Saturday, March 22, 2014
cigarettes (Draft from 7/24/08)
My life lately has revolved around obtaining and smoking cigarettes.
Justin Bush (Draft from 4/17/11)
The sun is coming up, and I still haven't even attempted to sleep. I was eating a bowl of Cheerios when some random neurons spontaneously fired and brought back a rush of memories of the day eleven years ago when I was lying in bed sharing a cigarette with that beautiful blue-eyed boy. We had just finished having some of the best sex I've ever had and sat in naked, legs intertwined, singing "Dreams" by The Cranberries to the top of our lungs. I always loved that song, mainly because of the episode where Angela was lying in bed daydreaming about doing dirty things with Jordan Catalano.
It's hard to believe that gorgeous, naturally toned body is rotting away six feet under now. I wonder if anyone ever visits him, besides maybe his mother. I wonder how often she thinks about him. I wonder how long it had been since she had last hugged him before she saw her little white haired boy lying in a coffin. I wonder who he was with when he died, or even how he died.
I didn't find out about it until a year after it happened--about the time Sharon died, actually. I randomly bumped into Alex, the only guy he had ever actually dated for more than a month or two. Apparently Justin went downhill and started hanging out with the wrong crowd. Alex wasn't sure if it was the AIDs or meth that killed him.
It's hard to believe that gorgeous, naturally toned body is rotting away six feet under now. I wonder if anyone ever visits him, besides maybe his mother. I wonder how often she thinks about him. I wonder how long it had been since she had last hugged him before she saw her little white haired boy lying in a coffin. I wonder who he was with when he died, or even how he died.
I didn't find out about it until a year after it happened--about the time Sharon died, actually. I randomly bumped into Alex, the only guy he had ever actually dated for more than a month or two. Apparently Justin went downhill and started hanging out with the wrong crowd. Alex wasn't sure if it was the AIDs or meth that killed him.
Draft from 5/16/11
I'm almost thirty years old. It's hard to believe or even admit that, even though it's fairly common knowledge. Fortunately my genetics have been good to me, for the most part, after a decade of cigarette smoking and substance abuse. Almost every time someone asks my age they're genuinely taken back. Maybe it's because I inadvertently avoid the sunlight most days.
For the past two years, however, I have been slowly losing my hair. I've tried numerous ways of covering it up--minoxidil, powdery brown stuff to fill in the gaps, and hats. I've become famous for my hats--or hat, rather. It once belonged to Dr. Safer, the crack-smoking Jewish millionaire who owned the farm on which I spent one of the most magical summers of my life. A perfectly fitting brown conductor hat made of hemp, appropriately, with a hole torn by Anthony the night we had a threesome with his girlfriend--the night I discovered, in amazement, the insane amount of fluid such a tiny girl can produce when brought to the pinnacle of ecstasy by two strapping young lads.
I last wore it two days ago, the night of Cassey's party. I'm not sure if I will ever wear it again.
It all started after I got a phone call from Heather, or "Tits" as I affectionately refer to her. She begged me to come out, even though Lane was there and we weren't speaking. She was inebriated on whiskey and alprazolam. I'm still not entirely sure how she ended up staying up until the next afternoon, although I'm not surprised at all that three cops had to be summoned to help find her passed out laying against a tree in the middle of the woods.
As I said, I was severely anxious about seeing Lane, as we hadn't spoken to each other in a month, since I found out he was running his mouth about me after I left him and his now ex-girlfriend stranded in Macon after they ran out of gas. Mind you, I gave them my last ten dollars, so he had absolutely no reason to be pissed, although he did bring up the numerous times I have ditched him before. But anyone who is close to me knows that's just my style, and it's nothing personal. Sometimes I just have to run away for my own sanity's sake.
So I got to the party, after downing several swigs of whiskey along the way to calm my nerves, and stumbled out of my car to the sounds of Lane strumming and whaling one of my favorite tunes--
For the past two years, however, I have been slowly losing my hair. I've tried numerous ways of covering it up--minoxidil, powdery brown stuff to fill in the gaps, and hats. I've become famous for my hats--or hat, rather. It once belonged to Dr. Safer, the crack-smoking Jewish millionaire who owned the farm on which I spent one of the most magical summers of my life. A perfectly fitting brown conductor hat made of hemp, appropriately, with a hole torn by Anthony the night we had a threesome with his girlfriend--the night I discovered, in amazement, the insane amount of fluid such a tiny girl can produce when brought to the pinnacle of ecstasy by two strapping young lads.
