the typical american

12:30. by myself at the field kicking the ball. over by the school, i can hear the children playing their mundane games of tag and basketball without a second thought. they're laughing, jumping, smiling, cheering. i watch them. i'm not happy. you'd think i would be. i'm on break, what could be better than that? many things, really.

my head is feeling tight now. i can't think of any thing to write about. i'm struggling, thousands of thoughts rushing through my head a second. Spain, no, costa rica, maybe, england, maybe, america, maybe. i don't know, you just feel sick when you can't think of anything to write. you're thinking so hard, concentrating on that one thought, the subject of writing, that you lose all your energy. then i realize, just release. remember electric cool aid acid test? just release. let go, live in the NOW. it'll come if you relax. it happens to everyone, even to the best of writers. so of course it will happen to you. so, what do you do? just observe. look at the world around you.

but there's nothing interesting. here's where i am: the middle of a turf football field with a parking lot and a school on one side, and some one-story houses and the forest of the other side. i went into that forest once. it was depressing. there was lots of trash in white plastic bags, beer bottles, baby diapers and junk. how did this stuff get here? must be a big party scene. i'm walking through the thorns and plants and i come to a small stream. up stream, couple of guys are fishing in a small pool near the place where it runs out of the sewer drain. good luck catching anything. down stream, it goes past the historical society down under river road past all the abandoned car dealerships and the office parks and into the Passaic River. Yes sir, once the dirtiest river in all of the United States. probably still is. i've been in a couple of times, and i'm fine, so i don't know. you know, i've always wondered where the river goes. i always see it in motion, under the bridge, by the path, flowing, but where's it coming from? that's for God to know and you to find out.

so that's where i am. nothing special. there's only one other guy on the track anyway. before, there were a couple of maintainence guys kicking field goals. they were terrible, but it was alright. so, i take a look at this guy, and a hate him already. he probably works at one of those sickening office parks. you know the ones, with miles of concrete parking lots, post-modern 1980's architecture, security cameras all over the place. i always drive by these places and i ask myself, "who works here?" now i know. i'd never work at a place like that. i think any sensible person would know why.

just looking at him, i know every minute detail of his life. his new E-class BMW is still on lease, he bought it last year for 40,000 dollars at one of the three dealers in town. he's a local boy, yes sir he is. Summet high school, class of '62, by God. one of the best tailbacks in the state, star pitcher for the team. never won a championship, though. always seemed to come up short every time. sometimes drops in to see the old coach and talk about the program. "so, how's the team this year?" "oh, you know, same old, same old". he's the only one to show interest. "i can help if you want, still got the old arm going," he says, pretending to throw a baseball. "that's what we've got coaches for, fella." we don't want you here. comes down and watches every game, yes sir, ain't missed a game in almost ten years. always there, leaning against the chain-link fence in his tight fit Levi jeans and t-shirt tucked in. he always wears tennis shoes, just in case they might need him. but they never do. he chats with his old classmates at the game. Chuck Wilson, son of Don, the big real-estate magnet in town: "this kid isn't half as good as you. i remember you could throw a cool 90. you had a chance to make it big." he looks at the kid and nods his head. he knows he blew it, but he doesn't care. he's got a grand three story house, cost 2.1 million, two kids, both at Summet High, a beautiful wife, his highschool sweetheart, in fact, and three cars. he's living the life. he plays golf every sunday at Canue Brook, same tee-time, same old high school friends, same score, can't seem to get any lower. in the summer, he's at the country club every weekend, playing in some tournament. he never wins. but he smiles and wears expensive sunglasses nonetheless. only goes to church at Christmas and Easter, dresses up in his best, looking dapper, always drops a cool 20 in the offering, staring up at the deacon looking for a reaction. but she's featureless, and passes on. she doesn't care. she sees the same thirty of them every time and see hates their guts.

