mAstER oF RAndoMnEss

The Tao of Chris.

Wed, 03 Mar 2004 04:41:18 GMT

Preliminarily, the Tao of Chris.

1. Learning is good, therefore, everything is good.
2. Happiness is intrinsic.
3. Everything is a paradox. That's the point.
4. Nothing is permanent. That's the point.

That's all for now. It's still in the works. Though someday, I hope to be able to publish the full idea. Maybe one of you geeks out there that actually reads this could help me bounce the ideas around??

Thu, 26 Feb 2004 23:04:38 GMT

All I want out of life:

1) Jones Soda
2) Good books
3) Good movies
4) Good music
5) Creative Writing
6) ??

We're chained to the events.

Tue, 24 Feb 2004 18:08:19 GMT

Things are moving slowly. I've been feeling so ... off these past couple of days. Just not with it, slow, stupid, ugly. And I don't know why. Maybe I'm getting sick. On that note, I think I'll go read and sleep.

That's it.

Thu, 19 Feb 2004 16:58:42 GMT

You're A People's History of the United States!

by Howard Zinn

After years of listening to other peoples' lies, you decided you've
had enough. Now you're out to tell it like it is, with all the gory details and nothing
left out. Instead of respecting leaders, you want to know what the common people have to
offer. But this revolution still has a long way to go, and you're not against making a
little profit while you wait. Honesty is your best policy.

Take the Book Quiz
at the Blue Pyramid.

Sun, 15 Feb 2004 06:44:53 GMT

And I'm West Virginia smitten. I think.

Sun, 15 Feb 2004 06:39:56 GMT

So, Sven is here. I don't know how I feel right now. But it's good. Maybe. Ahh! I don't know! Brain aneurysm!!!

Sun, 01 Feb 2004 08:55:11 GMT

I'm awake. I'm insomniafied. I'm alone. How do these things happen?

With turpentine kisses and mistaken blows...

Mon, 26 Jan 2004 05:52:10 GMT

Tattoo... tentatively.

And I will be waiting to write the great indelible poem. - lawrence ferlinghetti

Mmmmmm...

Mon, 26 Jan 2004 03:51:38 GMT

So I'm thinking about getting a tattoo. Who wants to give me money?

The next installment...

Mon, 19 Jan 2004 02:26:25 GMT

to You, in Slumberous Brevity (Chap. 19)

you sleep all wrong.
sheets and hearts twisted around.
But I know the real wrinkles.

to You, in Vitamin E Brevity (Chap. 20)

you're not so Suave
or so soft
that I can't hear the unspoken suffixes to your sentences
so be rough, dry, cracked
be honest

to You, in Rainbow Brevity (Chap. 21)

Red light district
Orange neon
"I can't believe I'd love something as yellow as you."
because I put the green in your panties
and my lips and your eyes are turning blue
with the Indigo Girls playing in between your ears.
And your purple heart has no visibly corresponding scar.

Hmmm.....

Fri, 16 Jan 2004 06:19:21 GMT

Wow. This past hour has been such an interesting mix of feelings. Extreme anxiety to extreme relief to mellow-tiredness to some of the most intense grief I've experienced to introspection with a hint of sad tossed in there. Hmmm...

Mon, 12 Jan 2004 20:48:38 GMT

So I registered today. Intro to Creative Writing, Stonecarving, Physics I, American Political Thought, and Basketball. Nice. And now I'm left with nothing. I got nothing.

Smile and write.

Mon, 12 Jan 2004 00:20:32 GMT

Does anyone else feel weird at the moment? Quite the cascade of mutated emotions.

The Next Issue

Wed, 17 Dec 2003 23:59:10 GMT

to You, in Pensive Brevity (Chap. 17)

The Birkenstituents and Lay-Z-Gender Non Specifics
got me down.
but I love the way smoke
can and will play across glass
like you did that cold night
in the snow
in my dream.

to You, in Restless Brevity (Chap. 18)

And now I'm sitting alone again,
Packed up room, packed up heart,
because the grass snows I notice
The walls speak, I'm silent.
I'm burning my innocense
because I can't take the smell of optimism anymore.

Too little sleep {And now this smile has a bitter curve, and now these eyes are unenchanted}

Mon, 15 Dec 2003 20:06:10 GMT

Oh man... tiredness is setting in. It's spawning the introspection. And there's still noone around to talk to. I'd sleep, but that's not a possibility. Two classes to go til the end of my internment for the term. And I need to talk.

Another installment in my book...

