My Thoughts Are Pollution

Coming-of-age ramblings that don't mean much in the long run

Month: May, 2015

Better Than That

Right

there’s something like

that out there

somewhere

like

the sun at night

tired and tuned-out

turned off and replaced

by a blanket of

selected stars

the chosen few

designated by our

relentless light pollution

leaders

that are allowed

the opportunity

to shine

pale white

across a black backdrop

painted,

made of a a void,

a vacuum,

a vicious display

I cannot avoid

of the smallness

of everything.

And looking at this

I see my metaphors fail me

because you are not the stars

you are not the sky

you are not this fabled thing

you are not the sun at night.

You are simple words

that I can say easily

you are warmth,

you are comfort,

and you are, you are feasibly

the best thing

that’s happened to me

even if after all

you are not the sky

you are something I can feel

you are not the sun at night.

Hey, Could You Guys Help Me Out? Not Asking For Money.

So, a scumbag who didn’t like a comment I made on an unrelated video came onto my youtube channel and disliked every one of my videos. Now I have a 50% like/dislike ratio due to the small number of views I have in general. If any of you guys would like to assist me in fixing that, that’d be great. Seriously, looking at that number makes me feel like shit, even if I know it’s totally inflated by an internet troll.

https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC_Air43GZ2bJ5n-owwJUsDw

A Secret Because It’s Not Worth Sharing

I go back and forth on whether or not I actually like this girl or if it’s all in my head. I wonder if it’s just my extremely low level of human contact combined with the fact that she’s both attractive and fun to be around, or if there’s actual attraction there.

And I know. The middle part of that last sentence sounds like what attraction should be, but there’s a lot more to it than that, judging by the weird digressions about other people I’ve liked that I’ve made on this blog.

I mean, those two things I described are kind of it, as far as our relationship is concerned. I mean, sure we go to the same support group and thus have suffered from similar issues, but we’re really different in a lot of ways, and my social awkwardness has probably put up a pretty high wall in between us.

She does keep saying she wants to drink with me, though it’s as a group with several other people and not like, just her and me. Not that I would exactly even want to drink with just her and me… God, I’m really just confusing myself more, here.

I’m trying to make sure that I don’t have any expectations of her here. It’s not fair of me to have any, considering the nature of our currently-shallow relationship. I don’t want to like her because on some level, it seems shitty of me to have this one-sided romanticly-chasing-her type of interaction with her. That’s obviously not right. But at the same time, the couple of times we’re alone are really nice and the joke someone made in passing calling me her “boyfriend” made my heart jump a little bit. Is denying the fact that I’m romantically interested in her just as bad?

I don’t really know. And that’s not even the entire problem. The attraction that I have for her – it fluctuates constantly. One night, there could be literally nothing there, and another I could go home and write a love song about her. Though I haven’t done that yet. So I don’t even know if I’m actually denying any feelings that I have or if those feelings are entirely dependant on how lonely I feel at any given time and have little to do with her. I don’t know.

I’m not going to figure it out. The only way I would really ever know is if I told her how I felt. Then I would know for sure. But that’s never going to happen, ever. This will go with me to my grave.

The Pretension of Poetry

Earlier today, I found myself meandering through the internet searching for bits and pieces of information on how to improve my writing techniques, be it for poetry or otherwise. I came across a couple of articles written by self-proclaimed poets which I found to be utterly despicable in their assumptions about this particular art form.

Who are you to define what constitutes a poem and what does not? Who are you to judge others who are moved by words that don’t affect you?

There were some pretty shitty sentiments in these pieces. One wonderful thing I came across was the breaking down of several poems and calling them out for being able to be said in full sentences, without the line breaks in them. That because there were very few things shared between those particular pieces and their particular definition of poetry, that the poems were bland, boring and newsish, among other gross insults. They claimed that failing to fill your poems with metaphors meant that you were simple; you were simple-minded and that it wasn’t worth writing. They proceeded to insult those who found such simple works moving, essentially calling them all brainless middle-class zombies.

