Women In My Life

I watch people. I watch them to gather ideas, insight, and reflective analysis. I come from an area near Mexico, with a culture steeped in Hispanic, Latino, Mexican, whatever you want to call it, but it's steeped in those traditions.

What pangs me is the attitude the older generation of women, and even some of the recent and current generations show through their demeanor. When they walk, their heads hang low, their bodies lack stimulation, and their feet show signs of travel, but not of experience or journey. What they show me through their movement, and their expressions is that by the time they reached puberty their lives were over. They had adopted manners and attitudes submissive to men and to traditions that kept them that way. That makes me sad, really. I'm glad I never grew up around those kind of women. My aunts, my mother, all of them were independent, self-determined, and willing to run over anyone foolish enough to stand in their way of success.

I don't want to be with a woman who's going to look to the ground rather than look at her own reflection. I don't want to spend my time with a lady that has no opinion, or isn't willing to express her ideals.

Typical men will call me insane, and if you ask anyone who knows me, they'll tell you I wasn't handed a full deck, and I'm well adverse to not playing with one, but I yearn for a companion, not a cleaning, birth-machine.

I cherish women who thrive on independence, and it may cause me a bit of heartache in the future, but if I'm going to spend the rest of my life with someone, I need them to be on the same level as me.

Hell, I'd prefer if they were smarter than me. When things go wrong, I can blame them.

No foolin'

I can't think right now. Pain has centered betwixt mine eyes, slicing through the center of my forehead.

Court date is tomorrow morning, work right after, school right after that. I just need to survive until Friday.

I want to hit something many, many times.

Prufrock Losing Nature (Rough Draft, sucky title)

J. Alfred Prufrock, you poor bastard you. You've slept your way around town, possible taken part in other activities unrecorded by your poet, yet, what have you found, or yet, what have you discovered? Humanity is lost,perhaps? Sex is good, but when it's over, what's left?

Something along those lines I'm sure. Essentially you've discovered that despite all of your possessions, carnal conquests, and late nights lost in crowded streets, you realize your life isn't worth a damn. Your salvation...well, let's face it, what salvation?

Prufrock roams about the streets in the twilight, searching, eagerly for his latest conquest. He has not intention of gaining insight or any sort of wisdom from whomever he meets. He is urged by lust.

The poem is written in fragments, demonstrating how society itself is fragmented, no longer able to stay linked, communicating in distorted signals. Together, culturally, we have achieved much, and are proud, but as people, as humans, what have we truly acheived? Nothing compared to what we have lost, as we have completely disregarded nature. The people are high-class (ladies speaking of Michaelangelo), but their souls are empty; pockets are full, souls are empty.

We roll over with any person we meet, orgasm, and fall asleep without any real thought, or interest in who they are. Society is dirty. We have fallen so far from nature that we can no longer reveal our true selves to anyone, we must wear masks and script the lines we tell others. And, for the people we take home, that we procreate with, it is as essential as dying, for the sounds of sex and death are the same.

It takes time, and a degradating ritualism for Prufrock to become tired, and realize his life is not worth anything.

Nature, natural instincts no longer operate as a unit. His mind and body are at odds; should he go out again, conquer another female, or not. After all, he realizes he is tired of that life, tired of the masks, and the lies.

His fall from nature, his lost sense of self causes him to suffer, and like any true human he knows he suffers alone (line 58, pinned and wriggling on the wall). What caused this suffering? Industrialization. It forced men to be machines, to no longer communicate, and now, these same men, who can no longer do the job they've known to do all their life, all they can muster is to leer out of their window, searching for death.

Progress has dragged his will so low, he regrets falling from nature. He wants to be back in the ocean, back in the depths, to be able to comprehend the mermaids' songs (line 73 and line 120ish). The rich, the successful have gained the best in clothes, food, and lifestyle, but their spirituality isn't even a memory, it was never a comprehension. They must lie now, because they know nothing else, and at times, one must play the fool, and kickstart the evening. It's hard to be themselves.

Eventually, Prufrock agrees, because he sees this life as a living hell (line 98).

