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[19 Dec 2005|07:44pm]
[ mood | blah ]

Who has not asked himself at some time or other: am I a monster or is this what it means to be a person?

long hours, long fucking hours.
reflect, reflect, reflect. there's not much else to do. and this is what it's like to be lucky. priveleged. thank those lucky stars of yours, miss.

and so you do.

and everything lights up with that luminescence you can only get when you're five years old, curled up against the pillow and shrouded by a thick blanket with minnie mouse patterns. yeah, i remember. i can still remember that.

so you think, it's not a matter of committing this horrendous crime against man that constitutes one as the monster. it's the apathy. they at least have the passion to drive them into action. what do you have?

6 comments|post comment

i'm feeling full of it, today. [11 Dec 2005|02:03pm]
[ mood | annoyed ]

they all have these stupid fucking problems and they all say these trite, unimaginative things and it makes me want to vomit. and if i ever happen to get those same problems, it cheapens them to remember the hoards of teenage girls who lamented with these terrible little lines and i bet they thought they were really great, too.

and so life mirrors a badly scripted WB drama.

i want all these moments to belong to me. i don't want to be on the verge of suicide and then recall these stupid animated gifs taken from terribly shitty song lyrics taken from equally shitty bands that some shitheaded lipgloss buff with black nail polish thought were really profound and used as her livejournal icons.

although that would be hilarious.
yeah, it would.


you know, i can't stand it when little girls bitch on and on and on and on. i wish people would get the fuck over things and stop living so "tragically" when the biggest problem they have to worry about is that people are "talkin' shit" about them at school. FUCK THE WORD "DRAMA." ANYONE WHO EVER SAYS "OMG GUYS SO MUCH DRAMA" SHOULD GET SKULLFUCKED BY THE GHOST OFANDRE THE GIANT. (rest in peace, big guy.) no, really. i'd like that.

maybe i'm heartless. i don't know. i'm not feeling too nice right now.

this song puts me in the mood, by the way. good times.

6 comments|post comment

pleasures. [10 Dec 2005|01:02am]
[ mood | drained ]

i take pleasure in watching "antiques roadshow" on PBS. i take pleasure from reading text books. i take pleasure from writing down beautiful words in languages i will never understand. i take pleasure in applying excessive make up even if i know i won't be leaving the house that day. i take pleasure in watching my little brother circle around the christmas tree with this fucking beautiful expression of amazement on his face. i take pleasure in hearing the occassional honk or whistle (whether it is sarcastic or not) from ugly strangers in their cars when i go for walks. i take pleasure in laying half awake next to my boyfriend on his bed. i take pleasure in rereading my favorite comic books. i take pleasure in seeing my mother and father playfully fight each other like they did when they were dating in the 80s.

things are great but i can't help but feel this overwhelming fear that it's all going to spoil.

since i was 6, i've been convinced that i will die an early death.

5 comments|post comment

art. [06 Dec 2005|05:16pm]
[ mood | blah ]

God is a concept by which we measure our pain.
I’ll say it again.
God is a concept by which we measure our pain.

The dream is over. What can I say?
The dream is over.
Yesterday, I was the dreamweaver.
But now I’m reborn
And so dear friends, you’ll just have to carry on.
The dream is over.

"god", john lennon. as with a lot of great songs, it is not nearly as powerful until you actually hear it.

i don't understand anyone past the age of 18 that can say that they're really not all that passionate about music. i believe that by that age, the majority of us have experimented and discovered what we truly like and dislike through the process of trial and error. sometimes you happen to enjoy the same music that you did at age 13, sometimes you don't. depends on who we were trying to impress back then.

i don't understand how anyone can live without being passionate about any art form. this doesn't necessarily mean that i think anyone who stumbles upon a beautiful painting ought to urinate themselves in excitement. i just think that art is a way for humans to branch out to each other. art is a reflection of
life. there are always exceptions, though.

if you cannot think of a song, a poem, a book, a painting, a film, or a photograph that has aroused any sort of emotion inside of you, then i suspect that you are not really a human.

11 comments|post comment

[04 Dec 2005|10:44pm]
i'd like to ride a bus across the country. san diego to new york city. on the drive, i would befriend each passenger. i would like to sit by the window. i'd like to fall asleep with my head resting against the glass. i'd be happy the entire way there.

fuck. in other news, i'm addicted to caffiene. apparently, not drinking no less than 3 cups a day induces nausea and terribly strong headaches.

i guess that means i'm a clever intellectual that has cute little vices and shit.

haw haw haw.

i kid!

i leave you with this.

Image hosted by Photobucket.com
my friend leo going for the gold, my boyfriend berny.

