Hey Mr. Tambourine Man (Play a song for me)

There isn't a single track of all music history that I'd rather off myself than Mr. Tambourine Man. Besides its heavy drug overtones, I hear a song of melancholy. The dreadful decay of a person who wants so badly to continue on but without the aid of the drug, the narrator doesn't have the nerve. A song about heroin withdrawal never sounded beautifully. Each time I hear this song, I picture a man at this last moments, cradling his arm, his gun, his chest, himself as the last breaths are escaping him. Yes. That's exactly what I'd like to listen to as I am dying.

This one's for you, dear

I've been so defiant when it comes to taking medication for my depression. I'm aware that pills help some people, but it's not a natural feeling for me. "Feel like yourself again," the slogan reads. That's funny, I think. I thought that's what I was trying to escape.

I walk around in the morning feeling a sense of emptiness. With Jyg removed from the equation, I feel like a weight has been lifted and a void has begun to eat away my heart. Perhaps it's time I thought about pills. Or better yet, allowed myself to smoke cannabis as ingesting it will only cause hallucinations.

I'm no sure of much these days. I get these mixed signals that I'm sure are just of my own vulnerable imagination. I'm also so sick of hearing people telling me I deserve better as if I didn't know that already. What I deserve and what I want are two different things. I don't want to fuck up what I deserve; I have no problem fucking up what I want as it's already been fucked.

Cynical

I feel as if I have to explain myself because of my last post. A lot of you know that I'm Agnostic and that I have no problem with believers or Atheists at any level. I've always been on the middle ground and given people a benefit of the doubt.

My last blog was in no way an intentional attack on Christians in of themselves, but a question posed for fundamentals. I've offended and upset a few of you, one of which I care deeply about.

I was in no way glorifying the death of the five-year-daughter of Christian music star, Stephen Curtis Chapman and using her a pawn in disproving the existence of a divine entity. However, I did use it as segue into what fundamentals call "an act of god."

When the news depicts children of a third world starving on the streets, fundamentals are quick to state that it was an act of god. When the AIDS crisis swept across the nation, it was an act of god. When 9/11 filled our TV screens with people dying, it was an act of god. All these events are acts of a just god in the eyes of the fundamentals. So when a five-year-old daughter of one is hit by her own brother, is it too an act of god?

That was what I wanted my blog to ask, but instead, it came off as if I had become a monster. I do not praise what happened to Chapman and I do not wish any harm to befall on fundamentals. I have not betrayed myself and become just a vile and dirty as they are.

For those of you who were offended by my blog, I apologize.

Where is you god now?

I find this slightly bemusing, yet rather ironic. You're a Christian singer and you make a life out of brainwashing those around with your garbage about the existence of a one true god, so how does your divine creator repay you? He gets your teenage son to run over your five-year-old. So where is your god now, Stephen Curtis Chapman?

Instruction: Copy, Paste on word. Remove the repeated text.

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Issues

I'm pulling my hair out. There is a reason why I haven't called any of you lately and that's simply because I want to be left alone. I've enough on my own that I don't want other people's burdens upon my back. I'm doing things that I can't explain anymore. I don't want to talk on the phone. I just don't.

What little of my life I have left is vaporizing and now I have to worry about my mother. I don't care anymore about people. I just you would all just leave me alone. Or just let me rot inside myself.

The silent one

Yeah. I've been out of it. Sorry. I have much to tell and much to do. I'll do it later though, because today I have to introduce and network you to a friend of mine.

Please visit his blog, Axtlanadu. I'm sure those of you who read mine and who get along with me and my sense of the world will like him. He's just starting out, but he has a Myspace as well. My friends on Myspace will just have to look him up. Same name on my friends' list.

A needle in the vain

I hate meeting people online. Main reason: So many people that I'm introduced to online live so far away. Case in point, Jenndiggity. I love her. She's the best person I've ever met online and I'm sad that she lives all the way in Spokane.

And now I meet Riot Girl. What are the fates trying to tell me? Are they urging me out of that door, out of this city, out of this state? Without money and an agenda (or the promise of a job) I'm pretty much fucked when it comes to leaving here. But Riot Girl is awesome. She's also seven years younger than me which comes to me as a complete shock that I'm more enthralled by her than annoyed. I'm not annoyed at all actually.

