps...  Then i think...  This is why I blog...  But then i think, but otherwise, i'd have nothing to email...  But then I think, can i copy and paste what i email, and that i think, naw, that's too plebian.  And then i think, damn, i think a lot, and then i think, i wish i didn't think so much.  And then i think--is that me fiending for what I used to know?  I don't know.  But i'm on a lesser dosage.  My psychiatrist-up-here, a nice man, just not "good enough" to deserve the title "the psychiatrist" or "the psych"--much like my other "ex" doesn't deserve the title "the ex" like my one girlfriend of two and a half years.  Man, those were some good days.  Boy would it be nice to be in a relationship again.  Anyway, not green, so i think i'll finish my sentence.  My psychiatrist-up-here has decided, after i told him how damn groggy i get every morning, to okay a halving of my dosages of the risperdal.  That's big news.  Big because risperdal is a big part of my damn life, not in a way that i used to think about things, and by things i mean, not people nor animals, being a big part of my life.  Man life is so different when you're not green.

When I was green, it was like, do one thing.  No worries.  Do one thing, and be happy.  Now it's like.  Do something!  Do a lot of things.  Get things done with your day.  And i do.  Not a lot, since i have to fight this other part of me that says, "you're doing nothing, you need to be doing more, more, more, what are you doing?  You're just sitting in your damn car singing to the radio for strangers who don't care, then you come home and entertain--no expect your mother to entertain you--and then take your pill turn on your computer and write this until it kicks in--which it is doing now, but it's lower dosage, so what's the damn point."  This other part says a lot of things, that's just some of things it says.  It also says, "damn this sobriety is boring, damn how i wish i could spark something, someone would light my fire, somehow i could get much higher."  Fire.  That warm heating glow.  Damn part of me says, "you're sober, that doesn't make any sense, or it's repetetive, both probably, still, use some damn full sentences."  Damn part of me then says, "and stop saying damn, curse in some variety damn it."

I'm a bit hard on myself.  I didn't have to be when i'm green.  I wasn't hard on anybody then.  I was just easy.  Easy like sunday morning.  I wanted to be free to know the things i did were right.  No one told me.  Never was.  And now?  Could I go back?  Could i go back...  Let's play pretend, since i don't have anything to really pretend with, it's going to be forced a bit, but let's play it anyway.  Let's pretend I actually had some money.  Now then.  Would I spend it on that which i knew so well, and miss so well.  My headache is back, i think i'll take two more knock-off tylenol.  Acetaminophen.  Since the damn bottle's in front of me.  Damn headache, part of that damn head of mine.  Damn risperdal's hit, practically, but it hit with half the punch, i'm not even really tired.  Damn wish i could go back to taking the zoloft at night.  Damn wish i didn't have to take it in the morning when i get damn tired.  Damn tylenol knock-off, not even close to the damn sweet sweet sweet sweet leaf.  Oh that leaf, that sweet green leaf, that soft tender, fluffy, melt-in-your-mouth leaf, oh i miss thee, dear, i miss you so.  if i had the money...  What would i do...  Would i?  Why wouldn't i?

Cameras.  That's a reason not to.  But that came from being depressed, is kind of what i gathered from my new psych-up-here.  I think the psych-down-there would agree to.  The herb facilitated or not?  I can't be sure.  Cameras.  Everywhere.  And I was somebody!  Oh, how wonderful it was, I'd wake up, and go some place, and there'd be people there, just for me, to capture my reactions, to see what interesting things i would do that day.  Even if i didn't do anything interesting, they'd still be there, ready for me to do something next time, which i'd probably do, since i was interesting like that.  I'd probably do a bit of singing.  I sing a lot.  A lot.  In stores, like the girl who i'm emailing with, she used to hear me come into the store singing, we don't talk about it, though.  Same store, since i'd be going there a lot, since it was where i got the hip to my flask, my ying to my yang, my red bull.  Oh sweet nectar, that from which i used to sup on the ambrosia, that sweet, sweet, green fluffy kernels of goodness, oh i miss thee.  Were you goodness though!  Is it moot that i can't afford you.  Or is it merely a thin device keeping us apart.  It's not like if there was a kernel right here.  A fluffy nug right here.  BUT ONLY ONE.  I'd smoke it, i wouldn't.  Not one.  But if there was money to buy more and more, and no concern there, and i could do it with glee and i had my place to my own which i could also support, and then...  That one nug, would it last long?  But now?  Now that i can't afford it, and i can't play the same game on my parents having told them the entire strategy--they weren't aware of my addiction, they had inklings, but i had done a good job of never getting caught, since i never broke the law, i'd never get caught--until damn it, i had some delusions and i called the damn police myself, and then all the fun was gone...  But i was so unhealthy.  But why, why is the question?  And also how long?  How much longer could i really keep up that life, where i was not telling my parents what i was spending it on, but i was spending it, and it was making me pass time, but i was depressed, and wanted to be somebody, and i'd imagine the cameras.  Cameras.