4 comments|post comment

meanwhile, life progresses. [04 Dec 2005|09:10pm]
[ mood | anxious ]

(for the time being, sweetheart.)

each passing moment, a string of seconds
each passing moment, a collision of one thousand different potential actions at once
each passing moment, a suppressed thought left within the confines of ...

insanity, or perhaps weakness. it's difficult. who's the crazy one here?
i'm certain that things are better, but if it's not one thing, it's the other. i am comfortable with myself, now. i don't have to put on a show for anyone. on the other hand, lately i've had a constant fear -- the kind that makes the pit of your stomache ache. i don't know why i'm always afraid. i'm very careful to hide it, though. no one likes the neurotic kid.

i was really sure of myself in regards to my plans to enlist into the army. my certainty has been shaken. i am the last person i'd picture in the middle of a desert, wearing camouflage, dodging bullets and carrying a rifle. (i guess that's part of the appeal.) however, if that were the case, i am the first person i'd picture with a bullet going straight through the eye. i'm hoping this fear will pass.

life is beautiful.
i guess.

2 comments|post comment

please, transcendence. [02 Dec 2005|02:19am]
i'd kill for a bit of surrealism.


i haven't quite mastered the art of satisfaction. i'm hungry for something but i don't know what. the frustration is overwhelming. all at once i have the desires to cry and scream and make love and sleep and run and dance. this is terrible. you can't cry, have sex, and sleep all at once.

i hope.
3 comments|post comment

the makings of a realization. [27 Nov 2005|01:12pm]
[ mood | annoyed ]

mr. moderation was a modest man of moderate wealth. his physical attractiveness was moderate. his weight, charm, and eloquence were moderate. he did not have a full head of hair, however, he was not bald. his hair count was moderate, as well. his relationship with his wife was characterized by a comfortable mediocrity. he never grew excessive in his habits and vices. he laughed in moderation. he sang in moderation. he drank in moderation. he smoked in moderation.

one night, he drove down main street with his wife wiggling in the passenger seat, picking away at something stuck in her teeth. the car approached a street possessing a heavy concentration of lights, music, and people.

he drove by brilliantly lit restaurants with dancing, cheerful men and women singing at the top of their lungs. he drove by swaggering drunks laughing themselves into a rapturous unconsciousness. he drove by several young couples passionately kissing each other by the stairwell. mr. moderation was initially repulsed. he was unsure as to the reason why he felt so ill. perhaps it was a sharp stomach pain attributed to bittersweet nostalgia. it was quite painful to peel away the remnants of his oblivion like that.

a glossy film washed over his eyes. he chuckled. "would you look at that? they look like they're having a nice time, don't they?"

the car gently swerved as mr. moderation fixated his eyes on the celebration, unnerving mrs. moderation. she dug her fingernails into the car seat. "keep your eyes on the road! i don't want us killed!" she screamed.

mr. moderation also exercised moderate driving abilities.

1 comment|post comment

baby. [23 Nov 2005|10:42pm]
[ mood | nostalgic ]

i was digging through my closet. amongst old comic books, dirty underwear, and a few how-to-draw books from the 60s, i found a stack of old photos. i thought i'd share a few. i've been thinking about buying a new camera.

summer 2004, san diego county fair.
more.Collapse )

2 comments|post comment

beto martinez. [22 Nov 2005|01:48am]
[ mood | pensive ]

"reading torn 100-year-old newspaper clippings that come apart in your hands like wet sand." her son's memory manifested itself in print. all my grandmother had left were yellow, tattered strips of newspaper tucked away in an old photo album.

i had an uncle -- the pride of my grandparents, the track & field star from montgomery high school in south san diego. he was their first of two sons in four children, my father being the second. there were articles about his accomplishments scattered throughout volumes of school newspapers. his memory was resilient. the room in which he used to sleep in every night is now the room in which my grandfather falls asleep on the couch every day while an out pour of spanish dialogue from the television set drowns out his snores. the door next to the couch is entirely covered by my uncle's old collection of racing stickers from the 70s.

during a party in 1984, my uncle had indulged himself in drugs and liquor. after the party ended, he stumbled into his car, intent on driving home. he crashed only a few blocks away from my grandmother's house. he died. at the scene of the accident, my grandfather grabbed a piece of rubber from one of the tires and carried it home in his hand. it took him 21 years to throw it away. it took my aunt 20 years to get rid of my uncle's old beatles albums. she gave them to my father. the day that my father had picked up the records, i had opened the door to the garage. i saw him standing there, crying alone. i never see my father cry.

it took me 17 years to realize the extent of the pain my family was dealing with. their pride had passed away while under the influence. this was heart breaking, for my grandparents had moved during the 60s from mexico into this house on judith avenue in order to give their kids a decent life. my grandparents mourned with such great intensity that they ignored their other children, driving my father to enlist into the army in '85 out of spite.

i cried while writing this.
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