I've also met a guy named Chef. The only reason, he tells me, that he went into the profession is because he wanted to make his buddies goodies when they were all getting high. I love this guy already.

Then there's the military people, who in real life I'd never imagine getting along, but they love me online and that's good enough for me. Also, we don't see our political sides, so that's also a plus. I've even been invited to a wedding.

It's saddening that I've met so many people online and I can't even hang out with them. This utterly sucks for me.

Verse one

each part of me that i held on to for so long evaporated in the heat of our passion.

Stigmata

Marilyn Manson - Putting Holes In Happiness
Uploaded by MarilynManson

Mourners gather round the body
while mothers weep the dirge
of a man's undeserved love.

The saints are in the meadow
wearing stained glass smiles,
martyrs with suicide-style minds

So nail my coffin, seal up this tomb
make your heart empty
to make room for the someone else.
You've got your black
I've got your chains
to steady me from the lack of love.

I will fix your pain
and make it my own,
only to make my passion
your stigmata.

You hang from willows
and hold Judas in your mind
so try to fix it to find that it's
an impossible task.

I cover your shoulders in kisses
absolve you from responsibility
if only I can take of your flesh & blood
and make my body your stigmata.

In the height of its popularity

Because I'm writing about Cannabis and been focusing on the subject for a good chuck of my life last few weeks, I had forgotten about this until an e-mail arrived one morning.

Well, it's about time.

Passive Aggressive

I want your pain to be the sanguine that bleeds from my heart
&eyes.

And I want my pain to be your Stigmata.

Hastings Reading

The reading at Hastings went over well. It was afterwards that ruined the night for me, Jyg, Philosopher, Bell and The Squid. It was so horrible that I had to call El Senor to come over from Newmans, a bar right across the street, to make sure the menace wasn't still outside. But more on that later.

I read a few poems, three actually, at the reading. I intended to be prepared, but things got in the way. I suppose I'm not feeling too well. I gathered up a few poems before heading off to Hastings with Jyg and her sister Bel. As we area walking, El Senor parks his car and I go over and meet up with him. It's apparent we are the first of a few poets to make the scene. Lady Mariposa enters, followed by the hostess and a group of other poets, writes, press runners and artists. All we need is the opium and we could have a philosophical, yet poetic, conversation.

The hostess asks all the feature readers to fill out an introduction sheet so she can introduce us. I've never had to write my own intro before, so I'm looking at the blank sheet as Philosopher tells me to write I'm a superhero who was bitten by a radioactive ant and El tells me to write that I'm God. Both seem rather appeasing, however I write:

[My Name]
Just is. He's a writer of the profane. And apparently really bad at writing intros. He's also a superhero.

I wonder if that works, and I gave it to hostess who smiled at my poor attempt to write. And as always, I am the first reader up, but not because it's going by importance, but because it's a random list. Thankfully, when Lady Mariposa, a well known reader of the Valley, follows me, it gives me the satisfaction that I'm not the novice in this world. A few others read, and then it's open mic with El Senor and two other people. Raving Press is there and I'm intrigued by them as El and I wanted to start our own press. I'm also intrigued because I have the Cannabis Chronicles being written and I would really love to publish a zine twice a year. I hope they contact me soon enough.

The poems I belt out: "Lost Child," a speech to my brother, the alcoholic; "In Dedication to the 79% Who Voted for the Ban," a political piece about same-sex marriages; and "Mental Cage," a poem about my depression.

The poetry part went well and after all was said and done, Jyg, Bel and I went to meet up with Philosopher, while El Senor went across the street to enjoy a drink at Newman's. However, that didn't end there.

This is for Philosopher

Earlier, Philosopher said I had a Christian dating site ad here. That's nothing compared to the anomoly that Adsense has created here. Well, take a look for yourself:

Well, Christian Clipart is nothing. It's something that just is. Why anyone needs it, I'll never understand, but it's here. However, just in case you're a Christian, and a single Christian male, then perhaps you should also have a woman by your side. This is where it gets interesting. Scrolling all the way to the bottom of the page, I see this little number:


If that doesn't leave you thinking that Adsense has some conspiracy against Atheists, I'm not sure anything will.

