NATEDOG & P-bone's post

[TIMESTAMP: 30/10/2007 02:20]
We're fuckin' blowin' this shit up.
We watched this contraband movie. It was the shit. Yeah, and Mr. Hamm passed the fuck out during this contraband movie.
Lots of things've been discussed, concerning my future, potential futures, and etcetera. I must tell you that by the time you will be reading this a lot of things will've been decided; a lot of futures will've been done.
Vowel sounds will've been sounded. And yeah, it's my life. But especially, the language of my life is English, which I love, but there are others, of which I love, who hate this language, yet continue to speak this way (which is also English: "This is Nate, and 'That's what I'm all about -- [about to contradict everything he just said] , Nate hates the english language, and if you don't speak English, Fuck you.' ")


There's a lot more to the story yet to come. But not yet. Hold on Fuckers, there's a fuckin' mountain to come.


(should not've -- keep it real)


[***EDIT***]
one more thing: my most "vivid" blog post yet.

Sentimental Sunday

My responsibilities've dropped to zero for the moment.
Somehow, I found people willing to cover the time required of me at the pizza place. Also, Mr. Tissi will cover my end of the deliveries at Lakota. My machine is ready, fit and willing for a drive, and so am I. I even have an itinerary; it doesn't so much follow a linear plan, but rather a checklist of events that will come about as my proximity engages respective loved ones. I'm going to try to spend as much time with the people I love as I can, and lucky for me that means I'll be busy. So if you're reading, see you soon.
What is up in the air: The unguaranteed and nebulous choice between a career in either coffee or journalism presents itself. If both of these careers turn into real options, then I'll have a real choice. Until then, it's definitely something to think about.
If any of you have access to facebook.com, check my profile to see the pictures I hope will be posted sporadically during the next few weeks.
And now, I guess I'll post a nice thought I had that carried me through the last week.
The men and women we fall in love with, our love for them never really goes away. It can become clouded; it can become focused. Myself, even when I look into the eyes of a past lover that I've spent time with, a woman I've lowered defense for, there's always still a tug at my insides. It never leaves me. Even if it's time for the both of us to move on. Normally I'd go on about the variances in attachment we can place on each other, or even one another, but I'll save it for another day. Specifically, while I understand my lovelife can be made into a joke for some people (with varying degrees of ease), it's OK. In some respects it is.
The niceness about this thought I want to share: Even through the sizing up, the eyes lidded with unconfessed information gleaned from my past lovers, the lover's themselves turning their affection to others, and yeah, all the cheating that goes along with it, even through it all, even after spreading myself so thin that strangers have the notion of seeing through me, I'm OK. I still love each and every one of you; friends, lovers, ex-lovers, strangers, enemies, those in between; and nothing in this world will ever get between that. If you feel as I do, let's have a drink and watch the sun set together.
So, until the next episode, kiss the next person you kiss like it's the last time, and let's all pray for one another, OK.

Wouldn't it be great if instead of H-coming and a superloud greek community we had more liberal arts. Yeah, more freaks and less frats. More arts and less tackles. ... I'm just sore because everyone in the stadium drunk on beer-flavored water'll traverse my fair city tonight.
Anyway, "go tigers."

"In line at the state's certification office, a worker talks on the phone about his past, grabs a post-it.
He thinks the worker'll write a $-total. Then, he's struck with a notion: He's paying for something outside currency. He's chained to the machine he loves — married.
He types it later."

The machine took center stage as I prepared her for certification. New oil, new belts, new wipers, new gasoline, new fragrance source — finally I make good on my promises to one of my favorite inanimate objects. Did cost enough, couple hundies. "A small price to pay for you, my love."

*—a bullet to the head

And, as far as atoms are concerned, time doesn't translate. At one point or another metal does melt. Fucking set the computer on fire — or better yet — pull the trigger on some mechanism controlling to fate of a shell loaded into some chamber the mouth of which is pointed at a head, somewhere. As the light pours into and around the prevailing scenario, all is as it is and will be, and has been for that matter. Sure, nothing is planned, and nothing will be planned. "A plan is just a list of things that don't happen."
For the light, this is ever. This, as you're reading, as you will be reading, as you're dying, as you're being born, blah, this is everything. For some things within our understanding, there is no such thing as time. This is not to say that the dimensions that lay, and have lain, are to be understood — merely that the small photons and electrons that exist do things and exist on a level at which we are all party to and are not in tandem. And yeah, this is no new concept; time is an extensionalization of our existence.
When it comes to blows with free will is when we think about such a concept. "When I chose to pull the trigger and kill whoever it was sitting there, the decision was already there. There was no yes or no about it. They were already dead as far as time is concerned."
At some point when one talks of free will, the popular route of conversation turns toward quantum mechanics. It'd be nice to adopt any sort of mathematical theorum toward life — considering the fate that the questions that would arise would be stately answered with some sort of pen-and-paper cocktail-napkin manner. (I'm quasi-confident this reality will be realized). Definitely good at parties.
But it'd all come back to some question of uncertainty. And what doesn't. "If I shot the guy, fucking prove it. You weren't there." There is no way to account for the position of the life we lead while simultaneously accounting for where it will be going. ...
But, that's the great thing about free will.
It doesn't matter. Nothing really matters as far as anything is concerned. Obverse: Everything matters. As for our existence (with a nod to our generation's technology capability) time marches on. So life can be just a list of things that do happen, or don't happen — a movie with all the dimension of a pop-up book (an inferior medium, by the way).
The idealism that I've been pining over, that I thought I'd been clinging to, involved going beyond lists, walking in three dimensions, and beyond fretting over where I'll be later on in my existence. And in some echo of thought, I realize that this train of thought — this existence now — chains me down to a world of time, a world of choicelessness, a world without any fate but that which decays before me. I know there's something better. I've been there before.
And I know that without it life can be—*

