my alcohol

i guess, it’s been a while since i took one hard look at myself and made the solid decision that i would not do any drugs, nor would i drink any alcohol, regardless of the pressure. and i haven’t touched anything weird since (caffeine, by the way, is not a drug. thought i should clarify that.). so yeah, straightedge.

i was just thinking about why people drink, why people do drugs. in fact, it’s the same reason as why people demand entertainment. they don’t want to face reality. what is it about reality that makes the facing it so hard? i don’t drink. i don’t smoke up. i don’t inject anything. needles give me the creeps and i hate getting vaccinations, and that fact is completely irrelevant. but i don’t face reality either, and i only realize it in the quiet moments. this summer has been hectic; the scarcity of posts here is a testament to that. i’m working, always with luke and dad and just doing something. it doesn’t matter what. on the metro, i’ve got my ipod or my newspaper or, as i had today, my book, 1984 by george orwell. i’ve read it before; it’s actually one of my favorite books. but i don’t take quiet time anymore. i have something to read, all the time. and on saturday, and earlier this evening, there were moments in which i had nothing to do and that freaked me out. it’s the silence between hearing the gunshot and the scream and turning around to see the man lying there, blood spreading across his clothes like spilled water across a tablecloth. but red water. it’s that silence, because you’ve just heard the harbinger and you feel uneasy like next he’s gonna shoot you too.

so my media are my alcohol. my music, my art, my literature. i get drunk on those and they invade my thoughts to veil reality’s ugly face, because we’re all jacob, fallen for one thing and we think we’ve got it until we lift the veil and it’s not what we wanted, and we have to work another seven years. i guess, if we’re working for something that is truly and genuinely worthwhile, we won’t feel the seven years. we just have to discern. it’s so easy to say and so hard to do. it’s funny that i get drunk on my media, because i’ve been trying to kill the artist in me this summer. maybe that’s why i haven’t posted here as much. in any case, i’ve been trying to put that part of me in packing crates and nail them shut, because i don’t want to remember the artist that i know i’m leaving behind.

we can’t afford four years of college and i know it. lucky for us, then, that i got 5’s on all the important ap exams and a 4 on studio art. that gives me 28 units of college credit already and i haven’t even registered for classes. so i’m going to try to do my double major, physics and computer science, in three years. the photography minor was a nice idea, while it lasted. then reality came and… well, if you listen closely, you can just hear the echoes of its scream.

a shout from oblivion

isn’t it weird how you never realize how many friends you have until you leave them all and try to keep up with them?

isn’t it weird how you don’t know where home is and yet you still get terrible, heartwrenching pangs of homesickness?

isn’t it weird how you sing louder and more confidently when nobody’s listening?

sorry i’ve been gone lately. well, i haven’t been gone. i don’t know what i’m leaving, and i don’t know where i’m going. i feel like a lost puppy without my mountains to point the way. yeah, i’m back at my dad’s house. i’ve been okay and i’ve been working. this is just a note to the wild and wonderful readership that, no, i’m not dead (hey! stop booing and hissing!). i’m only sleeping.

suitcases and clean carpets

tous les matins je me lève et je me dis, “ce soir je me couche tôt.” déjà je m’inquiète que minuit se trouve “tôt.” eh ben.

i finished cleaning my room today, vacuumed the carpet. i guess it’s a slightly lighter shade of beige than i previously believed. also, when i looked closely at it, i realized that i shed an awful lot of curly (or straight, as the case may be) blonde hair all over everything. and now that my room is even more frighteningly clean that it was previously, i have space for suitcases. so there are two large suitcases in my room, taking up most of my newfound free space. they’re a jarring reminder. i have to work my way around them when i want to get from one side of the room to another; they won’t get out of my face. what does a suitcase symbolize? maybe, for some, adventure and exploration. for others, freedom. for me they symbolize a ticking clock. this whole “leaving for college” spiel feels an awful lot like the end of high school: i was pretty excited for it, for finally getting out of here, and now that it’s actually happening, i think: wait! no-no-no-no-no! i’m not done yet! it’s like the mall at christmastime as a little kid. there was santa on a big chair surrounded by sparkly things and fake snow. and all the little kid wants to do is go talk to santa, and when his mother finally lets go of him, he runs and runs. but the closer he gets to santa, the slower he runs, and by the time he finally reaches santa his mother is pushing him towards the stuff of his dreams and he’s digging in his heels in terror. it’s like that, though my mother sure isn’t pushing me. i’m pushing myself, in perpetual duality (this is such a problem), towards friday morning. i don’t really know why i beat onwards. perhaps it is the ominous, hollow feeling that there might not be much left for me here anymore and i don’t want to stick around and find out whether or not i’m right.

i really hate being right, because i tend to be such a pessimist. so when i’m right about something, it’s usually something rather unpleasant and nobody’s smirking. i just briefly feel the sick pleasure of knowing that i was right and everything is going wrong. under my personal rain cloud, the glass is neither half empty nor half full: rain is pouring into it and it still manages to be completely empty. so, naturally, when i feel optimistic, i get a little worried. i always get this feeling, that if i get too happy, like the sun is shining out every pore, then i’ll end up like a bug on the windshield of one of life’s great joykillers. il y en a plein.

eh ben, je me couche tôt. il est seulement minuit et demi.