make it your own.

we must remember the reasons we do what we do
so we don't forget who we are.
for in the process or creation
we become frustrated by the pieces used
to create the whole.
keep focus of the gestalt,
while dealing with the details.
keep the remembrance of the ones fallen, hurt,
so you can do what you need to do.

we must remember the reasons
we do what we do.
because if we forget-
they will forget as well,
as the histories that have come before.
unless we pass on the language-
it will die.
there is a fire, and it will burn.
burn this place down.

ba ba baba ba

I've found a coffeeshop that reminds me of chicago.

and gives hints of
ohio in the fall.

i think it has more to do with the surroundings and the buildings
than the coffee itself and it's close to classes.

driving down to sf,
even for better coffee (much better)
just requires the emergence of my loud engine.
and...i don't feel like that.

it's surrounded by these trees and the streets are
just the right size and just narrow enough.
it was man mad to look like an old city
when it's probably just a 20 year old road.

but i can always imagine its a grown up.




and i also enjoy brown sleeves with the simple logo.

oh, maker...

i was supposed to meet with jet tonight
but meeting in the morning
followed by a writing session where i completely changed two scenes...
in a way that completely changes the tone-
but in a good way.
i added a song.
we'll see.
just like a gay guy eh?

and why isn't janelle monae the queen of music yet? i'm still confused. lady gaga interests me- but janelle inspires me. hm,
God bless them
both, and i made some really great
chicken with cereal i had left over.
but i'm over cereal for breakfast.

yum.

who knew chicken and kellogs would work so well?
maybe rachel ray.
but she's a bit of an anomally yes?
with her 30 minute wine making sessions and perky
quips and quabs and acronyms and such.



well,
God bless her.

Amen and Amen.

before tomorrow.

Things to do on 9 22
Look for a job
Room 509 10 to 1
look at cameras
and end the day with a smile.
or make an attempt to
and not a glass of wine
or a bottle of beer.

no alcohol til the weekends.
not because i can't do it
(i've done it)
just because its too tempting.
i don't drink that much
why do i even censor myself
because i want to prove i can?
possibly.

on a lighter note- i finally made perfect poached eggs.



i am the winner.

make me holler.

it's funny how amazing music is timeless. marvin gaye- inner city blues...amazing. and look how prevalent its lyrics still are. every time i watch the news or hell just look outside sometimes. it's not even a black and white thing. it's just all these separations.

and when i look at the television. is america stupid? or we stuck on a two second culture? are we literally the now generation or are we a generation that's still yet to come. the attention deficit is in our blood. so connected to the world by smart phones and computers and rabid technology that we forget ourselves we're so busy being around someone else's. i'm bound to be a rigid individual and stick to my guns whatever they may be- of a boxless nature. of casual sway into as much of different as i can find and being okay with that. no saint. just an arachnid nature.

let these separations stop and not be afraid to forget the box that THAT box has put us in. the tv, the set, the flat screened god that we've carved to see our fantasy. to see something we will never ever be. to see boxes placed so strategically that we can't even see they are there.

these kids and their box. now I'M the one that wants to scream out of a window "I"M MAD AS HELL AND I"M NOT GONNA TAKE IT ANYMORE!" but where am i gonna go after it's said? how am I gonna change this Godforsaken world? Yeah I'm mad as hell but if i'm not gonna take it anymore wht the hell am i gonna do?! kill myself?! or do i find a solution? no one ever answers that question do they? it's always do what you can to survive...survival of the fittest...and you do whatever you can to survive, you even whisper. sometimes you don't even talk.

because we're blinded by the glow of a flashbub that's not even in front of our eyes. we're blinded by the absolute contradiction to all we know is true. to that narrative that's never told by a real girl or boy or by that lover who's never too dark and never too light. or by an organized stunt called reality.

look down at your hands and realize all the amazing things you could be doing instead of jerking off to some smut porn you watch because you're lonely, instead of clicking some key to a device that we can never open because we're too distracted by that colorful display of images it's always throwing at us, blinding us. maybe we're not blinded by the light, maybe we're just blinded because we don't know what to look for. i looked in the mirror first.

summer black.

a: i feel like such a gay.

b: why?

a: i'm sitting here slightly buzzed after a club listening to "someday my prince will come" by ron carter.

b: shit, at least it's by ron carter and not a dance remix...i mean...you do live in gay atlanta.

a: this is true. so i guess it's not so bad. i still feel a bit submissive.

b: and submissive is bad.

a: only when the dominant is someone you've never met.

