nothing/creativity

am i just a spawn creature?  was I just created by other people/circumstances?

I don't think that I'm as flowery as that picture above.

My future is now.  

there are so many people who are writing nowadays.  so many people want to be "creative".  so many people are studying to be "creative".  and among the diverse creativity spilling forth, there is a lot of shit mixed in.  I don't know where I fit in.  I don't know if I am just another pollutant in the world of "creativity" and expression.

guns going off through the tv while trying to get some sleep.  

blog warrior

i am turning into a lonesome blog warrior.  Of Don Quixote's status.

poem to lost internet browserer, but not about you

Ever feel yourself slipping away?
Just staring at people, and slipping away...
This becomes therapeutic,
their actions, a conduit.
Through my gaze...
let others live, I say,
let it happen.
let the water run down your chin
down your shirt,
and now rest your eyes.

I have been in my head long enough
so as to make everything mine.
A laughing, comical world that is mine.
Do I feel estranged from my own world?
This is when I know...
I know something bleary eyed.

I don't see this as an escape,
but rather no escape.
Weary mirages dancing far off,
Like waiting for the drugs to sleep,
this is getting old...

If I go from meal to meal,
as I am now,
with nothing so far from sitting as
lying down,
God knows I'll be here,
far away,
in some other place...

ANDROIDS!! MOTHER FUCKERS!!!!!!!!!!

murmur murmur

computer boils under the sun

about itself

drone droning

baking logic baking 

computation baking

pixelation baking

me

***

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World Correspondence: April Ledbetter

hello April Ledbetter,

I have no idea who you are, but if you ever google your name, you may stumble upon this blog.  I randomly saw your name on Facebook.  I think I'm gonna start writing "correspondence" bits to strangers like you.  You were a test run, April.  Adios.

Thad

furniture

maybe if I changed the furniture, and put some effort into it, I would feel better about this particular internet experience.

poem

you get an award for that

for doing that, you get an award

we decided to award you this award for your great work

get your information correct,

or we will not award you

we cannot hear you

you do not get an award 

for being hard to hear

Yes, yes that gold patch

fixes up your work nicely

Yes, this is something that we can all agree upon

We can all aspire to this standard

but please speak up

remember, we call pull the strings from that handiwork

we have license to take your license

Yes,

yes we do

took notes in class today 4/22

notes in your robot

please tell me your story because it is so interesting.  Oh good, I didn't even have to ask

Body

Jesus in your wires

Singularity

Win Awards!

you destroyed that piece with your voice

we reflected in class today about a "meet the author" deal we went to the other day.  Fiction author Alice Marshall.  I turned in my reflection about how she was boring, and if this is what a degree in creative writing will earn me, then "fuck that".  ACtually, this is what my friend Kyle wrote down on his paper.  I agreed with him.  the professor and some of the students went on throughout the class period talking about her and the various profound things that she said.  Don't know why I have to "not like" so many supposed great authors.  I must be a "bad ass".

this blog may die soon

I don't feel the life force in it. It may just slowly fade out of existence. I'll just use it less and less until it gets removed from my bookmarks. I will forget the password, I will forget the account I used to sign up with, and I will forget it all.

until someday when I feel self indulgent and feel like the only person who interests me is myself. I will remember that I used to have a blog or something, and I will try to look for it on the web somewhere, try to search it with "quotes" in google or something.

or maybe I will one day, on impulse just outright delete it. But until that day, me talking about it feels like a 'cry for help'. please someone, hospitalize this blog, lock it up in the psyche ward because it is talking about suicide.

can't grab on the the 'life' of this thing. it should be green and edible, but I can't find that. All there is is fluorescence, and that is clinical.

interns

hello interns,

i'm pretty certain that only travis checks this blog.  but if you still want to be an intern for me, please continue to do so.  otherwise we can just be friends.  or, do you want to be enemies or something?  your choice.  you can write stuff to me.  wouldn't that be enjoyable? correspondence 

I'm more talking to myself I think.  I never really got used to the idea of writing so that other people can read.  And I still don't really think that is the case now, even though anyone in the world can access these words through the internet.  

there is false connection

what is connection?

and why do I often write about it?

is that what I am looking for?

interns: was I a failure?

