I’ve flowed before and I’ve lost faith.
Forgotten that I’ve felt the same thing as everybody else.
My brother’s backyard is bigger than his house. His roommate is building a halfpipe back there.
I’m in Los Angeles, California. I’m 27/m/CA.
Last night at the In and Out Burger, I asked my brother if he ever “paid attention to detail.”
He said “not really.”
We stared at the workers hustling to prepare orders for the drive-thru window for a minute. I asked him if we were to pay attention to detail right now, what details would we notice. He paused and pointed out that the workers’ aprons were fastened by an over-sized clothespin.
I got a cup for water and filled it with Dr. Pepper. I asked him why he thought they made the water cups clear and he said it was obviously so that they could see who was stealing soda.
Don’t sweat the small stuff, is a lesson I’ve forgotten.
You know I’ve been to the top of the mountain so many times. Heaven was a hologram but all my epiphanies were real, just not quite what they felt like, or what I wanted them to be.
I have worked a 12-hour shift on no sleep and felt more energized than when I started. I have driven down this highway many times. It has always been there for me but it doesn’t always let me move the way I want it to.
I have noticed that you’re always moving. I wonder what would happen if you stopped but I don’t think anyone is going to stop you. You seem to know your place.
My friend sent me a postcard for Christmas with a smiling cutout of Drake pasted over a pack of elk in a snowy field that reads “Who the Fuck Can Focus?”
My brother’s apartment has a painting of an eagle being doused with a Pepsi and a Coke can that reads “Who Cares?”
I have lost my mind many times.
It always comes back to me in some form or another.
I have sat on the floor of the hotel shower with my eyes closed, listening to the water hit the backs of my ears, feeling it trickle through my eyelashes, for hours and felt like this was the best I could do right now.
I have worked out multiple times in one day, transitioning between each exercise machine in the gym, because this was the healthiest decision I could make that caused me the least pain.
Sometimes I miss the big picture because I’m thinking about the details. There’s something pleasant about the words as they float past on the page and the screen especially. They make sense when I cross my eyes, blur them slightly. The picture comes together like a Magic Eye optical illusion. When I’m trying to make sense, I can’t. When I don’t care, I do.
Bruce Lee told me to “be water” and he called me his friend.
Jackie Chan used to perform in softcore pornography.
I think he got away with it.
Tony Danza also used to perform in porn, but his pornography style was not softcore at all.
I think he got away with it too.
I think you can go as Tony D-style as you want as long as you can and people will just appreciate the effort as long as you’re in harmony with your environment. As long as you keep it One Hunnit, I think you can sell anybody anything. As long as you *~*~believe in yourself*~*~ I think the world will be your oyster most of the time.
They are making a sequel to Space Jam but I’ll probably never get over the first one. In the film, the Tune Squad, led by Michael Jordan and Bugs Bunny, retreats to the locker room after a demoralizing first half against the Monstars, a team of monstrous host creatures imbued with the stolen spirits of top mid-90s NBA talent. The Tune Squad moans and groans, stumbling around in various states of dishevelment. The Looney Tunes demand more of the magic sports drink potion Jordan gave them before the game to motivate them to take on their fearsome rivals. Exasperated, Jordan reveals that the so-called “secret stuff” was just water—they had had the power inside them all along. At which point Bugs Bunny feigns appreciation but demands more anyway.
I would probably smoke crack under certain circumstances.
I think it’s wrong to make assumptions.
The only book I read is “Siddhartha” and with any luck, I’ll write the sequel.
Los Angeles is alright to me. It’s like a mixture of Seattle and Hawaii, maybe the best parts of both of those places. I have lived in both and wouldn’t go back. I’m running out of places to run before I realize that environment isn’t the issue.
Vincent Gallo once made a short film or album, I can’t remember which, called “If You Feel Froggy, Jump.” I remember telling my friend about this and he said “ok” in a disparaging tone of voice. I would be ok with him insulting me for bringing it up, but not with him insulting Vincent Gallo.
I don’t think it really matters what I’m ok with unless I’m going to do something about it.
