Sunday Morning Thoughts 6.26.11

Dear Diary,

I find it hard to explain why I never seem to do anything despite all of the intention I throw. I find it hard to explain because… because why Brian? Why?

Hold on, let me guess. You had a nice week and yet won’t stop bitching about fuck knows what, for no fucking reason? You want to be some sort of existentialist, but the things you say are no different that the stupid bullshit that everyone else says. You attach yourself to the ideas and believe that those ideas are life and nothing else ever will be. So when those ideas just become to unreasonable to believe, you just get sad. That doesn’t make you a philosopher; it makes you a little bitch.

A philosopher solves problems. You just talk about yours. You’re like a mental patient.

“Hey man, watch how you talk.”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

“What the fuck? I can’t say mental patient anymore?”

“Some people are sensitive about it.”

“Thanks for filing me in, fuck face.”

Now does that seem like a solution to you? I didn’t think so. I do want to be some sort of vessel of enlightenment, but I’m none too good at it. I suppose that is only natural. Time and stuff. Not being able to look through time for infinite wisdom kinda blows. But still, I must have gathered some sort of spiritual illumination by now. Even if it’s not much, it’s something. And it could also be supposed that there’s more of the universe juice about me than there was last week. The progression reveals the entire piece for what it is. It is all one, but tiny eyes can only see tiny parts.

You know, if you’re blind you can still see images in your dreams. Imagine what that must be like to spend every night experience something that you never could in conscious reality. It must feel like heaven. It must look like heaven. And it does, because this is heaven. And Hell. And all that lies between.

Speaking of between, writing stuff. I don’t know what I’m going to do about writing. Other than therapy web seshes that no one reads, I haven’t written much all month. I’m  wondering about this story I’m writing. I don’t know if I should ax it or not. I don’t know if it’s either the idea hasn’t quite ripened yet or it is just a dumb idea, but I can’t think up anything good to come next. I should probably start thinking my stories through before I write them. I should also proofread, but fcuk that.

Hahaha… wow this is sad. So the last sentence of the last paragraph, the fuck was intentionally spelt wrong and I wrote that as t a t h, but spellcheck won’t let you do that. Damn, I guess I never realized the freedom that is lost with the computer. I should make t a t h a word and sue Microsoft, because I would so win. Come on, Bill Gates dropped out of college, he’s a fucking loser. Richard Branson also dropped out of school too. But he’s pretty badass. The guy has some record for flying around the world. That shit is nuts.

But now that I wasted so much time looking up Richard Branson on Wikipedia, I suppose that my train of thought is gone. Goodbye thought, I will miss you.

New thought? New thought. The new thought is that all life is a waste because nothing can ever seem to appreciate it enough. I don’t think anyone ever will either. If they did, it would cease to be life. Life is never good, nor is it bad. It just is and it’s life and nothing more. It can’t be. If it were, we wouldn’t be calling it life. Life is sort of like a burden for the human mind, just because we are so prone to mass destruction. If I could, maybe I would destroy everything. I might not be as moral and valiant as I like to think I am. Hell, I don’t even proofread. What kind of immoral maniac would do such things?

This immoral maniac would, and does and will forever because that’s all the time I’ve got. I have eternity and not a second more, so I’d better not waste it. There’s a lot to do, especially among the blinding lights to energy and rather silly idea know as existence.

Sincerely,

Brian Sears

 

P.S.- I don’t really have anything else to say, but in the off chance that you only quickly skimmed this and were only going to read the post script, please give it a try. It’s short and stupid and if it sucks, I’ll stop… most likely… probably not at all.

Sunday Morning Thoughts 6.19.11

Do you think that if someday, I actually make something of myself and become this person that I’ve claimed to be so capable of being, that all of these little thoughts that I type up every week will be part of the story. Will they be in my biography? The Thoughts of a Young Brian Sears. But what are the thoughts of a young Brian Sears?

He’s tired. He’s scared. He’s in awe and shock of everything. He feels the burden of this era and age upon his shoulders. Why? Beats me man. My room is a mess. My mind is no better. It’s not screaming as loud but that’s part of the problem. It’s quite. It won’t say this or that or lend to any type of answer. It wants to run away. So do I. But where to run to? What to do when I get there? Let me ask you this, and then I’ll ask you that. You have three hours to fill in as many answers you can. Number 2 pencil please and if you are caught looking at anyone else’s page, you life will be ripped up on the spot and you will receive a failing grade. Quit your whining, those are the rules and if you don’t like them, tough titties my friend.