I last wore it two days ago, the night of Cassey's party. I'm not sure if I will ever wear it again.
It all started after I got a phone call from Heather, or "Tits" as I affectionately refer to her. She begged me to come out, even though Lane was there and we weren't speaking. She was inebriated on whiskey and alprazolam. I'm still not entirely sure how she ended up staying up until the next afternoon, although I'm not surprised at all that three cops had to be summoned to help find her passed out laying against a tree in the middle of the woods.
As I said, I was severely anxious about seeing Lane, as we hadn't spoken to each other in a month, since I found out he was running his mouth about me after I left him and his now ex-girlfriend stranded in Macon after they ran out of gas. Mind you, I gave them my last ten dollars, so he had absolutely no reason to be pissed, although he did bring up the numerous times I have ditched him before. But anyone who is close to me knows that's just my style, and it's nothing personal. Sometimes I just have to run away for my own sanity's sake.
So I got to the party, after downing several swigs of whiskey along the way to calm my nerves, and stumbled out of my car to the sounds of Lane strumming and whaling one of my favorite tunes--
How to Be a Crack Whore (Draft from 6/26/11)
Exactly one month ago I was sitting in my car with a needle hanging out of my arm and a cop shining a light into my window.
Scene X (Draft from 7/3/11)
Cole says he and Zero didn't make it to the beach today. He said he felt sick, but I know he was probably just faking it because he didn't want to spend too much alone time with Zero, but he didn't want to say "no" in fear of getting kicked out (something that is one of the main sources of tension between us). That made me feel a little better about last night. I had to take a Klonopin (which I hate, due to a previous overdose and 3 days of lost memories) just to sleep, because my mind was too wide awake--over analyzing every detail about the day's events, doubting itself, questioning its sanity, and fantasizing about the object at the very root of all of my confusion.
Their arms touched. I probably shouldn't date a hooker.
So this one time I let this guy suck my dick for drugs.
2C-B (Draft from 7/14/11)
I just realized that everything I've ever written has been bullshit that I subconsciously fabricate to affect the reader a certain way, and never a raw excerpt of my own inner monologue.
Day 1 (Draft from 7/27/11)
I'm sitting here in a parking lot somewhere near LAX with the some of the most amazing musicians I have ever heard serenading me. Most of these people have never met each other before tonight. In fact, we probably don't remember most of each other's names. I know the vocalist, who has a voice that candle to any of the shit we find on the radio these days. This raw and strong, whiskey and cigarette-stained voice is projecting a sound that physically gives me chills.
Sautee Nacoochee (Draft from 9/24/11)
I came up to the North Georgia mountains to spend a few days with my cousin Chris and his family and to get away from life for a while--"life" being a common word in the English language often misused by a people who are seemingly too terrified to attempt to reverse their own diaspora, even though we came so close to building a world in which it was possible.
Originally, those who are forced to journey away from the place they were born
josh/noah's ark seed bank
Originally, those who are forced to journey away from the place they were born
josh/noah's ark seed bank
Unpublished Draft from 3/18/12
It's inevitable, no matter how stoned or drunk or jacked or broke or poor or bored or whatever other state of mind I happen to be in at times, I can never bring myself to write my train of thought. I have this permanent censor unless.
It's the fucking backspace key.
It's the fucking backspace key.
Dear Mathias (Unpublished draft from 3/21/12)
I don't care if you don't respond or don't read this, but I just want to get it off my chest, and I figure I'll send it to you anyway.
I'mg oing to trip with Atlas in the woods and make love and let all of this negative shit the fuck out and be happy aain and grow things and build things and create things and not worry about bullshit and be fucking happy.
I can't wait. I need this so bad. I'm glad I have something to look forward to. I need to buy a hat in case he doesn't like my mohawk or my obviously receding hairline, even though it's shaved down. But we'll probably be swimming maybe so I can't really hide it then. Damn maybe he's not that shallow. I hope not. Maybe it's just me.
I'mg oing to trip with Atlas in the woods and make love and let all of this negative shit the fuck out and be happy aain and grow things and build things and create things and not worry about bullshit and be fucking happy.
I can't wait. I need this so bad. I'm glad I have something to look forward to. I need to buy a hat in case he doesn't like my mohawk or my obviously receding hairline, even though it's shaved down. But we'll probably be swimming maybe so I can't really hide it then. Damn maybe he's not that shallow. I hope not. Maybe it's just me.