[Edit:] I just saw this ad:

Another Walt Whitman Post

I Am He That Aches With Love

I am he that aches with amorous love;
Does the earth gravitate? does not all matter, aching, attract all matter?
So the body of me to all I meet or know.

Walt Whitman, Leaves of Grass

And then Alice came back to the rabbit

My friend Alice called me. I haven't spoken to her in at least two years. It was depressing to hear she was married because of her situation. I'm not sure what to think, really. I'm just glad to know she wants to hang out with me.

Marilyn Manson - Heart-Shaped Glasses
Uploaded by clemeiro

Of Religion & Medication

Ol Biker's a conservative in many ways. I never asked about his political views, but his religious views are strong. Before I became president of Sigma Tau Delta, I tried to tell him that not everyone is a Christian after he suggested we have a Nativity Scene at our booth for the Night of Lights. His reasoning was that Christmas was Christ-mass. I tried to tell him about the pagan origins of the holiday, but opted out. And it's not just the religion, it's also the use of cannabis. I can't remember a moment last year that when the stuff was brought up, he'd go off and call them dope-heads. It's quite interesting, really. I would have thought a biker like him would be a little loose on the subject.

This is probably why I take down my magazines when we arrive at his house. El Senor looks at me through dazed eyes and knows I'm up to no good. I grab the chips, Mountain Dew and my cannabis magazines out of the car. "I'm going to see if I can mess with him," I say.

But the object of the game is to see if Ol Biker will notice that El Senor's higher than a kite, or at least more than usual. After greetings and knowing what we're having, Ol turns to us and says, "Atheists don't exist." A born smart ass, I take one look at El and look back at Ol and say, "Nope, still see him. The car didn't drive itself." A sudden Fight Club reference hits me. What if El's just this mental projection of my alter ego. Which would probably explain why he did so little work during our administration.

"Atheists must acknowledge what they deny. How can you acknowledge what you're denying?"

I scratch my head with this one. The easiest answer is that god is just a word. A word with a meaning. Nothing more than a word. Atheists don't deny just the Christians god, but all gods. I look away and then back at Ol. "Did I ever tell you about pigeonholing God?"

"No," I say. A proud agnostic, I don't get much attention because of my beliefs, or the lack of one. We're the bisexuals of the religious world and like bisexuals, we're casted a side.

He gives the explanation. God had one son, so the Bible says so. But Ol believes that God sent many sons to many different cultures, which lines up that old Christians argument of one God. This, I respond, would explain why Christian thoughts match up to Buddhist thought.

"I got a joke for you," Ol says. "A man dies and goes to heaven. When he gets there he is greeted by St. Peter who says that this man's a special case. Because he had not denomination, he could go to any heaven he wanted to. 'There's more than one?' the man asked. 'Yes,' St. Peter said. St. Peter took the man down a large hall with several open doors. They stop at one and St. Peter says, 'This is the Catholic Heaven.' Within the Heaven there were several Catholics drinking and good times, playing bingo. They then go down the heaven where several people are speaking in tongues. They pass the Methodist heaven. The come to a door that's been shut closed where St. Peter instructs the man to walk silently by. St. Peter shows the man the Hindu heaven, the Muslim heaven, Jewish heaven, etc. After the tour had end, St. Peter asked the man which he would choose. 'Well,' the man said, 'they all seem well. But I have to ask on question. Why was that one door shut?' 'Oh,' St. Peter said. 'That's the Baptist heaven - they think they're the only ones here.'"

I nod. BBQ's finish and we all have two rib tacos. El's still burning over the salsa that has probably grown 10x in strength with the THC coursing through his system. I'm beginning to have a giggle fit. When El says he's enjoyed the food, I say, "I bet you did." All knowingly, he smiles.

I mentioned Adam, only calling him by the name Reverend. Ol asks if Adam would agree with his theory. I responded by nodding my head and El restates that with a yes. All the while, I think Ol wouldn't be so accepting of all of Adam's beliefs.

We leave Ol's house by 1:10am. It's the latest I've stayed out in a long time with someone other than Jyg. And the adventure that I needed for awhile. We talked about several things ranging from the girl who might've had a crush one me - this, by the way, El Senor even picked up on - to chauvinistic jokes, which I partook in; sorry ladies, I felt like being a jerk. Fuck, we even talked about bucking, or as they call it, rodeoing or something like that.