I’ve been thinking about girls and love and all that. I think about it because I’m alone. I wonder if I’ll ever find what it is that I’m looking for. I don’t know what it is and I don’t have any delusions about what it may be anymore. I really haven’t the slightest clue. I may never find and just be alone.

I’d like to take a moment and thank all of the people who have told me I would. I won’t call you a liar, although I might as well. But you’re a beautiful liar, as you told me you were. I’m not mad, because I can’t be mad at you. What were you to do? You said all that you thought you could in that effort to spare my fragile little soul. So thanks, I guess.

Still, I know not what to be doing. I have many great ideas but can’t seem to convince myself of any of them. I had a man in McDonald’s ask me about what I do for school. I said I’m a broadcast major. He said I have a voice for performing. He said immediately it caught his attention. I handed him is Quarter Pounder with Cheese and thank him. I’ve had other people tell me things like that. I’ve had people tell me that kind of stuff my entire life. A few years ago, I had a parent of one of my old students tell my boss that she was convinced I was going to become famous. Why do people say such things? Are they lying to me too? But why lie? What need do they have to make up such fibs to fill my head? They hardly even know me. They wouldn’t even know my name, if it wasn’t for my nametag.

Motivation is the dream. You become convinced that you need something else to do anything. The illusions of this world just become more than you can ignore. I know how it is and yet it seems to be not. And it doesn’t matter because this is rather boring. I don’t blame you for getting away from me. I can’t imagine I’m very easy to deal with. I’m all full of want and not a single action towards any of it. I wait and wait and wait and wait and wait and wait for something to come my way that I knew wasn’t coming so very long ago. And I do know that, trust me. In my last shining moment, I remember when I knew it was gone and blah, blah, blah.

More crap for the moment. Hopefully the next decade of my life will be a little more revealing and uplifting than the last.

An Old, Skipping Record

Cigarette Cowboys die alongside I

As first person drops the wheel

To better hear the rain fall

But the need was naught

For the rain falls harder

If only for a moment, if only forever

The screen is off still nothing comes forth

To claim the burdened and relieve said soul

Only rain drops sound with tricks in my head

One cry of life tells all it’s not dead

So stands I so silent, solely sobered by dreamt up sighs

Dreams of lines pull me yonder

Dreams of troubles hold me still

Dreams are not for the peaceful

Empty and asleep, save crickets songs and tales

I long for sirens and sounds of motion

At least outside of my head

That makes them all for the moment

Time will neither kiss nor tell

Any truth, any lie or all that resides between

But these broken poems that litter the page

Will never grow up, nor will they ever change

And so shall I love them

Though they know nothing just the same

The Moral Dilemma of Zombies

The birds are singing and I still seem so far away. Where have I gone? Where am I going? But if all the answers had been there, I wasn’t looking. I’ve been dawdling about just wasting time for the sake of wasting it. I’ve been perpetually tired. I’ve been caught fanaticizing with my pants down and wasn’t even alert enough to be embarrassed. I am embarrassed. Why you ask? Because I’m a fool.

I’m so foolish that I can’t even come up with the words to tell you that I’m a fool. No pretty phrases because a fool’s gone and forgot them. My crafty is weak, as am I. This story I’m writing, sucks. It could be great, but it sucks. It doesn’t matter because no one has read it, but that’s why. Its garbage that lacks any true essence of anything I actually want to say with my life. I don’t even know what I want to say. In a few years, I’ll need a real job and a life to live and I here I sit with my hands in my fucking lap metaphorically jerking off into the abyss of existence. Nothing. Squat. All talk man, and no bite.

Yet, blah and then blah blah. No more speech on that because all that will come next is some stupid bullshit promise that I’ve suddenly been enlightened and will turn a new leaf towards a life that is full of the fruits of my passions and neat little arrays of success and prominence. No sir, I shall very well live in a crap apartment, alone and aching one day. I might not, but I also might.

