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Hey dudes,
I was going to write this whole long spiel which was to be an essential synopsis on my thoughts regarding religion, generally, and Christianity, specifically; but I spent the whole day watching Sam Harris and Richard Dawkins speak more eloquently than I ever could've on the subject, so I felt I would just leave the rhetoric to them. Besides, I'm pretty tired right now, I've been working for hours on this wallpaper that I made, which I would like to share with you all now.
It's inspired by some of the photography of the 10,000 year clock conceptualized and built by The Long Now Foundation.
You guys who read this blog (both of you) should tell me if you like these wallpapers I make, 'cause I don't know if they're any good, and I don't wanna keep wasting my time and yours.
I really want a burrito. Oh, I've got food, I'll be back.
K, I'm back. I don't know why I just wrote that. It's not like you would've noticed. "If he had died while writing it..."
So, that's about it. As for my life right now, I've made a wholehearted, steadfast, unshakable, resolute and in every other way sound resolution to change the way things have been going for me in my life. I did something today that, somehow, almost magically, changed my whole view of my plight and lot. It kind of impressed me how this one small, inconsequential errand shifted my whole perspective, at least for a little while.
Cheers,
Willie.
Hello y'all,
So, I have what I think to be a rather legitimate question. What is wrong with me that I can't get a job? Really, what is it that others have that allow them to procure employment so easily while I wallow away in unemployment, desperately searching for some job with which I may be allowed to keep just a shred of dignity. Maybe that's it, maybe I have dignity. However unlikely it seems to me, as I'm pretty sure I don't really have any dignity, maybe I come off as someone who has too much self-respect to endure the slings of indignity suffered by the working man. Well, to any prospective employers who may be reading this, please let me assure you that this is not the case! I have no self-esteem, and I will accomplish any number of untold humiliations to make a buck.
Somewhere there is a feather, lost by a poor, little sparrow, and found by my shirtsleeve unnoticed until I sit down to write...
There is a girl who waits patiently for her father to be finished with the business section of the newspaper. She knows his motions, how his lips move ever so slightly as his eyes dart across the headlines; how he readys his index finger over the corner of the next page. He checks his watch.
This girl is my hope.
There is newspaper folded into a little paper boat, and it sails along the gutters of a quiet city street on one of those rainy days where the water falls so small and slow that it just hovers in the air. The keel of the boat gets caught in a pile of leaves halfway down.
This boat is my sadness.
There is a wind that carries a leaf that lands in a stream that flows in a gutter to where leaves collect upon themselves in a pile.
This is wind is my direction.
I put the glass to my lips and I begin to drink and it feels so good, sometimes it feels so good just letting it all pour down and feeling it collect in my stomach. The water tastes so pure and cold, and I become new again in it. It feels like it's what I need.
I sit on my front porch and my toes are so cold because I couldn't be bothered to put on my shoes at 4 o'clock in the morning, and I pull on my cigarette and inhale it deeply inside of me and then slowly blow it out and I think about how all that I have is in this moment, with my cigarette and its smoke. I've smoked it past the point where I usually allow myself to save them, but this time I'll save it, because it's four in the morning, and I'll want only that little bit just before I go to bed.
It's hard to sleep sometimes. What a beautiful name for a band, "The Innocence Mission." Their songs are so sweet, so delicate and tremendous.
With each cough I fear to break this soft silence that has come to sleep in my room in weeks past. All is quiet now, especially at times like this, when it's so late at night, and I'm too tired to sleep. I think, well, I don't know, I guess I want to talk to someone, but I don't know who. I feel so alone. It's not loneliness, really, and I don't think I want to really even talk to anyone, I just want to be around someone. They could be doing something else, anything, like studying or reading or writing a poem or sleeping and snoring, something that didn't involve me, but just to have them there would make me smile.
I like to think that I'm on an innocence mission, a mission of innocence, to forgive and to be forgiven, and to forgive myself for things that I hold against my life, and then I could just let go, forget. It's just so hard sometimes, ya know? It's hard to let go of the things that other people have done to you, and it's especially hard to let go of the things that you've done to people.
It's not that I consider my innonce lost, as though innocence were something that one can either possess or not, like a cat, like something you can reclaim at the lost and found. Innocence is something your do, not something you are. Innocence is not an ignorance of guilty behaviour, innocence is the decision to not behave guiltily.
It's like that Bjork song, "all is full of love, you'll be taken care of, you just have to trust it." I'm not particularly a Bjork fan, but this song struck me. I guess it's nice to be reassured that life is not usually as bleak as you make it out to be, that there is always love in your life in some form or another, even if it's hard to see.
Well, I guess it's not really like that Bjork song. It's like some song, I'd bet. Maybe it's like that one I'll write someday, after all of the forgiveness and the reclamation of innocence, and I can tell everyone all about it. I can say how it made me feel, and how it seemed to make everyone else feel, and how we're all so much better-off because of it.
I hope it makes me feel good;)
What could, well, nevermind. What could become of something which, well, nevermind. How is someone expected to feel when they learn, despite how much they need to believe that what happened is good for them, that they were never loved by someone who took from them everything they could possibly take.
God, how must it feel to realize that you were abused!
I wish I could tell you.