Prufrock dares if he should eat a peach. When we eat peaches, they ooze, they smear, as he has smeared his nature, and any semblance of ever being one with it. He does come to realize that redemption is possible. Now, this is after he has developed consciousness (line 125).

Drummer Boy

This old drummer can't keep the beat anymore. I have no home to call my own, my beliefs have become international folklore. There's my sister, she's lost to the myth of dreams, while my brother loves those flowers that make him scream and see the shadows that blink, and the trees that speak. I'm not much for being in the spotlight, especially when it's being produced by a mushroom cloud. Why does death have to be so loud? There's not much left of my beats. They've been broken in half, splintered at the soles of marching feet. This old dog's just shit out of luck.

Transition

Been sober for three weeks.

Couldn't be more miserable.

Much More to Say

I discovered the depths to which my heart will crawl to in order to find some form of emotion.

Today, I witnessed children, forced to be men, break down and show that, yes, they are still children, and I couldn't help but break down with them. They act tough, speak with vulgarity, think they run the show, but what they chose to relinquish is control over their own life.

It was an emotional rollercoaster today, worthy of a bid for the centerpiece at a Six Flags park.

No one wanted to admit it, but everyone cried today. There was death, and it was barriers.

Good Night (a 2 minute drill)

I haven't passed the window in days.
The mirror is lucky to be a stranger to me.
I don't have enough strength within,
I can't leave the thinking to the side of my sin.
It's true I don't practice traditional ways,
But it's another route that let's me see
The things I've lost in my life,
But it's all right,
I can still say good night.

Blind (a crappy mind-dump)

You can't make up your mind.
Everything in this world confuses you.
You don't care what people think about you (That's a plus).
You break away anytime something good happens between us.

You don't realize I hold ties to no one.
You don't understand that I care as much as you do.
Sometimes, it's not that much.
You can't fathom the greatness we can have.

You don't drive me crazy.
You think you're different from the rest,
But you're not.

The real difference,
I'll tell you;
I still enjoy your company.

You don't realize I don't care what happens.
**********
to be continued...

Memo For Them Asses

First things first; to those legitimately liking my blog, many thanks. I haven't responded because I have been very busy, what with a new job, changing my life, identity, and life-level all in less than 24 hours.

Not bitching, just stating facts.

Bitches.

Next, today isn't the same as yesterday, and tomorrow I'm in for the worst. I have a disruptive kid coming in whose reputation precedes with: She snapped out the principal.

Just letting you in one inch at a time.

Please be on the lookout for the return of my 2 Minute Drills. If you don't know what that is, worry not, everyone will find out soon, and come to the realisation that some sick, smart, twisted genius is in charge of your children's futures.

For now, anyway. This job is anything but permanent. My past still needs to catch up with me. I can hear it huffing, grasping for air, but eventually it crosses the line, destroying what small surge of happiness I'm riding at the time.

And I'll just pick myself up again, and again.

You can't kill what has no heart.

If you want more of my writing look on my space. The name's David, my blog is under sweet insomnia; I forgot how My Space works their crud. I got sick of that place and left, returning only for music now and again, and to talk to my friend;
and when I say friend, I mean actual living, breathing, I can reach out and touch her type of friend. Not those bullshit trophy pieces the sick jibblets on that website collect, displaying like a safari trophy.

Why are you still here?

Read at Your Own Risk

How can you open the eyes of the deaf in front of a window and make them listen?

Their sight, must make them here.
Their consciousness needs to rise.

It wasn't horrible. I know the worst is coming, but there's something here.
I actually feel like I can contribute, which sickens me because I would prefer to be the laziest bastard this side of the moon's ass.
That bastard is LAZY.

I need to travel.
Soon, soon, and then forever on after.

What the hell are you still reading this for?
I nodded off in the middle of the rant, so I have no clue what I just wrote.

Transition continues...

Transition In a Cacoon

These kids are bad, but not lost.

Not yet.

They need competition.

NOW.

Brain would prefer being lost on fun-junk right now.

