Goodnight Sweet Prince

6/21/2009-4/24/2010

Fear and Loathing in St. Louis

Chicago, Columbus, Cincinnati, Lexington.

St. Louis is next. T-minus 10 hours and counting.

a.l.m.o.s.t.

So, three papers, one test, and the majority of a project down --- one paper, one test, and the remainder of that project and it's presentation to go. I may just go buy me some Splinter Cell tomorrow.

This calls for some celebration.

Needly needly needly neeeeeeeeee.



you didnt even know there was a video, did you?

A lot of things are happening. A lot of things aren't happening. A lot of people are thinking things that they don't want to say. A lot of people are saying things they don't want to think.

We're all just watching stars disappear in the spotlights. We hang around hillsides, holding on to exposed roots and juniper branches for security. We watch the valleys, and wait for the smoke to clear. The city may seem so far away, and the buses don't run during times of upheaval, but I know we're going to make it home alright.

So let's start walking. This shit is getting heavy.

tomorrow.

thunder.thunder.THUNDER! over Louisville. 800,000 people converging on a two mile stretch of river front with the sole intent of getting drunk, sunburned, and watching multi-million dollar war machines demonstrating the American Military in all of its glory.

We got fireworks. And a bridge.

Should be pretty b.a.

One of these days I'll anchor my feet in sand, and let the waves spray salt on my legs like the faces of sheer cliffs. The wind will trace the features of my face with fingers fair, and for a moment I will feel solid. I will be bound to the ocean by the water in my blood, and the salts of my pores, returned to its roots like some prodigal son of the sea.

Until then, let these mornings serve as a reminder. I am consistently stumbling; rolling backwards on bruised heels. Balance will be the end of me, and my stability is still an illusion. Security is static, and everything else is progress.

This isn't flying. It's falling with style.

Rounding Up.

Some You's and I's and We's for all of us.

I'll watch you paint your pictures. The canvas reflects such dull and sullen colors. Your skin tones, the color of mucus; your smile like jagged, dusty glass. "A Self-portrait..." you say; "This is how I look. Tell me I'm wrong." You paint with the hands of William Burroughs. Steady your hands. Take a breath. Things aren't that bad. Just turn on the light. Things will seem brighter.

But Captain, the ship is sinking!

At least the water is warm. Let it take you. We can find the shore. All the waves roll back to land, and and through the overcast, the sun will warm the beaches. All you have to do is stand up and walk on to the shore. Scape the brine from your eye-lids, son. The urchins on your feet seem to have made your knees grow weak. Our peripheries mark the boundaries of our line of sight. Imagine the blurred objects to be the sill of your window of opportunity. Everything bounded by the corners of the world as you see it is an opportunity. Take it for what its worth, or die with empty pockets.

If you reach old age without callouses, you clearly haven't tried. Let your hands harden. They were given to you to use, I promise. When your fingers are made of stone, and they still refuse to hold water, you can finally tell me I was wrong.

So you still don't know.
So you didn't really try.
So she didn't see it coming.
So. So. So. If there was no uncertainty, we could all be born 75 and satisfied. Go ahead. Fuck it up a little. Life looks better when it's a little worse for wear.

And the sun will follow the rain.