Union Square (Unpublished draft from 3/25/12)
I re-met a guy at OWS who claims to be Alexander Davie Bowie, the adopted son of David Bowie, although he is most likely schizophrenic. He told me the name of a song his dad would sing him when he had nightmares. He said Bowie found him bleeding on a park bench when he was seven or eight by a fountain in London and took him in, although the adoption was only ceremonial--not legal.
I guess I can't judge him because I do the same thing sometimes, even if not as extreme or refuttable. People do what they have to do to feel wanted. Desperation calls for desperate measures.
I only have a week left before I head for the hills. I've loved New York at some point in time and space, but not so much the current one. Good thing linear time is only an illusion. Too bad we're biologically and environmentally programmed to disregard that fact, especially in times of great duress.
Someitmes--well, most of the time--when I'm alone, at least, and in a place with a lot of people--I wonder if anyone is watching me. And if they are, why can't they sense my deep yearning for social interaction? Maybe it's because of the clothes I'm wearing or maybe they think I'm straight or a serial killer or an antisocial loner who just happens to enjoy sitting amongst a throng of protesters writing about how lonely he is. Or maybe I'm just manifesting this reality. Sometimes I really believe I conjure negative things in my life just to feel alive. If only I could control my magic.
Ok, universe, please send me someone interesting to talk to or someone with weed or someone who wants to fuck me that I want to fuck back even while blinded by my own deep-rooted racism and superficiality. It will happen. It will happen anywhere--not just at some gay bar where people automatically and correctly assume I am there for those exact reasons.
On a side note, the Occupy thing is complete futile bullshit, but I deeply envy everyone here. Gay bar it is? My liver fucking hates me.
I met a beautiful man searching for spirituality and we talked about existence and he gave me an herbal remedy he brought back from India that has bon in it, and I feel amazing and confident that I am definitely some sort of magician. Now I'm going to do an experiment to see if my new found peace can get me a nice boy to make out and connect with... or should I stay in Union Square and hope for the best? No. No more hoping. Only being and doing.
I guess I can't judge him because I do the same thing sometimes, even if not as extreme or refuttable. People do what they have to do to feel wanted. Desperation calls for desperate measures.
I only have a week left before I head for the hills. I've loved New York at some point in time and space, but not so much the current one. Good thing linear time is only an illusion. Too bad we're biologically and environmentally programmed to disregard that fact, especially in times of great duress.
Someitmes--well, most of the time--when I'm alone, at least, and in a place with a lot of people--I wonder if anyone is watching me. And if they are, why can't they sense my deep yearning for social interaction? Maybe it's because of the clothes I'm wearing or maybe they think I'm straight or a serial killer or an antisocial loner who just happens to enjoy sitting amongst a throng of protesters writing about how lonely he is. Or maybe I'm just manifesting this reality. Sometimes I really believe I conjure negative things in my life just to feel alive. If only I could control my magic.
Ok, universe, please send me someone interesting to talk to or someone with weed or someone who wants to fuck me that I want to fuck back even while blinded by my own deep-rooted racism and superficiality. It will happen. It will happen anywhere--not just at some gay bar where people automatically and correctly assume I am there for those exact reasons.
On a side note, the Occupy thing is complete futile bullshit, but I deeply envy everyone here. Gay bar it is? My liver fucking hates me.
I met a beautiful man searching for spirituality and we talked about existence and he gave me an herbal remedy he brought back from India that has bon in it, and I feel amazing and confident that I am definitely some sort of magician. Now I'm going to do an experiment to see if my new found peace can get me a nice boy to make out and connect with... or should I stay in Union Square and hope for the best? No. No more hoping. Only being and doing.
Black Pepper, Pt. 2 (Unpublished draft from 3/25/12)
Please don't think
I'm letting you go
Because I'm not
Space-time is a tricky thing
You're in Brazil, today
Bright and sunny and full of life
I'm
I'm letting you go
Because I'm not
Space-time is a tricky thing
You're in Brazil, today
Bright and sunny and full of life
I'm
15 minutes of fame (unpublished draft from 3/27/12)
Ok, I'm tired of doing what I don't want to do just to survive in this society. So, . Specifically, I want to create a "The View" like panel with my interesting D-list celebrity and homeless and CEO friends.
What do you thnk
What do you thnk
Thoughts (Unpublished draft from 8/1/12)
I don't know. I'm stoned, sitting in Kate's basement, trying to make the needle on a compass move with my mind with not much success. I decided to write something, because it's been a while.