Sun, 14 Dec 2003 22:51:04 GMT

to You, in Emotional Brevity (Chap. 7)

Smile.
Twitch eye open.
Eyebrow curve, lip drop, nostril flare, pupil dilate
Frown anger jealous shake cry disappointed.
Touch arm gently.
Smile.

to You, in Alliterated Brevity (Chap. 8)

[Pangaea penumbra]
Soft sheets, beddy-by blankets.
Surreptitious smile, emoted eyes
Wishful whims
Nighttime naivety.

to You, in Perfect Writing Brevity (Chap. 9)

You’re my current pen.
You’ve not been chewed yet.
You’re my paper music muse.
You’ve got all the components.

to You, in Weeping Willow Brevity (Chap. 10)

Intelligent
Dynamic, everflowingmovingflying arms
Beautiful.

to You, in Year-Round Brevity (Chap. 11)

April’s sleeping.
She won’t wake yet.
Summer’s wasted, pretending to be above it all, pretentiously drunk.
May’s got her good girl legs spread to the sky.
December’s smoking pot with a fish, feeling the good vibrations and bad citations.
And you’re my only faithful season.

to You, in Brevity (Chap. 12)

Your words hit my hand
and
my hand hit the wall
and
the wall hit back
and
the wall bit my flesh
and
the wall wouldn’t move.

to You, in Cinematic Brevity (Chap. 13)

The moth ridden seats
and your thrifts tore army surplus overcoat.
I paid and you hugged me.
You laughed at the screen and I watched you.
We smiled.

to You, in Kitchenette Brevity (Chap. 14)

You’re too cool for habanero,
Too interesting for oregano,
Too powerful for parsley,
Too sweet for garlic.
But I’d like to think
I make your favorite sauce.

To You, in Goodwill Brevity (Chap. 15)

Halfway between the sweaters and shirts
You found my hand.
By the time we got to the books
You’d located my mouth.
And before the cash register,
In front of the temporarily unavailable dressing room,
You snatched my heart.

to You, in Open-Mouthed Brevity (Chap. 16)

Chapped lips
Tearing at the corners.
Tobacco stained tongue
Licking your wounds.
Trembling uvula
Singing your eyes.

soulovemote

2 Lists

Sun, 14 Dec 2003 22:41:38 GMT

Things that I enjoy:

1. Being on a writing binge
2. The beautiful, awesome, amazing, wonderful, splendid, terrific, gorgeous snow we've been having.
3. My current playlist consisting of: Dan Bern, Ani Difranco, Bright Eyes, The Postal Service, The Lawrence Arms, Dashboard Confessional, One Man Army, Goldfinger, Piebald, Rilo Kiley and Rufus Wainwright.
4. Knowing that my studying for Political Philosopy has been more or less done.
5. That picture of you.

Things that I don't enjoy:

1. Militant Vegans. Anyone militant for that matter.
2. Your non-presence.
3. Being poor, meaning I can't buy good gifts for Christmas.
4. My self-confidence and lack of self-esteem.
5. My inability to express my feelings at the important times.

the next installments...

Sat, 13 Dec 2003 17:59:45 GMT

to You, in Brevity (Chap. 3)

A Random Song on a random night.
You're 10 minutes and a million miles gone.
But you made a dynamic quick change impression.

to You, in Brevity (Chap. 4)

I want you to teach me to dance.
I know you're not allowed.
But you cha-chaed, swung and dipped to the front of my brain.

to You, in Brevity (Chap. 5)

You fit into me
like a hook in a haystack.
A flaming hook
a petroleum based haystack.

to You, inrunonbrevity (Chap. 6)

hopesoar and sleepines.
Timemits platoniceaselessleep.
Yourealityearnsopenly.
I: wantopenightsmile.
In. You.

Tell me something that I haven't heard, I want to hear how it sounds...

Sat, 13 Dec 2003 17:54:27 GMT

Add a page and a half of mellowdrama, a dash of youthful optimism and 2 quarts of ambivalency and you got yourself my current casserole of emotion. Like a midnight debauchery of drunken folly, I'm falling fast. My nightlife embers glowing brightly might help guide you out of your mire of restless self-conscious. My smokie filled lungs are singing your face, an octave off, maybe, a bit flat, perchance but at least I spelled your name right htis time. 3 questions at a time, I'm discovering the religion of you. I'm a Buddhist of your words, I follow the Tao of your pen, I'm a believer in the golden idol of your smile, I get dogmatic at your undivided attention. But I'm a fanatic in control, trying to keep a safe distance in case that gld flakes off to reveal more marble, austere, beautiful, cold and I'm hoping this idol's not false because I'm building a tower and I think we still speak the same language. And I don't want to be this smitten this fast and I don't want to be jealous of the other suitors, but it's still that feeling that strikes at 2:27 AM. EST.
etc.
My chips are played, and you're eating them as fast as I can refill my pineapple pizza sense of adventure. I think I want you to spend the night, I'll break your fear and love yoru quirks with a nicotine smile, a special delivery Postal Service song and a comfortable darkness. I'm writing to stave off the onset of feeling because feeling you is too good to be pure, too warm to be wonderful, but the teakettle's whistling. You know what time it is. I want your scars to speak, I want your words to cry, I want an epic saga of your eyes.
I want to be your three
word sentences.