We had plans together.  we did.  but life is unpredictable.  I need to do some 'soul searching' before I know what else to do.

a normal entry from wave books.

i'm here at wave books  by myself.  Brandon has left because he is sick, and monica is elsewhere on a trip.  I feel simultaneously awesome and stupid writing a blog from here.  But I'm playing Elliot Smith in the office right now.  

was talking to Brandon Shimoda about his two books that came out in the fall.  he said that we talked about it before, but i don't remember.  sorry brandon.

Been having a lot of bad experiences with memory loss lately.  either that, or everyone likes to play jokes on me.  It's weird that when I truly start losing my memory, I won't realize it until entire chunks are already missing. 

right now, high school seems very vague to me.  where are those memories.  are all the memories i have now, were they not even real.  did i make them up.  

poet judith Roche recently read a poem to my poetry class about memory loss when you are old by billy collins.  I agreed with one of my classmates that when we are old, I will be like the grandpa from Little Miss Sunshine and not really care about things pertaining to my health

Spring Time

in this april day that thinks it is december,

lots of people around me are sad

and the stories are tunneling from the ground

John Frusciante

Thomas Disch

Sylvia Plath

The Brave Little Toaster

and all the other people apparently reading about them

the april cold leaves people naked

and confused

before the storm

not believing this is true

as the clouds rumble in

thick as the deep seas they carry

I will choose my slippers over shoes

in defiance of this absurdity

there is no community without communers

that is the sad thing

travis is on top of his shit.

i asked my interns to write something about strangers.  Travis, my fellow tao lin intern's intern, as well as my intern, wrote this:

i make the man a latte and he asks me, what are you doing living here. i
thought you lived with birds, or with small and nearly blind mammals. i
thought you lived near a river, near a jungle, i thought you lived
upstate at least. i told him that at night raccoons came into our house
and scattered dry pasta on the kitchen floor. they chewed so loudly, we
all woke up. i told him that at night they pawed at my bedroom window,
asking to be let in. out there on the roof, they got into confrontations
with our housecats. i told him, back then when we shared our home with
spiders who gave birth in stainless steel pots we never injured
ourselves. everything was coated in silk. i tell him, we were thirsty
often. we shared our water with the deer and our tree sap with the
insects. i tell him, none of us spoke the same language. i tell him, we
were all strangers.

I think I'm supposed to be learning something here

With Nothing Really

I add much more love to this

when remembering you

Is something only a story

between close people

are we even people as

among stranger people?

we really love to share

and we love for others to share, don't we?

I heard it said from some writer that blogging or journaling when you feel creatively inhibited does not help you.  It only tricks you into thinking that you are getting something done.  If you want to write, then you sit down and do it, or think about doing it, or think about how you can't do it.  But don't divert the time towards journaling.  I don't know how I feel about this.

My mind, someone else's mind

Sometimes my mind just turns off.  usually it is off when I need it to be on.  Like when someone is giving me some kind of directions.  Sometimes I seem very stupid.  

This guy I know, he makes "notes" on facebook.  They're all about his take on life and love and teenage guru things (does that make sense).  He reflects on his own actions and feelings a lot, and I think that this is good.  I think that this is one way we can become better people-- through self-reflection.  The only problem is that he is an idiot.  and his conclusions are stupid and naive.  and he uses pictures of butterflies and radical manly hearts to go along with his "revelations".  yeah, I said radical.  I did.

What I wonder is, 

is being a wandering, wondering, blathering idiot better than being a ignorant pompous one?

At least he's trying.  few people try anymore.

I don't believe in this post anymore.  It is a shithole.  a hole of shit.  why?  why do I cuss at this post?  Why do I call it names?

because....because I think talking about other people in this manner is useless.  It's just a for breath's sake.  no one gets anything out of it, except, maybe I'll feel a little better because I have expressed my unwanted opinions on this matter.  but I don't feel better.  I just feel like a small girl.

Though I do not believe in this post, I do believe in the word "why", and the question that it poses.  you should meet with this word sometime--you will be disturbed.