I suppose when you spend your life watching pots boils, you don’t notice if the gas runs out. I’ve just been staring at a still pool just stagnating and breeding little nasty things that grow in water. There is a whole world out there. It’s pretty big, compared to me at least, and most certainly compared to you. But I guess you already knew that. You’re probably off in the vastness of your life, enjoying and celebrating and what not. I’m staying in this box, until something else comes. Watching pots boil, while you’re out there, being all out there and such. Shame on me, right? Shame on me for being such a fool. Shame on me for losing my sight. You’re right, shame on me.

I should be ashamed of myself. I don’t need anyone to pull myself out, I’m just lazy. I’m perpetually tired. All I need is the will to do and so shall be done. I don’t need that will to be inspired, I can just make it. Even if it’s in the fantasy of my own mind. This daydream was strong enough to trap me in any old reality, so why not a grand one. A scheme, if you will, that will put me on top of the world to see if that can rouse up any type of answer or satisfaction in my little soul.

In a few minutes, I’m going to finish this cup of coffee, take a shower and start my day. So let’s just you and I, create a fantasy before we go. It’ll start like this, there’s me and I’m going to become better than I was yesterday and won’t stop until there is no more getting better. You can do as you please. I won’t intrude or step on toes, unless those toes are in my way. I won’t get mad, but I’ll lie about that. If you care to join, join. If you care to run, run. If you care to dance, boogie. If it were to be, I suppose it would have been. It’s all the same, even if it held the possibility of different. Everything is air. Everything is water. Everything is the indefinite.

Guaranteed fresh Bullshit, as advertised.

Sunday Morning Thoughts 6.12.11

It doesn’t stop, does it? It just keeps rolling along no matter what is said or done or thought or acted. You can watch it and try and savor the sweetness as it comes to you, but it will just go on. You can wish the darkness your world spinning world away, but it won’t make it go faster. You can daydream and make up anything you want in your head, but still things will be as heartbreaking as they ever have been.

I went to Queens today and as I sat on the roof of my friend’s apartment and gazed out over that city that I love but have yet to conquer, I thought to myself as I had been doing since I woke up this morning, and every time I woke from my intoxicated dreams last night, and when I stared at all the liquid promise that I had been filling in my cup. I thought to myself and when I did, it was the same. But it’s not. No it’s not at all. I’ve been, darker? I can’t even say that. I don’t know what I can say. I don’t know what to do but that’s just because I’m a good liar. In fact, I’d say benevolent, but that would be a lie also.

It’s not like I don’t get attention. I get plenty. There are people who want my attention that I ignore and I’m evil for knowing it and still refusing it. I’m evil because I’m vain and greedy and selfish. I’m evil because I am man and man makes war. Why does man make war?

Don’t ask because I won’t tell you the truth. I’ll sculpt my own fate with lies. I design the most beautiful lies that will become my home and every morning I can wake up and look through the faint and fading words to things that never again be near. They’ll forever be just a sight at best, or a tattered foolish memory. And that memory may itself be a lie, but I couldn’t tell you. All I can tell you is that I was once younger and despite my juvenile appearance I can feel the hope of a young drunk fool fall into something that only was. It’s true and oh the symbolism! In about a month, I will no longer be a teenager. I’ve felt time take the feeling away.

And yet this liar is also a coward. He hides behind the same thoughts because anything else is scary because what if I mess up, or what if there’s nothing better out there and it would have taken a stronger person than the one in front of you to make it real. But you can’t even make anything real. I can’t.

I’m tired and my mind is quitting but I know if I try and lay my head down to sleep, nothing will come. I know that tomorrow I will think about the same themes that have been there. It’s stupid too be wasting all of this life on worrying about whether I’m cool enough.

Damn you! Damn you for the hope! Damn you for being! Damn it all to Hell! Damn it, I’ll be right back. I need to get something to chase this whiskey with because I’ll be damned if I don’t get some drunk writing in.

Now that John Jameson and I have spoken for a bit, I’ve been wodering if I should have bought that acid off of that guy outside of Penn Station. I mean, he was a pretty cool guy. He was wearing a shirt that said “Super 8” on it and we talked about music and festivals. I also talked to a nice man outside of Grand Central today. The conversation started because he asked me about my cane. It was my mace, because it is mine now until I pass it on.

