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Lester Burnham is my God's LiveJournal:
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| Thursday, January 3rd, 2008 | | 12:36 pm |
If you had the chance to have your deepest wish come true, but at the cost of having some terrible and unpreventable occurrence happen upon someone else - would you? What if the infliction was the opposite of your wish? Perpetual loneliness for being with your true love, constant debt for lottery millions? What if you had to pick the horror? What if you had to pick the person? What if that person had to be someone you knew - well-regarded, maybe even beloved? | | Wednesday, January 2nd, 2008 | | 12:57 am |
| | Saturday, December 29th, 2007 | | 12:15 am |
So fleeting, these things I hold dear. So intangible in retrospect, so wonderful. | | Thursday, August 2nd, 2007 | | 9:03 pm |
I guess this is full circle. Pain begets pain, sadness begets sadness. I do not argue that I deserve this - I just wish it wasn't delivered in such fashion. | | Sunday, October 8th, 2006 | | 3:34 am |
If it were your last day on death row, what would your final meal be? | | Wednesday, October 4th, 2006 | | 3:05 am |
I told myself I'd attempt to write each day. Just a little, if nothing else. So here is my attempt, barely a degree above nothing else. I'd write more, but between my all-consuming hatred of work and the astronomical frustration I'm experiencing concerning my computer, anything I'd try to type would be twisted into verse so full of loathing that I'd rather just not bother. Done, and done. | | Tuesday, October 3rd, 2006 | | 12:49 am |
Hm, yes, well. A month before November; before NaNoWriMo. What I have written in the interim year since the last (failed, mind you) NaNoWriMo attempt? Perhaps a few vignettes? Some manner of short story? A fanciful poem? A Goddamned line of prose? Nope, good sirs and madams, not a fucking word have I scribbled out that was not an away message, line of IM transmission, or a fucking signature on some horrid work form. When was the last time I even wrote in this thing? Hm, lemme see here - yeah, the first Goddamned week of the year. And it was probably some asinine little drug inspired ditty. I don't even want to bother to check. The most telling sign of my writing torpor is my having to look up (on the Hellishly redesigned dictionary.com site) the spelling of at least half a dozen words I've used in this post. Including torpor. Fucking pathetic. When I wrote actively - in which I mean more than once a Goddamned season - I had to look up, oh, 1 in every 200 odd, archaic (yep, looked up that one), or obscure words I employed. Now I seemingly have to check the spelling of the simplest of words. Disgusting. Revolting. So now, much like the armchair triathelete who, being normally no more ambulatory than your average variety of lichen, incorporates a running rountine that would make native Kenyans give up the ghost, I too will attempt to bring back my writing reflexes from the brink of atrophy a month before I'll have to devote myself to sputtering out over a thousand words a day (and a poor attempt it'll be if I only manage that much) for a full moon. I don't risk cardiac arrest, mind you, but I doubt that the upcoming months training experience will be much different from the grasping, gasping, spittle-flying and chest-clutching spectacle that is a heart attack. Rereading the above paragraph, already I must deeply furrow my brow at my poor pass at articulation. Sweet Lord baby Jesus, I can do better. | | Thursday, January 5th, 2006 | | 3:41 am |
In the restless quiet of a snowy winter night, stand underneath a humming streetlight and stare into the falling flakes - the snow's electric static to the artifical sodium buzzing. Reality's gone off the air; out of order. | | Tuesday, July 26th, 2005 | | 2:38 am |
| | Monday, May 30th, 2005 | | 4:35 am |
| | Tuesday, May 10th, 2005 | | 3:22 am |
When words fail you - when nothing seems fitting for the occasion, no action complementary to the event, smoke. Slide a long, thin cancerstick out of the crumpled pack you keep tucked away in some oft-forgotten pocket. Ignore the staleness and extra bite the mindless, thoughtless megacorporation didn't intend time to imbue their cheap cigarette with - they want you to smoke 'em quick and fast, to make room for your next poisonous purchase; yet there's something to be said about drawing in that first mouthful of toxin, aged while you aged on some weary trek from pointless A to pointless B. You've got a light, eh? Never be without one; the usefulness of a cheap lighter or book of matches from some nameless highway reststop is unparalled, and now you're employing it for its rightful purpose, bestowing the usually overlooked respect such trifles are deserving of. Close your eyes and savour the smoke, roll it around your tongue - swallow it deep inside you, down your throat, past your lungs, to that deep, deep section of your body nothing else can touch. The cigarette smoke is transcending, the first inhalation revolutionary. It reaffirms everything rightly wrong in your life. All the struggles and trials of the day, all the unfairness and illogic of your life a cracked mirror of the unfairness and illogic of the world at large, condensed into a bit of dried plant and paper. Acknowledge the insanity of everyday life - look it square in the eyes and exclaim, "Life, I know, is meant to be enjoyed. Let enjoy it most do not. It is painful and agonizing and murderous. It saps the will and weakens the soul." Know that you have a one-up on the soulweakened. You've reversed life's tired parade, taking pleasure in the cancerous object held between your lips. A contradictory survival testament, an existential declaraction of the deranged nature of life and everything in it. Exhale slowly, carefully. Examine the swirls in the deadly blue cloud. Watch it travel the currents, fade away, become homogenous with the surrounding environment. What once was lethal is now lost. Death comes and goes. Become a simile for the smoke - take charge of the endless, senseless cycle and choose your own demise. Slowly, like the exhalation, like the appreciation. Be mindless and mindful. Be that contradiction of life. See the cigarette for what it is. Ignore the stupid masses and their cry of carcinogens. Take your time. Think deep thoughts - the ones above and others not yet touched upon. Ruminate and relax. And when you're done, light another. --- I wonder where that came from. | | Thursday, March 31st, 2005 | | 12:26 pm |