CRUD

I did not see this coming. I woke up this morning, expecting and interview, not a complete, life-overhaul.

I will begin a new job tomorrow, the first "adult" job I've ever had, and no, not porno. That would be easier, but silly me, do I like things to be easy.

NOOOOOOOOOO.
Because I'm stupid that way.

Life has just gotten harder, and the real world is nothing like it was before. Now, it's surreal, and I'm about to get the biggest reality check of my entire life.

I need this. I need to prove it to myself that I can do this; I WILL DO THIS.

What hurts is I must tell the group of people that I've just become centered with that I must leave them in a lurch, which was exactly what I didn't want to do, but progress, evolution, niether waits for personality. Just because you want to be proffesional and borderline nice doesn't mean you'll be given the opportunity.

I hate this.

Tomorrow, perhaps I'll feel different.

I need clarity, preferably with a side of Jack Daniels.

My brain shrieks.

Brain-Paste

I've found myself surrounded by idiots, lately. I would like to stomp their heads and make brain paste all over the sidewalk, but in my mind I realize that certain governing authorities in some countries would consider this illegal, including the one I currently reside in, unless I'm getting paid for it, then, it's okay.

I am doing my best to lose these surroundings, and these morons with it, but I find that in order to subtract the moron, I must understand the moron, and then make brain-paste.

Screw the morons.
Let them figure it out.
I just wish they'd keep the hell away from me.
They're good to drink with.

No they're not.

But that brain-paste sure is fun.

Bastard of a Rough Draft

This is my piss poor, bastardized version of a rough draft
--------------------------------
Bartelby worked for a dead letter office before gaining employment with the lawyer on Wall Street. The dead letters were full of written documents, cherished jewelry, and donations to charity that would never reach their intended destination. As the lawyer pointed out in his narration, “…on errands of life, these letters sped to death.” Placing these letters of hope within the fire left Barelby empty. He changed, and in changing he became discouraged with the world and with its people. As a character he was dynamic, changing after his hiring at the law office on Wall Street. He became Byronic as he grew sick of working, ill of speaking to anyone, and his self-starvation led to his death. Bartelby followed existentialism and saw life without meaning, without hope; that even his own life was impassive and unimportant, but he fell off when he decided to do nothing about it. He allowed the numbness that he felt to consume him, and he could not change. This failure to change destroyed him.
While his last effort in changing killed Bartlely, there was no encouragement from his co-workers, nor any motivation from his boss, the lawyer, to take notice of the world. Taken from the lawyer’s point of view this assessment could be refuted, but looking at it from Bartelby’s perspective, as a man who lost faith in humanity, had no desire to live because in the end everything meant nothing, there was no compensation for living. Looking at the people Bartelby worked with, you could take the lawyer, his boss, and notice that yes, the man tried to aid Bartelby, giving him extra wages if he would only leave the office, offering Bartelby shelter at his own home, but because of the man’s unconsciousness of existence, he made no progress with the conundrum that was Bartelby. The lawyer preferred life being as easy as possible, rarely taking any chances, and avoiding serious confrontation. He remained static as a character, never changing because he did not want to change. The fear of change, the taste of something different was too much for him, therefore, only through money, and material compensation did the lawyer have an idea of how to help his ailing employee. Unknown to him, however, Bartelby had given up on all of it long ago; given up on man, possessions, and life. The lawyer never became anything either. He failed to become enlightened by Bartelby until the end, when he realized what Bartelby’s true pain was, but by that time it was too late.
---------------
That's about as rough as it gets. I do not like it, I loathe it...

"DUHHHHHH, ohhh, don't worry, David, it's just a rough draft, duuuhhhhh."

SHUT UP!!!! before I get blind monkies to perform visectomies on you all.

None of this turned out the way I had hoped, there is so much left out, and yes, yes, yes, rough draft, I know, but I don't like it. I will put it away for now, seeing as how it's about to give me a nosebleed, and in turn I will run outside and give other people nosebleeds.

That's part of the journey, really. You never know where your brain will take you, and sometimes your even more frightened after you've been there than before you left.