never reads, and if he does, only the Star Ledger or the Courier News, best goddam paper in the state of New Jersey, better than the other junk, the New York Times. always goes to the sports section first, looking at how Rutgers did in basketball or football or bowling. he'll read the results to his children and wife. they stare blankly at him, no one cares. he's a Giants and a Mets fan. hopes they'll do better every year, they never do. his wife's car's a Honda mini-van. every Thursday she takes Kevin with his spiked up hair and skinny features down to the Y to AAU basketball. he's a point guard. his dad'll stand on the sidelines in his business suit-he gets home at 4 every day- and shout encouragment to his son. he's the only dad to do this. after the game- the same advice every time- the same "good job, son," and then back home to watch the 30 minute DirectTV highlights of all the weekend football games, even though he's seen them twice already. he fancy's himself an analyst. when his wife calls him to dinner, he says, "one sec, kate, just let me see this play one more time." he checks and rechecks the ESPN.com football section nightly, looking for advice for his fantasy football team. the tips haven't helped him so far. he followed them all, and he's 6th in his league, losing to a 15-year-old punk who plays soccer and couldn't give a shit about football.

in two paragraphs, that's his life. he doesn't do anything interesting at work, just sits and surfs the Internet all day. in fact, no one's quite sure what he does. not even himself. his dad grew up in summit, lived the same life, died in summit, lived his WHOLE FUCKING LIFE in Summit. he's only been out of the country once, to the Atlantas beach resort in the Bahamas. he wants to go back and has been saving up for years. he thinks he knows Spanish and wants to go to Mexico some time. never wants to go to europe, only stupid French and Germans live there, and the British with their strange accents. yes sir, only place he ever goes on vacation is good old Florida, yep, Miami Beach, hulking high rises, thousands of people on the beach, water smelly from kids shitting in it, but he doesn't mind. he got a good cheap travel package from the Walter Long Travel Agency. he doesn't mind at all, even if he has to put their luggage tags on his pieces of black, shapless luggage.

he's the typical america. he's a mindless robot, a child. he holds no opinions of his own, others influence him. he thinks he once had dreams and ambition and aspirations, but he doesn't even know the definition of "aspiration". he thinks it's the best life he can have, wasting his body, his ONE life on this earth, rotting away in some coporate office park at the water cooler talking about the Monday Night Game, when he can be thinking, living, breathing. he could be writing, writing a novel, a poem, traveling, seeing the world, being free, but he's a slave of habit. he doesn't think at all. and when the slightest strange thought comes into his mind, or when someone asks him about religion or life as a whole, he nerviously laughs and switches the subject to the AL wild card race. yes sir, 290 million people live like this in America. this think about that, 290 MILLION dead, unthinking, uncaring, unbelieving minds. what a waste. what a terrible, terrible thing to waste. what'll happen when he's dead? only through the money and material possessions he owned will he be remembered. yes they may last 10 or even 20 years, but once everything's gone, it's gone and there's no way anyone could ever bring him back. yes, his name'll be on a gravestone in the corner of the graveyard by the railroad tracks, but weather and the passage of time will conquer all. his gravestone will become weathered and beaten until the name and the rock are one. then he will be truly forgotten for all of enternity. Eternity is a very, very long time. What will he have done on this earth? What will he have acheived? Nothing, absolutely nothing at all. He thought life was a joke, a video-game like the ones he used to play all the time. then, only when he's dying, slowly painfully, from Prostate cancer or some other stupid malady, will he realize his mistake. He'll gasp for live, struggle, he wants to live again, a second chance, but no, he's dead. you only get one chance here. best to make the most of it. try to acheive something, be a thinker, don't be afraid of the big issues, the frightening, cosmic issues, they will make you understand the significance of your one being. and then, finally then, will you go out, live an interesting life, and be truly happy.

release

why? why? why? nothing is ever good enough, i'm just writing now, thoughts spewing out on the paper, just writing, just releasing, just letting go, just living in the NOW, the kairos, the moment, you know it don't you?

i go in and i spend my whole fucking CPs, and hours, and frees and what do i get? not even a fucking well written. i'll tell you what i fucking get when i work my ass off, i get a fucking, "we want the best for you sweety, but we don't want you to get stuck as a sports editor. people won't take you seriously."

this makes me fucking explode. i just want to blow their fucking heads off, you know that, don't you? well i do. i live it every goddam day. try taking that.

they don't get it. they don't fucking get it, so why do they comment? they think they know what they're talking about, that's why. they think they're some shit smart fucking intellecutals who can march in and fucking get everything right. well, let me tell you, they're NOT.

i need to live my own life. they need to stop living it for me. and you know what gets me? it's like they've got a fucking gun to my fucking head. if you don't do this, we'll take this away. SCREW IT! JUST RELEASE! LIVEINTHEMOMENTFORONCE. STOPWORRYING. they don't get it. they never will.

