Don't Say That, Say Everything

Anyone who tells you "To be a poet, you must sit in the park and get pissed off of cheap wine", is talking shit.

Anyone who tells you, "You can't be in love until you've suffered, felt real pain", is talking shit. 

Anyone who tells you, "To be an artist, you must have a foot in the doorway of poverty and destitution", is talking shit.

 There are no rules. 

Anyone who tells you," you have to do this, or you have to do that", is talking shit. 

The point is rebellion. 

And, destruction and evolution and change.

There are no conditions. 

or compromises, 
or restraints

Honesty isn't always pretty -it isn't always romantic,
or happy, 
or funny,
or drunk,
or sad,
or stoned. 

There are no rules - and anyone who tries to tell you that there are, is talking shit.

Don't listen to anyone who tells you that you are not smart enough, you're not experienced enough, you're not resourceful enough - they too, are talking shit.

Never accept anything from anyone who doesn't accept you - the way that you are. 

They will tell you that you're too emotional, 
or too childish, 
or too romantic. 

They'll say you dream too much, 
you drink too much, 
you laugh too loud. 

They'll say that you're weird, 
or different, 
or crazy, 
not normal.

They are the greatest shit-talkers of all.

They cannot accept freedom and they hate pure beauty. 

They only know how to critisize and complain. 

They want to mold and shape you. 

They want to change you.

They want you, in their imagage 

They want clones. 

They want zombies.

They want you to be unthreatening and weak. 
Just like them.

Racing Home ( Jason's Mask)

"And me I'm in a rock'n'roll band Hah! Ridin' in a Stutz Bear Cat, Jim,You know, those were different times!"
 -Velvet Underground

  To say that Jason Mascaras was a fan of Jackson Whitlock's poetry wouldn't be accurate. It would be better to say that Jason Mascaras was a fan of Jackson's daughter Elise. Elise Whitlock was not only in Jason's math and history classes, but she was in his head  nearly all of his waking hours. 
Elise Whitlock was the only child of Jackson Whitlock and his ex-wife Rosario. 
Jason spent hour after hour trying to figure out how exactly to get Elise to notice him, give him at least the time of day. 
Nothing seemed to work.
He wrote songs for her.
He anonymously sent her flowers.
He "accidentally" bumped into in the hallway, in the cafeteria, at the mall - basically anywhere he could see her. 
All for nothing.
Then one day,finally, he struck gold.
Jason overheard Elise praising her father Jackson's poetry.
To say that Jason Mascaras was ignorant about poetry would be an understatement.
He wasn't simply ignorant, he ridiculed and hated it.
To him, it was effeminate and boring. It was for nerds and chicks.
But, it was a foot in the door.


   

Some New Thoughts...

   So now maybe the new trick is not giving a fuck.

It sounds so easy, so rock and roll.

The question is not only how, but when, and where? 

The bigger, more important question is should I even try to start giving a fuck.

Is it even possible ?

For fuck's sake, sometimes I even cry during sad or "inspirational" scenes in movies. 
Maybe it's all a bit like magic - in the illusion, in the slight of hand.

I just have to pretend to not give a fuck. 

Don't show my cards.

Keep everything close to my chest.

No need to wear anything, ( like my stupid heart, for example), on my sleeve.

No need to boast or brag.

Just keep quite.

Don't reveal.

Don't tell stories about "how one time, I did this or that..."
Don't fall in love.
Don't share.

Don't let them know how you feel, not too much anyway.

Because in the end, everyone gives a fuck about something, even if it's nothing more than the fear of other people not thinking that you don't give a fuck about anything.

Hyperactivity, Excessive Drinking, Over-active Libidos and Drugs - cont.

But, oh well, fuck it. 
No regrets, right ?
Just get tougher stronger.
Keep learning.
No one can be happy all the time.
Or funny.
Or the life of the party.
Or the person that everyone wants to be around.
It's better to just embrace the hyper-activity.
Accept it - no regrets, right?
So, by not drinking excessively I'm left with myself.
Alone.
Not alone on an island.
I am the island. 
Sometimes it's sunny and warm.
Sometimes it rains.
Sometimes it's overcast and cold - freezing.
Sometimes there are rainbows and sometimes there is fog.
But it is always changing - never static.
And if others don't like it, can't deal with it, won't accept it, fuck it, no regrets, right ?
No reason to continue the half-assed notion of change - of trying to be someone different. 
Maybe if I was having more sex, none of this would be an issue.
One of the ways that hyper-activity manifests itself is in the form of  an active libido. Makes sense right ? 
If I was fucking more, I'd have less time to be bored. 
Less time to think about all the crazy shit flying around in my head.
When a person goes from having sex three to four times a day to once every other month, there's a lot of free, dead time.
Time to contemplate and feel guilty.
Time to imagine and get paranoid.
Time to drink.
Time to take drugs.
Time to dull and numb my over-active brain.
Time to try to forget.
But the memories always come back.
They can not be escaped from.
Trying to drown them with whiskey, wine, or smoke only makes them stronger, more viscious.
So fuck it, embrace them. They are mine. 
No regrets, right ?

