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(no subject) [Dec. 19th, 2008|07:43 pm]
But now you have meta-ironies piling atop each other, ad-infinitum. Enough. The most difficult challenge for young artists today is to achieve any kind of earned sincerity or a true sense of the authentic in this horribly cynical, maddening time of multi-layered facades, remakes, and ever present duplicity on a global scale. And what do we call the Grand Canyon when kids refer to their lunch as “awesome”?
-phil solomon

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(no subject) [Dec. 18th, 2008|09:56 pm]
I was going to do any number of things. But I think instead I will scrape around in this mess of a heart and try to draw some blood.

Ah no that's too morbid I think, and there is a part of me that mutters "no one really cares about your psychoses anyhow" but I suppose I am at a point where I don't care about what folks care about.

That's wrong. I do intensely care. But others' lack of interest, or derision, or condemnation in regards to my self expression is simply a symptom, not the disease: the desire, the nameless impulse towards self immolation, expression, whatever.

I do it out of compulsion, selfishly rapping away at the letters like masturbation without climax, simply building to some deeper pleasure- the unlocking of the meager word horde, the ejaculate neverending- the endless promise of mounting orgasm that is fed with this, the promise of death; yes, because words being what they are mock my own decay as they simply recontextualize, mock my own impermanence with their naivete revealed at the next days glance.

But for now, they are all I have, words about nothing, and I love them for being nothing.
I could tell you how I fear that I am a failure at love as both a child and a man, I could tell you that I am making the preparations for a year of rebirth and ascension, I could tell you about endless drives and the signs I passed.
But all this is nothing to me now, now here with my nothing as comfort from nothing that I am fearful that I am.

Nothing to me now. I tell myself this too often.

Throw myself into it, climb the weather vanes in a lightning storm. I can take it all, do more than take it. All that should have killed me I have held and molded, eaten and shit out- lived to tell the tale, as it were, the only reason I lived: for the telling.

So the question dawns: Why the obsession with rhetoric? Why the nameless guilt? Why the inability to confess my naked desires to the world?
If this is the why, then why not? Why not scrape it right to the bone?
Why not just spill out the real and let the meanings reveal themselves?

because I am hurting. And defensive, like a bleeding dog snarling out existential excuses at the side of the road. And I have been. And I am ashamed but it is true that this hurt makes me weak. I allow myself the luxury of weakness. Because I am terrified of what I would do with strength touched by hurt or bitterness, of what I already do when I take what I want.
I have to want something a great deal to climb over all this mess, but lord what clarity gifted by true desire.

And how fantastic the clarity of pain when desire betrays.

I am so obsessed with chasing my tails and love because I am fucked and I want someone to fix me. I want mom to make it better. I want a muse and a child to jump on my tired stomach at the end of the day crying "Paint Me, Build Me a House, Wreck my car and DO YOUR WORST and buy me everything and throw it in a lake so we can have second thoughts and swim down naked to find it all later in the belly of the whale"
I am down to throw myself into a relationship because for some reason I am still deluded enough to think one can save me.
And I know, what all you column readers and cosmo quizzers and junior psychiatrists will say:
Oh you are a child Nicholas, you must self actualize before you can enter a healthy relationship, no one should have to be your mother and no one should shoulder the burden of being an inspiration and BULLSHIT.
I don't do many healthy things or many things healthily and last I checked life itself was a mess that kills you. If I earn everything on my own with no one to share it with then what is the point of everything anyways; if no one would fight beside me while I earned my imitation throne then why the fuck would I share it; the joy of nurturing and inspiring are two of the purest things available to human beings and I most dearly want some of that drug for myself as ready as I am to receive it.

Context. It's all about context. A sleazy leer, a smoldering gaze.