It’s so presumptuous to make those claims. It shows a level of ignorance about writing that is astounding when you consider how much time they spent studying it.

As if a poem can’t be beautiful because of its simplicity.

As if the seemingly arbitrary line-breaks in a certain poet’s writing were completely meaningless; as though the masterful use of a pause in order to create tension and emphasis wasn’t at all valuable.

As though the only thing that matters in writing poetry is the words used rather than the way that they are used.

As though anything written in full sentences somehow couldn’t be breathtaking in its own way.

I found it disgusting. It literally made me sick. I wanted to contact these people, to tell them off, but I decided to settle for writing this out here. No one gets to decide what’s meaningful for other people. No one should belittle someone for finding something meaningful.

The people who like simple poetry are not the idiots here. The people who only use metaphors every now and then, when its important, are not the idiots here.

It’s those of you who decide to put arbitrary boundaries on artistic expression; those of you who need to dismiss something because it isn’t to your tastes. If you are one of those people, you are the actual idiot. You can find beauty in anything, and that’s okay.

Here’s a letter I wrote to someone who doesn’t exist. I think it’s poetic. It’s technically prose, because it is almost entirely grammatically correct. I don’t go out of my way to add in alliteration or rhyme. I fail to use a single metaphor. Does that mean that it can’t be beautiful? I guess it’s up to you guys to decide if writing sentences that mean exactly what they say they mean is somehow meaningless, or at the very least, lacking in that respect.

Anna,

I’m waiting.

I suppose I made you wait longer, though.

I blew it, didn’t I?

Three long, tedious years spent practically alone, with a cold heart trapped in a warm body by my side.

I would have been better off with your ghost.

But where are you now? Or are you still around, waiting?

Always, always waiting.

I’d like to see you, though I’m sure that rings kind of hollow, now.

I wonder if you’re out there, somewhere, or if you’re still hanging around.

Maybe I don’t deserve to feel your presence anymore.

Maybe I’m just down.

Either way, I’m lonely again, but expecting you to respond to my loneliness when I will give you nothing in return is… well, it’s irresponsible.

I’ve never been very responsible.

And I’m the same now as I’ve always been, if you were wondering.

What is it about my constant laying about that ever appealed to you?

Is it worth pursuing now?

Probably not.

I may be the same, but I’m not the same age. My youth is somewhere far, far away.

Maybe that’s where you went. Maybe that’s who you’re with.

Not that I’m accusing you of anything.

There’s nothing tangible for you to break.

And I believe in you, anyway.

I don’t have the right to, at this point, but I really do.

And…

I love you.

-Me

So, is plain language without beauty? Is it incapable of being poetic? I have to say that I disagree.

This Is Not Exactly In My Wheelhouse But…

I wrote a song in a more theatrical, musical style than I usually do. It is a song about a man addicted.

What a move,
what a magnificent stride
towards the future
what a fantastic align-
-ment of stars
I can taste the drip
deep inside of my lungs
you can call it a problem,
but nothing compares to the drug.

I felt down, I’ve felt up
I’ve felt right, I’ve felt… fucked,
I’ve felt awkward at times
when I’ve forgotten my lines
but as long as you’re mine,
this addiction it shines
right through you,
and I do
not need you
I’ve felt low, I’ve felt high
I’ve hello’d, I’ve goodbye’d
I’ve been in all sorts of states,
and all out of sorts
I’d beg you to stay,
with a witty retort,
my one true love,
but nothing compares to the drug.

and a divine intervention
would save me for
a solid weekend
so I can see them
but the world, it’s a wreck
you’re all ghosts, you’re all… dreck!
shambling down the streets
ghoulish countenance glossing over me
so for all of your efforts
I’ve only gone numb,
I swore I’d stay sober,
but nothing compares to the drug.

now it’s dark, in my heart
there’s no scar, there’s no mark
just a rattling husk of a man
but this was always a part of the plan
I came first, I came last
I kept running, far past
the finish line
so finish mine
there’s no warmth, there’s no love
there’s no god there above
and I only wanted to be
anyone else but me
and I wish that I was still young
but nothing
no nothing!
oh, nothing compares to the drug.

