Writer's Block: What Next?

What do you think happens to us when we die?

If you are buried: You slowly decay, slower no a days because of the embalming processes. You release gases, eventually you ooze yuckiness and dirty up that pretty box your family spent WAY too much on. Eventually the bacteria and worms eat you alive--well dead in this case.

If you are burned: Self explanatory. Then you are nothing but carbon and you family either keeps you in a jar or throws you somewhere.

cognition ceases, life is gone, your atoms become part of something else.

(no subject)

exhausting, collapsing
swimming deep in it.
blood halting
life changing circumstance.
inevitably devastating
desired equivocations
gone and empty
pointless and numbing.

More desparation, read at your own risk.

It’s been four months to the day and I am still as despondent as ever. The pain has not healed in the least; I have just managed to get used to it. I went to the eucalyptus grove and talked to sweet Mary Jane about her. Now I am reading Pearl, not The Pearl, but Pearl by the anonymous poet that wrote Sir Gawain and the Green Knight. It is about death. It is the straw that broke the camel’s back it is. There was dealing with Angela, Shonda, Kris, and the dad, and now this. It makes sorting through the past all that much harder. My cutting has increased exponentially. Yet the rest of the world plows on, as it must and somehow I managed to get an A on my art history mid-term. This is amazing considering that it is art, which is more difficult for me anyways than say math, physics, or english lit. Though I do enjoy the abstractness of art and the obvious mathematical properties some artists use. I am solidly at 3 As and 1 B in the middle of the semester. Not bad for barely being able to function.

(no subject)

On the border of grief and cliché,
expounding the causes of malaise;
dissolution of ancient paramours
turns to desideration for solitary quietus.
Life’s prepossessing preoccupations
are elusively following their own demise.
Crusading for isolation from discourse
and abstractions--obligations.
Extraneous exasperations
feeds paroxysmal mourning sorrow.
I beseech cessation of inevitable calamity.
I beseech obliteration of cognition.


Seeking the broken dreams of
the moon at (h,k),
I stumbled upon memories
that had long been abstracted by distain.
Before Thunder and Lightening visited your pyre.
Eyes, nose, mouth, and lips,
I encountered.
Hair long, shaved, short, now gone.
Perpetual vexation,
In life, in death,
nós dois.
Now I deliver your threnody
And vociferate.
a minha vida, a minha felicidade
você se lembra?
e tudo que você já se foram
Eu quero que você siga a partir do quinto andar.


I just want to say that I LOVE GOOGLE. I don't care if they sell my info like every other internet business. They provide amazing services for free and filter the spam I get better than anyone else. Fuck you Yahoo, you suck. They also offer web hosting, domain names and an extremely easy HTML editor with all the niftiness of Gmail and Google docs. Yay Google, I love you! You can take over the world as long as you never sell out.
  • Current Mood
    impressed impressed


Krista and I are going to Yellow Stone, yay! We are going to have to spend most of our time with her family. They are meeting us out there. Her parents and her sister, brother-in-law, and niece. It should be interesting since these are my future in laws. I have met her parents and that went just fine. I am planning Priscilla's California memorial, it is going to be July 25th instead of the 18th. I wish that the vacation was going to be less family and more alone time, but it will be fine at least I won't have to work for several days.
One a positive note, Krista and I looked at weddings rings. We have a date, a place, and the style of ring now and it is only a little less than a year away now. It will be good. I love her very much; I have to remember that Priscilla and I broke up for a reason, and that I could have done nothing to stop her, but be with her and would that have been good for either of us? Would she have made those improvements she did? Probably not, we used each other as crutches as much as we may have loved each other. The wrong place, the wrong time. Life will go on, and she now has her release, her peace, her sleep.
  • Current Music
    "Asking for it", Hole

(no subject)

Silhouetted past sweeps,
swiftly, silently by.
Murky dreams,
Or perhaps they’re memories?
Jog my mind, without invitation,
yet without pretense.
Deathly cold whips through,
Intense, fading in and out;
An oscillating wave of
pain, tears, and blood.
Spawning, catastrophic calamity,
and exhausting existential agonist.
Ending with the hope of a bright light
at the end of some distant tunnel.
Evading existence without hindrance of cognition.
Failing to escape, inevitably falling
to decimating discourse.