I tried stream of consciousness writing once, back before I knew what anything was, and it wasn't very good. So I did it again and enough interesting thoughts came out that it's not too embarassing:

Like the set for some movie sent down from heaven where the funds ran out about halfway through, discontented cast and crew with coffee stains on faces, wrinkled lines in sides of faces, tumbleweeds across the dusty stage with everyone standing around, confused, watching.

Shaking a stick in the middle of the grass, everyone not knowing but knowing but refusing to acknowledge their own beats and sticks. Everyone rips off clothes, sense of own mortality and smear shit on walls, proclaiming mortality and invincibility just because we’re not supposed to be mortal and invincible. It’s all coming down, it’s all fleshy, it’s being taken away.

Slamming table against wall again and again and again.

Like priests marching around the altar of some sacrifice, holy but not knowing it because they’re laughing and they can’t just sit the fuck still and not think anything and not do anything, no one knows why they’re walking, just lay down in the middle of everything and people will proclaim because the most important statement anyone can make is no statement at all because simply the essence of being, one point of concentrated space in time, is more powerful than all the words in the world set together, and all the arcane energy that they create can’t begin to touch the beauty of one unhindered moment.

Ultimate irony that you can’t feel your own warmth, but you don’t have to touch another to feel human, it’s all there. In the trees, like they just don’t care, like you’re an insignificant nothing but you love them anyway because they SIMPLY ARE and you SIMPLY ARE even though it’ll take years and years to realize that you SIMPLY ARE.

Inexpressible, heartbreaking, multi-splendorous, horrifying and beautiful complexity of everything.

Can't sleep, go downstairs, the whole outside is lit up. Step outside, a good kind of cold and the world's pure when no one's watching. Smells like the desert, I can see my breath, my English class is reading The Dharma Bums and everything's just a little more still.

Hard to believe this is right outside our windows, every night, and we never bother to pay attention.

So I hope they'll listen to dear old Mr. Kerouac.

I'm glad everyone gets that release once every so many months, at least those that aren't too self-conscious to enjoy themselves. Perhaps, actually, they aren't self-conscious enough.

Reaffirmation, reaffirmation, reaffirmation that the gritty is there, that it's there when we need it. Just jump up and around and feel dead and brilliant, like black and concrete added make light.

Get rowdy, y'all.

You can always count on the weather to be relevant.

This is hard.

You are captured by evil henchmen and trapped in a square shaft 100 feet deep. The walls are completely smooth and straight. On your person you have a container of dental floss, a promotional AOL CD, a lighter and a torn female condom.

Whoever can escape from the shaft gets to co-host.

Don't wanna feel like I got punched in no gut no more.

Don't Pick at It Radio will now be airing on Wednesdays at 7:00 pm. Here is the link, don't lose it. DPAIR

Instead of doing another rap contest, I'm going to try something very different. Whoever can most accurately reconstruct the weird dream I had the other night using these pictures as a guide will get to co-host.













Those of you whom I've already explained the dream to are disqualified.

The next episode of Don't Pick At It Radio will be this Wednesday at 7:00pm, not Monday at 8:00.

Bush's one-fingered victory salute

Rap.

A message to all those who embrace difference



Thank you for being interesting. Thank you for interrupting the human landscape with color and shapes and metal. Thank you for your perspective. Thank you for continuing to dress the way you please, despite constant ridicule. Don't listen to them, they're the ones doing it wrong.

New rap topic:

Rain is a blessing. When it rains during school, my listlessness vanishes, I feel warm and belly-happy.

But some people don't appreciate the rain.

Today at lunch the "administrative assistant" I lovingly refer to as "Anal Tear" was patrolling the quad, ordering people enjoying the weather to find shelter. "We're in high school now."

Yeah. We are in high school. Perhaps it's time we are treated like young adults.

It's strange; Anal Tear figures were everywhere in middle school. Freshman year, it was about half and half. By sophomore year, most of the faculty's authoritarian douchiness had subsided and this year, I can't think of another person besides Ol' Crabbytats who still ascribes to that outdated, awful system. I wonder if she knows how universally disliked she is.

Anyway, it's raining, and I'm happy.

Pump Up the Volume: best movie EVER!

New rap topic: the epicanthic fold.

Once again, whoever submits the best rap gets to co-host the show with me.

No broadcast tomorrow; I will be gone. I'll figure out the schedule soon.

This is John Kerry.

This is John Kerry stomping Bush into the ground.

This is Matt Louv jubilant.