i hear them mumbling in the background as he goes into heaven.

fuck the club
and fuck da dj
imma be the one
that put the record on the replay
and if you feeling righteous
feel free to sing along
it's the "do what you gotta do" song.

yeah if you don't want me to read into it
write another book
i only read what's there
i'm not addicted to despair

back at home
at 4 am
and john coltrane plays
to my frequent ears
a little too much vodka
a little too much pain
a little too many kisses
from some boy who you wish you didn't know his name.
forward momentum on my wall
does my voice still carry a word to call?

been reading bourdieu
this dominant feud.
how can i change
what the populists view?
these rhymes are predictable
and so is my new-
it's old to those who've had it
and present to those who take the cue.

and the piano is gentle
and i'm good in my mood.
and i kinda wish he was here.
it's unfortunate
it's cruel.
and michael is dead
left eye is too
2pac went before
biggie sang the blues
seems the ones who carry the torch
are the first to fall
i don't wanna be a martyr
i just wanna stop the crawl
i wanna run
i wanna scream
i wanna be more than sexual insanity
i wanna be more than porn on saturday nights
i wanna be more than a bathhouse that sells right
i wanna be more than a wet kiss on the ama's
i wanna be more than Aids HIV and a bloody stain.
i'm trying though
i'm trying though
i'm trying though
who knows.

i'm a vodka mess
and this saturday goes to show
how few and frequent they come
at least there's no blood running from my nose-
i stop at the candy-
it's too much for me-
i'm holding back
there's nothing that this world can do for me-
maybe i can do for it-
instigate some permanent kick
i wanna cry when i hear george cables
"looking for the light" is the first song that plays
how tragic how right-
an ad plays against the spotlight-
advertising something i don't need-
trying to bombast the sweet eloquent tranquility of a
flute and a piano and America's music-
i want to scream out
"GOD! why did you do it? why did you make me this, why did you
abandon us, why did you leave us foul? why did you make your followers
such a cruel uncaring child!"
metaphysical mess,
blessed is the unrest
we keep moving til we find a stream
now i hear john coltrane
and his many favorite things-
and I hear a bit of God
in those saxophone wings
and it's okay-
it's okay i dream,
a little more water
and a little more time
just another kiss
and it'll be fine
a little more water
and a little more time
just another try
and it'll be fine.

jazz freedom fighter.

Poverty and paranoia every channel got em for you.
Sick with the critical mass of a new pop culture attack.
So scream at your radio, and scream at your desk.
Scream at the movie screen and scream at the so called best.
Tell them if they've got a voice, to make some fucking noise.
We got the bang bang
but we also got a choice.
So turn off your radio, turn off your movie screen,
Turn off your T.V. unless you see it's me...

galvanize/energize.
galvanize/energize.
galvanize/energize.

GO.

dear diary. today i saw a boy. no, i'm lying. i saw no boy. YEP! that's my life. lonely.

a possible reason i cannot sleep at night.
i work out at night.
i need to remember to write in this each day.

just so i can say i write each day.
at the end of my life i want to be able to say
i wrote every single day of my life.

whether it be on the back of a bubble gum wrapper
or on the back of my hand-
i'll never let a line go unnoticed. it's a good habit.

bacon.

Prada. Yeah. Remember when I used to wear Atari shirts? Man I used to hate fashion. Albeit it still is a bit of a vapid form of career. It's not as vapid as I once thought. Especially considering, as one grow up, one realizes the restraints placed upon by society.

I understand the meaning behind hair dye, and scissors for clothes, and learning to sow, and buying what you want, and dressing ridiculously. That's basically the only bit of control you have over yourself. With the rest of the world coming in you're able to protect your heart and the rest of whatever else it is you are (if you're lacking a heart) by what you wear. Even though we always say we are not the clothes we wear and we are not our hair, we really are. Those that take a care and put a bit of art and admiration into the way they look basically say to the rest, that this is what I own and all that I am.

How pretentious of me yes? I know, I can feel one half of myself hating the other half, but it really is true. After dealing with bills and loans and school and work and traffic, and oil spills, all that we have left is our possessions and how we personalize them.

So I now understand the reasons why fashion exists. As a way to be who we are in a world most of us were shielded from as children.