Hyperactivity, Excessive Drinking, Over-active Libidos and Drugs

" It's getting dark, too dark too see..."
   - Bob Dylan, " Knocking on Heaven's Door".
  
  Hyper-activity, that's the answer, that's the huge problem that has been dominating, fucking-up, destroying my life.  
At least that's what some people have told me in the past, ( mostly the "grown-ups" of my life, teachers, etc...) - that I'm hyper-active, hyper-emotional, and hyper-rebelious. 
But what really does that mean - hyper-activity ? Why shouldn't I just be myself- at the end of the day, I like myself alot more when I'm allowed to be myself.
Other people like me more too, when I let me be me...

What does it really mean -  over-active imagination, over- thinking, being too perceptive, too inquisitive ?
Basically, thinking too much.
Over-analyzing.
Not being satisfied.  
  I remember so well all of the reports that my Ma recieved from my schools -
"Jeremy really seeks attention. He's quite hyperactive, disruptive in class. He calls out in class with either the correct answers or just jokes - sometimes they are a bit of both."
I was so bored.
Unless I was doing something, ( normally, only something that I wanted to do), I was bored, uninterested. 
Not satisfied.
Then I discovered alcohol.
I probably discovered masterbation first, but alcohol seemed (and was), more effective. 
More numbing, more mellowing. 
Masterbation only made me hornier, more restless.
They couldn't complain that I was too hyper,too disruptive - if I just could just get drunk and quitely hide in a corner.
I may have actually discovered tobacco first. It also seemed to calm me down, mellow me out. 
Relax my hyperactivity. 
But in the end, it's never enough.
 So, the alcohol did it's job - not that the job was very noble, or at all helpful to me. It basically only helped me and taught me how to lie.-not just to lie to the people around me, the people I care about - but also to myself. 
It almost worked.
I became lazy. 
Weak.
I tryed to use alcohol to try to change who I was.
I didn't want to misbehave, I didn't want to get yelled at, didn't want to get reprimanded, but most importantly I didn't want to feel the restlessness of hyperactivity. 
I didn't want to have the strong personality that I was born with - the strong personality that my Ma always tried to cultivate. Even when I was getting yelled at as a kid, my Ma would try to make sure that I learned something, some kind of lesson. 
She trained me, taught me to be strong.

I was too weak to handle it.
I gave up.
I became soft
Sad.
Not funny anymore, not interesting, not challenging. 
Alcohol did it's job.
The world told me that I was hyper, I was out of control.
Fuck that !
No regrets, right ?
The people, who in the end, don't give a fuck, who only want to make their own little pieces of the world peaceful, they don't care.
They don't want the Jeremy that questions everything.
They don't want the one who analysizes everything.
They don't want the one who creates.
They don't want the who who cries or the one that sings.
They don't want the one who dreams or the one that screams.
All they really want is the fucked-up version. 
The one who drinks too much and is easily manipulated. 
The one who secretly gets drunk and because he doesn't want problems, because he doesn't want to get in trouble - tries to remain secret, but in the end is so ridiculous,
the one who lies,
so obvious,
and finally, in the end seems so sad.
"Big mouth strikes again."


   

Remember When I Said... / Sobriety on St. Patty's Day ?

  So, I recall writing a while back that I wanted to have sex with a prostitute. Well today the opportunity presented itself.
 It was just  past sunset and I sat down to have a cigarette in the lovely modern park with the interesting fountain that resembles a castle wall with knights peering over the top. A girl walks up to me and asks if I speak English."Yes", I answered and she sat down. I'm thinking, "wow this girl is kind of pretty, maybe I would, I dunno ? She's got a nice body and she looks between 30-35, maybe she has a nice fuck." She then asked me if I wanted company. Without thinking about it, I said, "yeah sure no problem". I thought she just wanted to have a chat, sit on the bench, maybe she was gonna ask me for a smoke. Then again she asked me the same thing, "Did I want company?". The second time, I understood what she meant - she was a prostitute.
This was my chance - fuck it, no regrets, right ?
 I causally answered, "No, I'm fine". She asked if I was sure and before I could answer she asked, with desperate lost eyes if I could give her five euro, or even one euro -something.
Any sexual urge that may have been tickled was now bathing in freezing ice cold water. It was too sad.
Truly pitiful
Nothing can take a piss on a libido like sad desperation.
I told her that I didn't have anything - sorry.
She left and it was then that I remembered that I'd written that I wanted to have a fuck with a prostitute.
I also remembered that it's St. Patrick's day and I'm totally sober.
I guess I'm not ready yet.    
Or maybe I am.