I made a playlist. I'm going to attempt to play each song and write about the memories they induce.
City and Colour - Body in a Box
We're in Cassey's old van leaving the funeral home--Cassey's driving, Tess on the passenger's side, and Haley, Kenny, Lane, Kensley, and myself sitting in a circle in the back. We had taken the seats out to make room for the ridiculous amount of people we'd cram in there around a cooler on one of our infamous road trips to the beach or one of our friend's shows or down the road to Jim Bob's to get cheeseburgers and cigarettes on Tess's daddy's credit card.
Sharon never went on a road trip with us. Haley couldn't stand Sharon for some reason, even though Sharon was over twice her age and never fucked any of her boyfriends. Actually, everyone thought Sharon was a huge slut. She was, and she could be a bitch sometimes, but never to me, so I loved her.
Seven Deaths I Could Have Prevented:
Pat - Suicide
Joey - Suicide
Justin - AIDs/meth
Sharon - Accidental homicide
Jan - unknown
Lindsay - car wreck
Heather - car wreck
I made a playlist. I'm going to attempt to play each song and write about the memories they induce.
City and Colour - Body in a Box
We're in Cassey's old van leaving the funeral home--Cassey's driving, Tess on the passenger's side, and Haley, Kenny, Lane, Kensley, and myself sitting in a circle in the back. We had taken the seats out to make room for the ridiculous amount of people we'd cram in there around a cooler on one of our infamous road trips to the beach or one of our friend's shows or down the road to Jim Bob's to get cheeseburgers and cigarettes on Tess's daddy's credit card.
Sharon never went on a road trip with us. Haley couldn't stand Sharon for some reason, even though Sharon was over twice her age and never fucked any of her boyfriends. Actually, everyone thought Sharon was a huge slut. She was, and she could be a bitch sometimes, but never to me, so I loved her.
Seven Deaths I Could Have Prevented:
Pat - Suicide
Joey - Suicide
Justin - AIDs/meth
Sharon - Accidental homicide
Jan - unknown
Lindsay - car wreck
Heather - car wreck
Draft from 5/9/13 (What the fuck? I don't remember writing the last part)
I don't have long to type this. I'm down to my last cigarette--half of one, actually. An American Spirit. Black. Burns a lot slower than other cigarettes, obviously. If you don't know why, you should. Not to toot their horns or anything. Tobacco in such copious amounts as I like to imbibe isn't exactly the best for the preservation of our DNA.
I just lost a few brain cells, and I don't want me to write. Goodnight.
------
Good morning Ben and Michael,
Today your lives will change. Enjoy the ride.
S88z
I just lost a few brain cells, and I don't want me to write. Goodnight.
------
Good morning Ben and Michael,
Today your lives will change. Enjoy the ride.
S88z
Fuck me, right? (Draft from 6/25/13)
I'm feeling a little suicidal, to tell you the truth. I need something spectacular to happen.... soon.
My life has been a roller coaster, and now I'm just numb and want it to be over.
My life has been a roller coaster, and now I'm just numb and want it to be over.
Draft from 6/26/13
portland
let me re-invent myself
who will i be this time
will i be a good little faggot suckin dick to the top
an anarchist too chicken to ever take a shot
let me re-invent myself
who will i be this time
will i be a good little faggot suckin dick to the top
an anarchist too chicken to ever take a shot
Draft from 7/18/13
So, I don't know if I'm just being paranoid, or if I'm actually overstepping societal boundaries by talking about subjects to people who by receiving them generate neuronal responses which they liken to feeling awkward.
Whatever it is, I feel at this point, the only people who I'll be able to befriend are those that want to get into my pants. I should definitely go to gay bars. My mirror neurons are misfiring a lot. What does that even mean? What the fuck It doesn't make any fucking sense whatsoever. t
Whatever it is, I feel at this point, the only people who I'll be able to befriend are those that want to get into my pants. I should definitely go to gay bars. My mirror neurons are misfiring a lot. What does that even mean? What the fuck It doesn't make any fucking sense whatsoever. t
Justin Gibson (Draft that I never published from 2008)
I was rummaging through my old memory box, and I came across a letter I wrote 7 years ago and never sent. It was addressed to Justin Gibson, a boy who drove all the way from Tallahassee, Florida to give me a kiss on New Years eve. A boy who left his childhood stuffed bunny with me as a promise that he would return. A boy that I would never hear from again.