"Jesus was Black...So was Cleopatra"

i do love gaga.

and i do love madonna.

with that said,

i will say this:

the problem i have with gaga i think is that she is getting credit for being completely original, while other artists that did it first get no credit at all. ie: bjork, grace jones, kylie minogue, la belle, etc etera, et cetera.

much like my problem with britney's rabid fan base who think she can do no wrong, i think the pop music scene has been so missing someone of true talent for so long the gaga monsters are literally turning into monsters protecting their master at any cost. it's loyalty at its best and something any pop star/ entertainer would crave. but my fear is with the fans, especially American fans when education and an appreciation of ones history seems to be very low on the list of priorities. (Hello Dekalb County)

So, I suppose my phrasing could be seen as a more complex: "Originality is Dead" but originality died once the wheel was invented. Re-invention will never die, and that is what keeps entertainment and this world fresh in our over-stimulated eyes.

and i think as long as people especially young homosexuals know that the current gay icons, borrow a lot of their form from artists that have come before, it will be good. the problem lies in people not knowing enough about their history, or the history of music/entertainment and culture to know what is truly original and what is re-invention (I just contradicted myself. I suppose I should have said what is a moment of true re-invention versus a forced re-hash of an old idea that presents itself as new.)

The moment of danger comes when the idea of re-invention is denied. When the subject itself claims complete originality. Apple is good at this, but, while their tech specs may not be as great as the Google Phone or the Palm Pre or whatnot, the reason they are so popular is their marketing still identifies the machine as nothing without a human. Because, even with all the technology in the world, humans still desire to be human. Apple computers are all about the interaction and the heart that its phones have, while the Google Phone and Droid phone ads are more about the tech and the machinery (especially the Droid phones- what with there not being a single human in any of the commercials, but the faceless dark arms and hands of a machine created after the zombie apocalypse maybe? Iunno)

As we've seen over the past year, Ms. Gaga's outfits have slowly crept back into the realm of human, her hair has become shorter, her face more pale and her expressions more human. And she's never been more popular.

And, of course there is nothing wrong with enjoying a fun pop song and some great outfits- just..."know your history."

viola

as it stands my eyelids fall
this tv more than a paycheck unfortunately
waits simple in front letting me feel a little bit of nothing
for a little while longer.
oh, numb feels good.

as is.

[I'm finally opening the mail from Hawken. Each day I get new mail and I'm always so nervous to see what's inside. It's nerve wrecking. What was the price paid for me going to an "elite private school"? That I didn't have enough money to pay for an "elite college" experience? Grants help out but grants run out as well. I think about my former classmates and what they must be doing and each morning I wake up...most mornings I wake up, in my head I think, "3 years to make something of myself", "2 years to make something of myself". My ten year school reunion is coming up, and I've yet to even start my own life.

I shouldn't be too hard on myself? That was a purposed question. I won't go into it, but I've done a lot these past few years and life happens, and it's not always how we'd like it to happen. We're all human and even when we move and think like a machine, even machines wear down. Year after year of shit and more shit and more moving and more starting wears anything down, and eventually you wear out and collapse or you just get so tired you don't feel like trying anymore.

And this is what goes through my head each time I have to open letters from Hawken, or see something about Emerson College or Chicago or Columbia College. Maybe I should see a therapist. But they cost money right? Yeah. Yeah they do. Okay three more pieces of Hawken mail. One is probably a bill. Yeah, it's a bill that I'm not opening addressed to my parents.

I'm just going to turn on Wendy Williams and focus on the pink and fluff for a minute and forget about the bills and the oil spill. Yes, I am going to just lighten the fuck up.

Two more pieces of mail.]

ok, fine, i will cut.

so, I am sending in an audition video for the Footloose(!) remake. I figured it can't hurt.

1.) I have rhythm
2.) I still look like I'm in high school sometimes
3.) I've got nothing to lose.

Number three seems incredibly important right now. I just finished another draft of The Manifesto and think I'll send it to the 1 in Ten screenplay competition. Though, to be honest, they screenplays that usually win are incredibly Camp or incredibly melodramatic so I don't know how I will fare.

But ever since I finally (I know, forgive me homos) Funny Girl for the first time, I now know why we love Barbara Streisand so much. She is...literally...like butter. She was born to play Fanny Brice. Fanny Brice was born to be portrayed by Barbara Streisand. Maybe I'll meet my Ziegfeld soon. Hello gorgeous indeed.

Ego, here I come!...I used an exclamation point. This must be serious.

urhm.

katie coleman had an art show as part of the cheap paper collective.

i bought a piece.

look:



http://www.etsy.com/shop/missmarjorie

a moment for the superficial.

it's all about the bracelets. i love a man who wears clothes and doesn't let them wear him.