Contradictions. Feverish swinging of the torch against the flickering diamonds in the dark, gleaming teeth phantasmal. If I believed in god I would pray instead of this, and I would plead and threaten and beg and smother his love in the way I do all else.
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okAY i"m still up [Dec. 12th, 2008|07:16 am]
losing fast control of typewritter. Fuck. Conception of what things are really.
But this lack of determination in my existence is freeing in a sense, in very real sensory sense. Who has to make sense of anything half the time when yer still halk cocked at 6 30 in the GAD damn marnin.
Red. Old Mans pipe singing
Want nothing
But to give you the worst kind of Death"
Like some cannabinoid neil diamond.
Oh but you already have dear and I'm coming on america in great hot spurts
stick it her good vein y'HEAR NEIL
SEIG HEIL and suck my fingers and slick back your hair and sing me rock and roll while I jerk off in the back alleys of my mind.
Smelling of hairspray. Malt liquor. Nosebleed and forty dollar sneezes and at least one
at least one
form of lubrication
and that un recantable other womans sex stink on me
and that un publishable private journal on the internet.
GOD DAMN Whitman didn't have the internet
Walt Whitman burnt his private journals in a bonfire at a bacchanal with ginsberg to avoid incarceration
Old Queen wouldve found some kinda bliss serving time anyhow.
Not me
I'm not built for the clink
I need the fresh air
I survive off of wild onion
Stomach condition
and dandelion wine

(despite the fact that this very dandelion wine I subside on has provoked my innocent personage to utter the most un innocent of stutterences- being as such having the propencity to endanger my continued existence as much as the wine what provking said stutterances sustains it, it being my life that is)

Give me five dollars
I want to give you the worst kind of death.
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(no subject) [Dec. 12th, 2008|03:29 am]
So anyways
I wanted to share this
Before I y'know
stop being so totally ripped.
Well anyways,
dollar night at pk's,
end up god knows where
with god knows whom
I don't even know what all I've ingested this evening y'know?
But in any event...
I get home right?
Im laying in my bed and
and I check my voice mail.
Because I know I've got a message from this girl explaining how she would love it if I could get ahold of her later
And I know
that laying here on my bed
and listening to that
would make me feel great.
So I hit 1 on my phone. The number one. Speed dial fer my Voice Mail.
and I put in my passwards reel tasty.
Lord all the undeleted voicemails of my christmases past came gurgling up through my receiver and LORD HELP ME
I feared for my life.
My god.
My father's half decomposed voice after an afternoon of wretching god knows what condemned chemicals they gave him to short out the old infected immune system
take care of your voice
with two vocal chords left poor sonufagun
and some lady
returning my months old question
of what the fuck do I have to do
to get a free alcohol screening
oh, it was deadly
This is the evermost fucked upedness I have ever writtenized
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(no subject) [Dec. 5th, 2008|04:34 pm]
The cutting cold of winter no longer hidden from my blackening toes by these junkie sheets
insect phone buzzing and hissing at me creating some vague ghost of animal fear awareness
oh fuck me to death is this itch in my head and copper fluid in my throat
and all these missed calls
Chemical slow the thought to the limb
It's fucking cold in here
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(no subject) [Dec. 1st, 2008|11:53 am]
I just got off the phone with film maker Bill Daniels

Director of this film here
We hang out in carbondale while he was a visiting artist and he brought some whiskey to his screening and got us drunk, I took him out to Boooby's for some punk rock.

Anyhow, he was giving me some advice on how to go about wrangling finances for this documentary project that I will start planning for in December.

The documentary will be based around this project Paducah has called the "artist relocation program". The deal is, Paducah is trying to reinvent itself as a cultural oasis. Downtown, there are many old rundown buildings, many of which have been condemned. These building are given to artists from around the country who take on the task of fixing them up and converting them to galleries, coffee shops, homes, etc. The remodeling costs are covered up to 2,500, and the house becomes the artist(s) property once it is completed. The area is a residential/commercial zone so the possibilities are pretty endless.

What is interesting to be about this is not only is Paducah trying to fabricate and arts scene by giving incentive to creative people to move down in hopes that this will increase the overall quality of life and bring down more skilled workers; but also that in a time of economic upheaval that this project will attract some con men of all stripes who will try to take advantage of the system. Whose to say De Kooning isn't just full of shit? Whose to say the scrawl of a crackhead in a bathroom stall isn't art? It's all about how it is presented, what you ask for in return, and who you sell it to.
It's about creating a universe for the customer in which art can be defined subjectively, by you, and hopefully profitably.
And I myself will be treading that type rope between hustler and artist as I attempt to get some grant money and cash from the city of Paducah to make it happen.