Sat, 13 Dec 2003 17:46:41 GMT

Cut my hands loose so I can write again. The Birkenstituents got me down, preachin that prayer and livin my life. I've lost twenty minutes and my faith in what I had figured out.

Fri, 12 Dec 2003 20:01:27 GMT

It feels so out of contex in this gaudy apartment complex a stranger with the doorkey explaining that I'm just visiting. And I am finally seeing that I was the one worth leaving.

The Postal Service is rocking my socks off.

To You, in Brevity (Chapter 2)

Fri, 12 Dec 2003 06:36:01 GMT

Mausoleum steps and graveyard gifts.
Gifts of the gifts of the presents.
Of the prescence.
Let's exhume this Thursday night comparison.

The shortest poem I've ever written. What do you think?

Thu, 11 Dec 2003 05:44:18 GMT

to You, in Brevity.

We click well.
We clique with the best.
Click like flint on stone.

ALLEGORY OF THE CAVE

Mon, 08 Dec 2003 02:41:19 GMT

And now I’m trying to write something hopeful, with a twinge of reassurance and a dash of your face written across the top. And you picture is on my bulletin board, your words are on my tongue and my heart is falling into your lap. You can make me into your dream or your silence or your canvas, whichever suits your taste. You’re bringing me back up to that level, my level, your level, maybe our level. Stinging me with your awkward composure, icing me with that fire, dime store supernova exploding in the chair next to me. There’s a haze around your face, a mix of smoke, exhaustion and wishful thinking. You ever notice how everything looks so pure in black, white, grey? Maybe that’s why I’d like to hold you and your pallor, my favorite constellation, as the universe stops and time revolves around us. A dynamic depravation of color so the world looks more exquisite tomorrow morning. So the sun kills me when it rises behind the pine, lighting your enchantments, blazing my optical receptors, melting them in a visual bath of superheated, nonsensical lyriced, blissfully botulistic exercise of futility. But exercise is good for you, right? And the Lord said make a joyful noise, so I’m silently screaming on your behalf. Away from my anger, your sincerity makes me grin and bear it. So what’s sleep? And in the basement of my heart you’ll be kept, unchained and free to wander, to leave, to creep in the backdoor of my brain at the most wonderfully inopportune moments. I’m cheerfully singing this elegy for your sake. Brightly riled, you say that I’m your favorite novella, a short story growing longer, spawning page upon page of cursive filigree. Well, I know you’re mine. And I’m drawing the map for you as we speak.

Good Song

Sun, 30 Nov 2003 23:31:23 GMT

Does he walk around all day at school with his feet inside your shoes lookin' down every few steps to pretend he walks with you? Or does he know that place below your neck that's your favorite to be touched? Or does he cry through broken sentences and love you far too much? Does he lay awake listening to your breath, [do you worry he smokes too many cigarettes], is he coughing now on a bathroom floor, for every speck of tile there's a thousand more you won't ever see but most hold inside
yourself eternally. I drug your ghost across the country and we plotted out my death. In every city, memories would whisper, Here is where you rest. I was determined in Chicago but I dug my teeth into my knees and I settled for a telephone and sang into your machine. You are my sunshine, my only sunshine I kissed a girl with a broken jaw that her father gave to her. She had eyes bright enough to burn me. They reminded me of yours. In a story told she was a little girl in a red-rouge, sun-bruised field and there were rows of ripe tomatoes where a secret was concealed. And it rose like thunder, clapped under our hands. And it stretched for centuries to a diary entry’s end where I wrote, You make me happy when the skies are gray You make me happy the skies are gray and gray and gray. Well the clock’s heart it hangs inside its open chest with its hands stretched towards the calendar hanging itself but I will not weep for those dying days. For all the ones who have left there are a few that stayed. And they found me here and pulled me from the grass where I was laid.
- Bright Eyes, The Calender Hung Itself