HYPER(!!!)linked fromThe Sartorialist

my eyes are green.

i'm illin? a milli? million? like millionaire! OH!

3.23.2010

it's getting harder and harder to budge.

just a little bit of flesh please?

3.20.2010

let's suppose tomorrow will be
better than today
and tomorrow no one you know will die-
and there will be no classes tomorrow
and no time to show up to for work.
tomorrow you're free to do whatever you want-
and the drinks 30 minutes ago won't matter.
the beers and the queers that danced around your forehead
while you stood sober
won't matter one bit.
and the 40 days and 40 nights of no contact and no
pixelated fornication
will be easier than
eating a pint of magic brownies in less than an hour.
and the walls would be painted
and the furniture would be in place
and the tests would be studied for
and you would be able to keep the pace day after day
after day.
it's past midnight and its already tomorrow.
so maybe it's time to look at today.

3.16.2010

leo had a dream the other night-
once he closed his eyes- it was actually during the day
when the sunlight had lost focus on his apartment for a bit
inbetween the hours of work and more work when the
bed had seemed too tempting to turn away.

he didn't quite remember where it began but he remembers his
mother walking down the hallway younger
in a red dress smiling and all of his dreams
are like commercials or movies or the best woody allen film
he can remember though
he's never had a dream in black and white,
that he can remember.

and his mother walked in front of he and his sister who was also younger with short
hair and no kids and no worries and no
debt and the hall was grand and the rug was pure and clean
and the design was intricate and the walls were
white with no scuffs and the lighting technician did an amazing job on this scene
because his mother never looked more becautiful in her
red dress.

and she walked them to the hotel room door
and opened the door and it was such a grand room almost
as grand as that hallway before
and the windows took up an entire wall
nothing but a window and lights on the outside
and the lights of the city were beautiful and bright and
he knew it was paris.

and there were three beds in the room one with
the little mermaid sheets and barbie
and one had no childlike things at all
save for the bright red of one part of the cover or pillow but he
can't really remember.

and he stood in his underwear hairless like an 11 year old boy and his sister stood behind him getting into bed looking like an 8 year old child
and she made fun of his barbie sheets but leo said
"i never had barbie sheets but i did have a sesame street blanket that i don't know
what happened with" and he was right but he
didn't get into bed
and his mother didn't come into the room
but when she closed the door she was smiling and happy
in her red dress and her youthful face and it made leo
not want to wake up and he
stood in front of that large window and looked down
straight down and saw trash and broken cars and a junkyard but he looked
up and out of the window and saw lights and saw
paris
and the lights never seemed to end almost bleeding
together like mercury and creating their
own horizon and some kind of horizontal
patched blanket of man made sun.

and with his black graphic t-shirt and his
underwear on he said down on the floor not taking his
eyes off of the large window and what lay before it
nothing else and no other noise
just a wide shot, a panoramic view of leo holding his left leg up like a child
while his right leg steadied him on the floor looking
out to paris.

3.15.2010

too many hours
studying and painting
working.

not enough hours napping
staring at the ceiling
for hours
for no reason.

