Productivity in Small amounts

Homework lasted 5 or 6 hours, a small amount really. At school I accomplished a lot, starting at 8 am and quitting homework now, at 11 pm. But I only sat in this chair, in the solitude of my cubic home, for a few hours. Of course at home, in homework, I am in rest. I cook, I work, I feel productive, and I drink much of the time.


What I accomplished is the question. I did what I needed to first, then did extra curricular that I felt to be very important, the school newspaper, but everything I wrote today needs polish.


Ah hell, maybe it all needs polish. I will never be satisfied with a work, always I will change a word, or find a spelling error. I feel pride in this. Like it makes me a true writer, my work never done. I know perfection will never, NEVER, come, but I still wish it existed.


My conversations today were good too. With my neighbor Kevin, a nice guy who just moved to Oregon. He needs a bit ‘a drama in his life but that’s ok, it makes the days interesting I guess.


And with the bar tender. That conversation was not special, but I’d had a few drinks and wanted to talk. He thought me very drunk or weird when I first came in. I just read and wrote and only the later was true. It was nice to see him re-evaluate me after I started talking with him.


Study can be consuming but definitely worthwhile. I have the perfect amount of it. Too much and I’d get bored, too little and I would not be getting much from it.


Anyway. Read some old writing from a few weeks ago. It was good.


Ok good night.



I respect a fly’s imperturbability. When I swat one away from my food, he buzzes up to my face, and circles off, as if the bzzzzz of his wings is yelling directed at me for my rudeness. He then persists at my food. If I get mad and try to kill him, he will zig and zag me with cunning and speed, but he does not give up his cause.

A fly is always a “he” to me, not beautiful and dirty. Flies are old men who don’t take shit from young punks like me.

Unless I squash them, then they are just dead.

Staring at my Whiskey

Alone I sit at the old tavern on the corner of my block – dim lights and decaying 80’s hits pull me deeper in my chair. Alas I stair at my glass as my eyes have outworn their welcome on the waitress in front of me, the tattoos already studied on her plump arms and going down onto barely hidden heaving breasts. I’ve watched every ice cube slowly melt away before I take a sip, watched the dark color of my whiskey waiver, and fade away. The water off the cubes forming fine spirals before spreading into the alcohol and killing the bite from its taste. I look around me, to the laughing and flirting of the others in the bar. I loath them in my envy, until my thoughts work hard to convince me otherwise. I hearken to their laughs for they pierce my solitude. They are stupid in their drunkenness, while I am stoic. Moreover I expect their conversation to be well below my musings, even under my own intoxication. Again my gaze shifts to the brown liquid in front of me and blurs as I drift into thoughts of past happiness. I dive into the liquid and come out the other side of the glass. In my mind I am in a hot climate and everyday my life feels purpose in being a foreigner. I hold hands with the one I loved and laugh with friends. The summer rains come and pour down on me, soaking my clothes but within hours they will be baked dry. Walking through back streets with my friend I search for a pool, or break into one later in the night. Where smiles abound and good times blossoms I intercourse with the past. In the bar again a smile cracks my face as I pull from this dream back into reality. With a big gulp I finish my drink and head home.


My psychologist told me I want to travel as an escape.

I told her NO SHIT!

I want to escape to tropical climates.

To warm, friendly, different people.

To daily adventure and challenge.

To a place where I am exotic and special.

To a vacation mindset.


I want to escape a predesigned course of life.

High school, college, career, family, midlife crisis, old age, and then death.

It holds little appeal doesn’t it?

Hell yes I want to escape it.

I want to escape syndicated TV, and a syndicated life.

I want to escape to new problems because I’ve heard the ones in this country before.

I want to get on a bus, not knowing its destination,

And make attempts at communication with the other passengers.

I want to study everyday.


Maybe what I really want is to escape psychologists.

I want to be confused about my feelings,

And to avoid posing too many questions to myself.

I want to make bad decisions.

I want to figure things out too.

I want to be lost and find myself,

On a map.

Rain on my Head 2

The rain beats hard like a cherry tree,

It’s not large but there is a lot of it.

Inside the rain is a message,

Not to be bitten but nibbled away.

It does not attack, it washes,

Let the water pool and drop at your chin.

Be livened and be not lost,

This is a good place to listen.

Life is anything but hard,

When it’s over we will know.

Enjoy the ride through the rain,

And the sunshine when it comes.

Rain on my Head 1

Walking up a hill

Small raindrops beat my head

I struggle to look up at the

Dark blue sky around me

Clear, Crisp, Cold

It is refreshing



Some people see rainbows

Some don’t

I don’t, but

I see this

In a car, without struggle

I certainly wouldn’t enjoy this hill

I wouldn’t get back on my bike and ride

Or take my gloves off

And let  my hands freeze

I listen to old music

And feel old feelings

Welling in my heart

Tears almost come

It feels so good

The undertones

He consumes them, he takes the drugs

and with them comes this euphoric happiness

it is a smirk on his face

a complete acceptance with all that is going on in life

the struggles and the triumphs

but mostly the struggles

In the drugs exists this excitement that is lacking in everyday life

and he wants a little more

he runs around town, experiencing it all fully awake

his perspective is so much clearer on what life is

But underlying it all is a sadness

a depression that he loves

that he is attached to and wont let go

the drugs don’t make him forget it they just make him enjoy it all the more

The dark side of life

The real world

The question has nothing to do with drugs

it is why is the world full of so much sadness

and how has he come to be in love with that sadness