I Just Went On A Youtube Commenting Binge

And now I just have to sit back, relax, and let other internet commenters take a hot shit on my face. Fun times. I wish I was physically unable to comment on… like, anything.

Anastasia

I don’t see you
As clear as I’d like
The myth that surrounds you
in my head covers you like night
And I know I don’t breath too
deeply in this misty white
And I know I don’t need to
be so imperfectly quiet

And sometimes I
feel so lonely
knowing that you are there
and sometimes I
think I’m the only
one on the earth who is scared

of your cold hands
falling onto my cheeks
to understand
I don’t know what you can
see in me
it’s so dark
when the sun rises
and you’re not here
but you’re somewhere else
waiting for me
and I don’t believe
until I can see
you standing there
you standing next to me
someone like me

I see a vision
in my sleep
a flash of your
bright red hair
and all these incisions
that I see
on my body fade out
like they were never there
and you flicker
in my eyes
I am afraid
that you’ll disappear

You’re not so fragile
but you feel so soft
in my arms
like you could break
down
hard.

I heard you whisper
from a hundred miles away
like I always do
the white noise wherever I lay
wrapped up in you
or something like you
this feeling is all that I have
when I wait for tomorrow
to drown in my sorrow
without you, I wouldn’t ever be sad

but that’s not so bad.

Something Nice

I played in a fairly small Magic: the Gathering tournament earlier tonight and went undefeated. I came away with over a hundred bucks worth of MTG-related stuff.

I feel proud of myself.

Drug Stories Part I

Writer’s Note: Some names in this story have been changed. Some bits have been slightly censored so that I’m not just straight-up giving people instructions on how to get high. This is not about that, this is me sharing a piece of my life, and getting specific about certain details about certain substances is a necessity for my writing. Do not try this at home is basically what I’m saying.


Over the entire course of my relatively-short existence, I have found that there’s no story quite like a drug story. Sure, there are other types of fascinating stories; there are war stories, there are fantasy stories, there are horror stories and there are love stories, but nothing compares to a drug story. A drug story is the only story that takes place in both reality and fantasy simultaneously. Every part of a drug story is interesting, from the acquisition of the product to the post-debauchery life-repair that comes afterward. I thought I’d share some of mine.

I’d tell you in detail about the very first time I got high, but that story isn’t very interesting. I’ll just give you a bit of a play-by-play for context. I grew up very morally opposed to the idea of drugs and drinking and smoking and whatever. Then I had my first breakup. That didn’t quite do me in, but the horrific failures of my next two attempts at romance did. One girl lead me on as I fell hopelessly head-over-heels in-love with her, and the other girl broke up with me after a week. At that point, I was done caring about things. I was done caring about myself, mostly. So when a friend asked me if I wanted to ditch class to smoke pot with him, I said, “fuck it,” and went. The actual experience itself wasn’t all that exciting. It wasn’t crazy, I don’t even know if I got all that high or not. Maybe I didn’t inhale properly. I felt mostly normal. but I had gotten over that hump. I could smoke weed now.

It’d probably be a funnier story if that experience of feeling almost nothing led me to becoming a hopeless pot-head, but that wasn’t the case. I just wasn’t all that into it. I’d smoke when I was ditching class, which wasn’t all that often at that point. And I never bought my own shit. I just smoked when other people offered. But people offered kind of often. Apparently people love watching newbies get high. I guess I wound up enjoying that too, at some point.