Now my headache is gone. I'm going to rest, regroup, and tackle it again once I've pounded some fun into my system.

Go away.

Because I don't feel like using Word

What am I going to write about? I liked Bareltby, The Scrivener because, yes he refused to change, but ultimately, that was his downfall, same for Emily, same for Abner. None changed, and when I think about it, Emily and Abner were the only two that were clueless how to change. Bartelby was the only one with enough consciousness, which he freely relinquished, but enough none the less to change, though he became a victim of his working conditions.

I suppose what I'm saying up there is that it took a change in Bartelby so that he may reach his demise whereas Emily and Abner were doomed from the start. Why? Abner had no smarts, no intellect, no idea that he needed to change, no formal education, no scholarly background what so ever. Emily, she had the best in the south, here family was wealthy, but because of her father's stern vigil, she being kept in the back, hidden from the world, why, because, according to her father, the world was not good enough for her.

If I narrowed the topic down to Bartelby and Abner or Bartelby and Emily I could focus more on what changed, the people or the places, but I can't do this as a compare and contrast piece; it has to be subjective, with whatever elements of psychology, history, I think, some other fields, but I can clear that up on Tuesday.

I would like to talk about the atmosphere around them; bring in other characters who emphasize the worlds they live in, both characters.

And then there's Krebs.

The war changed him, and he could not return to his small town roots. In fact he came to despise his people, and even himself. It seemed he was going the path of Bartelby, only he actually did things. Rather than starving himself he stuck with routine, and that alone is death.

Narrowing down: 1.The living elements 2.What changed them. 3. What didn't change(?)

Bartelby: Worked in the dead letter office. All of those unheard prayers he was forced to burn turned him inside out, shutting him down, throwing himself into self-alienation.

Krebs: The war broke him down. When he returned home he had no hero's welcome, no grand parade, and his father still used the mother to wear Krebs down. Krebs was no longer connected to anyone in his home, but he still loved his young sisters, the last remaining innocence in his life.

I'd still like to stick Abner Snopes in there somewhere, but I don't want to weigh down the paper. It needs to stay simple, too much and I'm in over my head.

Thesis:Bartelby and Krebs were both victims of their social constructs, forced into self-alienation (or something like that).

IT'S A FREAKIN' START, DAMMITT!!!

Life's Testicle Pinchers

I’m having a bad day.

I’ve lost my work keys, my car has been smashed, and my grandfather has been entered into a “behavioral observation center”, but after seeing him in his daily routine, let’s just say nuthouse. I’m about to go from zero to shitstorm in less than 6.1 breaths and there’s nothing that can help me short of pleasuring me with six Asian virgin women and four experienced Black women; add in three spiced up Latinas and we’ve got the Christmas party from two years ago.

Go away now. I’m remembering.

Vividly.

The Experiment

Today-We've made progress.

Witness the reaction.

EUREKA!

I know why I don't like to sleep.

If I don't dream then I feel like it's a wasted sleep.

************

The best thing about believing in reincarnation is that there will always be a "Better Luck Next Time."

I heard that somewhere; just don't know where.

**************

I still think you're beautiful.

Even after the puke.

**************

I recently found out that cheek samples from a human deal with the same sensation as their donor as far as fifty miles away, MEANING, a swab of cheek cells will feel fear, sadness, etc. fifty miles away from their original host, who is experiencing the original emotions.

***************

How is it clean air if birds shit in it?

****************

This is my brain

EVERY

WAKING

SECOND.

************

If you would like to try to live like this, then, I feel sorry for you.

Sundial

Not happy with work, but happy where life is right now.

I need to finish my writing works before school starts, but, then, I think I could use some of them to keep me home and grounded as a break from the studying, though still concentrated.

Less than a week of freedom.

Twin Cells

A person's cell, cheek I know for sure, can feel the same emotion, and sensation as the human it was extracted from for up to fifty miles. Could this have something to do with the twin thing? Meaning, if you are a twin could this support the notion that you and your sybling share experiences without being together?

Must look into.