and when i try to tell them, they're like, "what, you're trying to be like slyter now?" NO, I'M TRYING TO BE MYSELF, you dumb shit. i can act differently without incurring you're wrath, can't i? or will i be squashed and disinigrated in your great HOLY prescene?

i'm beyond anger. i've given up. just let it be. do what you want, don't let them stop you. live your life, not theirs. take their influence only if you agree with them. don't let them take you hostage, fight back, save your pride, your dignity in the face of these hulking titans. you can be free, you know. it's all in the mind, it's all about you. whatever you want.

sorry about the constant profanity, but it needed to be done. we need to release, live, and this is the only place i can do it. it's just these powerful emotions, and you know they can put you in quite a fix. i like them, but it's times like these when i go ballistic.

why i was rejected

alright, i've been posting a lot the past couple of days, but i daresay it's time better spent than surfing and doing nothing. and, plus the stress of certain upcoming events ;) wink wink nudge nudge requires me to look on the rational side of things.

which brings us to tonight's discussion. so, i had a conversation with a certain person last night, went very well i'll say, finally got my true feelings out after a fucking eternity. but, the most interesting piece of conversation came when i asked if she thought any other girls would invite me, the answer, which i strangely anticipated (probably cuase she took so much time) was a resounding no (well, not really, in reality, a confused, not confident no, but a no nonetheless). according to her, i'm "too intimidating". interesting. i wouldn't consider myself that type of person, in fact, the contrary.

so, now, to analyze the current situation and decide what action to take. anyway, i spied a certain girl necking with a certain boy today and heard they hold hands in the hallway. great. the one girlfriend i've had at school is fucking going down the toilet to a douchebag who's a fucktard and shitass motherfucking asshole. (too much profanity, i know, but we've got to let the emotions out). basically, i literally almost blew up. but i didn't. luckily, i took the smart way out. i waited, and waited. for once, and it's been a while since this has happened, i wanted to catch her glance. she may be avoiding it, but i don't know. i want to look into her eyes and pierce her heart with my message: come back to me. or, at least make her feel bad/pity me. you never know what'll work. it would be a hard, casual glance, revealing one thousand words all at once: why'd you do this to me? are you coming back? should i even bother? is it worth it? why? why? why?

i think i know the answer and it's taken me a while to recognize it. i think in the past, i've been too afraid of public emotional displays. you know, holding hands, head on the shoulder. one thing i didn't like (and maybe still don't like, i'm not sure) is being completely committed to a long term relationship. i feel like i'm in prison. therefore, i stayed away from her much of the time, but wrongfully so. i really should have come out and told her right away my true feelings and then left her to decide what she wanted to do.

but the past is over, and there's nothing we can do. true, i made a mistake, and i accept that, so i've got to look ahead into the future instead of to the past. water under the bridge. you have to make a choice: whether to fight back, or just let it be and see what happens. i don't know what i'm going to do yet, but whatever my choice, it's going to be a bumpy ride.

eversong- foo fighters- listen to it, it's got a great musical part, lyrics are okay, but i really like how it starts out low, and dull, and then there's this sudden powerful climax, i really like it; it's powerful, and it personifies what i often feel.

SIX days until i'm out. oh, and by the way, i should just mention that i'm not some fucking emo who spends fucking hours listening to music and shit. no, i'm actually a functioning member of society. and we have strong feelings/complicated situations as well.

A drum, a drum, Macbeth doth come.

Summer

The music from the Promenade floats by,
Looking at the ashen dying sky,
I see clouds and planes and stars
And headlights from lonely country cars.

The sun sets down the coast,
Father, Son and Holy Ghost
Are with me here tonight
Gone, somewhere far out of sight.

On the sands, we laugh and run,
Wishing to be forever young,
Losing each other in youthful bliss,
Ending in a longing kiss.

Music playing from the band,
Will you take my hand?
She asks and we dance,
For hours and hours in a trance.

The moon above darkened sky,
In the light I see her cry.
The water laps against the pier,
There is nothing more I can hear.

I stare forever at her face,
I hold her tight in my embrace.