3.10.2010

My childhood dying everyday
And all I got is this instrumental
to keep me on the straight,
I make the words-
supposed life makes the beats we tip top
continuously based on those crooked streets.
ust a fundamentally psychotic post memory of a
dream
Nothing seems cool in a recession filled
world.
Trying to live quick and young while trying not to get
burned.
Everybodys working round trying to keep up the focus
Keep your head up
don't depend on that focus.
Nothing ever comes from nothing That's what I've heard.
That's why I can't take a break,
that's why I must fly like i've got wings,
it's just one extra imaginary thing.
No i ain't no queen I'd rather be the eagle, the hawk,
sighting prey, flying down focusing on the people.
i'm gonna change this land, i'm gonna
fit in, then get in
show them that triple consciousness then land
takeover and over again til the end
even when it burns, just shows its continuously growing within,
all they do is tell us why not,
gimme a reason why i should
then maybe i'll think about
stop no don't let me digress,
i might as well regress
i'm already this far i gotta be the best
at school and work and words- this isn't cute,
this is what i do.
this isn't a hobbie, this is life.
i know i look young, but i'm still my fathers son.
and forgive me for lazy when i'm working like crazy
moving for work for family or babies
pushing for school for work then this love game on top i can't become a crazy.
all at the same time and i'm still pushing this?
what do you expect i'm only human in a metaphysical mess
praying to God Jesus Alpha and Omega, Jehovah and the media, it's a constant dream.
hopeing and knowing that it'll all work out my friend.
my enemy my muse, my rival: my cue to
kick my ass into 8th gear, at least i'm semi-automatic, hope the help will last.
maybe that's why you're here-
never know for sure but if i keep the hope in my heart
fuck corny, fuck trendy i must speak what's inside.
been hiding for all these years, conforming to registered lies.
but when i wake up tomorrow what'' be waiting for me?
another bill another doctor, another death in the family?
another baby, another breakdown? another overdraft fee from doing something that i knew i had to do to keep up this so called "responsibility"?
another bigot, another bush another bill o'reilly?
another tea party fuck saying that the president's just a communist populist scally?
what you screaming for? your argument doesn't even exist.
taxation with representation, ya'll just been been resisting common sense.
but i got a pocket full of change coming your way- right in your face- smack it just like
them olden days.
wanna bring back history-
i gotta a HISstory for you- she gotta HERstory, they got THURstory, we got OURstory too.
i wish i could get drunk everynight and sing songs about shit,
live in a culture that praises irony or glitz,
i guess i care too much, but i don't think i wanna change.
cause i'm not the only one with all this shit in my way-
it's never easy when you're born in the vall and the
top of the mountain is just there without a rally to push
you on when you're on your own
no ropes no ladders just your legs and your arms
no massages no men, no women no sun
no water just a mess you're bless with to hopefully
make you stronger.
but when i get to the top better know what i'll do
throw a rope down to that valley to bring those children up
educate not discriminate, one must never be done-
even when i'm dead i'll be the one
listening to lennon.

3.9.2010

long day with seven hours of sleep-
no more no less, continually competing
against myself in every game possible.
too much on paint, hopefully it will work,
before walking and picking up a new movie and admiring a
rain free day in atlanta.

down to p.s. to see the new marty flick, which i enjoyed
until i realized everything that would be going on.
i suppose we ask- what is crazy? not his best-
but better than a lot that i've seen.
on to the bar with the skin on display such a shame,
or such a natural place- since we'll all human and a bit
of animals underneath it all.

ironic that strip clubs hide what lies beneath with tis subtle exterior.
no phallic imagery, because of all the glitter inside.
someone thought about our senses-
or maybe they wanted that gray wall and those blacked out windows
to lie.

Rosie O'Donnell's been tagging my neighborhood again.

tisk. tisk.

3.8.2010

an hour past the alarm rolling out of bed,
pushed the sheets til it's almost eleven and i
must immediately start.
blue tape on the walls edges.
donating clothes that could be five years old
and a tv that's too big for me,
a bottom heavy machine with a scratch on its back from
move in.
growing up is never easy to do until
you realize you want to do it
and the flat screens and movie scenes seem
better than before and better than
the trivial kisses and the
sometimes stares by boys that are
hot today but what happens
when their thirty?
do what's popular and you get a kiss from
mr. man,
do it the right way and you'll eventually rule
the land, fuck
mr. man.
work feet heavy til ten o clock,
smell like coffee beans but no gin and tonic
waits just
pinot noir from publix at a good exchange rate.
Debuss, Chopin, Schumann play as i'm back to the walls
putting up the blue tape reminding me that i truly do wish i had a river
i could skate away on.

3.7.2010

heavy lids, from 6 am this morning-
no nap time- stuck moving and driving heavy hitter on the road.
pressing my pedal pushing, losing, gas.
my car vibrates inefficiently beneath me i don't know
why it lags its way down the road so unhealthily-
but it still moves despite it's semi rust, its unfavorable moods and
uncanny sense of thrift.
golden statues to the beautiful people as they pamper
and praise with words
onto each other the blessings flow,
from one to another but they've worked
hard i should say, and they deserve at least one day to
indulge in the selfish conformity of it all.

i know i will.

3.5.2010

mary's on a cool night-
lady with the rags dances with arms a flight
moving slowly
lights shine down with the pbr in hand
we dance, we dance-
talked to a man named greg
remembered his face from a few moons before
moving to l.a.
hope he keeps it cool in his new neighborhood.
addictions easily envelope over sweet souls that are new
in the land where everything becomes used.
the smoke sticks to the air as if its always been there
and that rhyme pattern
pattern
pattern
sticks to your mind even though you don't want it to be there.

the twee rhythms and rhymes of the indie pop mix with beyonce
and gaga and all her recycled but amazing funk and it's a mess
that i'd never want to be without-
i'd be so much less without
it.