On the drive home, my would-be alter ego says, "You know, if Ol Biker ever found out that I was stoned, he would say he knew it all a long. I'm sure he didn't it."

A Jenndiggity Post

"Perfections"

Only themselves understand themselves and the like of themselves,
As souls only understand souls.

---Walt Whitman Leaves of Grass

Terminal

I'm not well. I said and did a lot of weird shit yesterday (meaning monday) and I'm not too proud of them. Oh well, I forgot to post on Tuesday.

Sorry...

I'm trying to write a new poem...I have the words stuck in my head...and I think I'm gonna name it Stigmata when I'm done...

----------------
Now playing: Afroman - Because I Got High
via FoxyTunes

The Salsa's 10x spicier...

El Senor takes a huge chop of his cookie, at least it looks that way to me. The two sandwiches in my stomach haven't done a dent in my hunger. Of course I did eat them hours apart and that was hours before the Hastings trip and about thirty minutes before Adam's house. Fuck, I think. Will El share this fucking cookie or what? And if I'm this hungry, I can only imagine El's twice as much with THC floating around in his system.

"I told you they were good," I say, fingering my new issues of Cannabis Culture and High Times, with Miss High Times 2008, Aum, on the cover. She's cute, wearing a very sexy two piece, but I still think Emily's hotter. Since when did I become that guy, by the way?

"You understand," he says. "The weed makes it taste ten times better."

And we're off to Ol Biker's because that's where the BBQ is and that's where this night will finally commences. I'm tired, by the way. The contact high or the second hand high is coming off and I'm beginning to wonder how this night will turn out. Ol Biker's cool and all, but when it comes to the ganja, he hold certain beliefs to heart; namely, he hates it. I'm beginning to wonder if it was a mistake not to take my only chance of taking cannabis. I feel stupid, though now I'm wondering how long would it take before Ol Biker figures that El Senor's high. This has to be good.

On the way to Ol Biker's, we stop and pick up a 2 liter Mountain Dew and a bag of tortilla chips that El lusts after. It's apparent that his high has built up his munchies. Fucking awesome, I think. This night's gonna be good. I notice one of the attendant's nails though. Longer than hell. "What the fuck?" I say. El looks at me and wonders what I'm talking about as the second attendant at the drive through convenience store hands El the chips and the change.

"Did you see those nails?"

"What nails?"

"The one on the other woman."

"Too busy looking at the big tits on ours," he says and laughs.

"Yeah, well, I was thinking about my fellow man. No one ever go hurt over large tits. But her nails, man. They make the penis cringe."

We arrive at Ol Biker's shortly. I'm carrying the tortilla chips, soda and my magazines to be able to fuck with him well. However, the night doesn't go as I had planned: It actually gets better. As we tear open the bag of ships, Ol brings out his homemade salsa, the spice of which slowly climbs up your throat after swallowing. It's apparent that it's too spice for El Senor as he begins to sweat. Jokingly, I want to ask, so does it make the salsa ten times spicier?

These cookies are the best

El Senor, a deaf man, walks behind me at Hastings. Normally, I do this because I know he's deaf and I like fucking with him when he doesn't have his hearing aids on. Otherwise, I wouldn't ever walk in front of him. As I'm leading him towards the book I'm reading, Hunter S. Thomas's Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, I talk to him over my shoulder. Under my arm, I'm holding four magazines, all them cannabis related: Weed World, Cannabis Culture, the almighty High Times and High Time's Grow Guide 2008. This, plus what Adam gave me at his house is going to be my research material. Not to mention the oodles of books I'm trying to get online and for cheap.

Damn, I think, my stomach's growling. If it keeps up like this, I won't be able to mess with El for very long before having to cave in and take Ol Biker's offer for cooking us food. Damn, BBQ did sound mighty delicious. I turned around and muttered something at El. Something both smart and corny all rolled into one. I kept talking, faster words and smiling.

"You know you're walking ahead of me and I can't hear you, right?" he says. I turn around and smile, move my mouth really quickly and said, "Why the hell do you think I'm doing it for?" At the shelves, I do a little ISBN/Title shopping. Hastings hates people like me and the evidence is on the books. The damn bastards place the label nicely over the bar code, covering all or some of the ISBN. El picks up on this as well. Little do they know, or can't do anything about it, ISBNs are also kept inside on the copyright page. However, too lazy, I just take down titles and last names. It takes me a few seconds to get the author S.T. Oner name, solely because I focus only on Oner.