And there it comes again; that impending feeling of running out of time because it’s squandered. That feeling I get that scares the ever loving shit out of me. Maybe you know what I’m talking about. Have you ever been so scared that you may have to be the one that leads a generation? Have you ever been scared that you may have to be the one to stop all of the nonsense and change the world but you can barely change you own life? Well if you have, what the fuck? Why aren’t we helping each other out? Then again, fuck you. Maybe this needs to be done by me and me alone. Alone. That’s what scares me. Maybe the person who does such things is doomed to the martyred life of loneliness. That’s scares me. Like I said, I’m a coward.

There was a part of me that was brave once. There was a part of me that was fascinated and eager and inspired. He never hangs around anymore. I know he’ll come back, but never be the same. I know that someday I’ll be strong enough to deal with all of my demons, it’s just not today. I also know that the boy in all of those moments is gone. Never will I ever get to have those visions be real and physical. I wish I had been paying better attention.

A Poem for One in the Morning

Abandoned by my cigarette.

My only friend burnt through my hand,

And I can’t see who’s at fault

And if nothing’s real then nothing’s lost.

Lonely night tomorrow wakes

Broken deliriums I fail to shake.

The thought of you

The thought of me

To think for nothing

Think to be.

A knife through the pages

Bought from the start

For vain and vicious

Is the art.

To all I’ve known,

I knew you not.

If you burn the traces

It’s forever gone

To a world of peace

To pick the thought

Of peaceful pieces

Of what was not.

Sunday Morning Thoughts 6.5.11

Can you hear it? The sun may not be shining but the birds, they still be singing. So if the birds seem ok with things, shouldn’t I be too? I guess I don’t have the blessed life of a songbird. I am stuck to the ground and if I just started to sing, I’m sure that someone would tell me to stop. Whether I would or wouldn’t is not something that I could decide right now.

I don’t know if now is the time for any decisions. I have not the slightest clue as to when that time would be either. I don’t really know anything and with each passing day, I feel as though I know less and less. The years a falling upon each other in messy little stacks and my darkened eyes know not what to do. I see the strain in my face, but I can’t seem to tell what for sure is making my fifth of a century feel like a whole one.

Well, maybe that’s it. I’ve been doing this whole living thing for almost twenty years now and I hadn’t really put any thought into it. I probably shouldn’t, but now that I have it will only infect my mind until it gets bored and finds something else to obsess over. Larry King was on TV for longer than I’ve been alive but still the impermanence of it all stands before me trying to block anything behind it from being seen by the little green eyes of a little blonde boy. I’m not a teenager anymore. Doesn’t that mean something? Doesn’t that mean I’m an adult? Am I? Have I grown into a man? Or am I still a boy?

I’ll always be a boy. I hope I will. I don’t want to be broken down and beaten. But I’m scared. I’m scared that life will only destroy me and make me into what I am not. I’m scared that I’ll be unfulfilled and lonely and empty. I’m scared that everything I do will never be enough. I’m scared that I’ll let people down or be a burden. I’m scared so shitless of inadequacy that it’s making me inadequate. I’m scared that once my body is gone, the very thought of me will fade soon after. I’m shallow and desirous and it’s all so terrible. I worry about a masterpiece and do nothing to make my own. I fail because my reasons are always seeming to me to be oh so wrong.

But this is just time and necessary darkness. My eyes need to adjust, that’s all. When you first step into the night, you can see nothing but the shadow that shrouds the land. But after time, you can begin to see. I’m beginning to see, but it’s only shapes. There’s no color yet. I still have to wait on day to pull above the horizon and reveal all that was dark for what it is. So I’ll be spooked and my imagination will always get the better of me and that’s fine. I care not for the moments that drag on. I’m sure someday, my whole life will be an old photograph that has faded but still radiates something beautiful because it wants to.

Or I’ll become nothing. I wonder if Beethoven would have worked at McDonald’s?

Thoughts on the End of the World – VI

The sun fell in from over the vacant and forgotten towers and I sat in its orange glow and listened to the sweet sound of Sarah’s voice. It may be the sweetest sound that my or anyone else’s ears could ever have the pleasure of hearing. And all this time little old me was watching pretty gals on the old movies that I’d found. But now I had one in color. She sat before me saying all the wisdom that women have that men just can’t.