Sometimes when I wake up in the morning, I can’t bear it. But the day keeps coming. So I either do or I don’t. Today I did. I am sitting on a porch in Highland Park, a neighborhood my brother’s roommate informs me has been declared “The Coolest Neighborhood in America” by Pitchfork Media. I asked him why it was so cool and he said, “Well, for one, Skrillex lives here. And the guy who did the voice of Cotton Hill lives across the street.” Tomorrow he is going to meet the Lakers and hand out free samples of a handheld massager on behalf of the company he works for. My brother does not have a job but he has a car. The inside of it is coated in cigarette ash. I pointed it out when he picked me up from the airport and he said, “yeah I haven’t washed it out in a while.”
It is 60 degrees here and 10 degrees where I live. The air here doesn’t hurt, it’s just normal and this apartment can sustain an outdoor cat who is sleeping on a towel next to me. It just got up to walk away. Now it’s laying in the sun. It always comes back. During the day, it’s yellow eyes are thin little slits. At night, they are wide and round. “It looks sad so we give it food,” my brother says and laughs. I imagine getting really offended that he would find humor in something being sad and trying to come up with some rationale for calling him oppressive, but I think I’ve been telling this joke for too long and it’s pretty unchill.
This morning I sat in their brown stained bathtub and closed my eyes and tried to think about nothing. I listened to the birds chirping outside the window in all their different tones and styles. I counted 8 distinct calls but could only focus on them for brief periods of time before I realized that my attention had wandered back to my own thoughts. One of them had bubbled up and I had followed it to wherever it was bound to take me. I have felt alienated before upon realizing that my thought process isn’t completely under my control, in the sense that it isn’t being generated consciously at all times. What I think about may, at any given moment, be the result of a random firing of neurons. A little electrical signals spurs in motion an established pattern of thought, the signals flows through a deep mental groove, and the pinball pops out at the end:
Sex. And everything entails.
Food. And all the associations that come with it.
Loneliness. And what does that even mean.
And the beat goes on and on when you ruminate, and if you’ve been digging the trenches for a while, the stream runs deep. It’s best to keep moving. It’s best to just do it. It’s best to stay active. And this is how you end up getting in really good shape on accident when you don’t know how to spend you days off other than at the gym. Or how you end up over-sharing on social media under a pen name that was supposed to be a joke but appears as if you are presenting seriously when you go places where other writers seem to take themselves very seriously. This is how you can stare at words and forget what they mean, how you can say one of them over and over again until the sound sounds meaningless. How you can sit still for hours at a time just staring off, wondering how to make order from the chaos as the chaos wipes your slate clean repeatedly. This is how you lose track and slip up and falter and why you didn’t just ask her to dance when you had the chance and why everything is confusing, because you miss the big picture staring at the little details, unsure what they mean, as if real life hasn’t already made it perfectly and repeatedly clear that there is very little sense to be made, just an act to be performed—just a Way to Be.
When I have worked retail jobs, parents have tried to coax their toddlers into talking to me. Me being, in this capacity, the Man.
“Tell the man what you want, sweetie,” they would say, and the child would usually avoid eye contact, laughing or seeming shy, or even afraid. Not many toddlers will stare you down.
“Just stand up straight and tell the man what you want,” dad would say, and usually the kid would do it eventually. You have to. And if you have to put on a mask and affect a lilt or open with a quip or introduce yourself with a line, then I guess that’s what you have to do. Because you certainly can’t just refuse to play ball. I mean, you can. And I do. But you don’t want to end up like me. I’m a loner and a rebel and I don’t need to see the rest of this movie because I’m living it, and I’m loving it, and I’m loving, when I feel like it, and I’m feeling, Arby’s, like I’m
most of the
Bob Marley died of toe cancer. He knew he had toe cancer before he died. The doctors warned him he needed to cut that thing off or he was going to die. But Rastafarianism forbids amputating extremities and prescribes weed-smoking in such cases, so Bob smoked weed and his cancer spread and he died.
Bob Marley lived his life a quarter mile at a time. He felt the rhythm and he felt rhyme.
Come on Jamaica,
it’s bobsled time.
This isn’t for you, what I do. It’s for me. I don’t really know what this is. But I don’t think you’d want to be me. So if it’s possible, please appreciate these words in your own way by relating to them or by feeling their sentiment, or building off of the associations that they bring up, rather than judging who you think wrote them because you don’t want to be basic like that, do you? Like, when I was sitting still listening to the birds, I tried not to judge them, but I couldn’t help it. I did. I know it’s hard, you can’t stop. But you can do it less.
You can be conscious of something else if you try, at least for a little while, and I think that makes a difference.