We plop ourselves down on the table and flip through magazine articles. None of them are appealing enough. Weed World, however, captures my attention, but is highly (no pun) over price. Instead, I opt for Cannabis Culture and High Times because the articles in there are just as interesting. Besides, High Times has a picture of this girl named Emily (second to the last girl, holding a joint) in there that I find highly (yeah, this could be a pun) attractive. I'm beginning to wonder if El is getting hungry and if my stomach pains can be heard. I felt the same way when I was at Adam's and the sandwich, my second one of the day, didn't seem to do anything for my hunger. Lately, it seems, I've given up on so much that even feeding myself has become an awful chore. Fuck it, I say, call Ol Biker and let's get us some food.

I pick up Cannabis Culture, go back to the racks to get a tear-free issue of High Times. We get in line and El Senor sees the cookies Hastings keeps as impulse buys. I turn around and tell him they're the best cookies ever. This cookie is the first piece of food he's had since toking up at Adam's. It doesn't take much convincing him, he buys one.

Bon Voyage 90 Day Jane

If my memory serves me right, to day should've been day 90 and had she been real, poor old Jane would've offed herself today. No such luck. Oh well.

Fear and Loathing in Hastings

El Senor took one last toke of the bong, smiled and blew the smoke out. Coughing, as well. Coughing a lot. Turning to me, he said, "You driving?" Adam and S/O laughed and I lowered my head. Not in shame, but because the fact that I didn't really want the day to end. Fuck, I thought, El's stoned. We talk a bit about S/O's shoe, a sandal actually, the heel of which had fallen off.

I started packing the slew of articles given to me by Adam, the magazine and the book he lent me. El Senor and I motioned for the door and Adam saw us out. We'd have to do this again, and you better believe we will. A whole lot of information is needed for this project that only one conversation wouldn't cover it. This means that I have to bust my ass writing for the that porn website. He tells me he'll be gone for a while as they're going to Cali. Recreation? I don't ask.

El Senor's either paranoid because he's stoned or because he's a writer. Normally, I begin to think that people around me are spies sent to kill me because I'm anti-George W. Bush. Other times I think it's because Blandie hates me so much that the writing on the blogs have finally got to her. A woman comes out of her apartment and this startles him. He tells me; I chuckled, this is going to be fun.

As we're pulling away from Adam's street, I call Philosopher to see if her, Doll and the Binx are out and about. Subconsciously, however, I dial Jyg instead. I hang up the moment I realize my mistake. No sense of that going on tonight. No, I've already made my company uneasy. Now, I'm not sure if it's a contact high or because I'm just plain giddy, but I'm beginning to find certain things amusing. Philosopher answers and tells me she's not going out because The Squid is on one of her tears again. Sweet kid, but she is sometimes a bit on the crazy side. Must get it from the company her mother hangs out with. You know who I'm talking about...me, obviously. I hang up. El Senor grabs his cell and hears that our friend, Ol Biker, has called his sister up in Ohio trying to contact him. Sister then relays the message to El Senor.

Noticing the car swerve, I grab the sheet of paper, a list of all the phone numbers of people of every person El has spoken to. I wonder if anyone of those numbers belongs to a woman he's defiled. I don't bother to ask. Now Ol Biker always struck me as an interesting character. He's a wise man with traits that tends to piss off people of the finer sex. He tells El that something happened to him not too long ago, which makes El a little concerned, but not enough to remove the buzz that's slowly creeping in his mind. Damn, I should've had me a hit of that, I think. It's becomes rather apparent that Ol Biker has suffered a mild stroke. Damn, I think. He's also invited us to eat his place. Cool. If there's one thing that Ol Biker can do is cook up a good BBQ. And I know sooner or later that hunger is going to hit a big man like El anytime soon. The question only remains, how long can I fuck with him until I get hungry as well?

El Senor rides again...