Wow! What a packed few days. Lots of good things here. Worked quite a bit. Played with some kids at West Ave. Drums, Bass, all that. Haven't done music with others since the jazz deal. Miss it a great deal.
Many decisions to make. All've a contingency of nonreconciliability. Yeah...

You. You seriously don't know how it's like to flippin' drive every day without onea these. My job required me to do such a thing. Granted, my own head was on the line... I GOT IT BACK!!! Now I'm Mr. Legal again. And yes, I do intend to use it.

p.s. old photo

Sentimental Sunday

Maybe I'm not as idealistic as I may have thought. Maybe.

I had a good Friday. Had a shitty Saturday. Can't wait for my time away from this town.
The more I consider a life without responsibility, except to myself, I feel closer to home. This probably means I've a lot of living left to do; I'll eventually change my mind.

So here's the thing. People don't know what they want. While it's nice to believe that some kind of savior will stand up and convince everyone to do the right things, it's probably not going to happen. So, yeah, people need to take it upon themselves to do what's right for everyone. Selfish actions may fall into line with these "right" actions, but it should only be out of desire for the greater good.
The problem: You can't trust anyone. On a long enough timeline, every one of us will fail. There are things that stand in the way of the ideal so insurmountable and invisible that only a monster would be able to get through them.
I'd like to believe that one day our world's civilization will be a nice place to live. But only time will tell. Neither my children, nor my children's children, or even beyond those generations, will live in a world any better than what we all live in now. Hell, and this is just considering the media we live with. And consider the largely selfish actions we all suffer under. I believe that somewhere along the way in the path our world's civilization took a wrong turn was made. And as we extensionalize our selves to more and more of these terrible media, it becomes easier to control people — making that idea of a savior both ever-present and non-existent at once. The selfish desires people will have, and do have, will not be their own; they will be given to them through patterns of suggestion, and all too easily will they be taken. Future society will be in a constant state of satisfaction and dissatisfaction — sheep. In short, we will all be monsters. Furthermore, as human civilization marches on, anyone seeing this pattern of social control via media who longs to stop it, reverse it, and generally make for a nice future for his or her's children and children's children and etcetera, will be dealt with eventually (and by dealt with, well, how do governments deal with things (as opposed to how they should deal with things)?).
Now if I seem bent on this idea of the medium being keystone in the future of life on Earth, well, I am. I believe that now it all depends on who develops the extensionalization technology first, and how they'll use it. And if he or she happens to be disposed to an idealistic outlook, maybe things won't come to blows with my future. If he or she has the goal of power...
Only actions outside the realm of what society can do will save us. Perhaps a global climate shift? I can only pray.

But then, this is just me. I'm the victim. I've no future. And I'm far too jaded with everything to believe in the good hearts of people. Then again, if I were given a cause, I might fight. Like I said earlier, the more I consider a life without responsibility, except to myself, I feel closer to home. It all depends on what I will owe allegiance to. But right now, I see nothing. So pray for me everyone. Tell me how you feel.

My head. It still hurts. What a shit day. Last night was flippin' nuts! Me and Ms. Amur did a good chunk of this town, bringing with us a number of random accomplices. ... but now, my head is pounding with every heartbeat.
Tonight's plan: Dinner, water, light TV, telephone, sleep.

Online, just now, I purchased transportation via aircraft. Tendering this purchase'll mean my first plane trip. Tangent: I'll be going to a place where the ocean sits; my first view of the ocean. Only, I don't need to buy the ocean Online.
Just a few more weary days and then ...

Entering my cell one night, I spotted something different.
"There's never anything different," I muttered.
But there it was: A package from amazon.com. Curious, I ripped it open.
—AH! A gift from one Mr. Dreidellickt! Music!
Thanks Mr. Life for my one and only believed date of birth day gift.

Didn't make it into the Sapphire Lounge open mic last night. Happened to stop into Eastside Tavern for a quick pint. Ran into a really hip chick from a really hip place. More really hip people came and hipped it up. Walked home with my really hip guitar like a—

"While delivering to Lakota's hospital kiosk he spots a cruiser needing oil; its engine's clicking. The driver parks, pops the hood, inspects. A few gifted quartsofoil later and ..." —bearhug—
"'... my wife's dying upstairs; you're the most generous anybody here's been to us.'
Pray for him everybody.
He types it later."

