Just finished writing Chapter 4, Sentence 1, 2, 3, AND FOUR.

The clouds looked as if they had been painted into the sky.  Just mesmerizing.  Sometimes I wish I could show the world.  Other times, I wish the world would see.

not an addict

let me tell you a little story 'bout a friend of mine, his name's boll weevil check him out now

The Eye of the World.

This book is epic. How epic, you ask?  More so than Lord of the Rings itself.  Yes, I crossed that line...and I'm still walking. What makes it this epic is how hard your mom pounced my 9 inch schlong in the alley last night.

Go check it out if you're an elite underground nerd that knows all about everything like myself.

p.s. click here

musika

HERE we go. This is probably, most definitely going to be my most favorit-est blog.

If you don't already know, I'm sorry you live under a brick that someone threw a used/leaking condom on top of...no, no i'm not.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZbbxA8a_M_s

Monotromy - not so much for the music, but the video is just spectacular.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uYB2Mqs24ss

LEVI WEAVER. mastermind.  In concert, he leaves you stumbling over your own words.  
In fact, I can not begin to describe his greatness through words.  He plays guitar, bass, drums, keyboards, harmonica, a little accordion, some pan flute, hand flute, mouth trumpet, and percussion on a vast array of things not intended to be used for percussion.
I leave you with this video he made.

I highly recommend "Good Medicine" and "Dear Friend" by Levi.

BEIRUT. 

GRIZZLY BEAR.

ARCTIC MONKEYS.

DON'T FEEL LIKE WRITING RIGHT NOW, i'll update this when i'm not being a slacker.

...schwing!

Books i can only hope to convince you to read.

Here we go.

Still Life with Woodpecker: By Tom Robbins

Consider a certain night in August.  Princess Leigh-Cheri was gazing out of her attic window. . . "Does the moon have a purpose?" she inquired of prince Charming [her pet frog].
     Prince Charming pretended that she had asked a silly question.   Perhaps she had.  The same query put to the Remington SL3 elicited this response:
     Albert Camus wrote that the only serious question is whether to kill yourself or not.
     Tom Robbins wrote that the only serious question is whether time has a beginning and an end.
     Camus clearly got up on the wrong side of bed, and Robbins must have forgotten to set the alarm.
     There is only one serious question.  And that is:
     Who knows how to make love stay?

     Answer me that and I will tell you whether or not to kill yourself.

House of Leaves: By Mark Z. Danielewski.

"FUCK" was still scratched above it. As I've been doing my best to incorporate most of these amendments, I didn't think it was fair to suddenly exclude this one even if it did mean a pretty radical shift in tone.

This instance in particular proves that beneath all the cool psuedo-academic nonsense lurked a very passionate man who knew how important it was to say "fuck" every now and then, and say it out loud too, relish 

its syllabic sweetness, its immigrant pride, a great American epic word really, starting at the lower lip, often the very front of the lower 

lip, before racing all the way to the back of the throat, where it finishes with a great blast, the concussive force of the K catching up 

then with the hush of the F already on its way, thus loading it with plenty of offense and edge and certainly ambiguity. FUCK. A great by-

the-bootstrap prayer or curse if you prefer, depending on how you look at it, or use it, suited perfectly for hurling at the skies or at the world.

Maybe he just wrote "fuck" because he wasn't saying fuck before when he could fuck and now as he waited in that hole on Whitley he wished he could of lived a little differently. Or then again maybe he just needed a word strong enough to push back his doubts, a word strong enough to obliterate.

You wouldn't believe how much harder it's getting for me to just leave. It's really sad. In fact these days the only thing that gets me outside is when I say: fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck you. fuck me. fuck this. fuck. fuck. fuck.

Now John Pullega, this is the part of the book that I tried to find for you.

House of Leaves: By Mark Z. Danielewski.

Page 131

"I finally hooked up with Ashley.  I went over to her place yesterday morning.  Early.  She lives in Venice.  Her eyebrows look like flakes of sunlight.  Her smile, I'm sure, burnt Rome to the ground.  And for the life of me I didn't know who she was or where we'd met.  Before she even said a word, she held my hand and led me through her house to a patio overgrown with banana trees and rubber plants.  Black, decomposing leaves covered the ground but a large hammock hung above it all.