I'm a bit hard on myself.  Wasn't when I was green.  Wasn't hard on anything.  I was just easy.  It was just easy.  Life was eaiser.  Things were easier.  And for a while they became kind of fun.  I suppose if it wasn't fun, it wouldn't have happened, damn cameras.  And people cared.  People who were somebodies.  And then i became a somebody.  And life was fun.  And it was easier.  And now, now no one cares.  Or maybe some do, some i care about, and then perhaps i could get back some of that excitement before i started to blog.  But now, now there's the tiredness, the pill has really done it's full punch, for all it's worth, which is half of what it was, i'm not ...  zzz...  okay, i'm a bit tired...  yes there's the tiredness, should i sleep?  Why says that part, so i could just do it all again, all the nothing, as part of my nobody life...  Damn part, it's the part that does all the screaming.  Why does she have to be there and i here.  i don't want to be here.  i want to be there.  i can't do the life i had, no choice, can't play the same game, my parents know what i'd be spending it on, no way to say nothing and expect nothing when i've told them (them being my mother) that i spent their money the last seven years on it.  Why can't i go back?  Oh, yeah, i have to finish things here.  So why am i blogging, i could be working on my classes.  If i finish the classes, i could go back maybe.  i have to finish them first, and that's a big if.  If being a time thing, and a reading thing, a lot of reading, i don't read nearly as fast as i write.  I mean, comparatively to how fast other people read or write.

The problem is people write crap.  They write words and words of crap they really don't expect people to really ingest.  Or maybe they do, i can't ingest it.  It grates on my system.  I read these words and go, "why?  those were useless, you could have said the same in a third of the space, and it's not entertaining in the least, if you're going to spend all those words, you could at least entertain me a damn bit, but it's not, it's boring useless words, and i'm having to read them, why, why can't they just learn how to write damn it."  That's the problem with one of my classes.  The other one is a writing project i have to do myself, but it's not like blogging, it's not like that, it's something where i have to know what i'm going to say, and how, and there's programs involved i don't even have.  And that's that's problem.  (The first that's is a contraction the second a possessive, and that's that's explaination.)  Oh, that stupid damn part of me, pissed off at my use of a parenthetical.  It says, i'm tired, but not, what the hell i'm going to do with my life.  just says i'm tired, and why do you have to be such a fucking loser, wasting your life away, singing for strangers, playing your harmonica for people who don't care that you can do the extended original version of light my fire.  They don't care, you don't matter, nothing matters, because you are a nobody.  and that's all there is to it.  Nobodyism.  A lifestyle based on being nobody, the tenets of the philosophy being unintelligible to the people living it, they just go through it, thinking what are they going to do with their lives, assuming they think at all.  Because a lot of nobody's don't think, then there are those (like me) who think a damn lot, too much damn it, some damn times, and they think, all this thinking, should pay off somehow, but it hasn't, and it doesn't, but some day, maybe i'll be somebody, and people would read and they would care.  And by people i mean more than the few nobody's i'm not even thinking of right now, and that doesn't include me, though i'm a nobody, but i'm thinking of myself right now, but i'm not caring, though i'm reading, since i'm writing, oh why do i even write!

Thursday, November 2, 2006 10:16 PM

Thursday, December 7, 2006 0:39 AM

I have a new blog.  http://www.awbvious.com/blog.html.  I'm trying the blogger.com software so it can allow for comments and things like that.  Besides thegreenroom isn't green any more.  And I don't want to think of being in grey as the impermanent absense of green.  I'm dealing with that in my new blog.

Thursday, December 7, 2006 0:44 AM