She had lived through the collapse and found her way into what I would guess was tribe of nomads. I call them gypsies and they’re just a bunch of folks who found each other and grouped together and traveled to anywhere they feel that they might be able to survive for awhile. They were armed, but only for protection and were usually friendly or at the very least, not offensive. And with the danger dying down again in the world, they began a practice of having little markets set up where ever they would go. There was no money, of course, they would just trade and barter and it was perfect.

“I’m finally free,” fell sweetly from her lips. “My entire life I was held back by so many things, things that I couldn’t control. Now there isn’t anyone to tell me that I can’t do something. I have no chains.”

“It’s so nice being free,” she continued now facing me with her eyes draining my soul of any strength it once had. “Isn’t it?”

“I never thought of it as freedom,” I admitted.

“Well, why not?” is all she asked.

“Well,” was all that got out before I stopped in my tracks and rested my eyes on her as the whole world seemed to fall right within this little park. I didn’t know. I didn’t know why, but I had always felt like I was trapped. But I had felt trapped in my life before all this end of the world nonsense, so why wasn’t I free now?

“I don’t know Sarah,” said my timid smile. “I have always felt like I’m held back or trapped. I don’t know why, but I just am.”

“That’s just ridiculous,” she replied. “Just look at you! You’re alive for one and you live in here in New York, in the library. It’s all yours and no one can tell you it’s not.”

I said nothing. I just looked oh so fondly upon her as she smiled and laughed.

“Come on,” she said standing up. “Show me where you live.”

“Alright,” I said as I stood up to face her. “This way please miss.”

We walked out of the park with the sound of children laughing and the smell of food cooking behind us and for a moment, the world didn’t feel so empty. We walked across the street covered in long shadows cast by the empty giants all around us. She looked at everything in wonder and my wonder fell upon her. She wasn’t my girlfriend or anything like that, she just was and that’s all there needed to be. We walked up the stairs and to the door. I opened it up and held the door as she walked in.

Now, I had been living in this building for, give or take four years. In that time it had never taken my breath away as it did then. I couldn’t really describe it, maybe it was something about the way the sunlight caught all the little dust particles in the air and lit up the rows of shelves, but I was beaten with awe. Sarah turned to look at me as I stood still with wide gaze upon the room and laughed.

“What’s the matter?” She asked.

“Nothing,” I said looking back at her. “Freedom is just a beautiful thing to see. Thank you.”

“T’was nothing sir,” she said. “Now show me around. There’s too much for me to figure it out on my own.”

So I showed her around. We went through all the books and I told her to take anyone that she wanted, so she did. She grabbed some Oscar Wilde and Allen Ginsberg and a few others. I showed her my record collection and we would play some and just stare at the ceiling talking of what we thought and so on. She picked up a Kinks album. “Lola Versus Powerman And The Moneygoround” to be precise.

“You know,” I said daringly. “I still can’t believe that you’re here. It seems so surreal.”

“Maybe it is,” she suggested.

“Could be,” I supposed.

“Maybe none of this is real”

“I’d buy it.”

“But what if it wasn’t for sale?”

“Then I might have to steal it.”

She laughed. I melted. Maybe she did too, I’ll never know.

“Well,” she said as she sat up upon the floor. “You’d better believe it. I’m fairly certain that I’m real, or at least what is called real.”

She turned towards me let fall another soft, warm smile. I could live off of those smiles. But soon her eyes widened, in what looked like fear or shock, and covered her mouth with her hand.

“What?” I said turning fearing either something behind me or something I said. I turned to find a whole pile of hundreds of short silver cylinders stacked upon each other about four feet tall.

“Oh,” I laughed. “I see you found my movie collection.”

“Do you have a projector?” she asked without skipping a beat.

“I do,” I answered.

“Umm…” she said the light of the sun bouncing off her eyes and into all the little molecules that make a real thing. “Would you want to watch movies with me tonight?” she asked.

“I would love to,” I said without skipping a beat.

“Perfect,” was all she said as she got up to inspect the inventory.