I don't know how to tell, but I'll try to fumble my way through this fog of inebriation to give at least a slight impression of how it feels:
A;LL;OISDJF;LKHNASD;GLKHVS;DIJCGSKL;DFNGLSKDHFGVL;SIUDHFCGLKVJXNCFKGVJSN;DRFUGHS;DKRFNBL;SKDXFJNCG;VSKDZFHG;VSDHFG;SKDHF;VKSXDNFC;GKLVZXHEDNFOIGHSN;DRKFNGV;SDKFJCNV;SDXKLFJHNG;VSDIUFNG;VSIDRNF;KLVXNDF;LKGVNSD;LFKICGHJVSODIRJFG;VSLIDJNRF;GLBSKND;FKJNBV;SDXFKLVJN;A S HF;OASIURNV;KLENVIUOSDHFJ;GHSERD;KGVN;SKLCIHJV;SDRFHG;SEKRLHN;VSKNDFCG;VSDKFH
That couldn't even marginally approximate the real sensation of being torn asunder. You don't understand. When in a month I am bald perhaps you'll understand how much being blamed for being abusive when you were truly, truly, the one who was abused will make you pull your fucking hair out.
The worst part is that I'm sitting here, drunk on a tuesday night, obsessing about this. It's pathetic. I guess she did eventually get the best of me.
Fuck eventuality.
I have half a mind to do so many terrible things. It's a goddamned shame I don't have even a quarter-mind to do just one good thing.
So, yeah, beside all of that, I have not much. So, if I have not much beside that, I have nothing. So it goes.
I'm willing, perhaps too willing, to admit my shortcomings.
Goddamnit.
Nevermind.
I'm sorry.
I'm always sorry.
So, nevermind.
[December 7, 2006. Addendum: I suppose it truly is a blessing that, however sad it may make me, no one ever does really read this blog. I say stupid things when I'm drunk. I mean, I don't say any dishonest or untrue things, but they are stupid nonetheless.]
fumblin' with the blues... Two dead ends and you still have to choose."
So, I know not what to think of my current set of circumstances. This blog, I know, was intended to be reserved for my more inebriated moments. I apologize; the past few entries have been far too sober. Well, if I may, please allow me to dispel your disappointment, put your worries to bed; I am drunk. I hope your worries sleep tight.
This night, before the inebriation occurred, I ran into some old friends, some really old friends, people I used to love, people I still love, somehow, people who used to love me. Used to. Long ago. They made it seem as though they would be interested in, ya know, like, um, ya know, maybe hangin' out some time.
Not only can I not forgive myself for what I did to them; but I could never even so much as imply that I would want them to forgive me for what I did. It just wouldn't be right, forgiveness. I do love them, though. I think the reason why I can't be their friend is that I don't love myself.
Boo-fucking-hoo.
Though it's true.
Gosh darned super-ego.
For the record, McCormick's whiskey doesn't mix well with absolutely anything. A hard lesson I've learned again and again.
I do, somewhere buried beneath the alcoholism and self-deprication, have love in my heart for those by whom I'm surrounded. Thanks to all of those who love me.
I'm finally drunk; this isn't an experience I've had since at least last friday. Unfortunately the drinking business doesn't pay very well.
There's a certain something about someone who can relate to Tom Waits. It may be just the alcohol about them, but there's something nonetheless. There's a little Tom Waits in everyone; it's called the Id.
Sorry for all of the freudian allusions.
So I know that I no longer have the potential to become what I once could have been. Woopsie-daisy. I can still become whatever it is I can still be, right? I know I'll squander that bit of potential too. Down the drain, or the hatch, as this whiskey may be.
Cheers.
Have you ever been so taken advantage of, everbeen so taken, ever been so desroyed that you don't know from where to take solice? You have no; you are left with no hope.
At least I'll always have the music. This is the same music I've been listening to for some time; this is the music that has always told me to drink. No, wait, that was the sobriety. Damned sobriety, however muc it hurts, it always knows what's best.
Fuck off,
Willie
On my front porch there are eleven little cigarette ends standing straight up in the snow-covered ashtray like headstones with epitaphs that read "Here lies seven minutes of William Joseph Crook's life. May they rest in peace."
I haven't left the house since it started snowing on tuesday night. I've been staying up each night until it is no longer night, until I can no longer force my eyes open, afraid of what the new day may bring. At night I'm safe. Days these days bring one of two things: bad news, or nothing. Each night I hope the next day will bring the latter.
So, I don't know. I wrote that last night, and I still haven't left the house. I've been acting rather odd, talking in strange accents and such. Cabin fever, most likely. I just want to get drunk. I don't get it, I mean, I don't think of my life as particularly painful, but whenever I drink it feels like I'm drinking the pain away. I'm drinking something away, I don't know what. I just want to forget something, but I don't know what it is. Or maybe it's everything.
In the early twentieth century, Marcel Proust developed the idea of, and coined the term, involuntary memory. Involuntary memory is the phenomenon wherein old memories are dug up and dragged onto your cerebral stage. It occurs, involuntarily, in response to some stimulus that triggers the recollection of the memory. These memories, for me at least, can be often times rather unpleasant, or even painful, to recall. As one gets older, one accumulates more and more of these painful memories and their subsequent triggers. Eventually one could become petrified by the constant recurrence of involuntarily recalling painful memories.
This happens to me, almost all of the time. I'm so afraid of everything, nowadays.
