27.04.08>zero

"well, what an ugly name you have."

"thank you, it's really quite abstract."

"yes--like a smashing pumpkins song."

"yes, exactly. like any song, really."

"any song? i suppose you've never heard of nickelback, then."

"i have."

"i don't count them as abstract."

"they probably use metaphors and the like."

"i don't count that as abstract."

"difference of opinion?"

"no--can't something be concretely abstract?"

"no."

"i take it you're not completely into this conversation?"

"difference of opinion?"

"we all have to agree some things are abstract--the masters. take picasso."

"picasso tries to be abstract. being abstract comes from the subconscious."

"then the subconscious is concretely abstract?"

"no. it's programmed, it's automatic, it's simple."

"you're a fucking paradox."

"we could say that's abstract."

"i guess. but that's gone. isn't there anything that will remain and still be abstract?"

"no. then it'd be concrete."

"so, again, can't something be concretely abstract?"

"no."

"you're talking in circles."

"i realize that."

"why can't art be abstract?"

"why do you assume it's art that has to be abstract?"

"what do you think is?"

"i don't know. but if there's something concretely abstract, it wouldn't be art."

"but how would it stay concrete? only art stays static."

"art can change. easily. i could go shred it. or record over it. or something."

"then it would become trash."

"yeah. but trash is more abstract than art."

"look, nevermind. this isn't going anywhere."

"i'm sorry i can't tell you the meaning of abstract."

"i know what abstract means."

"yeah. cliché, but you don't know what abstract is."

"it's not a noun."

"sure it is."

"fuck off."

"naked pictures of your mother."

"what i said."

"abstract or random?"

"fuck off."

"guess."

"that's random."

"yeah. ripples in a pond."

"neither."

"why not?"

"laws. motion. gravity. i don't know."

"then why don't you think they're abstract?"

"what the fuck is your definition of that word?"

"i don't know. what the fuck is abstract."

"what the fuck is abstract is this conversation. this is pointless. and before you say it, pointlessness is not abstract."

"of course not. it's human, and we're not abstract."

"well, we decide what is abstract."

"do you? it's not just what it is?"

"nothing is what it is without definition."

"that's a sad, sad view on things. i'm sorry for you."

"you're sorry for what i believe?"

"define belief."

"i can't. but it's not something that is. it's something i define."

"yeah. exactly."

"point?"

"i don't have one. you know me--ever attempting to be abstract."

"you were trying to prove something."

"yeah. i don't know what. i was just trying to make you think, hope something proved itself to you."

"see, that's abstract."

"maybe."

20.04.08>national pothead day

early sunday morning, sitting in a chair,
drinking tap water from a yellow mug.
i've sworn not to go past underwear,
and my mind is tapped like a girl post-frug.
there's an owl i've spent sixty hours looking for,
but my materialism sparks to a bowl of flaxseed more.
everything i thought i'd wanted hidden in some box,
but it turns out my mind is drawn more to the things i've never done,
or dreamed of doing.
i dream of doing when i dream of doing nothing.
i dream of nothing when i dream of making something,
out of nothing.
i dream of making something out of nothing,
when i dream of doing; doing nothing.
fallacy at face value for the heretics at my door;
a policy of malcontent; of ever-changing yore.
i give them what i dream of and they huddle close for more--
they dream of me.
it's what i make, it's what i give;
hypocrisy, prophynol, fake memories.

26.03.08>i imagine tonight that we can get along.

And honey, I confess that it was criminal.

Oh, the reason the night is long is very simple.

And such.

I’m sixteen. I’ve two years until I graduate—or, one and a bit to be optimistic about it. I am, on the whole, rather lazy. An odd quality, considering my ‘pastimes’: writing, guitar, dancing frantically, photography. Moreover, it’s odd that I elect to play video games all night long over any of these more often than not.

Stupid as it sounds, I’ve got a remedy: I’m going to write a book. This event will not take place in twenty years anymore; I will begin now (I think I’ve already begun, at that). Ulterior motive: somehow manage to sell my drivel and not need some type of part-time job.

It’s a lofty goal, truly, but one I think I might be able to pull off. Even having a ‘completed’ ‘manuscript’ sitting in my writing folder might somehow please me. Granted, I aim to have it done with by the end of high school, so it may be a little—how to put this?—crap. It’s just that a couple grand to call my own might help.

My first true goal in life is, primarily, a material one: I want a little cash and a physical book on my shelf. Sure, that thing they call ‘satisfaction’ is involved in some capacity, and popping out two hundred pages will likely flourish my writing style a mite, but when it comes down to it I’m just waiting to finish that acknowledgements page and get the hell out.

So, what’s the one conclusion I can bring this number to?

Dunno. I’ve got to write the introduction first.

(hardeeharhar)

night.