and jamison tall stands beside saying hi
patting his back and his tells his typical cry of a simple pain that my
hand inflicted
but it's a friendly gesture nothing more that i'd mention.
and the alcohol digs deep then mitch says hello
i move to the dance floor while the tiles stay close
and my typical feet do their typical thing
but no one is around it's just you, the music and me-
and i realize why i want it this bad-
everyone listens when the beat is an instant fad-
no one questions,
everyone moves
hands go up
as the mouth opens up
regurgitating words that you wrote-
that were new
once.

listen to my words one day?
get the confidence enough to say?
"the manifesto"
"gay madonna"
"nicco, nicco"
"my lady of stone"
these songs only few-
one day soon-
one day soon-

my feet keep moving
the lady does her jig.
another pbr,
she smokes one more cig.
this is all coming out-
a sudden response-
it lacks a filter-
but happiness is such a killer.

we move on we move on-
last call last call,
mary's lambs get lost
in the streets on a friday night with
no shepherd in sight.

driving to the apartment that's new
it's been one week- scored the walls for the paint-
swatches by the bed-
what happens if i move?
we focus on the now and the future-
not the ifs and the whats
we live for the day-
not the exclusive unfortunate buts.

i pressed play to gonzales five minutes ago to get
these thoughts out-
moving slowly from pretentious nests
to being able to fly free without,
soon-soon.

the music did,
the music is,
the movies the posters
moving images in my mind- a good way
to capture the tempting night.

paint on my fingers, paint on my knees.

freeverse while preparing to move, painting walls.

i'm painting over all these faces
black ink on white is so hard to cover-
one coat makes it a shadow
and two makes it a memory.
the faces all have large eyes saucers
even like classic disney.
and the words and phrases scatter flatly
horizontally on the wall.
it was once flat.
but the coats from before, the yellow maybe
brown.
the ready maybe
blue.
my pink and my sky gave it a thick skin.

who's missing their inner city trinity?
mabe i'll put on some 2pac and soak the brush-
soften the bristles til it covers 2 years.
i could have a cigarette between my lips
but i don't smoke inside
i don't smoke anymore-
the carpet would capture it anway,
but anyway the carpet is gone.
it was once new (it knew)
(it could have possibly absorbed my residue)
and it's a wonder
such a wonder-
with all the paint and all my hell-
this carpet still isn't blue.

Pupa.

I was cleaning my apartment today getting ready to move into a new place that is yet to be determined.

I don't move until march 1st but I like to stay on top of things. I suppose it's a part of my nature.

A pile of clothes is sitting beside me right now waiting for me to wash them. It adds character to the already removed place. The walls are still coated with the mess up paint from Home Depot and scribbled with my ideas born from insomnia and herbal substances that are unfortunately still illegal. But it's been a while.




I am going to miss these walls. I suppose it's a bit of my womb. I closed myself off from much of the rest of the world and many of the people I know here in this room once things got bad.




Once my father died.
Once my mother started dealing with depression.
Once I lost my job.
Once my other job slowly fell apart.
Once I began struggling for money.

I wrote and I sang and I continued. With paper and pen, all I had was cheap and my mind filled with a way out. My walls are remnants of my various trimesters growing and changing. A cocoon of sorts that grew and transformed itself. It's nothing like the first moment I saw it, but what really is?



I open the closet door looking for more things to pack. I've already taken the pictures off of the walls, and I've already packed my now semi-ancient compact discs- (ha) and even more ancient vinyls.

And like a good gay boy, one of those vinyls is Barbara Streisand. Everyone needs a little kitsch in their lives. I needed a lot to balance out my heavy.



In the closet the stacks of screenplays and letters from agents- some hand written- some thoroughly sincere while still rejecting me- sit. I look at the UPS packages with the screenplays in them and remember I almost completely forgot what I'd accomplished. I've written four screenplays, full length and even got a contract in the mail from Bad Hat Harry productions. I showed it to my uncle who is a lawyer- it wasn't a good contract at all and I would've gained nothing except having to shut my mouth and not do or pursue anything until they essentially threw my screenplay out. But it was something.



I beat myself up over and over because I've yet to accomplish anything, because everyone else is trying, but I completely forget I tried and continue to try as well. I can't forget how amazing I am and no one else should either. But that's what shit does to you- takes away all that you are and all that you've done until all you think you are is a failure. I am a writer, I am a singer, I am an artist. And soon everyone else will know.




I will destroy these walls again.

I want to go to the Met.

Happy New Decade.