I'm searching through my philosophy books to make connections that I can later use as a defense of my "arrest" on charges of cannabis. Really, the fictional aspect of this whole deal involves a lot of actual research on the nonfiction accounts. That's why I asked for Adam's help. I'd ask Eric as well, but he's off in San Marcos and that's too much for me to even fathom. Besides, he has his life now and I wouldn't want to bother him too much. At least Adam's well read on the subject rather than talking out his ass like some other people I've met along the way - Ron Paul supporters will be left nameless.

At Adam's, El Senor fell in love with the clear purple-ringed bong that was left sitting on the table. It's apparent that Adam's going to use this nifty toy rather than the pipe he used last time when Jyg and I were his guests. We chit chat, after El Senor takes his first hit since 4/20. We decided to go over what I have in mind for the book. I call it a book because that's what my goal is, a book. Adam suggests that I would have to smoke cannabis before I can fully understand what it's like to go through it. I, however, don't smoke. I ingest. Not the same feeling, he says as he sparks up and the water begins to roll over, making an all too familiar sound from a distant past life. Nah, not for me, I say again. Besides, I'm a light weight. Sleeping pills knock me out in ten minutes and those brownies Eric made me all those years ago punched me in about fifteen. I like to bleed into it.

"You'll have to make him brownies," El Senor chuckles. My defense is set up, though I don't think Adam fully fathoms it. I don't smoke by choice and it's purely out of respect for my mother. She had to see my brother suffer through his addiction, so why invoke those memories with my experimenting? I don't say this because it's a little too personal and besides, I'm already making people uneasy by talking about Jyg. There must be something in my tone that makes them that way, or the smoke inhalation is making me paranoid because I'm now thinking that at any moment the fucking DEA's going to bust up the place. Here we go, I'll have to suck it up and call Editor for assistance because in reality, this project should really be going towards a really kick ass article that's been left up in limbo.

Adam, saying it's not schwag, hands the bong to El Senor. Fuck, there's a lingo now? Whatever happened to "It's good mota homes"? This disturbs me because my memories from high school come reeling back and I'm not up with the times anymore. Fuck it. El Senor inhales, the water rolls over itself and the smoke comes flying out and I realized the fucking tape isn't out recording the first pieces of our conversation. I crack my fingers and I start taking notes of names dropped, years and books. The tape recorder's only for the significance of the conversation, which will later go and be dissected, rewritten and made fictionalized. Isn't life grand?

S/O comes in during my Bloo Jean cat story, at my punchline: "And my neighbors just stare at me. 'What?! I lost my pants okay?!'" El Senor and Adam laugh. I chuckle as well. Adam and I continue to talk about things, while S/O and Senor have their own conversation. Not this one, El. Not this one.

I can't help but to stare at Adam though. It's has nothing to do with my bisexuality, but because of what a certain someone said before I went over. His loped off hair only makes him cuter than before. Thank you so much, by the way, she who will remain nameless. Your remark was all I thought about during the conversation. That and how big that cat is.

After a while, S/O goes to lay down, mentioning a nightmare she had the night before. It's all on tape, which is the best part. I won't share the details out of respect of her and because the account will later be fictionalized. I talk to Adam about my dreams of praying mantises. After all that is said and recorded, we head off because they're getting ready to go to the Art Walk. El Senor takes one final hit of the bong, which has now changed to a bluish color and we still don't know why, though I suspect it's only done to freak out the user, but that's just me. He chokes on the smoke, turns to me and says, "You driving?"

Oh, but the night is young.

Two sandwiches, tortilla chips, two rib tacos and a 2 liter Mountain Dew

I just had Chinese before starting this blog. My fortune cookie reads:

Now is a great time to broaden your scope of influence.

I think the baker's trying to tell me something. I think it may have something to do with Adam Zuniga (one day, when I'm not lazy, I'll just post all those WordPress blogs here and just delete that account - minus Sex Wednesday stuff, that is). However, it may also have to do with my writers as well. I've been sticking to what college fed me, which isn't bad because I love those writers, but I'm thinking I should really read some other things. And that starts today, really.

I think the visit to Adam's yesterday was just the first of many, and like the first read-through of a script, it was just to get to know the subject matter of the book. El Senor accompanied me to this meeting because he's helping as well. His part is for the illegal side of cannabis, meaning the smuggling, growing and dealing for commercial use, so to speak. Adam's the philosophy side and the anthropological as well. Philosopher, who, even though would probably get along with Adam, minus his spiritual talk, I'm keeping for misc. research which I'm also doing myself. The Squid is the main reason why I don't want these two worlds to meet, though Adam will not smoke around her, or us if we tell him it would make us uncomfortable, I just think she's too young.

