built to spill

...and now it's coming back,
hasn't it come too far?

I was trying to help but I guess
I pushed too hard

now we can't even touch it;
afraid it'll fall apart

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streamofconsciousness

I can see it rise before it's even aware of itself, rearing a small ugly head out of the depths and signing up, up to the nothingness of heaven. It's all there, right where we can't see it, just past the strength of our muscle to be able to pull it back out, stuck and sputtering sloppily like a mewling cat. I watch it pass me by, thoughtlessly, more in essence than any of us could ever be. What is it? A feeling, or an escape? Designations and definitions and distinctions, all of them are blurred.

Remember us, sitting indian style in a smoky room, passing hopes and dreams round and round in a circle until some freudian slip or cautious motion of the arm and hand disrupted the rotation, and we were never the same.

I feel the melodies slipping away through my fingertips, and try to catch and capture them in some sort of frugal manner on paper with ink. Its futile, nonfunctional, but not pointless. I wonder, I wish, but I don't honestly think it will work out. Any of it. I guess thats why we live. Just to prove ourselves wrong, even if everyone else is right and you do turn out to be a failure or a doctor or a lawyer or a prostitute. If it weren't for everybody's expectations of us, what would we expect out of ourselves? We tend to miss the important things while chasing after shadows in the dark.

Its a funny life we live, I'm just wary of being the butt of some vengeful demi-god's practical joke.

silence.

I feel like the unspoken words are the ones that matter the most. They change the course of a conversation for more than any postulation or carefully calculated compliment. Every truth you keep inside yourself is like a little burden, a little piece of misshapen weight that threatens to throw off your mind's timid balance.

There are so many things I have never told you... I felt my depth sinking into the ground I walk upon, slowing me down, holding me back. I long to be shallow again and walk with light feet upon bright cool grass, like a child running with no destination. For now I'm destitute, incomplete, heavy. My smiles are brief and only extend to my facial expression. There is so much to say, and no way to say it. I have very little time left with you, we have had very little time in the past. Time is of the essence, since there is no way of capturing it or getting it back once it has been lost. Time is invisible and yet is the governing force behind all human emotions. Fear of time, lack of time. Love is so short, and forgetting is so long.

There are so many things you couldn't possibly know, so many feelings with no audible counterpart for them to be siphoned off through swift movement of the tongue and jaw... so many subtle gestures, fleeting glances, forgotten quakes of emotion, threatening at any point to throw me over the edge. There is so much I must tell you, so many things you do not understand.

To this point there has been nothing to say I suppose. Our conversations have been brief, and repetitive, and lacking of any real substance. And now I'm leaving and I don't know if I'll return, and I feel the smiles of your youth silhouetted on my skin like a ghostly tattoo, ancient languages I can't hear, but I understand. Intimately, without thinking, as love or hate are so similar.

Don't you see? love needs hatred as its counterpart; without either, the other could not possibly exist. Fire and water, negative and positive... Thoughts run together like salty sweet tears down your cheek, to my fingertip, to the back of that old shirt that's now been discarded, thrown in the back of your closet with the small dusty shoes and love letters from men whose names you've forgotten.

What else is there, besides the unspoken? What can I ever really tell you, that matters, when all you need to know is in that forgotten teardrop I wiped from your face, in the coagulated blood mess I washed from my skin, in the perfumed sweat of summer, chilled to a naked truthful reality by the shy autumn...

There is so much I could never tell you...

killah priest- happy

Another short day gone by in my short life, as this tumultuous summer slowly twinkles and fades like the last liquid dazzling sunshine dripping, reaching, reaching over the horizon before the inevitable numbness; dusk. It's always easy to speak of octaves rising and falling, ordeals beginning and ending, trials and innocence and guilt. We've all been through it so many times it almost takes on this surreal quality of overwhelming apathy, so that we can't even really lament the last bastion of our collective childhoods being forcibly confiscated from us.

I miss making up games. I miss otter pops. I miss young summer romances. I miss reading comic books, writing letters longhand, and going to the park with my dad, just for no reason.

I wonder why I don't miss certain things, until I remember you can't miss something or someone who was never there in the first place. And then I know.

I have a theory as to why I'm not very photogenic. Everytime I look at a camera lens i'm not thinking about my fake smile or how my body is positioned or how my hair looks. I'm just thinking, what is this picture gonna remind me of in ten years? Twenty? What is this photo gonna mean to my kids? Will I remember the place. the people I loved, the feel of the wind at my back and the sun on my face? Will I remember, most of all, that small slice of existence captured forever in digitized pixels? Will I ever be the same again?

ajax

Once again, my immeasurable potential fails to overcome my penchant for inexcusable heartrending failure. How tragic and yet how perfectly archetypal. I'm drawing words and writing pictures all over the walls of this brain cell... No use in despair or desolation, I've already used up that particular vein of endorphins. No no, now I only have room for apathy, dissent, anesthetic longing. It strikes me as odd how perfectly formed and shaped our own little narrowminded viewpoints are by the upbringing arbitrarily bestowed upon us by often disconnected and ungrateful guardians... Sentinels.

Buried deep between muscle and bone, lithe fiber and flame and sinew, something grows, deformed and ugly, and a sort of parasitic ache overwhelms the senses.

No I'm not sad, only painfully excruciatingly aware of the truth, one I'm not sure you have the capacity to fully comprehend at this point.

Tell me, dear, do you remember? Do you remember? The small pieces of infinity, moments between breaths, between sight or feeling, this love gnawing away at our malleable souls, hours of days of darkness grasping for something... A solid cloud born from the ether, a shield forged by the hammer of Ajax, carving your name into my wrist even for only a needlepoint escape, the tying of a vein; a piece of purity greater than ourselves...

Today was pretty weak. Took a long ass journey all the way down to the studio at 5th and Townsend and the singer that was supposed to be on the track wasn't even there and didn't show up all day. So I ended up re-recording my vocals on two old tracks and just kickin' it for a while promoting Grind 4 The Green...

I wonder how things are gonna turn out with this extended endeavor I've undertaken... It's difficult to predict the future objectively when you're stuck in a completely subjective situation that's clouding your already twisted visions of perfection. That should be a motto for my life I swear; twisted visions of perfection. My third eye needs corrective surgery or at least a concave lens to be able to see deeper within my heart to what's actually needed for me to progress forward and what is just frivolous heartache, no real justification for it. I suppose if nothing else, it builds character; but what's the satisfaction in being the purest soul in hell?
-Terence.