I might be tutoring algebra 1, I should be getting a call back from Sylvan learning center soon.

Also, I got ahold of barking dawg productions at SIU,

(they made this)

and they are looking for someone with camera/editing experience. Thats me.
Hopefully I will be hearing back soon.

In other good news, my dad is doing really well, the stem cells are engrafting and his immune system is rebuilding itself fresh in record time!!
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I could not have said it better. [Nov. 26th, 2008|04:04 am]
This article is for everyone who gives a fuck about the world they live in and the one they might leave for their children.
Particularly, those willing to fight for it.

Please read the whole thing.
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(no subject) [Nov. 18th, 2008|01:29 am]
college towns, so beautiful and honest and so full of shit.
But we never call each other on it really, because no one knows how full of shit any of us really are, least of all ourselves.
Someone could come up and announce that they were studying to be overlord of all timid chipmunks and it would pass in conversation cause who knows really, this guy could turn out to be the best overlord those timid chipmunks ever had.
We trade our information and knowledge like badges of honor, pretend to have known certain things all our life when leaving the classroom that has bestowed these tidbits into our downy heads only moments ago.
But god bless it you are free to pretend here, at least till the money runs out- more often than not past that even as the never never land checks from the evergivers what spawned us come long enough to keep us alive.
So dependent in many ways yet still passionately severing all ties to that which is old to make way for the great big something that is nothing but the future we dream up for ourselves.
Maybe not full of shit, but simply free to dream. And out here in the foggy climes of the shawnee national forest, far from the coasts in a flyover zone untouched by someone else's rules for culture, that dreaming might have the most power to truly give us something new.
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(no subject) [Nov. 18th, 2008|12:24 am]
So I got more letters from loan people today! Yaay!
Turns out, what I thought was 20,000 in debt is more like 30,000.

I don't know what the fuck I was thinking going to school for the arts. How the hell am I supposed to pay this shit off? I got three different people asking for $40, $50, and $256 a month.

Total: 346 dollars a month.
Rent: 255 dollars a month.
Utilities: 50 dollars a month.
Food: I don't even know.

Income: 200 dollars a month maybe. If I don't get sick, because you can't donate plasma when you are sick.

The math, doesn't work out.

Naturally I am getting these deferred as quickly as possible, but some of these institutions make it quite a process. Especially the Direct Loans people, who had me call, go through an automated service which required me to numerically put in my birthdate, my phone number and my social security number and my zip code three seperate times, and as it was automated I couldn't inquire as to what address they had or explain that my zip code was in between two or whatever.
Then they had me go online to this whole process where I had to figure out what my automatically assigned pin number was and then log in to print out a application which then has to be mailed. Why I couldn't just e-mail the fucking thing I don't know.

But I do know that if I use any ink other than black or Write Nicholas instead of nick, of write out my full middle name that it will be void and it is my responsibility to check up on that daily to see what happens.

what the fuck. And the weird thing is they don't really check on my income to make sure I am not trying to scam them, just make sure I use the right color ink.

Today my Dad apparently had a really shitty reaction to this new type of chemo they are giving him, like he started shaking really bad. This is infinitely more scary than any kind of bills.

Luckily there is a nurse who is only responsible for him and one other patient (unlike Marion Hospital where nurses get entire floors) and she was very quick and effective about fixing the problem so that he was safe. The place he is at sounds pretty amazing.

There is a line in a jethro tull song of aqualung that says "and you wonder, if the nurse treats your old man the way she should" and I don't really have to worry about that so that's cool.

They tried the same chemo again today with some sort of cocktail mixture and it worked out just fine, but hearing the concern in my Mother's voice made the whole thing almost too much to bear. The crazy thing is she kept saying she felt like I was not telling her something and to call if I needed anything and not to worry about stressing her out with my problems- and I just had to get off the phone with her, god bless her heart. Words were just dying in my throat. She is a very special woman, it is easy to forget how incredible she is until you see that her grace in crisis.

I am sorry that my journal is turning into a daily update of shitty things that are going on in my days but it feels a little bit better to put it out there, makes all the worries tangible and contained for me when I actually type them out, instead of leaving them as this confusing terrifying mass of oh shit, which is very overwhelming.

Things tend to just happen all at once.
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