 Ah-hahhahahah! That's right! Nobuo Uematsu's 'Dear Friends' concert. May 20th at the Bushnell in Hartford. Huzzah! HUZZAH!Section D, Row N. Which translates to only 14 rows from the stage. 14 rows! Nobuo Uematsu! Final Fantasy! Very rarely do I have a raving fanboy moment, but surely! For Nobuo! FOR NOBUO!And yes, there's 5 tickets, so DAMON, DON'T BUY A TICKET. I BOUGHT ONE FOR YOU. I REPEAT: I BOUGHT YOU A FREAKIN' TICKET. YOU'RE GOING. SO MAKE SURE YOU CAN GO!DAMON, I BOUGHT YOU A TICKET!Huzzah! | | Tuesday, October 12th, 2004 | | 9:50 pm |
From the "If I Had So Much Money I Couldn't Count It All" Files: I'd buy a large, undeveloped tract of land far, far north, where it's always snowy and cold. And there I'd build a giant feasting hall - ever read Beowulf, 'cause then you'll know what I'm talking about. A massive structure, build entirely out of the strongest timber, filled with equally massive tables and a plethora of sturdy chairs. Two (maybe three) bonfire pits would provide the only heat and light, and the floors, walls, and benches (did I mention the benches?) would be covered in the finest, warmest furs. I'd hire buxom Nordic beauties to act as Valkyry to serve my partygoers with neverending amounts of rich roast pork and beef. There'd be mountains of mashed potatoes and gargantuan piles of fresh bread; and for seasoning, there'd be only salt, but huge bowls overflowing with the most savory sea salt. And maybe butter. To quench the thirst from battle and song, you'd have two choices: ice cold, refreshing spring water, or the sweetest, most awesome mead money could buy. At one end, from my golden throne, I'd lead my friends in drunken song all night long, and at night, we'd all drift off into sleep on beds of fresh hay and warm fur, all asleep in the security of my fortified drinking hall. And, oh yeah, to attend this party, you must wear the clothing I provde: furs and leather only. Viking-wear. And drink from horns (mine would be gilded, of course). My crown would be a horned helmet. How, how blissful a fantasy! If only! | | 12:14 am |
Dark clouds move in; chemicals slide through synapses and give way to vivid flashes of memory. The electricty arcs for a moment but the flashbacks last infinitely longer - a second drawn out to an eternity. Writhing in astral agony, self-contained, self-defeating. The masks of regret. I take a breath - inhale, exhale - and release my thoughts not as words, but as plumes of blue smoke, toxic and deadly. I should be choking, but it's a sensation I'm used to. Her love is glue and tape and bolts and straps, but how long can I be held together? Dark clouds engulf; I can feel the familiar weight of something akin to fear resting on my back. Something will go wrong, if not tonight, then during some other time of darkness and starlight. This doesn't feel right. | | Thursday, September 30th, 2004 | | 5:56 pm |
What is a life? What she has is not a life. It is a grim, shambling shadow of a life; a mockery of everything she used to be. It is senseless and meaningless, in as much as the sum of one's memories can be said to hold no meaning. Perhaps not when those memories are hobbled together - each one broken countless times and stitched back together, haphazardly, incorrectly, until the original memory is lost. She clutches close to her anything she can hold fast to - the odds and ends of a ruined life. Bits and pieces of a life she once had. Anything to remind her - in a vague manner - of the good mother, loving wife, caring daughter she used to be. Can someone die twice? For if not, then what is she? A husk, an animation. She died many years ago, slowly, piece by piece - sacrificed each portion of her life to feed her addiction. Her third child, oldest and dearest. I walked through the apartment and everywhere, everywhere there were reminders. My abandoned childhood. Echoes of happier times. A horrid copy of a depressing copy of a failed attempt at life. It all felt so wrong. Dishware and photos and furniture and the way she moved and talked and... ... no, I did not need that. Most certianly not. I feel alone and empty. This wasn't what I wanted, at all. | | Wednesday, September 22nd, 2004 | | 2:25 am |
in the spaces between our arguments and our ackward silences preceeding the hesitation before the first word is spoken of each new cycle of i shout-you shout-i shout-you shout lies the counterpoint to your breathing (the sound I strive to hear the most) can you strain to hear a tear, rolling across my face down my cheek can you hear the gentle impact of saline onto cloth? | | Sunday, September 19th, 2004 | | 11:50 pm |
And life, for the most brief of times, is good; holding no regrets to your heart, (lit dimly by smoldering embers) dive, to beneath your sight, and lose the chance to resurface; join the ranks indulge, you're lost | | 11:42 pm |
Who wouldn't choose to live in a world of sparkling, multitudenous lights; descriptions spoken by men whose voices were bred for such an occasion not I | | Tuesday, September 14th, 2004 | | 10:09 pm |
What's amok? About 10 pounds, stupid! Anywho... What if? I wish to dip and drink deeply from the well of Fate! | | Monday, September 6th, 2004 | | 11:10 pm |
underestimation of forces you cannot see or touch or know cannot cost you anything more than you already have but so many of us underestimate just what it is that we have, knowingly or unknowingly acquiried in ways devious or legitimate secretative or openly and it is the final moment in life whether the one you knew you had or not when all is revealed - all possession - all knowledge - all power - and then all is lost in a sudden sweeping motion the hands of god, some say though there is nothing divine in the obliteration of a carefully constructed world no God has left the building to those without the skill to make anything lasting or strong |
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