I had a date. There were no phones, no computers, no restaurants, no theaters but I had a date. There was no civilization and billions that once were now weren’t, but I had a date. None of the girls who turned me down from high school where there, but I had a date. I had a date with the only girl I had ever really wanted a date with and had never gotten. I thought that maybe I should ask her to marry me. It seemed like a good thought, even if she said no.

Pain in Me Gutty Works

What am I doing and why do I never seem to know? There must exist within all these problems, some sort of solution, right? I mean there has to be because I want there to be and need there be any other reason?

I can’t seem to come up with more words. It kills me. I feel no rush or any type of thrill. I just struggle to get whatever is wasting my mind into anything other than this grey form that exists inside of my thoughts. I don’t know what it is or why it’s there, I wish I did. I wish I knew what went wrong to make this how it is, if there even is anything. It was probably nothing. In fact, I’m almost sure it’s nothing. Just some sort of, I don’t know, defense mechanism or some shit like that? Anyway, it’s just a condition that comes with the way I think of humanity.

But then again, there can be no such things made out of nothing. Something has to come from something; it doesn’t just come from nothing. But what is it then? What is it that yanks and tears at me every morning when I wake up at fucking noon and try and drag myself out of bed and attempt to say “hi” to everyone and play all the games that everyone else likes to play so much? And if I say, hey today I’m going to do something for myself, I don’t. I don’t help others and I don’t help myself. I talk all of this talk about being smart and hip and act like I am some sort of cool person that just does what he wants and yet hardly step up.

And hell, even that’s not true! Nothing is true! The truth is nothing!

I am nothing. I am true. I am something. I am lying. I lie to you because all I want to do is fulfill the madness that crept into my head as a boy because I got all sad and shit in 4^th grade when the girl I liked, liked some other dude in my class. Drove me fucking nuts, at like nine years old and over ten years later, I have not changed. Well, maybe I have, but I still perform the same routine. Kind of. Well, I think it’s the same. It’s hard to tell. It’s hard to tell for certain what is or has happened in any moment besides this one now, and yet I love to sit and dwell on the past that I remember to be so wonderful. I suppose it was, but now it isn’t. Not that it stopped being wonderful, just that it stopped being, those moments I mean. Even though, I suppose they still are, I just can’t see them save when I close my eyes or dream.

And my dreams are no use. They just show me things that make me feel and to feel anything at all is rather burdensome. I’d rather just not feel. It would have to be from the beginning though; I couldn’t handle just not feeling anything from this point forward because I’ve honestly been spoiled up to this point with all this emotion. No, it would have to be from day one; from birth I could never shed a single tear. Ever, not even if I heard the most beautiful music far beyond the beauty that ears can understand.

I wonder if I write the word rubbish, you’ll read this as though I have an English accent. That would be cool. I wonder if anyone will ever read this. I guess there will be a few, but it always remains for the most part a mystery who reads any of this stuff. I wonder why I feel so compelled to do this and why I believe that this is my path. I wonder about everything all at once because that’s what I like to do. I honestly don’t like getting hung up on nonsense yet I spend most of my time doing so. And then moments like this come where I start with no words and then, as if out of nowhere, they begin to pour from my mind, to my hands and on to this machinery of the devil called the computer.

Praise Satan kids. I think I’m still afraid of the dark a little bit. I wonder what Freud would have to say about that. He would probably just do some blow off of a hooker’s ass and blame everything on the little man that lives inside of me and tells me to do bad things. Fucking pill pushers.

If this be destiny, then why do I quiver at the thought of it? Why does the fear in my heart grow when I become faced with the possibility of living a life that I want to live? Failure and the fear of that I suppose, which works perfectly into the whole ass backwards scheme I have for life. I kinda want to get drunk soon. I’d like to get my hands on a bottle of Jameson and just stay up one night writing stories and songs and other rants of bullshit and wake up and maybe burn it all in a funeral pyre. If you understand me, me brother. I’m rather sick of all this pain in me gutty works and all the weariness in my mind. So I’ll try my damndest to rectify the situation.

The consequences of having nothing else to do. I might as well see if I have any actual demons that need to be stared down or if it’s all bullshit so good and high quality, that even I couldn’t see past my own terrible little creation. Either way, this is what I’ve said and if no one ever looks upon these words, then I suppose I am nothing. But at least it would be true.