And, far, far away down the sand,
I can hear the music of the band.

i really like this poem, i was just fooling around one day and BAM! it came out. i really like the rhyming scheme and the rhythm, it's pretty cool i think, even if it's not the most well written piece. i'm not going to show this at the Club or with mom. i don't know, there's just something too personal about it, i'm not sure what, i mean it's great and all that, but i'm not sure i'm ready, or if i'm ever going to show. there is, of couse, the off chance of a girlfriend reading this sometime in the future, but let's not get too far ahead of ourselves, shall we?

FM

It's sad I don't have something more meaningful in life to grasp on to, but we all must have our whims and pleasures, and this is mine. I hate myself for going on during class checking, checking what? There's nothing new...It's habit, the colleague of addiction. The old habits, hardset, what happens if we break them? Nothing, but we don't know that. We think the world will end, we'll be struck dead by lighting, instantly killed, and, as I'm telling myself all this, I know I'm not ever going to break my habits... Same websites, same routine at night, in the morning.

Simply put, myself, and I think everyone else, is afraid. We're afraid of the one barrier, that flimsy barrier, thinner than tape, that separates us from the normal and the different. It's terrifying to cross into that world. The mind creates a more powerful barrier, making that tape a steel wall six hundred feet in the air, invincible, and we can't cross it. But in reality, it's space and air that separate us. Nothing more, nothing less.

It's strange really, to think that for the 5 months, barring weekends, the first 30 minutes of my day will be exactly the same, no deviation whatsoever. And, in that respect, my day will be the same: go to school, learn, go home, homework, bed. Then, get up and do it again. Honestly put, it's a depressing cycle and a wonder anyone can take it 180 days of the year.

But what motivates us through this monocrity? really, what does? Nothing comes to mind for me. Not friends, not family, not even the desire to learn becuase all this becomes trite eventually. For a future life, then. A future life of what? The same. The exact same! Nothing different! Why don't they see it? Life is a timeline of the same things repeated over and over and over again for 99% of the population. It's a wonder they don't kill themselves. They're missing out on it all.

The thinking man, he is that 1%. He represents a different life, deviating from the norm, crossing that barrier, taking those chances, sometimes failing, sometimes succeeding, but that doens't matter to him. It's merely the action of crossing the line that separates him from 99% of the population. And that's what makes him so radically different from everyone else.

I want to be that 1%. Right now, I can picture and discuss it, but I don't know if I can take risks without fear, for that is the mark of an intelligent man, one who weighs the risks and benefits equally. It's difficult, I'll admit, and I think everyone else would too, if they could connect with me. But habit and addiction, these are my most powerful enemies. And I shall combat them with all my strenght, every ounce of it.

Throw yourself away

It's been a while, but I've been busy....

I'm a slave to addiction. I hate it so much, but it's so good. It's the one time I can be free during the day, release my stress. I don't care about anything then. But only if there was a better way... I hate it like this.... I'll say nothing more of it, although i ought to.

Haven't been asked out yet, starting to get a bit antsy...Will do the asking if she doesn't. Although some girls have been sizing me up the past couple of days... Maybe they'll ask me...

Sometimes, it's so difficult to remain above the ignorant masses and stay a thinking, coherent, intelligent human being. It's so easy to slip into that peaceful, ignorant oblivion, that place where life doesn't matter and you live your life doing nothing, it's useless and you throw it away like some five-cent toy. I really wanted to go there today and never come back, becuase everything else felt so bad, but I didn't. I didn't kill my soul or let myself slip away. I stayed above, fought hard, didn't drown. I couldn't. It would be throwing away all I've worked hard at. I could feel myself slowly going under, eyes heavy, IPOD playing, cruising down the road. I didn't want to do anything: no homework, no reading, not even listening. I just wanted to be in that moment forever; that moment of accomplishing nothing, gaining nothing, throwing all away. But I stayed above.

I really should write more, but, addiction is more powerful than reason. Addiction controls the mind, the body, thoughts and feelings. It takes you overboard, to a place you've never gone before and want to stay, and then rudely brings you back. You want to go there again, it's natural, human nature; we look for pleasure and happiness in life; so we go again, again, again, and again until it becomes a vicious cycle and we can't stop. It tears me apart sometimes, I know I'm dirty and rotten, but human nature overrides all.
I need to write more...It feels almost as good as that nirvana, when I've got a lot on my mind. I'm sitting here, right now, thinking nothing...Just an empty void but words are coming down, so I can't be thinking nothing becuase I've got to be thinking of the words to put down on this paper. Or do I?