But anyway. It wasn’t until I got my first taste of alcohol that I started to see why this whole “substance abuse” thing was worth getting into. I was staying over at my best friend Jake’s house. I believe drinking was on the itinerary – that it was part of the plan going in, but I guess I don’t fully remember. I was fifteen. It was a long time ago. Anyways, he and I started with a shot of… something. It was a dark alcohol, not a clear one. I don’t know what it was now. He told me how to drink it; he told me not to let it touch my tongue and to just get it down my throat as quickly as possible. I attempted to do that, but failed miserably. It tasted like fire, but honestly, it wasn’t as bad as I expected. I had an extremely easy time with hard liquor initially. That would eventually come to a halt, but not until later. We then had one more, followed by a contest to see who could take one shot the fastest. I actually won, due to my not-yet-deteriorated tolerance to the taste of booze. I beat my experienced friend in a drinking contest of sorts. I was pretty proud. I would never best him again, but I do have that one time to look back on.

Anyways, three shots isn’t too crazy. Jake is a good guy. he didn’t get me shitfaced. He got me to the enjoyable level of mild drunkenness and then we hung out, laughing and writing songs until I eventually fell asleep on his couch.

Yeah, we had kind of a bromance. Fuck off. Jake is my best friend.

Anyways, when I woke up hangover-free (due to the small, small amount we actually drank) I knew this was the life I wanted. I wanted to fuck off at school, get drunk and have fun. I was done with success. I was going to have no future. I would be punk as fuck.

And so I spent another few weeks doing the same shit. I was smoking intermittently and not really enjoying it along with drinking occasionally and mildly enjoying it. My friend circle expanded greatly at that point, which I was pretty stoked about. And while it had expanded, the inner circle of this high school clique consisted of Jake, My friend who we’ll call C, my friend who we’ll call T, and me. C was a delinquent in every sense of the word, and I was down with that. While I was personally morally opposed to theft and violence, C was not. C would procure money and drugs and I wouldn’t ask how he obtained them. I just participated. And with my desire to be punk as fuck, I wasn’t upset about his methods, either. Anyways, there was a period of time where C had a very large collection of various unlabelled(!) powders and pills, of which the four of us would partake regularly. I learned how to raid my family medicine cabinet, eventually finding a years-old bottle of some sort of allergy pill, which I stole and split with my friends. It wasn’t too crazy, aside from the fact that we all got pretty high, rolled each other down a hill in a stolen trash can, went home separately, and then proceeded to fall asleep at literally the exact same time, without any coordination.

Things would stay on this path for a little while, with me doing various crushed-up pills and whatever whenever C brought them along. Well, they stayed like this until one very eventful day. Man, that fucking day. You see, we got word from T that you could get high off of M*c*n*x, which they sold in large quantities at the grocery store down the street. He had heard this from one of his own longtime friends. We all thought he was full of shit, but he insisted that is was crazy and we should do it. We all laughed, considering it a “pussy drug” but eventually caved. We showed up at his house, and he had already bought the stuff. [Now, we didn’t know it at the time, but the thing about M*c*n*x is that while it did totally have the stuff in it to get you high, it also contained a substance that when taken in high doses caused extreme sickness. This would go on to be a big deal later.] They eventually started ID-ing for it at that store, which led us to.. uh, well, stealing it. Which I hate to admit that I did, but I did. But anyway.