We sat down together and I wanted to talk. I wanted to ask her who she was, where we'd met, been before, but she just smiled and held my hand as we sat down on the hammock and started to swing above all those dead leaves. She kissed me once then suddenly sneezed, a tiny beautiful sneeze, which made her smile even more and my heart started hurting because I couldn't share her happiness, not knowing what it was or why it was or who for that matter I was--to her. So I lay there hurting, even when she sat on to of me, covering me in the folds of her dress, and her with no underwear and me doing nothing as her hands briefly unbuttoned my jeans and pulled me out of my underwear, placing me where it was rough and dry, until she sank down without a gasp, and then it was wet, and she was wet, and we were wet, rocking together beneath a small patch of overcast sky, brightening fast, her eyes watching the day come, her blonde hair covering her face, her knees tightening around my ribs, until she finally met that calendrical coming without a sound--the only sign--and then even though I had not come, she kissed me for the last time and climbed out of the hammock and went inside.

Before I left she told me our story: where we'd met--Texas--kissed, but never made love and she needed to do it before she got married which was in four months to a man she loved who made a living manufacturing TNT exclusively for a highway construction firm up in Colorado where he frequently went on business trips and one night, drunk, angry and disappointed he had invited a hooker back to his motel room and so on and who cared and what was I doing there anyway? I left, considered jerking off, finally got around to it back at my place though in order to pop I had to think of Thumper. It didn't help. I was still hurting, abandoned, drank three glasses of bourbon and fumed on some weed, then came here, thinking of voices, real and imagined, of ghosts, my ghost, of her, at long last, in this idiotic footnote, when she gently pushed me out of her door and I said quietly "Ashley" causing her to stop pushing me and ask "yes?" her eyes bright with something she saw that I could never see though what she saw was me, and not caring though now at least knowing the truth and telling her the truth: "I've never been to Texas."

Ready to Eye/Ear/Facegasm?

Holy shit.

The book's called "i don't care" by yours truly

Here's a little taste of the first page of a quote in my book - sorry for being a tease and quoting a quote, I just don't want anyone to steal my "book ideas" (not directed towards blogger friends, I trusss you guys):

"The Paradox of Our Age"

We have bigger houses but smaller families;

more conveniences, but less time;

we have more degrees, but less sense;

more knowledge, but less judgement;

more experts, but more problems;

more medicines, but less healthiness;

we've been all the way to the moon and back

but we have trouble crossing the street to meet

the new neighbor.

We built more computers to hold more 

information to produce more copies than ever,

but have less communication;

We have become long on quantity,

but short on quality.

These are times of fast foods

but slow digestion;

Tall man but short character;

Steep profits but shallow relationships.

It's a time when there is much in the window,

but nothing in the room.

-his holiness the 14th Dalai Lama

Also, since you're on your knees...i'll give away the first paragraph.

(ROUGH DRAFT - prone to extreme changes)

"I Don't Care" by Navi

(dedicated with love, to nobody)

Game Over. 

As I sit here eating lemons, I think to myself maybe I should have let death take its course at 13 after all. Not only have I overcome a hyper thyroid after 5 years of swallowing iodine, but without contacts I would be...to put this delicately, fucked.  That's right, just about as significant as this droplet of lemon juice missing the god damned cup. Jaaaaack fucking shit. Some days I can't help but wonder if we're far too advanced; maybe we need to back off and let death take us as it comes. Maybe it doesn't get better.  Maybe I'm just a waste of space, an unborn child's death, one more banana extinct. Had I been in this position long ago, I'd've* most likely been annihilated according to Charles Darwin. Considering my blindness, I would be the one nomad to spot a yellow pillow of considerable size - before they were ever invented, mind you - and think to lie down on it.  Only to have the yellow pillow pounce onto my frail body with immutable yearning to deracinate me on the spot. I can see myself now, convulsing helplessly as the Saber tooth mauls apart my face.

Am I only alive to live through the pain of knowing I shouldn't be?

(end of paragraph 1)

*= word stolen from Pullega.

Always, 

-Navi