---
January 9, 2001
Dear Justin,
Sometimes it's easier to express my thoughts in written form rather than through oft-construed and stumbling conversation. I'm not sure where to begin, but I know how this will end, so I suppose it would be appropriate to begin with that. Keep in mind that it's 3am and below freezing, so what I write may be slightly incoherent or even a little embellished--probably more so the former.
I love you. It's that simple. Although I never fail to tell you that at the end of phone conversations or during awkward periods of silence, I feel that in order to explain myself and let it be known, the magnitude of my love for you, I must elaborate further.
First i must clarify that I am an avid advocate of the school of thought (founded by yours truly) that the question "Why" is only rhetorical and can never be truly answered. However, the question "How" can. So--how do I love you? Well, not only do you make me feel all warm and fuzzy on the inside like an inverted chia pet, but you also intrigue me more than almost anyone else that I've ever met. I'm a sucker for complex people, and you definitely fit into that category. You never fail to amaze me--with both your inner self, who is astonishingly warm, loving, and beautiful, and your selectively transparent facade that can easily fool the majority of even the most gifted psychologists. Freud would be in love. And I could, in no way, blame him. You are a truly remarkable human being.
So this leads me to the pinnacle of the hows of why I love you. I love you because you helped me be me. Because of you< i began actually wanting to be a better person. And I think that is the best gift any person or deity, for that matter, could ever give. I know you probably never realized it, because it had already begun when we became close, but before you, I pretty much gave up my hopes and dreams. I lost myself. Once upon a time I was a dreamer. I was the type of person that spent his days pondering all things academic--I had a future. I was going to be successful in all important areas of life. But things didn't go as planned, and that dream completely vanished--until now. You made me love myself again. You made me want to be me.
I know it sounds pretty strange and convoluted, but it's pretty simple actually. You came along with your mysterious ways and somehow (again--I cannot answer "Why") made me want to help you. I wanted to understand you and love you and experience with you--not only for your benefit, but for mine as well. And in order for me to do that, I had to change. You gave me a reason to care. You gave me hope. And I can't thank you enough.
So, in conclusion, I want you to know that not only does it make me feel completely awesome that you've given me the privelege to love you and that in return you love me back--but that also you helped me regain the ability to love myself. And for that, I am forever indebted.
Always and Forever,
Ben
---
January 9, 2001
Dear Justin,
Sometimes it's easier to express my thoughts in written form rather than through oft-construed and stumbling conversation. I'm not sure where to begin, but I know how this will end, so I suppose it would be appropriate to begin with that. Keep in mind that it's 3am and below freezing, so what I write may be slightly incoherent or even a little embellished--probably more so the former.
I love you. It's that simple. Although I never fail to tell you that at the end of phone conversations or during awkward periods of silence, I feel that in order to explain myself and let it be known, the magnitude of my love for you, I must elaborate further.
First i must clarify that I am an avid advocate of the school of thought (founded by yours truly) that the question "Why" is only rhetorical and can never be truly answered. However, the question "How" can. So--how do I love you? Well, not only do you make me feel all warm and fuzzy on the inside like an inverted chia pet, but you also intrigue me more than almost anyone else that I've ever met. I'm a sucker for complex people, and you definitely fit into that category. You never fail to amaze me--with both your inner self, who is astonishingly warm, loving, and beautiful, and your selectively transparent facade that can easily fool the majority of even the most gifted psychologists. Freud would be in love. And I could, in no way, blame him. You are a truly remarkable human being.
So this leads me to the pinnacle of the hows of why I love you. I love you because you helped me be me. Because of you< i began actually wanting to be a better person. And I think that is the best gift any person or deity, for that matter, could ever give. I know you probably never realized it, because it had already begun when we became close, but before you, I pretty much gave up my hopes and dreams. I lost myself. Once upon a time I was a dreamer. I was the type of person that spent his days pondering all things academic--I had a future. I was going to be successful in all important areas of life. But things didn't go as planned, and that dream completely vanished--until now. You made me love myself again. You made me want to be me.
I know it sounds pretty strange and convoluted, but it's pretty simple actually. You came along with your mysterious ways and somehow (again--I cannot answer "Why") made me want to help you. I wanted to understand you and love you and experience with you--not only for your benefit, but for mine as well. And in order for me to do that, I had to change. You gave me a reason to care. You gave me hope. And I can't thank you enough.
So, in conclusion, I want you to know that not only does it make me feel completely awesome that you've given me the privelege to love you and that in return you love me back--but that also you helped me regain the ability to love myself. And for that, I am forever indebted.
Always and Forever,
Ben
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)