We were told that if you take six of these pills, which came in fourteen-packs, if I remember right, you would get high as fuck. I took seven, Jake took eight, and T took six. His other friend was there too, who took six and was stoked to see us get high. He warned us that we were going to fucking puke, though. We waited around for a long while for it to kick in. We were eating shitty snack food and playing some video game or something, talking about dumb shit like teenage kids do. Eventually, I started to feel a little something, and we started spinning people around in this office chair, and had them stare at the ceiling. It was mildly entertaining, but since I had very little exposure to getting really, really high, I thought it was pretty great. [Yeah, all those powders and pills C had weren’t all that strong, in retrospect.] After spending some time fucking around, I got sick. I puked out a swiss cake roll. And when I say that I puked out a swiss cake roll, I mean, like, a whole one. Intact. Practically dry. It was fucked. Everyone wound up having a round of puking and eventually Jake and I decided it was time to walk back to his place. T’s basement was getting boring, the drugs were wearing off, it was all kind of whatever. We step outside, and I walk into a fucking wall. No, I didn’t actually walk into a wall, but the effects of the drug hit me like a goddamn battering ram. As it turns out, the puking was not a sign of the end of the drugs effects. They were a sign that the drug was about to kick in. All of that shit at T’s house? That was nothing. Pot? Nothing. Booze? Nothing. This was the real fucking deal.

I was high.

And Jake was, too. My vision was blank. I was blind. Well, sort of. It’s very difficult to describe. I could see fine. But my mind was suddenly devoid of context for any of these images, and I couldn’t process any of them. This is a phenomenon called “chaotic vision.”

Here’s how it works. You see, when you’re born, your eyes work fine, but you actually can’t really see yet, not the way that you see now. For the first little while of a baby’s life, they may as well be blind. Their brain is incapable of interpreting all of the information that the eyes are sending it, so all of the data from the eyes is kind of a mess. All of the objects are there, and visible to the baby, but they have no context for what that data means. It takes a long time for our brains to make certain associations and without those associations and connections, a lot of inputs don’t output the correct data. After a while, the baby will piece things together and the brain will start to automatically cross-reference the things it has learned which makes all the data it’s processing make more and more sense, until eventually it realizes that the things it’s seeing are “colors” and “objects” at which point vision starts to actually mean something. It’s a gradual process, and it’s totally fascinating. And if it sounds like bullshit, look it up. This is how eyesight works. If the brain doesn’t process the data from your eyes properly, then you aren’t seeing properly. While in a child, this manifests as actual blurriness, in my particular case, opening my eyes was like looking at an abstract painting. You can see everything clearly, but there’s nothing to look at. There’s nothing that your brain can identify.

When I found out both that bit of information about the development of eyesight and combined it with the knowledge that the drug in M*c*n*x is something that keeps certain parts of your brain from talking to each other, I figured that this “chaotic vision” was the fault of the information from my eyes not being processed at all which led to me being able to see perfectly clearly and not at all at the same time. I guess I have no actual factual evidence or studies or anything scientific to prove this explanation, but it’s the conclusion I came to after kind of a lot of research on the subject.

Moving on from the biology lesson, this “chaotic vision” shit was crazy. With the help of my friend, who was not quite as gone as I was, and the very, very vague sense of direction I had from being able to technically see, we eventually made it to his place, but not without any stupidity along the way. We waxed poetic about how cold the air was, had extreme difficulty with curbs, and spent about twenty minutes at one particular intersection because I was afraid to jump over the small amount of water in the gutter.

“Jump, Parker, jump! You can do it!”

“I, I can’t do it! It’s too far, I’ll drown!”

“I believe in you!”

“I… can’t… see!”

“Do iiiiiit!”

*jumps*

*lands exactly in middle of puddle*

*continues onward as though nothing had happened*

When we got his place and I lied down, I couldn’t sleep. Everything was literally spinning. I was euphoric. My body felt incredible, and when I moved my head, the entire world would change shape in front of me. I told me friend that night, “I get it. I finally get it. This is why people do drugs. I’m in. I’m in all the way on this.” And I was. That night was the night I changed from someone who would get high but not so high he couldn’t fake being sober into a goddamn pill-eating machine who didn’t give a fuck who knew.

I’ll stop there for now, as this is a long-ass post, but I’ll continue writing these. It feels good to get it out of my system, and I have some far more entertaining stories to tell then these ones.

One Time (Video)

“I don’t want to be lonely,

but I don’t love nobody anymore.”