The Wednesday Headache

It's kind of hard to like your dayjob when your boss is trying to cut the corners of details in your dayjob description he or she describes as "cost effective." I should be getting paid more, but instead my dayjob is limited because even current payment is nearly impossible. "Fuckers."

Nobody likes being treated like a child. Except children, but that's only because they don't know they're children. Once when I worked at a movie theater, my teenage bosses began to flip through a yearbook. I'ma veteran at denigration.
Last night, Ms. [ANYPIZZAPLACEMANAGER] placated me in such a way I—

According to my calendar, today's the last day I'm imposed with the suspension of my driving license. It's been 89 days since my month on foot and 59 days since the start of to-work-to-home driving. Ironically, I still won't get to drive anywhere until ... probably never, the way things're looking.

Since today my weblog might experience a new bit of readership, I thought what better way to introduce this pile of shit than to offer links of how it's been introduced in the past. So, Here, Are, The, Links. There's probably more, but who'd really go through all that garbage.

2 for Tuesday

Is any of this normal?
Maybe I need a second opinion about my life. Maybe.
No more women. No more booze. No more smoking.
Can I stop? I've tried before.
Maybe I've a bi-polar disorder. All the evidence is there.
I get the feeling that people're speaking ill of me.

My life's giving me shit. I was almost killed three times today — before 10 a.m. — by inconsiderate motorists. Indirectly and directly, people've been assholes. After sending off five resume packages, I'm feeling more jaded about the future. I am working on a strong dislike of puppies, too. Especially this one:

"Who didn't see that coming P-bone."
Ms. N-Chapstick canceled on me. Yep. Issues with her work arose and she became unavailable, she said. ... And I wore my good shirt and everything. Well, luckily, it's Monday, and open-mic'll be swinging shortly.
"Probably for the best. You would've blown this one eventually."

Sentimental Sunday

"He stands at the head of the sunset and ponders the events of the week."

* So I've been hanging out with Mr. Kravitz a bit lately. Good times.
* Just had a drop of scotch with Ms. Amur; she had two beers for $1.50, eventually.
* I might be just a bit nervous about this date tomorrow. Yeah, it's been a while since I've actually had a first date.
* Today, while shopping, someone said to me "You look good." 'Twas a dude; he spoke in regard to the tie-dyed shirt I was wearing on account of today being my day for doing laundry.
* Almost made out with this sorority girl at this frat party the other night. Almost. Not even close really. ... "Really? You? P-bone? A frat Party?"
* Work at the pizza place sucks. Work at Lakota is better than ever.
* I've not heard from any of the places to which I've sent applications.
* I've been making money playing guitar on the street. Not a wage, but it feels good.
* The feelings I've harbored for Ms. 2012, Ms. Shopgirl, and Ms. ?Eyes?'re fading, if not almost completely gone. Sure I wonder what might have been regarding any, but, ... then there's that talk about deserving what it is we get. I miss Ms. 2012 the most, but maybe enough time is passing to put all that fantasy to rest. —"Hope you're doing well. I trust he's treating you right."
* Bit of a segue: My heart is boundless (to crib a phrase from Ms. Muffintop). Maybe I'll never settle down, and just keep jumping from one tryst to the next, each varied in my personal attachment to the next.
* Maybe I'll drive. I'll live off the grid and work for only one reason: my meal that night. What kind of future will I have?

"The sun as set and he descends back into the world for another week."

It's been a long three days. They've been filled with three double shifts and right now is the first time I sit at a computer and check things.
Things've come to blows with Ms. Shopgirl. For whatever reason, I miss her. Maybe it was because she liked to hang out and not need a relationship — ipso facto, when I acknowledged I like her more was moments after she told me she'd met someone "fantastic." So there was a prolonged nuts text conversation, in which nothing was resolved, and during which she and her (not sure if this is the right word, but fuck it) counterpart, Ms. Rooftop, show up to the pizza place to laugh at me in my bandanna. Probably one of the most embarrassing moments of my life.
Anyway, in other news, I did end up calling Ms. N-Chapstick. As it turns out, she's just as busy as me — but we've a date lined up for Monday. Should be interesting; she sells sex toys in the part-time.
On top of these issues, I see all of the usual suspects at least three times in a week. Such embarrassing encounters as with Ms. ?Eyes?, Ms. Particles, Ms. Yellowhead, Ms. L, Ms. Benji, relived upon every frequent encounter ... I really need to get the fuck outta this town.

If I could just stop dreaming about Ms. Shopgirl. It's always the same, too. She's lying naked next to me in my apt. The sun is glowing deep, dark blue outside. I kiss her freckled shoulder and put myself inside, my arms wrapping her body nicely, like they always did. She grabs my thing a little and we start making time in the morning. Her hand grasping my backside, forcing me in more. I get a glimpse of her eye as she looks over, her face up in a smile. A great big hippie smile. Then I wake up, hard, alone. FUCK!

Through texts, Ms. Shopgirl and I conversed last night. No matter the medium, women tell me this:
I miss u 2 but onl
y as a friend... an
d for someone to
sleep w/
And again this morning, I woke from a dream with her to an empty bed — heart sinks.