Speaking of which, Philosopher, Chris Bennett, is there two of them? Adam lent me some of his stuff: a Cannabis Culture magazine, Marijuana Medicine by Christian Ratsch and a slew of print out articles from databases. (Speaking of which, anybody with an extra copy of this issue of Cannabis Culture who is willing to give or lend off, it would be mighty nice of you.)

[El Senor just called me to tell me he did not forget about his date, unlike the date he had with a fellow high school classmate of mine.]

Anyway, Chris Bennett is one of the writers within the Cannabis Culture magazine that Adam lent me. I haven't gotten around to reading the article yet, but the name reminded me of someone Gilson made me read in Philosophy of the Mind - or the other philosophy course I took with him. I'm not sure if it was online or in the text, but considering I have the text, I should check it out, huh? That would be too easy and Ennui Prayer doesn't do anything easy (insert an exgirlfriend joke here, wise guy).

Gah! This has become too long...part two will be up shortly for those of you with short attention spans it doesn't end h......

Which one is the real Shakira?

You decide.

Videos Graciosos - Shakira - La Gordura - Funny videos are here

Fear and Loathing in the study...

Pick up Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas because Atonement was getting me down. That and I find it hard to read a book about love that can survive anything given to me by my Jyg a few weeks after she left me for my birthday. Oops, there I go again, dropping all my misery into this very public blog. I think for the most part, reading Hunter S. Thomson - not to mention dabbing into Tom Wolfe - and mixing it up with William S. Burroughs is just research for that project I mentioned earlier. A draft of the preface has begun with little research, but because it's a fictional account of the main character's court room appearance after being arrested for possession and later distribution for cannabis - he was framed for the later because the cops had originally wanted to arrest his friend, but details on that when I actually start posting pieces of the rough draft (much like I'm doing with that poem about the person whose name will never be mentioned on this blog, or any other blog).

While the piece will be 100% fiction, except the facts about cannabis use and the greater purpose it should serve within our society, I'm actually been thinking about using the aliases I've made up for very real people in the story. Philosopher, Adam Zuniga (who never received one because I don't his name should be shrouded solely because it's not his style to stay in the shadows) and El Senor will all be helping out with the project in some manner. Their aliases will most likely be used fictionally so that people who have never before read this blog would actually think the conversations were real.

I'm a jerk...

I'm not sorry, really, for ignoring a lot of phone calls lately. I've been awfully busy lately and I just can't pick up a phone. So if you're calling me and I'm not answering, I'm not really ignoring you as I am more than likely writing or reading, or sleeping (fingers crossed).

This still lacks a title

You are the guidance and the truth
that I have been seeking
and I can't believe you're still standing here
with tears in your eyes
still able to adore me for who I am
and not all that I could've been.

So here I am living through complications
of loving someone I can never have,
just holding onto each of your words
written on the screen,
praying that our worlds will one day meet
but no god will heed me.

What good can you see in me
and where is this purpose that I live for?
Because when I had my cross to bear
you were the only one left standing
when others had forsaken me.
Am I your dark messiah,

your hope in the dead of night darkness?
Hold me close to your body
and whisper into my ear.
Tell me I am more than a son,
much more than a man can ever be,
so I can be the person you see with in your eyes mind.

Would you take all my pain
and make it your own
because I would shoulder yours,
lift you up and carry you home.

Let me speak to you
drown your misery in my words
and cleanse me of my fears
because your voice is strange and familiar.

Writing writing writing

I got a message from my exgirlfriend, Jess, yesterday. She called me last night, blocked call, and I assumed a certain someone had become some sly puss and blocked their call. After the phone calls, she sent me a comment on MySpace and I read it. I'm not sure what's going on in her world, but it has me worried. I told her to call me back, but she either didn't get that message or she ignored it. Truth being said, I wrote out an e-mail to her telling her why I didn't answer and a whole laundry list of overdue apologies. I have this feeling that something's amiss here and I'm not knowing the whole truth. It's really sad. I wish there was something I could do to help her.